Running is hard work. So why make it even harder for myself?
This was my line of questioning as I entered the 3rd kilometre of the Brighton 10K. It was the point where I found myself struggling, or even floundering, at the realisation that I’d started too quickly.
Pre-race saw the usual eye-bulging dash from the in-laws in Crawley to Brighton, followed by the Bullitt-style driving round the town, trying to find a parking place. As usual, I ended up in some sort of boutique parkery where they are pleased to swap your parking stress for financial anxiety.
While M was adjusting her shopping goggles and disappearing into the Lanes, I padded down to the seafront and along to the start area on Madeira Drive, where I bumped into SP and exchanged the usual bravado banter. The much-discussed and expected maelstrom was not materialising. Brighton was its usual blustery self, and the sea looked hostile, but there was no rain, and the temperature was civil. In short, good running conditions.
I usually know a few people at this race, but friends were thin on the ground this time. Apart from SP, I saw no one I knew, though out teeshirts were recognised by someone who introduced himself as the merciless Steepler, Sweder’s Sunday running partner.
There wasn’t long to wait before the off. SP had spotted a 60 minute pacer, and had decided to stick with him. Perhaps rashly, I said I’d do the same. As we merged into the crowded field, the pacer vanished, never to be seen again. He was starting too far up the field in any case, and this is partly why I found myself going out too fast, even though as usual, it never seems particularly quick while you’re doing it, in a race. The first mile was 9.25 and the second about 9.30. Way too rapid for me, given my simple aim of beating last year’s time (63:47), or at the very least, getting in below 65 minutes, the target set by Phil the sports therapist.
The race takes us east for almost a mile before returning the same way and sending us up the seafront towards Hove. With no bushes to duck into, this isn’t a good race to need a mid-race pee, which happened to me one year. To avoid this, I try not to drink much before the race. The down side is that this is one of those rare 10Ks where I need a drink during the race, and it’s one of those small things that annoy me about the Brighton 10K. I couldn’t see a water station at the start, but as we came back through the area after the turnaround, I suddenly saw a scattering of plastic cups on the ground. Looking round, I could see the water tables set back from the course, about 50 yards behind me, and made a terrible nuisance of myself trying to get across the course and running back against the tide of runners — but it had to be done. I was dry, and needed some liquid inside me.
Something similar happened a couple of miles further on, when again, I somehow managed to miss the water station until I saw the cups on the ground, and had to stop and run back. Were drinks available at the end of the race? If so, I didn’t see any.
The other small irritation about Brighton is the lack of distance markers. It’s not a problem for me, as my GPS watch tells me what I need to know, but twice during the race I was asked by others how far we’d run. It’s no big deal to tell them, but I’m just curious why Brighton seems not to do what pretty much every other race does.
These aren’t major problems but in a race of this size, unexpected. They’re not serious enough to spoil what is always an enjoyable day out. The course is pretty fast, with just one incline and the blustery conditions to combat. You occasionally get unwitting members of the public meandering across the course, and there always seem to be odd lumps of Saturday night vomit to negotiate around. These hazards aside, there’s something admirably straightforward about the Brighton course and the objective. Run from here to there, and back again, as fast as you can.
But you need to pace yourself properly, and I didn’t do this. After the first two miles, I actually had to take a minute’s walk break — almost unheard of in a 10K. Just as I started up again I heard Roger, from Habakkuk Harriers, greet me as he passed. "Only five of us this year", he panted. "We had twelve last time". So he was experiencing the same as me.
The long stretch up the seafront can be a struggle, and it’s always a relief to reach the 6.5 km point at the King Alfred leisure centre, where we turn and head back to the finish. A couple of minutes before the turn I passed the magnificent SP coming back the same way. He didn’t notice me, and I deliberately didn’t shout out to him, as I wanted to keep him guessing how far behind I was. That said, there was enough of a gap between us — at least three minutes — to know that I wasn’t going to catch him. Perhaps the sight made me put on a spurt, as again, I had to stop for a thirty second walk break. I tried this again a mile further on, but was chided by another runner: "Don’t stop, you’re my pacemaker!" I apologised and got back into the groove for the final couple of kilometres. It seemed to get a bit easier as I approached the finish — perhaps because I was approaching the finish.
The chip mat emitted its congratulatory squeal 62 minutes and 56 seconds after our first encounter, which means both time targets were achieved. I am happy with that. It turns out to be the fastest of my four Brightons, and bodes well for the personal world-record-breaking 10K attempt on new year’s day, when I hope to dip below 60 minutes at last. I have 6 weeks to knock 3 minutes off my time. Can I get 5% faster in that time? Yes, I believe I can.
After the race I tracked down SP who had turned in a highly creditable 57:39. We found Tom Roper, whom I was meeting for the first time, and the non-running Sweder, who has expressed his displeasure with flat 10ks in the past, describing them as "pointless". The three of us went off for lunch at Al Fresco, where I was challenged to demolish a major salad. This I achieved, with the help of several beers. Bottled lager isn’t my usual thing, but after a prolonged abstinence, they tasted just grand. A most agreeable occasion. Sweder threatened to spill a few Motorhead roadie beans, but regrettably, managed to restrain himself. We’ll have to wait for his best-selling blockbuster. Tom turned out to be as affable and erudite as his entertaining blog.
Same time next year, chaps?
