Since I ran my first half marathon just over a year ago in Birmingham on a grey autumnal day in October 2013, the challenge such distance represented shrank in my perception and as I recently reflected after completing the Oldham Half, what once seemed the biggest possible physical challenge has now become something that I might hop out of bed one Sunday and decide to do for fun. Having said this, there is a noticeable difference in the results compared to the race I ran when it seemed like a challenge and the race I ran when I did it for fun. Compare the times of 1:37:11 in Birmingham and 1:50:38 in Oldham. Yes, the courses are different but still… That’s the difference between taking it seriously as a competitor and having fun; the difference between racing and running. As I’d never bettered that first half marathon time and begun to question how well my speed and fitness was holding up since my successes in the Todmorden 5k Series this summer, I decided the Lancaster Half Marathon would be a good opportunity to test myself a bit. Could I grab that elusive Pea Bee?
| I adopted a couple of strategies in order to facilitate this beyond what has become my ‘usual’ training week of short steady, speed intervals, cross train, cross train, hill reps, swim and long run. First and foremost I took the preceding week very easy. Not a complete taper but getting there. No intervals. No Tuesday track. A couple of steadies but nothing strenuous. That was my physical prep. Rest. I am not good at rest, it seems completely counter intuitive that to prepare for something you do less of it but still, that was the easy bit. Mentally, I decided the best way to kick myself up the gluteals and not find a reason why it was acceptable to just have a nice easy run was to start telling people of my goal. I told a few different running friends that I was aiming to PB, as well as the friend who came with me to the race. ‘if I can hit 1:35:00 I’ll be very happy’ I said. I also went back to using a feature of the Garmin that I’d not really used since the Manchester Marathon; the virtual pacer. I had found it made the run a bit more stressful to have something beeping at me when I wasn’t going fast enough and so I’d turned it off for an easy run one week and just sort of never turned it back on. To be fair, as I have become more experienced I’ve needed it far less and can judge and maintain my pace pretty well anyway but I thought it’d do me no harm to have a bit of an extra nudge. So that was me set, a warm up mile round the track at Salt Ayre Leisure Centre and there I was on the start line. I really wasn’t sure I could do it. I’d got used to running fast for only short distances. Sure, I could bang out the miles but long runs were easy pace only. Could I really maintain eight and a half miles an hour for 13.1 miles? Resolving to put negative thoughts firmly out of mind I recalled a well-timed Tweet I had seen that morning from Runner’s World on mantras. ‘I am running fast and strong’ the article suggested, and I remembered how a similar thought strategy had helped when I first broke 20 on an 18.37 5k and won first lady (2nd overall) in Southport. I took myself to what I judged to be a reasonable distance from the line so as not to get battered by those starting off at a rate of knots and settled into race mode. Note race mode. Not long run mode. There’s a difference. The former is a far more anxious place to be. After a couple of miles, once the crowd had thinned out, I flicked a quick glance at the Garmin. Now, I hadn’t used the pacer feature on my FR620 before as I’d previously been using a loaned FR10 so I was a bit unfamiliar with the screen. 4.05 it told me helpfully. I was behind pace by over 4 minutes already!? Or was that ahead? | 
What are we supposed to be so cautious of anyway!?
We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Twice, it turns out.
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Not such good news either way. I was either battering it too hard and liable to blow up by mile 6 or I was at a slower pace than I needed to be to even match my best time. It was at this point I decided sack off the pacer and ignore the Garmin. I felt comfortable. I felt good. I really was running fast and strong, not even just telling myself that. No point slowing down for the sake of it but equally, if I was going too slowly, confirming that knowledge might be the thing that mentally tipped me into a downward spiral. ‘Just keep going’ I told myself. Run strong in the rhythm. Keep this pace; it’s the right one for now. Focus on my goal, focus on my running form, awareness of breath and efficient cadence prevented me from fully appreciating all the Lancaster landscape had to offer aesthetically, though I was fully aware that it was beautiful scenery I was pounding through. I kept an eye on the miles clocking past, something I avoid on more relaxed runs, but this time I wanted to know, needed to know. How many more did I have to maintain this pace for?
Round about mile 5 I became aware of what I probably unkindly think of as a ‘grunter’; someone who is clearly working very hard indeed and struggling to breathe normally. Fair play like, you are arguably pushing yourself harder than I am but could you please either a) do it quietly or b) go and do it somewhere else. It’s a sure fire way to lose the rhythm of my own breath and lo and behold, my focus, my breathing and my feeling of strength started to waver. Worse of all, this guy was not working hard enough to actually overtake me. I pulled over to one side so at least he wouldn’t be right behind me, only to find he drifted with me, every time I tried to move away from him he trailed after me. I risked a look back and moved over again, indicating to him to overtake me. He didn’t. ‘Are you drafting me!?’ I demanded in what I hoped was a reasonably friendly way, of the rather well built middle aged gentleman who was persistently less than a foot behind me and making noises like an asthmatic pig that has just inhaled the truffle. For non-runners, ‘drafting’ is the act of using another runner’s slipstream to save yourself a bit of energy. Cyclists do it, birds in flight do it, but when you’re in a pack, it’s fairer and the idea is you take turns at the front. ‘Yes.’ He openly admitted. This surprised me somewhat. Not so much that he was doing it as that he was admitting it. ‘Piss off!’ I responded, by this point not bothered about appearing friendly anymore, ‘You’re twice my size!’ I clearly appeared too friendly for my own good as this admonishment failed to have any effect and he stuck to me like a piece of loo paper trailing a sticky stiletto. All this was using up far too much energy and I’d really had enough. After about another quarter of a mile I became more assertive. ‘Seriously, mate, you’re really putting me off.’
‘Just push on!’ he told me.
‘No!’ I replied, ‘I’m in my pace, it’s all good! I’m where I want to be. It’s not even that windy!’ Finally he took the hint and actually overtook. I was very pleased to let him disappear round a bend into the distance, clearly using all the energy he’d just sapped out of me to do so! I was even more pleased to overtake him again about a mile down the road. I didn’t see him again after that. Never mind, eh!?
Round about mile 5 I became aware of what I probably unkindly think of as a ‘grunter’; someone who is clearly working very hard indeed and struggling to breathe normally. Fair play like, you are arguably pushing yourself harder than I am but could you please either a) do it quietly or b) go and do it somewhere else. It’s a sure fire way to lose the rhythm of my own breath and lo and behold, my focus, my breathing and my feeling of strength started to waver. Worse of all, this guy was not working hard enough to actually overtake me. I pulled over to one side so at least he wouldn’t be right behind me, only to find he drifted with me, every time I tried to move away from him he trailed after me. I risked a look back and moved over again, indicating to him to overtake me. He didn’t. ‘Are you drafting me!?’ I demanded in what I hoped was a reasonably friendly way, of the rather well built middle aged gentleman who was persistently less than a foot behind me and making noises like an asthmatic pig that has just inhaled the truffle. For non-runners, ‘drafting’ is the act of using another runner’s slipstream to save yourself a bit of energy. Cyclists do it, birds in flight do it, but when you’re in a pack, it’s fairer and the idea is you take turns at the front. ‘Yes.’ He openly admitted. This surprised me somewhat. Not so much that he was doing it as that he was admitting it. ‘Piss off!’ I responded, by this point not bothered about appearing friendly anymore, ‘You’re twice my size!’ I clearly appeared too friendly for my own good as this admonishment failed to have any effect and he stuck to me like a piece of loo paper trailing a sticky stiletto. All this was using up far too much energy and I’d really had enough. After about another quarter of a mile I became more assertive. ‘Seriously, mate, you’re really putting me off.’
‘Just push on!’ he told me.
‘No!’ I replied, ‘I’m in my pace, it’s all good! I’m where I want to be. It’s not even that windy!’ Finally he took the hint and actually overtook. I was very pleased to let him disappear round a bend into the distance, clearly using all the energy he’d just sapped out of me to do so! I was even more pleased to overtake him again about a mile down the road. I didn’t see him again after that. Never mind, eh!?
Rock 'n' Roll!
Shcexy Photo Finish. What's the deal with those chops!?
Mah new medal. New PB is better though!
| I managed to settle back into a reasonable rhythm and was just weighing up whether to use the gel I’d stuffed up my sleeve (energy boost versus potential tummy trouble!?) when my right foot started making that horrible clicky grating noise of cross country spikes on tarmac. Oh great. A stone in my shoe. Not causing me any physical discomfort but making a damned annoying sound. Worse still, everyone else could hear it too and as I carried out my usual unintentional habit of gradually over taking runners one by one, several of them turned around to see what strange creature was lolloping (or apparently hopping!) up behind them. ‘What’s that noise!?’ demanded one guy, clearly as irritated by my lopsided metronomic function as I’d been with Mr Grunt 4 miles back. I could only explain, apologise and get out of his way as soon as possible. 'Sorry! Stone in my shoe!' I called while overtaking. Another one down. See ya! Then suddenly we were back at mile 10 (I say ‘back’ because this part of the course was looping back on itself). ‘Just 5k left’ I coached myself mentally, belittling the distance. ‘That’s less than 20 minutes if you push it’ Still wanting to be sure I didn’t bonk at 12 miles, I held a bit still in the tank but kept up my pace. Mile 11, OK pick it up a bit. Mile 12, time to push it. Back to the leisure centre, a half loop of the track I’d warmed up on and a glance at the race clock as I rounded the bend. 1:32:33. Bloody hell! So much for 1:35! Still 200 meters to go. ‘Sub 33!’ I started driving myself forward ‘bring it in sub 1 hour 33!’ Of course, that was gun time I recalled as I crossed the line and the Garmin recorded 1:32:18. Seems I caught that pesky little critter alright!. After being dragged back having failed to snatch my goodie bag and orange (kudos to the organisers for using Sainsbury’s carrier bags for these by the way, keeping it real, I like the style!) I located my mate (actually to be fair, he located me) and scanned the track for a particular runner whose race had been almost as far forward in my thoughts as my own. Autumn has been a familiar face at local running events and in the online community since the summer and we’d had a friendly tussle or two in the Todmorden 5k series. I knew of her (far higher) ambition for the day, to achieve a sub 90 minute time and qualify to upgrade her Good For Age to a Championship place at the London Marathon in 2015, something I didn’t even know was possible until she publicised her goal a few months ago. I knew how nervous she was and how much this meant to her but also that her last half marathon hadn’t gone quite to plan. I was confident she would do it this time but I wanted to be sure. I couldn’t see her but knew she’d have come in ahead of me anyway so after briefly thanking a lady with whom I’d had a bit of a ‘leap frogging match’ (not literally) for giving me a reason to push on at mile 8, I headed for a shower with just enough time to hop on the train back to Manchester. Running a race is like making a piece of art or baking a cake; the amount of time that goes into the preparation of it is largely unappreciated and wildly out of proportion to the time it takes to actually consume it, which means it’s often over in what seems like a flash! |
I later found that Autumn did indeed smash it, placing first lady and securing her goal with a very healthy margin. You can read her own, far more concise account of the day. My achievement was only slightly dulled when the official results were released later that day and I found I placed fourth lady. Dammit. If I’d have known… What if I’d have pushed mile 11 harder? Could I have placed third if I’d used the gel, shed Mr Grunt quicker or not trodden on the Annoying Rock? Nope! Not letting the ‘what ifs?’ creep in! I ran strong, bagged the Pea Bee and didn’t hit the wall. That’s good enough for me. Of course that attitude became harder to maintain when a friend pointed out after checking the results that though I was 4th across the line, by gun time, my chip time (1:32:16) was faster than the lady who placed third. I refer you back to the decision to start ‘comfortably back from the line’. D’oh. Note to self. Gun times matter.
Nevertheless, it was a genuinely enjoyable day and I really couldn’t have asked for better. I could go on with more diversions and tales of people I noticed, runners I chatted to, the efforts, trials and tribulations that coalesce around such events, the conglomeration of personal triumphs and tragedies, the weight of ambitions, joy of Goals Achieved, distresses of Runs Gone Wrong. The cash raised for causes, the friends, families and marshals who all play their hugely important roles, the injuries sustained, the bananas consumed… But I’ve probably already taken longer to splatter all this onto your screen than I did to run the race so I shall summarise simply by thanking the organisers for a very well managed event on a beautiful course that has managed to rekindle my love for really racing as opposed to ‘just’ running. I managed to bag this Pea Bee back there… If you want it back, you may have to follow me to the next race because you probably won’t over take me…
Look what I caught!
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Homeward Bound!
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With thanks to Sprint Finish Photography for additional photos
