For the second race in succession, the final decision to take part in the Nene Valley 10 was made very late in the day – this time it was made the morning before rather than the morning of the race. Once again the dithering and non-committed attitude was as a result of niggling injuries that have plagued me ever since I passed the 19 mile mark of the Chester Marathon.
A few days after the first Belton House parkrun I was out for a six mile run when, after four miles, my right calf tightened to the point of it being very painful and barely able to run on. I took a couple of days off running and things felt much better, so I headed to Belton again for another stab at parkrun. There was little amiss in the calf for the opening mile – I ran a 5:28 and was in the lead. I then let a guy behind me take the pace as we approached a section of headwind. Passing Belton House itself, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in the right calf as it tightened again. I stopped at the start of the second lap and massaged for a couple of minutes before jogging the second lap and jogging home. Running on the calf was painful but bearable. Still, fearful of something serious amiss, I took two weeks off running and hit the elliptical trainer once again.
Two weeks later I began with a two mile run and over the next week gradually built up the distance, running eight miles on the Friday, two days before Nene Valley and the day after one of the most painful massages I’ve ever endured. The upshot was there were numerous parts of my right leg that was very tight. My right calf was more or less okay after the massage and the run; the bigger pain was in the left groin which appeared to be suffering courtesy of issues with the TFL and most likely the lower back.
My Nene Valley 10 place had been given to me courtesy of fellow GRC runner Scott, who couldn’t take part as he was lead singer at a Christmas party gig on the Saturday night. To add to the dilemma of whether I should race, Scott offered me a ticket to the gig. I was sorely tempted, but a good stretching session on Saturday morning and I decided I’d give the race a go. That said I hardly prepared in the most diligent manner – an hour on the elliptical trainer in the morning, then a few glasses of red wine in the evening and a much smaller pre-race meal than usual. All that and Storm Desmond was sending battering winds through the area that would make racing all but impossible.
Thankfully in the morning the wind was still strong but nowhere near as bad as it had been on the Saturday, and nowhere near the worst I’ve raced in. It was a relatively relaxed affair pre-race – cereal rather than cereal bars for this non-key race. I arrived well ahead of the race start and firstly went about changing my race entry from being a 16 year old to a reluctant veteran runner, courtesy of an administrative issue. I then went for a short warm up run where it was obvious the left groin was going to be a source of consternation during the race. I spent much of the next 40 minutes or so frantically stretching, trying to put off the inevitable pain in the race for as long as possible.
Some welcome relief came in the form of meeting by chance fellow Kenilworth Runner Martin, who I’ve known since I first ran with the club back in the year 2000. A few years older than myself but a consistently fine runner, Martin was my favourite training partner for his innate ability to churn out metronomically paced miles. Having not seen him since moving away from Coventry over two years ago, it was great to catch up with him again.
The Nene Valley 10 is very much a race that would be a good example of how races were put on in the 1980s and that is mostly a good thing. A no-nonsense, few thrills, good value race with the vast majority taking part being club runners. The two lap course is something of an oddity though, for although it is classified as a road race, only around 400 meters of the entire course is run on road.
The remainder utilises footpaths, alleyways, underpasses, parkland paths and pavements. A fair amount of the race even uses trail through woodland. The one section of road at the start and finish was open to traffic, so you had racers in the middle of the road dodging cars (and buses) coming in all directions. This would have been perfectly normal 25-30 years ago but is a more unusual occurrence these days. There are plenty of twists and turns and finding a rhythm is hard work. That said the course is flat and fairly fast – my 57:20 PB for ten miles was set there two years ago.
The start was a curiously slow affair – perhaps influenced by the man holding the official clock, who nonchalantly strode to the start and plonked it down by the start line with twenty seconds to spare. Despite the field featuring Aaron Scott – one of the quickest runners in the area (and by my reckoning winner of every race except one that I have taken in within a 50 mile radius of Grantham in the past two years) we appeared to almost jog the opening 200 meters or so. Either that or I was feeling remarkably strong – for a moment I thought I may try and take on the pace – just as Aaron remembered he was in a race and buggered off into the distance for yet another victory.
The adrenaline of a race start meant little ached for the opening mile. For the majority of it we had the strong wind blowing us along, so although the 5:33 was quicker than planned, it wasn’t alarmingly fast. I soon found myself isolated and as we turned slowly into the headwind I decided it would be pointless to try and fight the elements alone and so eased up a touch to allow a group of four runners to close. Through mile two in 5:52, we hit the twisty stuff through the woodland and I slowed to allow a runner past, tucking immediately into his slipstream to take shelter from the wind. The third mile was hard work: 5:57 was scant reward for our efforts.
The fourth mile saw us turn and head back to the start line and we had a tailwind again. There were two short climbs as we firstly tackled an underpass, then a footbridge over a busy road. I was the strongest of the four of us on the second climb and decided to push on – breaking decisively the group. The fourth mile was a 5:45; the fifth, despite some severe twists and turns, was exactly the same time. I passed five miles in 28:40, which with my dodgy maths I calculated would mean a PB equaling time if I could match my performance over the second lap.
I knew within seconds of starting the second lap that that would not be possible. One of the runners who I pulled away from a mile or so earlier had passed me and eased away, to be followed half a mile down the road by another. I was able to keep them within spitting distance (with the tail wind, that is) for the rest of the race, but didn’t have quite the muster to reel them back in. It was a combination of lack of running miles in the past couple of months coupled with a left groin that by now was really aching quite a lot and enough to take the edge off my running. The right calf too was now just starting to ache and, unbelievably for December, I was feeling quite dehydrated thanks to it being a balmy 14C and the two drinks stations being all but useless thanks to having no one handing out the water and the drinks tables being literally no more than 50-60 cm off the ground.
The sixth mile (wind aided) was a solid 5:38, but as I turned back into the wind, the seventh mile was 5:55 and the tough eighth mile was a pedestrian 6:08. I rallied for the final two miles when the wind was again a friend, I dragged my tired body through a 5:52 ninth mile and finished with a 5:48 final mile, where I caught and just held off another runner in a sprint finish.
My finishing time was 58:08 which I was really rather pleased with considering the lack of preparation put into the race and the niggles I carried through it. I could though barely walk though after the race with the groin pain and so settled myself near the finish line to watch Martin finish. We chatted for 10-15 minutes before I headed abruptly back – I had a narrow window to collect an eBay auction win.
I found out later I was third veteran finisher, a frustratingly short amount of time behind the second placed vet and the prize money that would have netted me. More pleasingly I found out three days later that the time netted me an age grading of 80.01%, which is most satisfying for a race I all but forgot about hours after racing it.
A possible parkrun or two aside, that’s it now for 2015. It’s been quite a year!
The weeks following the Chester Half Marathon were not an incident free, painless period of post race jubilation and recuperation. The supposed cramp in the right calf was in fact a calf strain that was impossible to run on for two weeks and was only tested, with a brief one mile run three days before the Worksop Half Marathon.
The days were not spent entirely idly however, plenty of hours on the elliptical trainer, a few spinning sessions at the gym where I worked on maximising my watts per kg figure (now up to 3.7 for a 40 minute session), a ride spent in one gear with Witham Wheelers thanks to a cable failure, and a couple of short sessions on a recently acquired Nordic Ski Machine.
The injury woes were compounded a week after Chester by a bizarre late night feinting incident – caused by low blood pressure – saw me fall awkwardly, killing a few more brain cells and wrenching loads of muscles in my neck and shoulders. Although you don’t run with your arms, the upper body plays a surprisingly important role in running, and I found on the short runs before the Worksop Half that bio mechanically things felt not quite right and the left hip especially was giving some cause for concern.
The calf, after a four mile effort the day before Worksop came through with an ‘okay’ rating; the hip would be reviewed in the evening. Working on the United States Grand Prix (or not working as much as planned on Saturday with qualifying washed out) I packed Saturday lunchtime for two eventualities: race at Worksop or cycle with the Witham Wheelers.
I certainly wasn’t taking the race as seriously as others, my Saturday diet was distinctly risky compared to my usual fare of Margarita Pizza – a mild curry was the dish of the day. Sunday morning awoke with more non-racing dietary habits, a full bowl of cereal rather than cereal bars. At 7:30 am I was still undecided, but by 7:40 I decided to risk the body and head to the race and, if necessary, treat it not as a race but an easy Sunday morning run.
I arrived in Worksop 90 minutes ahead of the 10 am race start and followed all the others to collect my race number. I queued briefly for the first toilet trip of the morning, then changed in what seemed to be the town hall, before dropping off my bag and heading out for a warm up. My warm ups are rarely a dynamic affair, this one was among the all time greats in lackadaisical efforts. A half mile jog out, a stretch to try and loosen the tight left hip, and a slow half mile jog back straight to the lengthy Portaloo queues.
With nothing better to do for 20 minutes in the queue other than pick out the runners who’d gone to the trouble of dressing up in ghoulish Halloween inspired paraphernalia, I proceeded to quite vigorously massage my right leg and IT band in particular. The reason for such vigour was I felt a tender spot that referred pain right to the point of the calf where I’d continued to get nagging pain. The downside was that when I finished the massage the right leg felt a bit like it had been hit by a truck!
I left the Portaloo with five minutes to the race start, which is a good effort by some recent standards. It did mean though I couldn’t actually get into the start pens and had to join a large number of runners hanging around the side of the barriers hoping to jump in when the gun went. It took quite a while for the gun to fire – the chip timers seemed to be fretting a touch and then the mayoress gave a lengthy and largely inaudible speech before giving a five second count down to the start.
We were off and as I eased my way into the mass of runners I quickly got up to a comfortable speed. The first mile at Grunty Fen and Nottingham a year ago was around 5:40, I started off at 6:30 pace and as the first mile and half was so all uphill it remained at that pace. The good news was that the pre-race massage had eased the calf ache significantly. The flip side was that the IT band and thigh in general felt distinctly sub-par for the first few miles.
I’d still no real intention to race hard even when I found myself easing past tens of runners up the steepest section of the opening mile. Indeed I think I would have resigned myself to a gentle training run were it not for an unfortunate incident which had a positive (for me) outcome. At just before two miles I pulled alongside and past a group containing the lead female runner. Running in the middle of the wide road I unintentionally drifted slightly to the left, perhaps as a result of the neck injury mentioned earlier affecting my running stride.
The incident would have gone unnoticed were it not for a rather irate runner muttering something along the lines of ‘why did you f***ing stop in front of me for? Incredulous I pointed out in a rather blunt manner that I hadn’t stopped nor had I even slowed down. I may have inadvertently chopped his stride in drifting across the road (Something that happens a lot in races) and would have been happy to have apologised had he not decided to call me a c**t.
I replied a little ashamedly in a similar vernacular before the surge of adrenaline from the unwanted encounter saw me quite rapidly leave the potty mouthed runner, with a final retort from myself along the lines of ‘come on then, keep up!’ (He couldn’t and didn’t, which left me with a smug sense of victory in a rather regrettable affair). This incendiary encounter certainly stoked the fires within. The first mile was 6:28 . The second mile (Mostly adrenaline free) was 6:06, the third was 5:41. In reality if you believe Strava GAP the third mile was actually slower with hills taken into account than the opening two, but I now felt as though I was racing and not going through the motions.
The reality of this race was that it was barely quicker than my marathon pace for the most part at Chester. It was though, thanks to the injury niggles and fatigue, feeling much harder than most of the Chester Marathon. What tempered the discomfort was the glorious surroundings of Clumber Park in Autumn and the perfect autumnal weather conditions for racing. As is usual I overdressed in long sleeved top and gloves, but it was cool enough to not overheat but not too cold as to see muscles struggle to keep warm.
As we hit Clumber Park the runners I passed began to thin out, but was probably still averaging one or two a mile. We passed some fantastically dressed marshals who I couldn’t help but thank for their support, and along a long straight road in the ninth mile (Following a near mile long drag uphill) there was the most extravagantly celebrated sponge station I’ve ever witnessed.
I’ve posted before the lament I feel for the almost total demise of the sponge station. It is as though the organisers shared my fondness for them. There must have been five signs warning us of the impending station then another 5-10 warning us of the dire consequences of stealing one of the sponges. These were interspersed with around a mile’s worth of humorous messages that certainly provided a welcome antidote at what is often a difficult part of a half marathon. Some may say it is ironic that I decided not to take a sponge after singing their praises for many, many years. Part of me thinks the organisers including a sponge station at a race that is more than likely going to be held in cold and / or wet conditions, is a work of irony in istelf.
Miles 4-10 were run at pretty consistent pace given the constant undulations, peppering six minutes per mile. By the eleventh mile at a race I wasn’t going to race, then was going to take part in with no consideration of time, was now an effort to break 80 minutes. My basic arithmetic said it was going to be close, but a 6:06 mile didn’t help. I doubled the effort to run a 5:55 twelfth mile, which Strava reckons was the fastest of the race if you take the hills into the equation (5:46).
The final mile was a repeat of the opening mile but in the opposite direction, so a long uphill drag became a swift downhill descent to the finish. This would normally be a fantastic way to end a race but my legs are still seemingly susceptible to cramping on such gradients and, sure enough, halfway down the hill the quads and hips began to cramp.
I wasn’t going to let a bit of cramp stop me though, especially as I had another runner in my sights just up the road. There is many a race where I would not have chased down a runner for one position. Now at the race I wasn’t going to race, then was going to take part in with no consideration of time, which became an effort to break 80 minutes, was now an all out effort to beat a runner for twenty-fifth position.
Ignoring the cramps waving up and down my legs, I surged past the 25th placed runner with 400 meters to run and continued to ramp up the pace before putting in a full sprint for the final 100 meters. The thirteenth mile was the quickest of the race (5:37), the last 0.1 of a mile a shade under five minute mile pace. I was rewarded for my efforts with that cherished 25th position, not only a sub 1:20 clocking but a sub 1:19 (1:18:59 chip) and hips that refused to respond to my requests to walk….
I was also rewarded, as was everyone else who finished, with a rather snazzy Halloween themed technical t-shirt, a medal and a lengthy wait as the well-meaning volunteers at baggage struggled to find my small rucksack (not helped that I described my black and yellow rucksack buried in a sea of similarly small rucksacks as grey and blue…)
With F1 deciding to run qualifying at 9am Austin time I had no time to hang around and watch others finish. Instead it was a walk as fast as the failing legs allowed back to the car, a quick chat with new Strava friend Matt and jumping in the car back to Grantham just in time to witness Lewis eventually crowned World Champion, which meant a marathon slog of a work stint that saw eyes closed finally at 4am. By that time the legs were so stiff the stairs were an effort, but all in all, with seemingly no long lasting damage done, it was a long and relatively successful day.
The taper began officially the week after the Grunty Fen Half Marathon. The intervening week though was significant for a couple of injury niggles that affected the taper period. It began well enough with a bias on cross training and easy paced runs as I allowed the legs to recover from Sunday’s race. However from Wednesday through to Saturday I began to notice increased discomfort and sometimes pain across the top of the right foot somewhere near the toes. At first I thought it might be over-tightened laces or even the chip worn on Sunday that had irritated the foot. By Saturday though, which saw the only hard session of the week – a pleasing ten miles at marathon heart rate averaging 6:04 per mile – the pain was enough for me to fear it may have been the onset of a stress fracture or some form of tendinitis.
The pain continued into Sunday’s run – ran over the bulk of the Newton’s Fraction Half Marathon course – but it was nothing compared to the discomfort that seemingly came from nowhere from the onset of the run on the outside of the left ankle. Despite stretching and some gentle massage the pain began to intensify in the final miles so that by the end and when I stopped running there was a noticeable limp.
What I also noticed was that, unlike the right foot, the pain in the ankle stopped the moment I took of my trainers (A pair of recently purchased Nike Vomero 9s). I was therefore initially more concerned with the right foot which continued to ache. Having exhausted all ideas of what could be causing the pain I returned to my injury bible and soon found a plausible explanation and simple solution. It suggested the pain was not coming from the foot but from two points on the outer shin, one in line with the bottom of the patella, the other around a hand’s length from the patella, not too far from the ankle. Low and behold both spots were tender to massage – the lower point even had a bruise that had surfaced mysteriously. The book said results would be quick and it didn’t disappoint – from the next run onward there was no discomfort.
The ankle though was proving more troublesome, it was even difficult to go on the elliptical trainer or join the spinning class without loosening the trainers to the point of them becoming slippers. After two days of no running I was determined to run on my (cough cough) 40th birthday, so in a moment of inspiration opted to try running in my Nike Flyknits with the elastic laces I added for the sprint triathlon I took part in back in June. The lack of pressure on the ankle joint meant the relatively short run was more or less pain free.
I wore the Flyknits for the rest of the week – except for the long run coming on the Saturday, where I wore the Frees I planned to use at the Marathon, which were thankfully also pain free. As a stint of overnight shifts covering the Japanese Grand Prix took its toll, Sunday’s run was a short affair – I attempted to run in the Vomero’s but the pain was instantly too much, so I reverted to the Flyknits and they were fine. For now the Vomero’s are on the naughty step to be maybe worn again at some point in the future.
The final taper week was not a happy one. It rarely is with the effort of abstaining from exercise proving tough, but this week it was complicated with the onset of a cold that I tried my best to ignore but couldn’t help but notice on my final run on the Wednesday a definite lethargy in the opening miles that only went away when I ran three miles at marathon HR, which averaged 5:55. If I put that lethargy down to post Japanese GP pseudo-jet lag, I couldn’t ignore the rather unpleasant streams of snot on my training top after a final hour on the elliptical trainer on Thursday. It was not a heavy cold but it was enough to potentially dent performance and by Saturday it still hadn’t shifted…
Part 2 – Pre-race Build Up
The packing was done Friday morning, the depart for Chester to take place on Saturday morning. I was taking the family and planned to spend the afternoon in Chester to get a taste for the city and to maybe see part of the route. The journey to Chester was easy enough – until we approached Chester and the traffic slowed to a crawl. Chester has perhaps a worse traffic system than Grantham and, rather desperate to find a toilet, parked in the first NCP car park I came to (Which was ludicrously expensive but I was past caring). We spent a few hours wandering around Chester town center, trying to stay warm as I’d dressed for temperatures in the high teens, but persistent cloud and mist left temperatures barely above ten Celsius. I doubt Wilson Kipsang spends the day before a marathon rescuing children from a climbing frame, but that’s the way I found myself resting up.
We weren’t staying overnight in Chester – hotel rooms were elusive when I looked a few weeks before the race. Instead I’d booked into the Dibbinsdale Inn lured by the establishment doubling up as a rather good looking Italian Restaurant – ideal for pre race carbo loading. Disaster nearly struck on our arrival when it transpired I’d forgotten to include our two children on the booking form. Thankfully the owners were able to transfer us to a different room than the one assigned to us that allowed the kids to be with us (By 10pm and the pair of them still jumping around like mad rabbits, we kind of wished they’d been forced to find accommodation elsewhere).
It wasn’t long before it was dinner, a meal shared with fellow Grantham Running Club member Mark Wilson, who was hoping to break 3:20. The restaurant was an Italian tapas restaurant, which meant the portions weren’t huge (I had to order two Margherita pizzas as they were only 5″ apiece) but the food was delicious and none of us could resist a more regularly sized dessert – I devoured the vanilla cheesecake.
We finished in time to retire to our rooms and wound down by watching Australia destroy England in the Rugby. I feared I wouldn’t sleep well, but with the ear plugs in and my head on the pillow by 10:20pm, I was soon asleep and before I knew it it was 5:50am and the alarm clock was ringing.
The race morning went very smoothly, the hardest part was trying to make a cup of tea at 6am in the dark trying not to wake anyone. I failed miserably. Mark and I left the hotel at 6:30am, still pitch black but thankfully not foggy. We arrived at Chester Racecourse at 7am. We were not the first to arrive, but it wasn’t busy. Two hours allowed a relaxing build up the race – a chance to get a £1 long sleeved technical top from last year’s race (A bargain!), to peruse the merchandise stands and use the Portaloos before the queues became long.
It was chilly, under 10C, so the bin bag I packed came in handy once I handed by bag into baggage storage and made a last trip to the loo. I emerged with ten minutes to spare, ducked under the rails on the racecourse and lined up right at the front of the field, save for around 20 elite runners who were ushered into their own little pen as the town crier made a largely inaudible speech, ironically enough.
Part 3 – The Race
Lining up at the start I caught a glimpse of fellow GRC second claimer Chris Limmer (Wearing his Hinckley top) and bumped into fellow Kenilworth Runner Stuart Hopkins. We very briefly discussed tactics: he was going to target 2:40 pace from the off; I was going to do my usual heart rate thing and see where that left me.
Whatever the town crier had been saying it must have excited the organisers because the starting horn fired two minutes early, which would have caught out a fair few. Running along the racecourse was an odd experience, it was hard to keep the tempo under control, I had a firm eye on the watch to make sure the planned 150 bpm wasn’t exceeded. The opening mile took us out of the racecourse, I had allowed a lot of runners to pass me but I wasn’t concerned. Indeed I was delighted to hit the opening mile split in 6:42 – which was near enough spot on what I’d envisaged.
The second mile was meant to see me not exceed 155 bpm, but this was hard as it featured one of the longest climbs of the race and then a brief tour of Chester City Center, which was full of people cheering us on – which stirred the adrenaline from within. So mile two as a result was a touch high on the bpm average (157) and a touch quick on pace (6:23, Strava GAP (hills) adjusted was 6:04). Mile 3 took us downhill initially, over the River Dee and uphill again out into the country lanes which formed the majority of the race. The max HR for mile 3 was set at 160 and this I achieved. I was pleased therefore with the mile split of 6:15.
From miles 4-20 the plan was not to let the HR exceed 165 bpm. At Rotterdam last year it was an effort to keep the HR down. This year it was difficult at times to reach that figure – the body far more comfortable at around 161-162 bpm. As long as the mile splits were reasonable I was happy with this – to me I felt it maximised my chances of staying strong to the finish. The field began to spread out, sitting in around 40th position, I started to pick off other runners. The sun was shining but temperatures were comfortable at around 12C. With very little wind, conditions could hardly have been better.
Miles 4-6 were uneventful – which is exactly what you want in a marathon. They were run in 6:06; 6:05; and 5:56, with the HR only averaging 160 bpm. This was pleasing. The left ankle was fine, the legs generally felt good and there was no sign of the cold I’d had lingering reemerging. I passed the 10 km chip timing mat in a shade over 39 minutes. The three runners ahead of me beeped reassuringly. As I passed over – nothing. My chip had not been registered. I looked around at the marshal who seemed as puzzled as I was. I made a point of showing him my race number so he could maybe take a note of it.
My mind began racing. What if my chip had failed? What if I got no time? What if I broke 2:45 but was denied a time due to some shoddy technology. What if they accused me of being the British Kip Litton? I could feel the adrenaline pumping and my heart rate racing. This wasn’t good for the race and it took a number of minutes before I bought myself back to my senses and reasoned I’d be able to argue my case if necessary.
I knuckled back down to the business of marathon running. The seventh mile was 6:04 (5:54 once hills are taken into account). I kept the pace consistent through miles eight and nine, 6:06 then 6:00 exactly. The tenth mile apparently took us into Wales, but I missed the welcome party and only sensed we may be in a different country from the Araf signs on the road. The pace wasn’t slowing much: 6:05; 6:06; and 6:09 for miles 10, 11, and 12.
Mile 13 saw a right hand turn and the start of a three mile loop which saw perhaps my best miles of the race. I went through the official 20k split in 1:16:53 and was delighted to hear the beep as I crossed the mat. I was officially in the race! It wasn’t long before I crossed halfway in 1:21:11, which meant a 2:42 marathon time with neutral splits, but I was hoping I could go a little quicker in the second half with the pace still strong. Mile 13 was 6:12 (6:00 GAP adjusted). I spotted Stuart around 300 meters in the distance and began the long gradual effort of chasing him down.
Mile 14 was 6:03 (5:52 GAP), and a net downhill mile 15 was 5:57 (6:07). We briefly crossed path with runners at mile 13 before heading on an undulating section of road, which tested the legs a fair bit. Still I was strong: mile 16 took 6:09 and mile 17 was 6:15 on the second hilliest mile of the race. It was here I passed Stuart, who gave good encouragement and I reciprocated likewise.
It was on the narrow relatively steep descent following a climb shortly before crossing a bridge taking us from Holt to Farndon and back into England, that I felt the first warning signs of trouble in the race. I’d eased up on the descent worried about cramping in the quads that has beset me over the past year. They were fine for now, but I began to feel a nagging ache in the right calf. Not enough to slow me at the time, but persistent enough to concern me.
I think it was around mile 18 we had the metric marathon runners join us on the course. In a way they were a good thing as it gave us other runners to try and tag onto on what was by now a spread out field. On the other hand it was difficult to know who you were racing against when people began coming past you. The eighteenth mile was 6:12, mile 19 6:10, and mile 20, the planned last at a 165 max bpm, was 6:02. We had the metric marathon runners passing us on the other side who were full of support and it was spurring us on. But I was beginning to struggle.
Normally at 20 miles I’d give it full beans in terms of effort and heart rate, but the right calf was beginning to get worse. I was also beginning to get tell-tale signs of cramp in the quads. Mile 21 though was still okay – 6:13. I’d hoped that after mile 21 the road was going to be a gradual descent to the finish. There were descents but there were plenty of upward undulations too. Mile 22 was 6:09, I was still just about able to ignore the calf pain as I took my last Powergel (The first had been taken at 3 miles with subsequent gels at four mile intervals, with a 3 mile gap after mile nineteens).
Mile 23 was tough: 6:20 (6:10 on GAP), but I was just about holding it together. Mile 24 and the pain was starting to really take over. I was able to just about maintain pace but I didn’t want to push the calf too much in case something popped and I was unable to run (Monza 2008 and Windermere 2009 sprung to mind – the last time I’d suffered a right calf problem). The 24th mile was a 6:22, but with an unexpected uphill section into the city center at mile 25, the pace slowed significantly. It was now a case of survival as the calf sent shock waves of pain with each stride and the quads began to show signs of wanting to cramp dramatically. Mile 25 was 6:45, the equal slowest of the race, matched by the subsequent and thankfully last full mile of the race.
If I was feeling good, mile 26 would have been blissful. Dropping down past Grovesnor Park and along the narrow path by the River Dee back towards the racecourse, the atmosphere from the crowds were sensational. There was no doubt they dragged me along to another 6:45 mile – the calf in particular felt it should not have been running at all.
The spray painted 500m to go marker on the footpath towards the racecourse was a most welcome sight. Confident that even if the calf popped I could make it to the finish, I began to pick up the pace. With 300 meters to go we returned to the race course and I could see the finish line around the gentle bend. Spurred on I began the best sprint finish I could muster under the circumstances. With just under 100 meters to go I spotted my wife and children, and gave them a beaming smile and a wave for the official clock had not yet struck 2:44 and I had less than 20 seconds left to run.
With the crowd cheering, the announcer shouting my name, I sped to the finish. I stopped my watch and looked at the finish time: 2:43:41! Project Sub-2:45 had been successfully accomplished! I beamed, I looked to the sky, I turned around to check the official clock just to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. I wasn’t. Sub 2:45 really had just happened.
I shook the hand of someone official looking and then collected my t-shirt and medal. A Lucozade and a (not particularly good) official post race photo later and the race experience was over.
Post Race
Me and MarkMe and My MedalMe and StuartMe and the kids…
I heard Stuart’s name called out a few minutes after I finished. I headed to my family who greeted me warmly. Stuart and his girlfriend came to join us and we shared race notes and took post race photos. My youngest daughter took too much of a liking to my post race Lucozade and couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to chase her playing tig.
Thanks to modern technology we were able to track our club mates as we approached the finish. We missed Chris, who came home in a fine 2:55, but cheered loudly as Mark came home in a superb 3:11, nine minutes up on his planned time and a well deserved Good For Age place at the 2017 London Marathon is his. The last of the GRC clan, Penny Hodges, was a little further down the road. I would have waited were it not for the kids demanding lunch and generally entertaining. So it was with a tinge of regret we left without seeing her finish in 3:48. I did though manage to meet up with Mark, who was suitably delighted with his performance.
And then we were off on the long journey home, stopping at a country pub for some lunch and entertaining of very tired children, and then stopping again for some ice cream at a very popular ice cream shop. By the time we approached Nottingham I was the last one awake (Which was just as well as I was driving). We were home just after 6pm. I looked through my emails and a link to the official results had arrived. My time was confirmed as 2:43:41 (Chip), my finishing position a very creditable eighteenth and (whisper it) I was third V40 finisher. No prizes though for third, alas.
And once the kids had been fed and put to bed and the champagne (it was some rather cheap Cava) had been poured, my achievements toasted and the glasses raised to the hard work and subsequent success, it was declared that the adventure had ended.
All year I’ve been struggling to find a non Grand Prix weekend where I could take part in, what I believe would be, my fiftieth half marathon. It looked as though I was going to have to wait until December, but when that planned race became a casualty to, off all things, a party, I bit the bullet and two weeks or so before the event, entered the 25th Grunty Fen Half Marathon.
The race with a funny name was a bit of a risk and a compromise too. The compromise was twofold in that I really wanted to do a big name city style glitz and glamour half marathon to celebrate my fiftieth. Plus the race is run under the jurisdiction of the ARC (Association of Running Clubs) rather than UKA (UK Athletics). The politics behind this small, but significant point is worthy of an article elsewhere (Or a Google search), the crucial thing is that my race time will appear on neither the Power of 10 nor Run Britain websites, which these days is all anyone cares about when validating one’s running prowess.
The risk was that, as the title of the race suggests, it is run in the Cambridgeshire fens. The advantage of a race in the fens is that you are guaranteed an all but pancake flat race (Having said that, the Grunty Fen managed to pack in a moderate climb which had to be tackled twice). The big disadvantage of a fens race is that wind speed is seemingly multiplied twofold or even more and it is often windy. Many a Grunty Fen has seen times decimated by a stiff wind from which there is no escape.
Very, very luckily, considering the weather forecast of two days earlier, Sunday morning was all but wind free, even in the fens of Witchford. Moreover considering September races can be blisteringly hot affairs, conditions were near perfect, with light cloud mostly covering the sun and temperatures only reaching 17C by the finish.
My luck though had run out to an extent on Friday evening when I began to feel the ominous sniffles, the throat beginning to feel a little sore, the ears beginning to ache, the sinuses starting to tingle.
Saturday and I felt pretty lousy all day, a bout of catarrh leaving me in discomfort and weary. That evening I went to bed stating if I felt like I did then in the morning I wouldn’t be racing. Thankfully on Sunday morning I felt quite a bit better but still not 100%: the sinuses were still painful and the legs a touch achy – not helped by a full week of training and not the hint of a taper other than a rest day on the Saturday.
After arriving an hour before the start and collecting my race number and chip, I went for a fifteen minute warm up which did little to boost my confidence – I wasn’t running badly but there was no zing. The catarrh had stripped that from me. I made my final pre-race trip to the toilets and headed to the start.
Lining Up At The Start
I lined up on the start line next to the race winner Aaron Scott. He has a talent for turning up at every race I turn up at and winning. He is a very good runner. I was tempted to congratulate him on his win before the start but resisted; I saved it until the finish once he had won (and in a new course record: 1:08:04). As you can tell by the picture above I felt strangely subdued. It was the best chance ever of breaking 1:15 for the half marathon and I was struggling to get myself pumped up.
The start of the race.
As the picture above shows, I made a tardy start. Aaron was already into the distance by the time we’d crossed the green timing mat. The opening 400 meters were brisk. The race may have lacked the 55000 fun runners taking part a couple of hundred miles north on the same day in Teeside, but the quality was pretty high for a race with less than 500 finishers. From the off I felt a heaviness in the legs which I sensed was never going to fully go away. The first mile was quick: 5:29, but the heart rate was really low. Whether it was the heavy training or the catarrh, I’m not sure, but for the first mile and pretty much the remainder of the race I found it impossible to get the heart rate and therefore effort up to the same level I managed at the Robin Hood Half Marathon in 2014.
The opening mile, surrounded by baggy shorts!
By the end of the first mile where a short uphill drag soon thinned out the field, I found myself in around 9th position. I saw Aaron Scott as a small dot in the distance with a group of four or five runners chasing, then a couple of solo runners ahead of me. I settled into my running and having accepted that the heart rate wasn’t going to reach the heights I wanted, went about the task of running as fast as I could within the limits of the day.
The next eleven miles were hugely uneventful and as undramatic as the fen course, which had us running on a succession of dead straight and dead long roads with just one hill of note to break the montony. I passed a runner just before 5k, which I went through in 17:32, then another shortly after on the aforementioned hill. Thereafter, aside from a couple of support bikes who were supporting the lone wheelchair competitor, who I passed at ten miles, I didn’t come within shouting distance of another runner – although I could see another runner in the distance occasionally on the long straight roads.
I took a Powergel at just after five miles, where I nearly took a wrong turn thanks to a misunderstanding with a marshal. Soon after the ingesting of goo, I put in my strongest feeling miles of the race. Good stuff in that Powergel. I wish I’d taken another but I was feeling tight and only carried one.
Halfway
I went through ten k on my watch in 35:10 and more importantly the official halfway in 37:10. This didn’t take a degree in maths to to work out that if I maintained pace, sub 1:15 was a real possibility. A maths degree, nor any other for that matter, doesn’t run those last six and a half miles for you though and there was still plenty to be done. Thankfully I was able to maintain pace miles 7-12 (Including the hill in the twelfth mile) were 5:46; 5:41; 5:40; 5:41; 5:44; 5:43; and another 5:43.
I went through ten miles in an unofficial PB of 57:09, and knew that once the hill in the twelfth mile had been tackled I could put my head down and give it everything in the final mile and a bit. For the first time in the race I was able to get my heart rate up to the sort of levels I’d been hoping for and, as I tackled the closing twists and turns through a housing estate it showed with a thirteenth mile covered in 5:31.
Sprinting to the finish, full effort!
In the final half mile I glanced at the time in my watch and realised that whilst breaking the PB of 1:15:29 was a formality, breaking the 1:15 barrier was not such a given. For the final 400 meters I gave it full gas, chasing nothing other than a good time. I finished, clocking 1:14;46. Fourteen seconds inside my target time! Finishing seventh was irrelevant, I’d hoped to break 1:15 and this I managed, despite not feeling on top of the world.
This sense prevailed in the following minutes and hours. The euphoria of the half marathon at Nottingham, clocking 1:15 was not present. Normally I’d chide myself at such a response – a PB is a PB and one should celebrate them wholeheartedly. However today, I was pleased, but aware that there was more in the tank potentially and that this race is just a warm up for what is the bigger picture – the hopeful culmination of Project Sub 2:45.
This was a curious little event. A few days before this race, held on the afternoon of Wednesday September 9th at the Prince William of Gloucester Army Barracks in Grantham, our running club received an email from Captain Lepage of Grantham, inviting us to take part in one of the Lincoln Services races. At first I wasn’t too interested in the idea, especially as I’d planned a rare evening out the night before the race where the consumption of (a fair to large volume of) alcohol was a given.
However the day before the race I reckoned a bit of a run out over 10k would probably do my marathon training no harm, indeed it may even help it a little, having not run a great deal at pace recently. I was mindful that I was taking part in the Grunty Fen Half Marathon on the Sunday, so this wasn’t to be a full gas effort, but the plan was to put in a solid tempo effort.
Two hours before the race and I was a bit of a mess – head spinning and pounding, a little bit worse for wear, scrambling desperately for the last remaining Ibuprofen in the house. Ninety minutes before the off and I made a reluctant decision to take part in the race – at least try to run up to the barracks before deciding whether I could actually run.
Thankfully, apart from feeling very dehydrated and the heart rate thinking it was running a 5k, the warm up showed I was okay to race – the head actually grateful for the hangover busting qualities of running. Getting into the army barracks took a little bit of effort, but I was soon in and in a totally different world to what I am accustomed too. To be honest, I wasn’t too sure what to expect not frequenting myself that often in army camps, but I soon found some familiar faces wearing Grantham Running Club colours, and before long we were introduced to Captain Lepage who offered a warm welcome to his guest runners.
He also gave hands down without a doubt the most comprehensive pre-race briefing I’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing. Short of telling us quite how to run and when to breath I do believe every possible eventuality was covered. That done and it was soon down to racing. A few strides and I felt ready to go.
I found it a touch amusing that having been briefed that the pre-race briefing would be at 14:15 and the race would commence at 14:30 prompt, the klaxon for the race start was actually sounded at 14:27, catching out a few runners who had used the nearby conveniences for a last minute pit stop.
Thankfully I was on the start line and from the off I was running fairly well. After the initial surge I tucked myself on the shoulder of the leader and sensed that the pace wasn’t going to be that fast. After a mile or so I took the lead briefly and tried to slow the pace, keen not to go much quicker than the 5:42 opening mile.
I was soon passed though on a brief section of multi terrain which I struggled on and slipped to third before hitting the familiar surroundings of Turnor Road, an oft traveled section of quiet road for interval sessions at the running club. I pulled in the lead two and for the most part for the next three and a half miles sat on the shoulder of the lead runner.
I was finding the pace comfortable; the heart rate though was a little too high, a legacy no doubt of too many glasses of vino tinto the night before. Miles 2-4, on Strava at least, were a model of consistency, a trio of 5:40 miles. I got the impression the three of us could go faster but had other events on our minds – the two with me were talking of racing the next day, for instance.
The fifth mile saw us tackle again the short section of multi terrain and the other two drifted a few yards ahead of me as I slowed to a 5:44 mile and they increased their pace slightly. I could have gone with them, but as a guest runner and with Sunday on my mind I didn’t feel the need or desire to push, so I let them drift 5-10 seconds ahead in the final mile, which was another 5:40.
It turned out the 10k was near enough spot on six miles, so there the race ended – third, not a bad effort. Six miles in 34:35, which is actually faster than my official six mile PB. I waited for my fellow GRC runners to come in, felt my hangover making an unwelcome return so made my farewells and jogged home. A curious race, but a strangely enjoyable one.
