The British 10K

So, the British 10K is done and dusted, and I sit here smugly in possession of a new Personal Best, a mere 5 years after setting the benchmark with my first ever attempt at running a race.

I was seriously starting to become concerned that my steady decline into old age was irreversible, but a few decent training runs had given me a smidgeon of hope that I may be able to potter round in a decent time. Having completed the Homecoming Scotland Run in Central Park exactly 3 months beforehand, I also knew that I was coming into this race having begun training with a greater level of fitness than ever before.

The pressure was on, then, and I was determined to give it my best shot. I simultaneously impressed myself with my willpower and bored my friends with my sober 'banter' over the course of 3 non-drinking hours in the pub on Saturday; a tagliatelle-loading session and restless night's sleep later, I woke at 06:30 on Sunday morning ready to go. It was slightly odd, getting up at that time on a Sunday, although somewhat fitting given that exactly a year previously we had wakened at roughly the same time - albeit in a Renault Kangoo, in a car park in Bruges.

Having arrived only slightly late at the bag drop near the Mall, I met up with fellow competitors Gordon and Murray, and we made our way to the start line - via a potential collective act of treason as a lack of loos forced us to use Green Park for pre-race slashes. I remembered the melee over the first few kilometres in 2008 - comparatively narrow streets combined with no pace-determined starting slots mean it's a free for all until the race reaches Embankment. We elbowed and sneaked our way as close to the front of the expectant participants as we could.

In bright sunshine, and only half an hour late, we were off. I knew I'd gone too quickly almost immediately, but in homage to that afternoon's Formula 1 British Grand Prix, I was doing my utmost to out-drag as many people as possible before the first corner. Gordon, who was aiming for sub-45 minutes, went with me, and we swapped our own personal lead a few times in the sprint to the first kilometre marker. 

As usual, there was the usual collection of panting chunkers walking before we even passed the 1 KM sign - yep, they'd paid their money (or committed to their charity), but apparently not even bothered training enough to be able to jog 1,000 metres. Seriously. Why? You're putting yourself through, I assume, several hours of humiliation and discomfort, and pissing off everyone else who has made an effort and now has to run at 90 degree angles to try and avoid you strolling down the middle of the course.

As it was, Gordon made better use of the pavement & traffic islands than I did, and as we approached the 2km mark he was stretching ahead of me. I let him go - there's no way I could have maintained that pace and come home in under 45 minutes. After he disappeared I settled into a decent enough rhythm, although when my legs started to feel fatigued by the time we reached the turn at Blackfriars (around 4km in) I knew I was going to regret caning it in the early stages. Thankfully I was still able to maintain a steady pace and dodge the flood of urine in the underpass, as guys made use of the temporary respite from spectator-lined streets to relieve themselves.

I was doing ok until around 6.5km, when I became convinced that I'd clearly missed the 7km sign as I "must have passed it ages ago". To my despair, it slowly came into view as I lurched round a tree-lined corner; thankfully by that point Big Ben was also in sight and I knew that in 20 minutes it would all be over - if I only kept going and didn't listen to my legs which came closer than they ever have done before to convincing my brain that no one would mind if we just, y'know; stopped for a bit.

Westminster bridge. 8km. The majestic Gothic splendour of the Houses of Parliament forming a fittingly grand backdrop for a souvenir photo as we ran past. Alas, by that point I'd been shuffling on empty for over a mile and await with dread the results of the numerous photographers' efforts appearing on marathon-photo.com. Mind you, I think Murray's portfolio may turn out worse, given he accidentally blew a bubble of snot out of his nose as he attempted to smile for the camera on the way past.

Entering Parliament Square, I allowed myself a small smile; it was nearly over, given the finish was in Whitehall. Imagine my surprise and disgust, then, as we took the second exit from the roundabout rather than the fourth, and found ourselves trudging towards Victoria, for what felt like an eternity. I wasn't expecting this, as they've either changed the course since 2008 or I'd been fondly recalling it minus the shit bits. Eventually the turn came and I was heading back towards Whitehall, dreading there might be a final twist in the course.

I hadn't been checking my time as I ran - if I was ahead of schedule I didn't want to get stressed about seeing it through, whereas if I was behind I knew I had no more in the tank to raise my game. I adopted the tactic of pushing myself as hard as I could at each point in the race, without overdoing it to the point where I had to stop. Imagine my joy, then, as I rounded the corner and saw the finish line in the distance, and the glorious big old-school yellow clock, ticking its way past 56 minutes. My slowest ever time, recorded in New York, was 57 & a bit, and I knew if I made it over the line before then I was guaranteed to have done at least better than that. I also knew it had taken us a fair (if indeterminate) amount of time to get over the start line in the first place, and started to think it might be worth trying to speed up a wee bit.

I busted a gut along the final 400 metres, legs wobbling akimbo, and virtually collapsed over the finish line whilst reaching for the pause button on my Nikeplus. As I stumbled towards the water stattion I was just happy just to have made it without stopping - then I looked at the time. 49:25. Almost two minutes faster than I'd ever gone before and under the 50 minute barrier that I'd started to think was mythical (for me, at least). The official time has since rounded me up to 49:35, which is a little annoying, but nonetheless a still Personal Best by a significant distance.

Happy Days! I'm starting the think there may be merit in the whole "you can achieve anything as long as you try hard enough" school of thought.

The above graph is how my Nikeplus saw it - pretty consistent, despite what my legs were yelling at me as we cruised along beside the Thames with all the grace and pace of a pontoon barge. As usual, the uncallibrated piece of plastic has diddled me out of the majority of the last kilometre, albeit it is closer to the correct distance than some of my training runs.

The final point of note is that I didn't at any point feel like having a celebratory cigarette, thus bringing to a close one of the less sensible rituals I've adopted in life and opening up the possibility of a fag-free future. Didn't stop me dreaming about smoking last night though. The obligatory sweaty photo with post-race grin was taken, and will be posted tomorrow.

And Gordon & Murray? Both also got personal bests, and both also achieved their aim. Gordon came home in a sterling sub-45 minutes, whilst Murray destroyed his previous best by 3 minutes (and his best training time by 15) to scrape the top edge of the hour mark, finishing in around 62 minutes.

We earned our beers yesterday afternoon - all 5 of them.