Injuries, Ultrarunning nights and Mo Farah's incredible move at The European Team Championship

Please say hello in the comments if you manage to get to the end, I feel lonely on here!! You can also tweet me: @scott_leach 

My mountain bike attached to my new implement of torture/boredom- the turbo trainer

This week I have continued to battle with the rib injury I sustained last week with my epic face-plant fail, so my "running week" consisted of turbo-training, an ultra-running night and the European Team Championships in Gateshead. So let's start at the beginning.

The rib injury that I got by taking a quick face-down inspection of the floor at The Chevin last week is still very painful. A quick trip to the doctors confirmed that I hadn't put a hole in my lung and I left with some powerful pain killers. Of course, this left me wondering how I could keep up my fitness whilst I am unable to run. It seemed there was only one choice as anything that involved upper body would be very painful. An exercise bike. I don't dare cycle on the road as the jolting would hurt too much so I decided on a turbo trainer as seen in the picture above. For those of you who don't know, it basically transforms your road bike in to an exercise bike. An extremely generous friend, who ought to know better, took pity on me and bought me an early birthday present of an elite turbo trainer and very good it is too. I dislike cycling at the best of times, but at least I can do this in front of the TV with athletics/tennis/cricket to distract me.

INJINJI!! (Must be shouted in a kung-fu film style) Couldn't resist this new pair at Accelerate.

On Thursday night I made a trip to Sheffield to Accelerate, the best running shop I have ever come across. My main job involves me walking around shopping areas across the whole of Yorkshire and sometimes further afield. The one type of shop I never pass without going in is a running shop, and if it's an independent, all the better! In the course of my job I see a lot of running shops! I have grown pretty tired of listening to the total rubbish that is spouted by the "knowledgeable" assistants in the biggest chain (who shall remain nameless) so it was a real pleasure to meet Chris in Accelerate and hear him talk sense. The first thing that impressed me was when he told me that Accelerate only stock neutral shoes. Blimey!!

So, back to the point- the shop have started to run Ultra Running evenings and I attended my first one on Thursday. A short film about the Transvulcania race in Palma provided massive amounts of motivation to step up to ultra running and this race has now been entered on to my ever-increasing list of "must dos"  

This was followed by a talk about the West Highland Way (WHW)  race by John, a veteran of 11 finishes. The WHW is 95 miles long and is run in June each year. John explained the stages of the race, and then it got very interesting as we started to fire questions at him to find out his personal tactics and ploys for getting around such a long race. The best part was a story he told to us:

He was running through the night many miles in to the run when he ran past a house. In the garden was a row of big flowers. In between each flower he could see woman's face turning their heads backwards and forwards. In his exhausted and sleep-deprived state he could just about work out that it was an hallucination, but he tried to decided which bit wasn't real. The women's faces, he concluded, must be the hallucinations.

A while after the race he decided to revisit the spot so he could check on what he had seen. As it turned out, there were no flowers in the garden at all- the whole thing had been in his head. It just serves to show you what ultra-runners put themselves through!

Deb then gave us a talk on the Ultra-Trail Du Mont-Blanc. Debs explained that she was used to doing extreme events and had raced for 24 hours before, but never in a purely running race. She entered the UTMB  on pretty much a whim and it had clearly been one of the best experiences of her life. She explained it with an excited enthusiasm that seems like it hasn't diminished despite the years since her race experience. She raved about the incredible crowd and made us all want to sign up right there and then, if any of us had the points required to enter it or managed to beat the incredibly quick-closing ballot for this now extremely popular event.

After the talks there was an open discussion on all things ultra including kit and training and many a good tip was picked up and funny story told. An excellent night that is soon to be repeated. You will not regret spending your evening there! I picked up a couple of things before I left including some more Injinji socks (I never race or run long in anything else now) and some Clif Bars which may look like squished up squirrel poo, but they taste great and are made from entirely organic ingredients. If they're good enough for Scott Jurek.... they're far too good for me, but I'll eat them anyway!

Gateshead international Stadium. that's Mo Farah leading the 5000m

Saturday found me at the Gateshead International Stadium for the European Team Championship with 7 friends and boy did we get lucky as the 2nd day on Sunday was conducted in torrential rain! 

Mo Farah's outrageous run in the 5000m will live with me forever and I am pretty sure I will tell the story many times over, but back to that later...

The stadium proved easy to get to and was well set up. The lack of toilets and concessions stands inside had been thought about and extra facilities had been set up outside; all you had to do was get a free pass-out bracelet. 

Our seats allowed us a wonderful view of the women's pole vaulting. And what an incredibly impressive set of athletic and, dare I say it, sexy women, they were too! Sadly our seats were a little too low to gain a great view of the 100m and the long and triple jumps on the other side of the stadium, but other than that, they were great. I was amazed about just how much was going on all the time. It was great fun trying to keep up with all the things being flung around the stadium as the track and field events over-lapped. You see much more in person than you ever do on TV!

We really had got lucky with the day I picked as we witnessed, amongst other things,  Jessica Judd's fantastic winning performance on her senior début, the  men's 4x100 team actually passing a baton without dropping it and Mo Farah essentially taking the p@#% out of a European field of athletes. If you didn't get to see it, here's what happened:

Mo set off slowly, actually at the back of the field for the first lap. He slowly moved up and then was content to sit behind whichever other athlete lead the field for the next few laps. A lap or so out he claimed the front spot with consummate ease, but it was when the bell went that I witnessed the most outrageous piece of running I have ever seen.

A split second after the bell went Mo literally jumped and started sprinting away from the pack like a startled rabbit. The crowd immediately and spontaneously jumped to their feet. He began to put distance between the rest of the runners and in seconds was already metres in front. I could only imagine how demoralizing that must have been to the also-rans in the race. Mo had been toying with them. The race was so easy to him he could just cruise along then blow the field away as he pleased. The final time was very slow for Mo which perhaps explained his tactics.
Here's the last lap on the BBC website. 

I had a brilliant day in Gateshead and can't wait to go to another meet there but I have to say, what a sad reflection of this nation's taste in sport that an amazing event like this failed to fill a relatively small stadium when the tickets are an incredible bargain at £17 each, when you consider a bunch of men-children falling about on a football pitch can command triple that and fill much bigger stadia. It's just wrong. Add to that the fact that this is the first time the championship has been held in the UK for 13 years and I am baffled as to the relative lack of interest in the event.

I could go in to much more detail but I am sure I have waffled long enough. I hope your running week has been enjoyable as mine turned out to be, despite the absence of actual physical running.

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Twitter : @scott_leach

A Runner's Guide to Face-Planting

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Some fine reading to be had in them thar books

face-plant

 - vb 1. (intr) To fall on to one's face, usually during a sporting activity, as a consequence of tripping and falling, often in a way that is humorous only to the on-looker and not to the face-plantee.

- n 2. The act or instance of falling on to one's face.

As a child I played lots of different sports but I don't remember having face-planted very often. Perhaps it's not the sort of thing you choose to commit to memory. I do however, remember chasing a player down the wing during a rugby league training session, as our paths coincided I flung myself at his legs. Somehow I managed to make a huge mess of it and speared myself in to the floor, face first. Nothing more was damaged then my dignity and I quickly got up and played on.
A few years later I managed to face-plant from my bike. I was crossing my old school's running track on my racer when I misjudged lifting my front wheel on to the grass. I went straight over the handle bars and snapped my collar bone. My audience was about 20 school children.

As I wasn't a skate boarder and parkour hadn't been invented my chances to face-plant whilst a child were perhaps limited. As an adult, the consequences of a face-plant can be much more serious. You could break the bottle of wine you've just bought, smash the screen of your smart phone, break your neck of femur or all three.

So, with no race this weekend I planned to hit it hard in training. Of course, as a mouse, my plans oft gang agley....

On Wednesday I trotted around the Chevin with Simon and Phil of Fellandale, following Phil as he plunged down banks and off the paths, thoroughly enjoying myself. Half way around the run, Simon managed a poor-effort of a face-plant. He didn't really get his face right in to the ground and did little to no damage, apart from possibly his pride. Phil and I, not being morons or children, knew that these things can be serious and actually, they're not funny. So we asked if he was alright. He has a pretty serious long race coming up and has been preparing and training for it for a long time, missing it due to  fall on his local run would be a disaster. So we were pleased to see him bounce back up with no real problems and carry on. 

We talked about falling as we carried on running and I decided to shout out, "Oy! Fate! You're a big girl's blouse, come here while I tweak your nipples and give you a wedgie" Not literally of course, but as good as. I waxed lyrical about how I rarely fall. How I have a low centre of gravity and that though I may trip and/or stumble, generally, I regain my feet. Oh no, I don't fall often....

Fate didn't like this and obviously believes that revenge should be delivered on a chilled platter. On Friday this week, it donned an apron, prepared a lovely meal, turned up in the Chevin with a clean tea-towel draped over an arm and hid behind a corner waiting for me.

I don't have a problem, I can give up trainers any time I like

I woke on Friday quite excited. A whole day off, no injuries, a car full of petrol and the world was my running lobster. After talking myself out of an attempt at the 3 peaks, I decided to do a couple of laps of the Chevin with full pack as training for getting used to carrying what I would need on a long trail/fell run.

Fate must have been in a good mood that day as she did try to warn me. I forgot my GPS watch and instead of taking this as a sign of not to run, I decided that I would have lunch at the Cheerful Chilli, read a bit more of the Brownlee brothers' book, then nip back for my watch. Even when it turned out the Cheerful Chilli was closed, I didn't take that hint, I just changed plans to eat at home instead. 

Yes- I know I could have run without the watch, but as my first training run with full pack, I really wanted to see what distance I covered and at what speed.

Later that afternoon I returned with my watch and set off running. I was already blowing hard with 2k covered when I rounded a corner. A very innocuous corner on a very well made and even part of the trail. A split second later I found myself lying face down on the floor, wheezing for breath, winded.

Looking behind me it seems I had tripped over a rock. Not even a small rock. A big rock. An obvious rock. How the hell had I missed it? I had just run directly through the forest, off the path, managing to miss roots and branches and covering completely uneven ground with no problems and I had tripped over a giant rock, smack in the middle of the path. It wasn't even hiding, it was obvious. Or it was fate sticking out her foot. Yeah, that's what it was. Well played fate, well played.

There was no stumble from which to recover,  no warning at all. I wasn't able to brace myself or lessen the fall in any way, I had already hit the ground before I knew what was happening.

I was grateful no one else was around, not because of the embarrassment factor, but because I hate having to wave away the offers of help and assuring them I am ok.  When I got to my feet, everything felt reasonably ok and I walked for a minute to regain the breath that had been knocked out of me. When I tried to run I discovered a sore patch on my side, just below my right pec, that was pretty painful. I stopped again and walked to give me a minute or so more to recover then I tried to run again. No chance. I knew my running was over for the day.

On the way home I did a couple of errands with the pain building in my ribs. By the time I got home it was becoming difficult to move. I assessed my injuries and was amazed at the amount of damage I had managed to do to myself. Grazes above my right eye, my right shoulder, my right forearm, a knuckle on my right hand and the outside of my right knee. By far and away the worst is the injury to my ribs. Also, to make it a little worse, I had to face up to the fact that most likely, the injury to my ribs was caused by landing on my own arm.

Seriously though, how do you manage to hit the floor with 6 points of contact?! That has to be some sort of talent.

If only I had looked more like this on Friday

The next morning getting out of bed was a real ordeal. Moving any part of my upper body was agony. I hadn't cracked a rib or punctured a lung, but moving anything on my body shot pains through my whole torso. Applying ice just made it further stiffen up and caused more pain. Thankfully, applying heat, via a heat-wheat pack loosened it off and lessened the pain. 

This morning I woke up in a slightly better state, I had managed to get comfortable in bed and had slept well. I'm still stiff and I think it is going to be a while before my next run, but at least it's beginning to get better. I now begin another battle to be better before my next scheduled race, the Humber Bridge half marathon in 2 week's time.

Telling Simon about my fall and how I felt silly after having told him about how I rarely fell, he mentioned that he had felt pretty silly that he had been talking about the grips on his numerous different trainers just before he had fallen. Fate, what a fickle little madam. 

So to summarise, if one wishes to face-plant effectively with maximum impact, one must:

1) Ensure to have thoroughly pissed off fate by telling everyone of how unlikely you are to fall, or something similar.

2) Go straight to ground at speed, no stumbling which could lessen the impact or enable you to brace yourself.

3) Make sure one has an audience, preferably of giggling school children.

4) Make sure someone has it on video so you can be laughed at around the world via the wonder of youtube.

5) If you can land in muddy water to cause a spectacular splash, this is all the better.

6) If performed in front of an audience, ensure you ask for marks out of 10

Race review: The Otley Chevin Fell Race. 5/6/13

Please feel free to say hello in the comments or tweet me: @scott_leach

Last week I finished reading Richard Askwith's, required-reading-for-all-fell-runners-book, Feet in the Clouds. This week, I felt like I stepped straight in to the pages as I entered my first ever fell race on the Otley Chevin. The course is simple; start from Station road in Otley, run up the huge hill that is The Chevin, a small loop at the top, then straight back down again. And what a wonderful, exhausting, terrible, punishing, joyous, fun-but-not-fun, experience it was.

I picked up my Saloman trail runners, selected a pair of shorts, donned my Manchester marathon t-shirt (probably a faux-pas at a fell race) and headed out. Half an hour later I arrived in Otley, a lovely little market town just north of Leeds and I was about an hour early. It's only a small place so I expected to see a little marquee set up and a few people milling around; I didn't. Hmmmm, best check to see where it actually starts.....

I parked very close to the start on Station Road where a small hand full of runners were milling around next to the ricketiest folding table you have ever seen, oddly it was never used and a good thing too as I nearly knocked it over when I grazed it slightly later on.
Station road is a cobbled street with beautiful Victorian stone houses on either side. If you created a street in a studio to scream "Yorkshire" you really couldn't do any better unless you included ferrets, pigeons and a small boy with bread in the basket of his bike. A battered sign, leaning against a wall, marked the start of the race. Having never been to a race like this before, I wasn't quite sure what to do; even the other club races I had been to before I had signed up for on line. Luckily I over-heard someone giving directions to registration, which turned out to be in a small shop front of a plumber's merchant. At least I think that's what it was. I filled out my details, signed the bit that promised I wasn't likely to keel over and die half way up (a blatant lie on my part) paid my £4 and picked up my number.

Looking around the assorted runners as they arrived was a scary experience. I have never seen so many incredibly fit-looking, sinewy people in all my life. Almost every one of them looked like they could sprint up Everest, wrestle a wild boar at the top, then carry it back down and make every one a bacon butty before the sun was over the yard arm.

I got talking to a friendly guy from Otley AC. He told me a little about the race and we idly chatted about our running history. He mentioned that the worse part of the race was a tarmac section that was really punishing. I misunderstood him entirely and said that it would probably be the only section I'd enjoy. I found out just how right he was later on and just how much I'd misunderstood him.
I was trying not to notice the way the Chevin looked down on us all with a black scowl from so high up. I have run around the Chevin enough times now to know that it can be a tough place to run, but I had never stared up at it from the very bottom. From this angle, if it was a person, it would be a socio-path with serial killer tendencies.

Yes, that's definitely a noose

I soon spotted some of the guys from Horsforth Fellendale and said hello to Simon, who, impressively, recently ran the Fellsman. You can read about his epic run here:

Simon has run the race before and gave me a few welcome tips, "Don't get frustrated on the steps, it'll be congested and you won't be able to over take"  As it turns out, by the time I got to the steps, running was out of the question, I was so tired. I think more than one person told me that I had picked a tough race for my first ever fell outing.

The starter stood on a wall with an air horn and everyone lined up at the imaginary start line. He counted us all down and caused a large laugh as he failed to get the air horn to work; the field set off running anyway, then laughed again as the horn finally went off 5 seconds later while everyone sprinted up the cobbles.

Judging the pace of this race was going to be impossible for me as I didn't know the course and had no idea exactly how to run to the top of a 925ft peak and remain alive at the end. I decided to tuck in behind Simon and use his pace.
The first section isn't very steep up Station road, then the route turns along a very brief flat section. I couldn't decided on whether to use the flat section to get in some quick running while I could and unsure as to what I should do, I adopted a moderate pace. Tentatively I moved passed Simon, also unsure if that would be a wise move. Another turn, some tarmac, then the route turned past a white building  that appears an intimidating height up the hill when viewed from the bottom.

I started to walk long before I saw anyone else start. Luckily my challenge walking experience meant my walk was pretty much as fast as the people running around me. I tried to adopt a run 10 metres-walk 10 metres strategy. Not long after the steps started, I abandoned the strategy and just walked. I was trying to keep the speed up as much as possible, but with sweat dripping from every pore and failing to gasp in anywhere close to the amount of air I required, it was, literally, an uphill struggle.

Mercifully the the path turned right at the top of the steps and levelled out somewhat. I tried to cruise to regather some breath. I wasn't able to.

Once again, Steve Prefontaine spoke to me, asking me how much guts I had, in his strange Yorkshire accent (I've never actually heard his voice, so naturally, to me, his accent is pure Dales)
 "Does thee have the guts, lad?"

After 2.8 BILLION steps. (I counted them all) the relief at seeing surprise view car park was muted. Although I was pleased to reach that point as I knew it to be the very top of the Chevin and it would all be down hill after that, I was still blowing incredibly hard. Too hard. Here I am, reaching the top in around 13 gruelling minutes:

 Many thanks to Woodentops for this fantastic picture. Now, why do I run with my thumbs up?

So the expected relief that came with the down hill bit never arrived. I may not have the iron will of an Olympian, but I do have enough desire that cruising down the hill after the immense effort of getting up there just wasn't going to happen. I kept pushing as hard as my burning muscles and lungs would allow.

We plunged back in to the forest and I accelerated. I started to reel in the runners in front. The forest seemed to flash by and we rounded the white building very soon (I really must find out what it is!) telling me there wasn't much further to go.

Through the small yard and I was staring down the steep tarmac hill that the Otley runner had mentioned. We had run up it, but it hadn't registered with me. Free speed! I thought. This was a chance to really open up, the only question was how fast did I dare to go?

I passed a mountain goat who was complaining about this stupid hill

Otley runner's words soon started to hammer home. My feet were beginning to burn within seconds of hitting the tarmac and I was reaching what felt like a dangerous speed. Did I engage my quads and cause those to burn and also slow me down, or did I just go for it? I settled for a half measure. It was still enough to reel in and pass 2 runners including a young man in his early 20s who I would encounter a little later. Unfortunately, slamming that hard in to tarmac injured my left heel. Thankfully it was only a bruise to the soft tissue which was better inside 4 days and during the race, I didn't feel it.

A trot back through the tiny industrial section as the young runner behind me caught me with every step, and we were back looking down the cobbles of Station road. As usual, my brain informed me I had absolutely nothing left and a sprint would not be possible. In fact, you should give up and walk, nay crawl, to the finish. Actually no, hot-wire a car and drive down.

Back in the real world and the young runner behind audibly upped his pace, I could tell from his breathing and foot fall. I idly wondered if I would be able to out-sprint him. I tried to up my pace and managed a tiny amount. I heard the young runner respond. I pushed a little harder and actually found something there. There was less than 100 metres of steep downhill cobbles to go. I always tell myself with 100 metres to go, no matter what, you can manage a sprint. After all, what does it matter if you collapse over the line? Everyone would be impressed, I am sure!

The relentless downward progress continued with everything on fire, it was taking all my will power not to just give up and walk; then wonderfully, I heard the young runner give up. He wasn't going to catch me. I was way happier than that should have made me. But still, I had heard the challenge, responded, and won my own little race. Perhaps a little bit of Dom's heightened determination was beginning to sink in. There is no logic in thrashing yourself to finish one place higher when you are nowhere near a podium finish, but it's that very attitude which slows you down, and it's rejecting those thoughts, believing in racing whomever you are up against, regardless of your position, that spurs you on to greater things. Honestly, it felt like a small break-through in that I was able to force myself to "beat" that young runner....

Who had the most guts, Steve?....Me, lad, me!

There was no finish line as such, just a small funnel created by ribbon and some traffic cones and I was confused as to where the race finished (other runners coming in behind me had the same trouble and many ran way past the official finish) Then I heard the time keeper call out a place, which sadly, I was too tired to commit to memory, but I realised I could stop running.

My time of a little over 22 minutes (I forgot to turn off my GPS at the end, so ignore the last split and overall time) would have placed me around 20th last year when just under 100 people raced. This year's field was something like 120, so we shall see what happens when the official results are published. 

After the race my legs continued to shake for quite some time and it took me far longer to recover from any road race I have ever done, including much longer races. I continued to gasp for air for far longer too.

Soon I had the unexpected pleasure of cheering in the other Horsforth Fellandale runners. Having never been part of a running club before, it really was a great feeling to stand at the end talking  to the other runners about their races. Simon felt he could have gone harder, but his only real aim for the race was just to get up and down in one piece, probably due to his training for the brutal 10 mountain challenge he is undertaking soon. 

Race Summary:

I had to be pleased with my run in my first ever fell race. I finished in a respectable time, in a respectable position. Although I walked much of the uphill sections I doubt I could have paced it much better as I don't think I am capable, yet, of running very far up a hill so steep. So, small injury aside, I couldn't have hoped for much better. Bring on the next one!

Update:

I finished in a slightly disappointing 42nd, although the official time I was given is a good 30 seconds more than I estimated it to be! Ah well, next year!

Race Review: The Pennine Lancashire 10k in Burnley Sunday June 2nd 2013

After the disaster at the Hull 10k a couple of weeks ago that resulted in a shortened course, I was looking forward to my first racing 10k of the year. Sadly, once again, I was involved in a race against time with the lingering chest infection. At this point the council had come to remove the bags of cement from my chest, but they'd left a bit of mess on the road behind that still needed clearing up.
On the Wednesday before, I went for my, hopefully-to-become-regular, run around the Chevin with Horsforth Fellandale.  I became aware of the starter's pistol going off and I dropped in to step along side Mr Chest Infection. 8km and a couple of hundred metres of elevation later and it was neck and neck. Would I be in front come race time on Sunday?

Friday night found me in Hull at the KC stadium watching Hull FC trounce Leeds Rhinos despite taking their collective feet off the accelerator in the second half. I hoped it wasn't an omen. As I was in Hull on Saturday I picked up my running buddy, Dom, from his flat instead of Leeds' station.

Travelling down the M62 we were free to analyse our running in minute detail in a way that would bore the pants off almost anyone else in our circle. We ran over scenarios for the race and talked about how our training had been going and how we felt coming in to the race. Turns out Dom hadn't been running in a week due to a trip to London and a few other things. A niggling plantar problem is curtailing his trojan spirit only slightly.

Back in Leeds we decided to head for a gentle jog down the canal so Dom could remind his muscles they were required for running and to keep me moving. Having not run for a week, Dom was raring to go. I tried to keep him sane, but no dice, at one point we put in a 4:18 kilometre. I found myself wishing I'd brought a pair of baby reins for him. My lungs didn't hurt on the run for the first time in weeks. Definitely a good sign and I began to feel optimistic about the race to come.

Saturday evening and I decided to cook my famous pasta (The non-secret-secret ingredient being chicken stock) which went down well, rather than a trip to the pub. Then we decided to look up the race route to gauge how difficult/easy it would be.

The Burnley route. Twisty turny, huh?

Typical for a Jane Tomlinson race there was no elevation information on their website, but a quick google revealed that some helpful soul had posted the route on mapmyrun. Going by this, the first 5.6km would be a gentle-ish up hill, then the rest of the race would be downhill. The whole route was twisty with a lot of sharp bends built in. We discovered during the race, that though the mapmyrun route was correct, it started and finished it in a different place to the official race, meaning our info wasn't quite right....

This is the info from my GPS. Not terribly accurate but it shows it's far from flat!

As is the tradition on race day, being the giant Muppet I am,  I forgot something important; this time it was my wallet. As I had no petrol and we were already 10 minutes from home when I pulled in to fuel up, it was a good job Dom had some money on him.

We parked up in a municipal car park only a 1 minute walk from the race village. The parking in Burnley is free on Sundays and this is always enough to put a true Yorkshireman like me in a good mood and start a feel-good factor. Even better, I found some perfect "toilet facilities" just next to the car park where someone had been dropping all this year's grass cuttings. No queuing for loos and a totally private spot. Ace!

The race village was the usual efficient and friendly Jane Tomlinson style. No queues for the bag drop; they really have got that one right. Dom got his number at the info desk in no time (He had signed up too late for them to send him one) then came and found me at the bag drop before he joined in with the race day Muppetry tradition. He had left his timing strip in the envelope at the info desk. Luckily it was still there when he went back.

Off we went to find the race start. On a short street that turned out to be at a 90 degree angle from the actual start line we found the cordon markers for sub 35, sub 40 and sub 45 randomly attached to some lamp posts. So they weren't going to even pay lip service this time. I we just had to hope there weren't going to be 50 corporate fun runners wedged in right at the front (There weren't)
Then it got a little confusing. We walked up the side of Mount Everest to the the start (Ok, it wasn't that steep) under the start banner and across timing mats.......what's this about? Then it became clear, the start cordon went up the hill, turned 180 degrees then back again. The start was downhill, not what we had been expecting. We hopped the barriers and settled in near the front. 1141 runners lined up.

At the front were a small bunch of serious-looking club runners. Dom eyed up his competition, he wanted a top 10 finish. Me, I just wanted to get around somewhere close to my PB to have a good starting point for the season.

Then a moment of comic relief. As we waited for the race to start, whilst the local DJ's tried desperately to engage the crowd, a figure appeared at the bottom of the hill being escorted up to the race start.
Whilst not wanting to drop in to stereotypes, we assumed, correctly as it turned out, that this was the winner.
He looked like the type of tall, lean Kenyan that wipes the floor with everyone else at race meets all around the world. The crowd couldn't help but laugh. Uh oh, here comes a ringer! Wonder who is going to come second? I turned to Dom- Won't it be funny if actually, he's a 50 minute runner and we all blast past him from the start?

We didn't.

Also, he turned out to be from a Salford running club.

One of race MC/Local DJ's was a very pretty girl with her shirt tied in a knot at her waist in a cow-girl stylee. "Come on!! Are you up for it?!" She yelled. I bit my tongue hard as I really wanted to shout:
"Yes love, but I've got a race to run, maybe later?"  The trouble I could get myself in to if the small filter in my head ever broke.

The race set off smack on time and we all careered down the hill, through the small city centre and soon in to Thomson park. The first kilometre flashed by in 3:36. I had needed to take advantage of the first 50m of the course being down hill, and I had. But now the hills cut in. Coming up to 2k we disappeared through a wall with the first of many sharp bends. At this point I could still see the leader but it would be the last time I would. The route was now on to a good solid trail.

The "tactics" Dom and I had discussed were pretty basic- Get to 5.6km in one piece (The end of the uphill bit) then murder the rest of the course as it was all down hill. At that point, of course, we didn't know that we had the elevation info slightly wrong.

The route twisted uphill through beautiful woodland and as per usual, I drifted in to a different world so my memory of it is sketchy. I kept glancing at my GPS watch willing 5.6km to come. I popped back to reality as we rounded a corner and were staring down at least 500m of very steep downwards hill. It was a perfect,  wide tarmac path. At last- the down hill bit!

Concentrate.....relax.....let gravity take you.......catch up on your breath whilst moving as quickly as possible.

I had reached the down hill section averaging 4:04 minutes per kilometre, it would take a monumental effort to bring that down to 3:55 to break my PB and I doubted that I had it in me.

I flew down the hill, the runner on my shoulder disappeared behind me and the one in front was quickly reeled in and he disappeared too. I resisted the urge to shout "Free speed!!" as I passed him. My friend Debi informed me that that was from Scott Jurek's excellent book. Odd that my mind had remembered the phrase and told me it was my own even though I had read the book only a couple of months ago.

At the bottom of the hill my average had come down to 4:02. It wasn't enough. Was there enough down hill left and enough left in me to keep dropping the average? The plan to catch my breath down the hill had only partly worked.

At the bottom of the hill was another sharp bend and a fair crowd had gathered. After the incredible crowd response in Manchester I decided to try again.

"Give us a shout out Burnley!!"

There was a pause. The pause was too long. I could hear the crowd thinking "Errrrm, guess we'd better not let him look like a prick"

Then there was a small half hearted cheer.

I looked a prick.

Ah well.

The 6km marker passed and unhelpfully my multiple personality syndrome kicked in and "Evil Me" had a word. "You're knackered" she said, "Walk now. You're not going to beat your PB. Walk"

Urgh. P'soff.

Now I was just trying to maintain the pace, just trying to hang in and not slow down. The next kilometre was a horrible struggle with my mind and body. And then......

Up spoke "Good Me". I see a lot of memes on facebook about running, and this week you might be aware that there has been a lot of stuff about, and from, the iconic Steve Prefontaine, it being 38 years since his untimely death. "Good Me" reminded me of a Pre quote; and I paraphrase: "I don't run to see who is the fastest, I run to see who has the most guts"

So. How much guts you got fat boy? How much?

It was enough to keep me going.

The runner I had over taken down the hill was obviously a local favourite with lots of support spotted around the course. There were a lot of shouts of, "Come on Richard!!" He was racing me, using me the way Dom does to get a good time. I wish my brain would think that way, but it doesn't. I didn't have it in me to race him. I was too tired. I knew I couldn't get my PB and I honestly don't care who beats me. (Well ok, I really didn't want the guy in the cotton t shirt with the board shorts on to beat me. Thankfully he faded badly fairly early in the race)  I knew Richard would reel me in and what's more, I didn't care.

About 1km to go, the road spiked out to our right. A quick 50m detour with a 180 degree turn that was obviously there just to ensure the course was a full 10k. Things like this in Jane Tomlinson races is why lots of serious club runners ignore them and call them "fun runs" I came in at the turn at a wide angle and leaned right in to it trying to keep my speed up. I trusted my trainers to grip in to the road and they held. Richard didn't do so well and he lost a few metres on me.

Just after the turn, a chap who I will assume knew Richard well, was in the middle of a wide road. Probably a member of his running club, maybe even a coach, and he shouted, "Sit in behind him Richard, just tuck in behind him. Use him"
I was the "him" and I was flattered. A club runner was using me to get a "good" time. And a club runner in the age group below me to boot.

Richard and I had been swapping places but at this point my quick turn had put me in front. I could hear him behind me working hard to reel me in. We ran the last half k shoulder to shoulder. "Good running" I gasped. impressed he had quickly made up the distance he had lost at the turn. "Thanks, no PB today for me though" he said. "Me neither" I replied.

Now we were back in the centre and the end was very close. The final bend came.....and then.... the horror.
I had been expecting a last sprint down a hill to the finish. In fact, it was uphill. Roughly 50m with something like 20 metres of ascent. Nasty. The mapmyrun runner had started his run at the bottom of the hill, in front of the start, making it look like the entire first 5.6km was uphill and the last 4.4km was downhill. It wasn't.

Richard put on his sprint with about 100m to go. "Off you go feller" I thought, "I haven't got it in me today. Good luck!"
It was then that another runner came sprinting past us both at a terrific speed. Impressive!

I managed a slight surge up the hill and near collapsed over the line 3 seconds behind Richard. We shook hands, "Good running" The MC approached me as I was bent double gasping. I think the microphone was off, thankfully. I muttered something about it being a hard course.


I picked up the vilest coloured race t-shirt I have ever had the misfortune to receive and a medal that is, disappointingly, exactly the same as the Hull medal, save for the ribbon.

I'm thinking of donating the t-shirt to a light house to keep ships off the rocks if the light ever fails

In the end the chest infection had maybe knocked 2% off on the day. I had been able to run hard without discomfort, but it was certainly slightly harder than it would normally have been.

I found Dom around the corner in the near-deserted race village, "Did you do it?" I asked. We both knew I meant the sub 36 minute time he wanted. He shook his head. No. "Top ten though?" He'd finished 6th. An amazing result. He'd also come 1st in his age group- and by a long way. As always, he was disappointed with his time as he hadn't made his target. Pointing out the hills and twists in the course proved no comfort to him, but of course, this is what makes Dom such a fierce competitor and a fast runner.

Myself, I'd finished 21st over all and 6th in my age group. Also, a fantastic result for me. When I stacked up my excuses and coupled it with the time and placing, I was very pleased, but I really had forgotten just how difficult and uncomfortable it is to run that hard for 40 minutes. Really bizarrely, I gave myself only my second ever running-related blister; the first had been caused by a sock problem. This one was a tiny spot right in the middle of my second toe. I finished a marathon only a few weeks ago without even a sore spot, so I have no idea how a blister happened!

My time official chip time of 40:15 was only 48 seconds outside my PB and had looked impossible for most of the race; it sat well with:

This Week's Excuses (™) :

1) The remnants of the chest infection
2) 3 weeks of the chest infection seriously curtailing my training
3) A very hilly course
4) Sagittarius being in Orion
5) The last one may just have been silly

Reasons to be cheerful:

1) The chest infection being taken in to account, there is a lot of improvement to come
2) I can start full on training again now the chest infection seems to have gone
3) It's sunny at last!!

Race summary:

As always, Jane Tomlinson runs are well organised and we must remember that the wonderful organisation behind them "Runforall" is not for profit and raises vast amounts for great causes. That said, as always, a few more loos would never go amiss as would a less twisty course. I have waxed lyrical about the lack of effort when it comes to cordoning the runners in to their timings so I won't go over it again, but it's not good.

Right, that's the bad stuff out of the way, now the good stuff:

The race villages have grown since I first ran a JT a few years ago and they really have become exceedingly efficient. There is never a wait for the bag drop, everything is close together and the small tent with the the story of Jane Tomlinson's incredible life and legacy always chokes me up. The woman completed an ironman whilst on chemo for f***'s sake! She really is a true hero of mine and a very sad lost to us all.

The atmosphere around the race was great as ever, the course was really beautiful. I have a vague recollection of Burnley from about 15 years ago when I visited it twice and it had left little to no impression on me. As we drove there I tried to recall anything about it. I failed.
Jane Tomlinson races are very careful to make their courses as picturesque as possible taking in all the local sights. I didn't think Burnley would have any, but I was pleasantly surprised. Wonderful well kept parks and trails and wide clear roads. It was a tough, hilly, twisty course, but it really was gorgeous.

I forgot to turn my GPS off as I crossed the line! The uneven splits tell a story of the hills on the course.

All in all, this really isn't ever going to be a PB race, it's just too tough a course, but if you're looking for a race with great organisation, a wonderful atmosphere and  beautiful route, look no further.

Race review: The Hull Jane Tomlinson 8.8k

The Maritime Museum, close to the start/finish of the race

This week's running was full of disasters. So nothing new there. The first was infection induced. The chest was problematic and was inching towards being better all week, but failed to tidy up its loose ends before the run on Sunday.
I was plunged in to a dilemma as always: I'm still a bit ill, do I run or not? And if I do, how hard do I go at it?
I was pleased that the chest infection seemed to reach its peak within a couple of days around Tuesday and was getting better, but there was a race against time to see if I would be ok for Sunday. On Saturday I was very close to being better, although I hadn't run at that point in 10 days. The conventional wisdom is you can run with a cold, providing the symptoms are above the neck, but mine were still below.
On Saturday night I experienced my first bout of insomnia in years so when I woke for the race on Sunday morning, I had had around 3.5 hours sleep. This wasn't the greatest race preparation I've ever had. Still, I was worried, after a week of illness I had no intention of running the race hard or trying to beat my PB, I had already reconciled myself to that fact.The poor night's sleep had done my chest no good and it remained 95% better instead of the 100% I had hoped.

Hull is my home city so I had been looking forward to a run here, but this year's pattern continued to mirror last year's as I had been unable to run this race full blast in 2012 after having missed the Leeds' half due to injury. Calf problems had stopped me from racing in Hull last year, instead I was reduced to a gentle training run, but I had been very pleasantly surprised by the the pleasure of taking it easy in a race. I was able to enjoy the crowd and watching other runners mid-race. I have to admit to the schadenfreude I felt as I jogged around in  about 46 minutes whilst the people around me appeared to be killing themselves to do the same time. It made me appreciate just how far I had come in 2 years from when I was desperately trying to go under 45 minutes.

The Jane Tomlinson Hull route has been very carefully designed to take in the sights (And yes, Hull has sights, before you say it) The race village is set at the end of the magnificent Queen's gardens with the beautiful fountain, over-looked by the maritime museum and the modern BBC building. A fitting setting.
The start is on Alfred Gelder street, another wonderful setting as either side is dominated by imposing historic buildings.

Unfortunately, that's where the problems starts. Alfred Gelder street is very wide, so quite why the cordon at the start is so thin, is not clear. It's a very cramped start and faster runners are sure to lose time unless they push right to the front. The front section is, somewhat laughably, split in to sub 45, sub 40 and sub 35 groups. I say laughably, because at the Jane Tomlinson's, the cordons are ignored to a massive, massive extent. The race organisers compound this to a gigantic degree by inserting dozens, and I mean, dozens, of corporate runners right in to the front of the race start.

What this effectively does, is ruins the race for anyone wishing to run a faster time (Say, sub 45)

Some may call me churlish for pointing this all out of course. They will say that the Jane Tomlinson's are a "Run for all" It's run entirely in aid of charity and is about getting anyone and everyone running. And I love this principal, I really do, and completely support it, however, by messing up the start, this badly, for anyone wishing to run a fast race, they are alienating a huge amount of runners. Serious club runners, in the main, don't enter Jane Tomlinson races, because of these reasons. By not properly policing the start and by aiding and abetting slow runners to the front, the run for all series can't be taken seriously by the quick runners. This I think is a terrible shame. If these problems were rectified, and the corporate runners were placed in an appropriate place, club runners might start to take it seriously and the races would expand. This can only be a good thing for the charities in question, and no one else need miss out. In the end, there is no reason for slow corporate runners to be at the front, other than to pander to the big companies sponsoring them. If they feel it is totally necessary to keep this pandering, then surely a side-cordon could be introduced to prevent the corporate runners getting in everyone's way.

Rant over.

I arrived at the start line having queued for not too long a time for the loos, to discover the still-too-thin-from-last-year cordon, stuffed even more full of corporate runners than ever before. With the chest infection in mind I decided I would line up just behind the sub 40 minute line. I soon discovered that there were still dozens of corporate runners in front of me and that I would need to push forward or lose a lot of time at the start. There were so many of them, that I ended up in the sub 35 minute section to escape.

Then the day's real disaster happened. We were warned of a problem that would mean the race start would be delayed by 10 minutes. Luckily it wasn't too cold. 10 minutes later, however, a man appeared next to the race MC with a face like thunder. It looked like he was about to cancel the race. Instead, he announced that there had been a problem with a bridge and that the race could not go ahead on the proposed route. Discussions with the race organisers and sport England had come to the conclusion that the best thing to do, would be to shorten the run. 9k they said.

My immediate reaction was obviously of annoyance. An early Sunday morning start and a fair drive to end up not even running the full race. "No bloody point in being here then" I grumbled. Who the hell was responsible for this bridge? How could they cock up this badly? I'm glad I rethought this attitude later on, but for now, back to the race.

Standing waiting for the race to start I still hadn't decided how hard I would run and what time I would aim for. When the shortened route was announced I had no idea what to do. Then a great idea hit me- Why not run the first 5k really hard and try to set a 5k PB? I had never run a flat 5k before. My lungs would probably hold out for a hard 5k, then I could just jog the rest of the race.

This shot isn't just for effect, this is the path we ran up

The race started 10 minutes late and I had edged far enough to the front that I didn't have to side-step too many of the corporate runners and to my surprise I fell in to a reasonably comfortable 3:30 per/k pace. The route heads south out of the city center, through a new housing estate and on to the banks of the Humber. The route is flat, but it's also very twisty, so not as fast as a flat course might other wise give. Sadly, pretty quickly, my chest started to complain and I began to slow, but not by too much. At first it looked like I might go under 18 minutes, but the week's illness was having too much effect and I covered the 4th kilometer in 4:05.   We came up to The Deep, the most successful of the UK's millennium projects and an iconic aquarium building. Another sharp turn and we were looking down Hull's millennium bridge, a foot bridge at the confluence of the river Hull and the Humber estuary. The 5k marker was on the other side of the humped, twisty bridge. At this point I had slowed down too much to knock a huge chunk off my PB, but I still stopped my watch at 19:26 around 20 seconds inside my record. Not too bad for a man with two bags of manure in his chest. I slowed to a walk for a minute to regain some breath, which must have looked very strange to the large group of spectators who had gathered at this point. I expected some shouts of encouragement "Keep going mate- you can do it" but maybe they were just baffled.

From that point the route takes in the Marina, Prince's Quay and the city hall before finishing where it started on Alfred Gelder.

At about 7k I was feeling pretty tired and was just wanting to finish, when another 2 girls passed me. I had run the first 5k with a woman on my shoulder that the crowd kept informing us was in 2nd place. The 2 girls who had just passed me, by my calculation, were in 5th and 6th. Suddenly, my friend Dom's voice appeared in my head, "I'm not letting a girl beat me" I shook it off. Told myself not to be silly. I had run my race, now I was just having fun. I wasn't in a good enough state to run hard any more. But still. Girls. Passing me. They sounded knackered too. Maybe I could speed up a bit, there wasn't far to go after all.
To my surprise, I found it pretty easy to up the pace and caught the two girls who had passed me quickly. I have a feeling they had spent quite some time chasing me down, so it must have come as a surprise to see me cruise past them. The course twisted and turned past the New Theatre, and we headed past the race village on Queens' Gardens and Alfred Gelder was in sight where the race would finish.

I will admit, I looked behind me at Queen's gardens to see if I could spot the girls and to my, admittedly  very sad, satisfaction, saw that I had lost them. A sizeable crowd was gathered at the finish and as I was on my own I was pretty certain the race MC would give me a shout out, which he did. He also seemed to think I was sprinting home, I wasn't, but my sad male bravado and vanity kicked in and I decided I would make it look fairly good by speeding up. I crossed the line in 36:30, which pretty much told me the revised course had been even shorter than they thought it was going to be. I had turned my GPS watch off at 5k so I wasn't sure. Other people confirmed the course to be 8.8k. Considering I had taken it very easy after 5k and the chest infection, I had to be pleased with that. Of course, I wasn't, my 5k should have been quicker. Something else to aim at.

Afterwards I chatted to another engineer (my bachelor's is in mechanical engineering) about the bridge problem. We started off by complaining about how the engineer responsible for the bridge had failed to check in time that it was working. Then as we talked around the subject we began to realise that maybe no one was at fault. The bridge in question is in constant use - it's the entrance to a very large marina. It was probably in use right up until the race, which means it probably failed very close to the race time. Either way, it's probably enough to give the benefit of the doubt. Afterwards the organisers gave a sincere apology and a substantial discount for next years run to all the day's entrants. A lovely and generous touch I thought.

The medal this year is a much more substantial and professional looking model and the t-shirt is a tech shirt for the first time, so no complaints there. The design for the front of the t-shirt is excellent in my opinion, although the powder blue colour probably isn't quite to my taste.

In the aftermath of the race I have, as usual, spent time telling myself I should be perfectly happy with my run. Had the run actually have been 10k I wouldn't have been able to run it hard, a 5k was a good compromise. And despite my illness I still set a PB.

This weekend it's rugby league in Manchester, then cricket at Headingley on Monday, so no running for me.
Hopefully it will give my chest a chance to recover. If you're running this weekend, all the very best!

Ok, I admit it, this shot wasn't taken on Sunday morning, I'm just showing off my photography skillz

If it's not injury, it's illness

When my multitude of injuries finally began to fade in to the background, I began to believe that due to the work I had done, I was far less likely to get injured again. Hopefully, that's true. What I didn't expect to scupper me, was illness.
A few posts ago I described how I became ill with successive colds and then a really nasty flu over Christmas and how long it had taken me to finally get back running. The last few weeks things had been going well. I completed my first marathon, recovered well, then began speed training again. For the first time since the illnesses over Christmas, I had no calf problems. In fact, I had no problems at all.
Which is, of course, why sod's law has been applied to me yet again.

Sod's Law: Category: Sport. No 29845. Subsection 4:
"If one has finally over come one's running injuries after a long period of problems; one will come down with a lurgy. A lurgy like you have never known before. Expect to see purple boils, projection of bodily fluids that could win an Olympic throwing event, a temperature like the surface of the sun and hallucinations surreal like a Mighty Boosh episode."

No running pics this week, so here's a picture of my lion-head rabbit, Mufasa, instead

I was really looking forward to my first outing at the Leeds' half marathon yesterday. Ironically, my entry this year was a deferred entry from last year because of injury. During the week I felt the first tickle in my throat. I did what I could, vit c, zinc, fluids, etc..  All to no avail. I had to move house on Saturday and the house move finally pushed me over from feeling a little under the weather, to feeling like I had run, mouth open, in to the Gillette factory and swallowed for all I was worth.  Even so, I wasn't going to let a sore throat stop me, it would just stop my attempt at a PB. I am, after all, a medal whore. I could saunter round and collect my winnings.
But no. Sunday morning came and I knew there was no chance. The infection had migrated downwards, once again pouring cement in to my lungs. As an asthmatic, I have to be careful. Usually my asthma is well controlled and it doesn't effect my running; but if a chest infection gets me, it can floor me.
Not to give you too much detail, but my cough has become productive and every cough is very painful. So no running for me, but even worse, no work. As a contractor, this isn't good news.

The frustration that runners experience when they can't run is well documented, especially when you start to miss races and especially ones you've already paid for. (The Yokshireman in me again)
This weekend is the Jane Tomlinson 10k in Hull, my home city. Another race I have been looking forward to very much. It's flat and another I had hope for a PB at. No doubt this week will include some difficult choices, unless the choice is taken away and I stay too ill.
The decision of when to restart training is always very difficult. Too soon, or too much and it's easy to become ill again; it's a mistake I've made before and am keen not to make again.

Well, I will keep this short and go back to my wallowing on the sofa (At least I am now sitting back on my own, huge, comfortable sofa now) Wish me well in my convalescing!

Race review: The 2013 Manchester Marathon: 6 weeks to go from 10k to 26.2 miles

Leave a comment or tweet me: @scott_leach

Last year in September, I must have been filled with some sort of odd hubris because I decided, in the face of all logic and sense, to enter the Manchester marathon due to be run on April the 28th, a mere 7 months away.

Those of you who are avid readers of this blog (No one is, not even my mother) will know of my previous injuries and the fact that only 2 years ago I could only manage 2-3 5k runs per week or my body utterly broke down. However, things had been going better and like most of my wild ideas, it seemed good at the time.

A couple of months later and training was going fantastic. On December the 3rd I ran 20 miles in 2:39 and actually felt good. There were no ill-effects (sore nipples aside) and I had a very minimal amount of soreness the next day. Then disaster.....

I spent 2 months ill, culminating in a really nasty flu that turned my lungs in to bags of cement.

A few weeks ago,when the after effects of the flu had settled and I was finally beginning to train reasonably again, I sat down to work out a schedule and see exactly what I had to do. Reality began to set in when I realised had 6 weeks to the marathon and I was running uncomfortable 10k's at best. Put simply, I needed to extend my long run each week by at least 20% each time. 11 miles.....13 miles....15 miles.....18 miles.....22 miles......marathon. Scary thought. I couldn't afford any more set backs at all.

Even the bubble monkey appeared in my bath and told me I was crazy

It didn't start well, my calves tightened up on every run. The calf problem never did go away and it prevented me from doing any interval or speed training. Anyway, to cut a long story short and to get on to the slightly less boring part, the training ebbed and flowed until my last long run before the marathon itself. I set out for 22 miles. At 16 miles I had vision problems- I could see flashing lights. No seriously. At 18 miles my legs told me they were giving up and we'd have to walk. I remonstrated with them and I managed to eke out some more running over the next 3 miles, but there was more walking than running. That was 9 days before the marathon.

Trying to stay positive I concluded that the terrible run had been caused by a combination of a temperature several degrees higher than I had run in for 6 months, causing me to sweat significantly for the first time this year, having only 3 days to recover from the mad mud run I had done and not having slept all that well or eaten very well for the few days before. Still it left me worried and lacking in confidence coming up to the marathon. The possibility of hitting 18 miles and not being able to run any further seemed a genuine concern.

Maybe Scott Jurek could give me some inspiration whilst I drank out of my Wetherby 10k mug?

The week leading up to the marathon found me distracted and restless. The excitement finally kicked in around Thursday (as opposed to the feeling of impending doom) and I began to count down the time to the run.

On Saturday I picked up my running buddy, Dom, from the train station. Dom always keeps me grounded with regards to my running by thrashing my times despite being 10 years my senior.

We headed out for a gentle jog down the canal and pleasingly, it was the first run that had felt good for a very long time. Burger and chips and a couple of pints of Guinness down the pub and we returned to my house.

We both felt like we needed an early night so I started to put together the gear that I would need for the morning. It was then I discovered I had lost my race pack. Cue an hour of frantic searching. But I knew it would be fruitless because there were only 2 places I would realistically have left it and on checking them first, the pack was nowhere to be found. The truth dawned: I must have thrown it out in a frenzied tidying session. To make it worse, I had paid for parking passes for Old Trafford and being the genius I am, I had put them in to the pack so I wouldn't lose them. Ah well, I knew people lost their numbers all the time, you turned up to the info desk and just get a new one. The parking pass may be more difficult, I had the email confirmation and knew the number of the space, I should be able to charm *cough* my way in.

We left Leeds at ridiculous o'clock knowing that queuing for the toilets before the race was pretty much inevitable and that I might have to queue for a new number too. 

The M62 was quiet of course and we arrived in Trafford nice and early.....then we hit the road blocks. We could see old Trafford, but couldn't get to it. Why didn't I write out the instructions they had given to avoid the road blocks? How much more stupid could I be before this was all over? We started to take best guesses but kept being turned away. We were both beginning to get stressed.

Then Dom began to laugh....

"What?" I asked

"Wouldn't it be ironic if we couldn't get to the marathon because of the marathon?

"What, like....we wanted to do your marathon but we couldn't do it because of the marathon"

"Yeah, we couldn't get to the marathon because of the marathon being in the way of the marathon"

Well, maybe you had to be there.

The marshals waved vaguely in the direction of car park N1 and we kept going. There were signposts for every other car park - N2, N3, N4, W1, W2, but we couldn't spot N1. A marshal told us it was only a little further down on the left, so we kept going. Slowly it dawned that we had obviously missed it and if we turned back now we would hit all the traffic heading to the stadium. By now we were both pretty desperate for the loo. The decision was made to ditch the car ASAP, and that turned out to be in a dodgy £10 private car park. We seemingly had no choice. We never did find car park N1 and only actually saw one sign for it which was on the pedestrian walkway at the stadium! The car park remained within the Old Trafford Bermuda Triangle, the same place where Manchester United keep things like fair play and player's maturity. 

The route march to the race village did nothing for our bursting, bouncing bladders and neither did the fear that we would be met with the usual huge queues for the portaloos. Luckily, when we got there, we arrived at a small set of portaloos that had a very short queue and got in quickly. If we had found the main bank of loos, we'd probably still be waiting in the queue now contemplating contacting Norris McWirter about the largest bladder in the world record.

There was no queue at the info desk either and I quickly picked up a new number with integrated timing chip. It left us plenty of time to find the start line, which is a good thing as the signposting to it was non-existent and more cheery, vague waving from the friendly and helpful marshals, nor the map, helped. By following the magnets in my head for a while and more waving from the marshals I arrived at the start line just after the 8:30 deadline to line up, to find it almost deserted. Seems like no one was in a huge hurry to get there. Someone who clearly isn't being paid enough, had thought to put more portaloos there and it seemed rude not to line up and use them again, especially as nerves and the cold weren't helping. It was pretty chilly. The temperature was perfect for a marathon though and over-cast too.

The replacement number. The chip is a small strip on the back

Dom was aiming for a sub 3:15  time and my aim was a more modest sub 3:30. There were pacers on the course and we lined up next to the relevant one, Dom in front of me, obv.

This being my first marathon, I had no real idea what was going to happen. My last long run suggested there was a very real possibility that I would blow up some time after 18 miles. We would have to see. I knew I had the fitness for this, but my muscles, well, they were another story. 

With much ado, finally we set off, only being able to tell when we started by the timing mats as there seemed to be no official "start" banner. For some reason, I settled in with the 3:15 pacer, instead of the 3:30. I had plenty of time to contemplate on this odd and spontaneous decision, but I felt good, and the pace was comfortably within my range. 

I remembering feeling some slight discomfort across the top of my left foot, it didn't last long before it disappeared and was replaced by discomfort under my right foot. Both totally new pains I had never had before. They soon disappeared though. Probably race day nerves. 

Over the next few miles I got in to 2 long conversations with other runners in the 3:15 pack. The distraction was very welcome and the miles passed in a flash. The timing car flew past in the opposite direction followed sometime after by the leading runners, which we all gave a cheer to. I always enjoy seeing the leaders pass by on the other side. 

Along side me a runner in a club vest was giving a shout out to each of his team members that shot away on the other side of the road "Go on Bob!" "That's it Dave, you can do it!" "Great running Ian!"

After he'd shouted to about 8 runners, I made the observation that all his mates seemed to be much faster than him. He laughed and said everyone was. "Not me"  I said, before he started to pull away in to the distance. He was at least 15 years my senior...

Before I knew it we were approaching the half way point at Altrincham. Just before we ran the small loop around the village centre we went over the biggest "hill" on the route, which was, in fact, a small fly over. It was at this point that Dom passed me. Not from behind.....from in front, coming from the opposite direction and he was truly flying. He was so far "In the zone" that it took a second much louder shout before he noticed me. Then he was gone, like a bolt of, well....Usain.

The crowds in Altrincham were absolutely fantastic, seemingly every resident had turned out, and they were really making some noise. They had formed a Tour De France-esque tunnel for the runners to pass through and it was a wonderful boost. Someone was holding up a sign "Keep calm and run a marathon" Made me chuckle anyway.

In the village I spotted 2 women dancing in the street waving their "booties" in to the race route. I lined up pretending that I was going to spank the nearer one and her friend behind spotted me and began to laugh  Then I realised that the 2 women were actually school teachers conducting a choir of small children singing. I quickly decided my joke was inappropriate and dropped my hand sharpish! The choir was a fantastic touch and I am sure that every runner appreciated it just as much as I did.

Here's a video of the kids and the booty:

I passed the half marathon point in 1:35 and in great shape. I felt good. The pace still felt easy. I had no aches or pains. It would be sometime before the wheels started to wobble.

We ran down a long leafy avenue where people had come down to the end of their drives to cheer us along, some had even dragged stereos down to play us along. It all helped immensely. At times I was running with a huge grin on my face. 

The funniest event of the day happened at this point. A woman had been running along in the 3:15 group, she was short and stocky and amazingly determined. She had already had to run off the course once to use the loos and had done very well to catch us again. Just after Altrincham, she announced she needed to go again.

Suddenly she peeled off the road and began sprinting up the path of a private house. The door to the house was open and 2 spectators were standing in the garden. "I need the loo!!" She shouted. "Oh yes, up there!!" they replied and split apart to let her run in to their house! Full marks to the runner for the chutzpah to sprint in to a private house and full marks for the spectators to defer so reverentially to a manic looking woman charging down their path demanding a toilet. After her loo stop she managed to catch us up again, but I think chasing the pack down twice took its toll and she faded badly before the end. I imagine she probably finished inside 3:30 though.

The kilometres started to tick off more slowly on my watch, where the first 20 or so had flown by, sometimes 2 or 3 at a time. At some point there was a bit of comic relief when a runner casually answered his phone whilst not breaking stride, "Yeah, it's going ok. I'll be back in about an hour and a half"

Everyone around chuckled at the blasé attitude of the runner. I decided to impersonate Dom Jolly....

"HELLO! HELLO! I'M DOING A MARATHON......NO, A MARATHON...... MANCHESTER....... NO, MANCHESTER..........NAH, IT'S RUBBISH"

It earned me a big laugh and helped to distracted from the gathering aches.

From somewhere around 10 miles I had been slowly pulling away from the 3:15 pacer and at one point I had looked around and couldn't see him. I started to fantasise about running the 3:10 "Good for age" London qualifying time (Which has since been changed to 3:05, but I didn't know that at the time) It would remain firmly in fantasy land. 

At some point I started to slow and I am not sure how long it had been going on for before I realised it. It was around the 18 mile mark. I looked back and not only had the 3:15 pacer caught me, he was practically on my shoulder. It wasn't long before the pack caught me up and I dropped in to step. It felt good to run in the group and helped keep me going for a while.

"10k to go!! Just 10k" The pacer announced. 

It's a fatal thought because 10k seems easy. How often have I run 10k? Dozens and dozens of times. The thought plays with your mind; and I was beginning to struggle. The group started to gee each other along. A spectator shouted out "Looking good 3:15 group!"

"I'm not f***ing feeling it!" I mumbled. The pacer turned to me and said, "Dig in for a mile and it'll come back, you're doing great." His words really helped and I dug in like a Seamus Heaney poem. (Apologies for the obscure joke, it made me laugh)

"Just a 5 mile recovery run to go!" The pacer joked.

My legs had begun to feel like Beyonce's arse, heavy and wobbly. The pacer kept turning around to see if I was keeping up, but around the third time, I wasn't. There were 4 miles still to go. The wall loomed large, high and impenetrable in front of me. The next mile went down with the pacer still in view, but pulling away. My pace had slowed and I tried to do the mental arithmetic in my head. The pacer would probably finish in 3:13 or 3:14, if I could just keep him in sight for a little while longer, I could still go under 3:15.

But now it was becoming harder and harder. Never having eaten anything during a run, ever, I was reluctant to take any jelly babies or the energy gels they were handing out and decided before the race that I would only eat them if I was really struggling. Dom had told me the night before what a boost they had given him in the past and by this time I was willing to try anything. I grabbed a couple of jelly babies. Nothing. A gel. Nothing. An energy jelly bar thingy. Nothing. But at least they didn't upset my stomach.

All of a sudden the wall was 2 inches from my nose and impossible to avoid and I smashed head-long in to it. I had exhausted every distraction and relaxation technique I had ever read about that my addled brain could still recall. I had sung Kings of Leon's "The face" over and over again in my head including chanting the line "Riiiiide out the wave" as a mantra.

But all to no avail now. I had passed 22 miles and the whole way my pace had remained steady at 4:34 min/k, now I had dropped down to over 5 min/k. My mind announced to me that I could walk from here and still go under 3:30 and I would have achieved my target. But if I walked, then I wouldn't have run a marathon. I've walked the distance many times, none of those counted as a marathon. 

Then my legs stopped. Involuntarily. I was walking. I began beating myself up. Then again, almost involuntarily, they started running again. I had walked less than 50m. I just needed to keep moving, it didn't matter if I was slow. Here's my last 15 kilometres:

Kilometre 39 came down to 5:34, my slowest yet. Then a bright, shining beacon appeared in my head. A thought that would save me, that would keep me moving until the end. It was simple, and it was beautiful.

This is only pain.

I know that sounds ridiculous, but that was it. I hadn't taxed my heart and lungs at all during the race. My breathing had stayed steady and slow and even. I mentally prodded down my body and found only a bad, aching pain in my legs. And that was all. The sports massages I have are ten times more painful. Granted, it's just one muscles at a time during those, but they went on half an hour, I only had 15 minutes to go. 

A chubby guy stepped out of the crowd. He could obviously tell that I was struggling badly. I was moving very slowly considering where I was in the race. He stared me down with fists clenched, red in the face and gave me a rousing passionate speech that I can't remember at all. "Come on! dig in, you've got it" or words to that effect. In equal measures I wanted to hug him and punch him. Either way I appreciated the effort he was going to and the fierceness with which he delivered his pep-talk.

I managed to pick the pace back up a little for Ks 40 and 41, and at some point, Old Trafford came in to view. I could see the giant exo-skeleton attached to the back of the stand. I told myself not to get excited, that it was a huge stand and still some distance away, and just as I was thinking that, the crowd suddenly thickened. It actually was the end. The crowd had come in close again forming a tunnel. The noise they were making seemed huge. I heard a runner give a shout in front of me and the crowd responded with a cheer.

I saw the finish line in the distance and I thought I could do with a cheer like that to get me through.

"Come on!!" I implored the crowd and they gave a huge cheer in response. "Come on!!" I shouted again, the crowd cheered again and suddenly I was sprinting. "Come on!!" the crowd responded yet again (Yes, I was that idiot)

Imagine my annoyance when someone stole my guitar, right out of my hands, mid-song.

I crossed the line in 3 hours 17 minutes and 45 seconds running faster than I had at any other point. It just goes to show the power of the mind and a decent crowd. I was awash with exhaustion and my legs barely wanted to carry on walking, but I could see the medals hanging off the arm of a marshal. They were huge, comically so (It turns out they are based on the London 2012 Olympic medals) One wag posted a picture of it being used as a coaster for his pint glass after the race

The medal as compared to the 2012 Great North Run medal. Told you it was huge!

I dislike it when you have earned a medal and it isn't placed around your neck and you have to pick it out of the goody bag, so I was pleased to bow and have the dinner plate ceremoniously hung on me. The medal, though a little larger than I would have personally chosen, is a fantastic design and looks great. The t shirt in the finisher's pack is the best race t shirt I've ever received too.

My result.

The t shirt and medal. But you'd already guessed that, right?

I sculled down the post-race water bottle and grabbed a banana and a tasty clif bar. Dom was waiting for me at the finish and he congratulated me. "You went under 3 hours didn't you, you bitch?" I said. And he had. 2:55 in fact. We had both smashed our expectations and what's more, Dom had gone way under the automatic qualifying time for all the marathon majors.

I made my way gingerly to the baggage pick up, sore, but happy. Dom was practically crippled. I may have more desire than the average person, but Dom's desire is so huge he cripples himself for his times.

He told me about a "bitch" called Sarah he had been determined to beat. Sarah isn't a bitch at all of course, and we don't know her, but that's one of the ways Dom spurs himself on during a race, by targeting runners in front of him and chasing them down, as he did with Sarah. 

The nearest bar we could find was in a premier inn where we met the world's worst bar maid who was rude, distracted and incredibly slow, but all these things just served to amuse us in our post race euphoria. We told each other the stories of our races and deconstructed them. Half an hour later, my legs came back to life and we made our way back to the car.

It was definitely flat

Post race analysis:

If you'd offered me a sub 3:30 time before the race I would have torn your arm off, but ridiculously, my expectations had changed during the race. I had kept with the 3:15 pace for 22 miles, so to not finish with them was disappointing. Although it's silly to be disappointed, it's also one of the things about me that inspires my training and urges me to faster times, so I am not going to work to change that trait any time soon. All in all I am very happy  for my first marathon. Although I did blow up before the end, it wasn't totally disastrous and I did keep moving. I now have a marathon time I can be proud of and the elusive medal I have wanted and have chased for the last few years, only recently believing I could actually do it.

Post race damage report:

Very pleasingly, pretty much none. No blisters or hot spots on my feet at all. My legs were mildly sore for a couple of days and on Wednesday I completed a 6k recovery run comfortably. Yesterday (8 days after the marathon) I broke my 5k PB, so all in all, things are currently going great. *Pats head to ensure wood is touched* 

Karl Pilkington looked pretty good finishing in front of me*

PS. Expensive nip guards at £10+ per pack?........ Corn plasters for £1.69 (The ones that are a small ring of foam) work just as well!

*That's not really Karl Pilkington, but that really is me gurning like a good-un