The statistics: 13 miles: 01:46:43: 318th female out of 5858.
My ferocious treadmill training over the summer holidays suggested that I should be able to complete a half marathon within 2 hours. However, when in the week leading up to the event I substituted the placid interior of my local gym for the hard and unexpectedly hilly streets of Maidenhead, the change was greater than I had anticipated. 20 minutes on the treadmill, accompanied by the aggressive guitar and vocals of AC/DC, was just a warm-up. After 20 minutes on the undulating pavements to a soundtrack of car engines, however, I was soon longing for the familiar sight of home and a cold drink. I feared that I would not be able to replicate my indoor performance and regretted not taking to the roads sooner. In a late attempt to clock up some outdoor mileage, I completed four road-runs in the days leading up to the event and hoped it would be enough for me to beat the 2-hour barrier.
When we arrived at The O2 Arena (aka The Millennium Dome) at 8am on Sunday 26th September, the barrenness of its immediate environment was striking. Shivering in my full tracksuit as a result of the icy wind lashing across the Greenwich peninsular, I questioned whether an airtex vest and shorts were sufficient, especially when numerous fellow-runners were equipped in skin-tight leggings and long-sleeved tops. Walking towards The Dome in search of warmth, my parents and I were greeted by a succession of temporary outlets selling pies, fajitas and crepes. As comforting and warming as a steak and ale pie might have been, I resisted. Athletes always talk about split-seconds and margins, I simply couldn’t risk it. Furthermore, I had already planned the contents and timing of my pre-race fuel intake and this would undoubtedly have put the nutritional balance in jeopardy.
Instead, we walked on by and gathered with the masses of lycra-clad runners, some combatively jumping up and down in an attempt at mass intimidation, a few perfecting their costumes and the majority relaxing in the knowledge of hard work ahead. I downed my last few sips of Lucozade and munched on my final Jaffa cake in preparation for the 9.45 start when we were informed that delays on The Jubilee Line would postpone proceedings to 10.30. Another forty-five minutes of nervous anticipation followed and deliberations as to whether or not another Jaffa cake was needed yielded a positive result.
As 10.30 neared, a voice over the tannoy instructed us, like sheep, to enter our pens. Little did I know when completing the online application form that estimated finishing time is used to categorise runners into pens at the start so as to prevent tortoises from impeding hares. After somewhat reluctantly stripping off and entering my assigned Pen 3, I discovered that I had predicted myself completing the race in 1 hour 40 to 2 hours. The pressure was on. Whereas in The Dome, a wide range of physiques were on display from lean mean machines with the giveaway runners’ calve muscles to far tubbier types, in Pen 3, the former were predominant. I thought I had better engage in some pre-run stretching as this was obviously ‘the done thing’ in Pen 3 and so my quads, calves, hamstrings and arm muscles (you never know) all received ample exercise during the waiting period in the pen. I had little plan for the race other than to ensure that I didn’t get drawn into the temptation of running too fast at the start and trying to maintain a steady speed throughout.
Finally, 10.30 arrived and it wasn’t long before Pen 3 was released onto the course. I pressed my stopwatch upon crossing the line and checked momentarily after that it was going. I then focused on weaving my way in between runners in order to find some space to extend my stride and run with freedom. This took some time but I soon had an idea. Up ahead I noticed a girl of similar age to myself who was clearly quite a decent runner. She was expertly manoeuvring herself through the field with an air of experience and appeared to be travelling at a similar speed to myself. An ideal pacemaker, I thought, as I ran up behind to enter her slipstream and followed her hawkishly as she sidestepped and dodged and sneaked through small openings on the heavily congested roads. I felt strong at this point and confident that I could keep up with her for at least the time being. Unfortunately, it soon became apparent that my stopwatch had somehow stopped shortly after the start and, unaware of the exact time that I had crossed the line, I had no exact way of knowing my pace. I did, however, have a rough idea and knew that by the four mile mark, I was beating the nine minute miles required for a 2-hour half marathon. As the Woolwich Arsenal approached, I was greeted with cheers from my brother, Andrew, and two sisters in law, Loretta and Tracy, who had all come to support me in my first challenge. Encouragement from friendly voices and the sight of friendly faces amongst an otherwise unfamiliar crowd was motivating as I pressed on with the task in hand.
The first hydration stations were around this point and the experience of trying to grab a cup of water while on the move prompted me to sympathise with the relay runners in the Olympics who drop the baton. Attempting to drink a cup of water while running and without spilling it, I realised, is largely impossible and after an unsuccessful effort at this first station, I vowed to momentarily pause to drink at the next. Even releasing the energy gel proved problematic and resulted in my having to run without the aid of arm movement for quite a stretch as I frantically attempted to prise it open and squeeze it into my mouth. Hydration station strategy is certainly something which requires thought and, prior to my Silverstone Half Marathon, I would welcome any volunteers willing to take part in a simulated scrum at a purposively erected drinks table in my garden. A willingness to use elbows and a touch of ruthlessness is required; something quite unfamiliar to us Brits with our love of gentile queuing.
Soon after this pantomime, a hill which seemed more suited to the lower Alps than the Greenwich docklands approached in the horizon. The vests of runners at the top were a blur and the ascent was such that I felt the need to psyche myself up with an internal ‘Come On Tors’ at its foot. It was at this point that my pacemaker really came into her own with a relish for a hill akin to that of a mountaineer. To my astonishment, she increased her pace up the hill and left me and many others in our surrounds for dust. Despite my attempt at a response as the ground levelled, I failed to catch her and I knew that I was on my own for the rest of the race. The middle of the race was a particularly tough point and, aware that I had made an excellent start, I urged myself to dig deep here to continue at the pace I had set. Not long after this initial hill, a steep descent was welcome and I allowed my legs to gain momentum and carry me at a sprint.
A nasty surprise was in store, however, for the terrain was something of a V-shaped valley with an apparently vertical ascent greeting us at the bottom. A collective groan was emitted as the exhilaration of effortless downhill freefall was replaced with a sluggish uphill climb. Grimacing faces predominated but it was at this difficult juncture that I focused on why I was running. Appreciating the insignificant period of time in the context of the race, the day, the week, the year, my life for which I would have to will myself to defeat the pain in my body and the lack of air in my lungs, I considered the fortunes of those for whom every breath is a struggle. For CF sufferers, such as my brothers, constant treatment is required to lessen the effects of a disease which clogs the lungs and digestive system with sticky mucus, making it hard to breathe and digest food. Experiencing a fraction of the suffering that they endure constantly for approximately two hours of my life and raising money for my efforts seems the least I can do in exchange for my own fortuity and to help their plight. As I looked ahead at the multiplicity of coloured charity vests, some bearing messages such as ‘In memory of ___’ and ‘For ____’, I felt an enormous sense of solidarity with those around me and a pride at the collective enterprise of the runners. I kept this thought with me in the early stages of the second half and drove myself on as an hour’s running, a few hills and a couple of stitches brought the first feelings of tiredness.
The course itself was largely non-descript as we passed through uninspiring streets and areas bearing scars of an industrial past without the promised music being particularly noticeable. ‘Run to the Beat’ is advertised as ‘London’s musical half-marathon’ and while there were vans blasting music at various intervals, had I not known that on-course music was a celebrated feature of the event, I would probably have expected these brief musical interludes anyway. Despite this slight disappointment, through Greenwich Park there was a brilliant atmosphere with crowds lining the curvaceous route and offering plenty of encouragement in the latter stages. I was still comfortably beating the 2-hour pace and was continuing to work my way through the field, passing runners who had started the race before me more frequently than conceding places to those behind. The remainder of the course was predominantly flat which enabled me to maintain a steady pace, without the disrupting influence of undulations. Soon there were just two miles to go and, as if we needed reminding, crowds shouted that we were nearly there. When the end is in sight, there is a tendency to become absorbed in counting down the metres, miles, minutes, seconds which I tried to resist. A runner wearing a retro QPR shirt from the 1980s, lively crowds and a fellow CF runner who I overtook with a wave, provided some distraction as I considered when I could afford to start sprinting.
As it happened, it proved hard to run faster as I had established a reasonably settled rhythm and thus, contrary to expectations, I failed to increase my pace substantially for the final mile. In hindsight, I think this was probably a good thing because it means that I left nothing in the tank throughout the race and ran to my potential. The end of the race was announced with signs of 750m, which, I reminded myself as I prepared to put my foot down prematurely, is nearly two laps around a running track. As once again I heard the cheers of my family, I knew that I had to, and did, overtake Bodger and Badger on the final straight. Whilst this may conjure comical, and perhaps humiliating images, of me finishing at the same time as runners sweltering beneath heavy and furry costumes, Bodger and Badger were only such because of the names written across their running t-shirts so not too much pride was at stake. As I saw the clock ticking above the finishing line, I finally received confirmation that I had beaten 2-hours and finished with elation. The gun time was 1 hour 54 which, given my not crossing the start line at the time that the race started, translated into 1 hour 46 according to the timing chip affixed to my shoe. This was faster than predicted and, as such, my parents, who had been waiting in The Dome to watch me finish, arrived too late! Overall, I had a thoroughly satisfying first challenge which was, as intended, a challenge as well as being enjoyable at the same time. A hot bath failed to prevent severe stiffness today and I am definitely feeling the effects at the moment. No doubt come March, however, I will be raring to go for the second challenge; The Silverstone Half Marathon.
