Cool runnings

Thursday 16th

4x8min @10m pace, 3 min rec. A tight club group of about half a dozen for this. When paces were being debated at the outset, I declared that 6.40/6.45 would do me fine (given that my pb pace was 6.38), but I knew that one or two would be significantly quicker. The quandary then was to run at my own pace, while still trying to stay in touch and benefiting from the group dynamic. Good hard session. Quite happy with the HR stats too.

1.46 @9.44
6.36 @7.24 (inc cd)

Average interval pace 6.41

HR 142/162

Friday 17th

Sluggish and listless easy run.

5.04 @8.50

HR 114/123

STREAK 55 - 368 MILES

Monday 20th

Super easy run. With the OH and dog, a really slow trot.

6.2 @10.14

Tuesday 21st

8x800m@10k pace, 90 sec rec. Tough session made tougher by inclement conditions. A persistent rain, being blown sideways by driving winds, all glaringly revealed by the track floodlights. There are fewer appealing sights.

At a guess - 3.15, 3.15, 3.15, 3.08, 3.11, 3.13, 3.15, 3.00

HR 145/159

Wednesday 22nd

Easy run.

6.47 @9.01

Streak 60 days 409 miles

Monday 27th

Easy run. Nothing much to say about it.

6.62 @8.44

HR 115/137

Tuesday 28th

10 mile @steady. The first session since last Thursday's debacle, and it went really well. A reminder yet again that one must be as physically well-prepared as possible for these ordeals. After an over-enthusiastic start, followed by a slight over-correction, we settled down to a steady (sorry) rhythm, and the last few miles were within a couple of seconds of target pace (7.45). I say 'we' (there were three of us) but in the end it was only I that hit my straps. One chap was running slightly out of his comfort zone, and eventually pulled up to run the last mile or so as a cool-down. The other guy dropped back a little, and finished a few seconds per mile behind me. He looked fairly shattered afterward too, and said it was his hardest session in ages. I felt really strong all through it, which is I think down to the mileage I've been putting in. Tired at the end, of course, but you want that spent feeling at the end of a hard session.

1.5 wu

10 @7.46 (7.32, 7.37, 8.06, 7.56, 7.42, 8.06, 7.29, 7.44, 7.42, 7.41)

HR 139/154

Friday 3rd March

Alright, alright, I know February only has 28 days. Unfortunately the edit window has closed though, so let's just move on, shall we?

Very short easy run. Needed fewer than 4 miles to reach 40, so that's what ensued.

3.6 @9.31

HR av 109

Saturday 4th

16m long run. Couldn't rouse myself for the 8am start, was planning on leaving the slr until Sunday, then said what the hell, get it done. So I did. Dodder route, 8 miles got me as far as the Aviva, then I turned for home.

16 @8.17

HR 129/154

Sunday 5th

56 miles in the bank already, so any kind of run would do. Killed two birds by taking the hound out with me for a trundle around the nearest enclosed park. A good week, bigly mileage!

5.33 @9.27

HR N/A (silly spike)

Week's mileage 62

Streak 71 days 505 miles

Friday 10th

Easy 6.

6.00 @9.32

HR 113

Saturday 11th

Very short easy run. Only the desire to keep the streak going made this happen.

2.34 @9.03

HR 120

Sunday 12th

Ballycotton 10 mile race. Report to follow. Maybe.

10.02 @7.16 (1:12:49)

HR 144/162.

Week's mileage 56

Streak 78 - 561 miles

A tale of two races: Ballycotton 10 and MSB 5k

Ballycotton is one of those races, like the Boston marathon, that demand inclusion on every runner's cv. Every year since I joined Tallaght AC, a group of varying size has headed off down to darkest county Cork, usually for an overnighter, come the spring. A typical conversation might go like this: "Yeah, I'm doing Ballycotton this year. Great race, isn't it? What? You haven't done it? Ah, you have to do Ballycotton." Then someone will mention 'the hill at the end' and a 5 minute conversation will ensue about the notorious Ballycotton hill.

For years this Ballycotton trip never suited me, though, for one reason or another. I'd be training for a marathon, or doing 5k training, or some other thing. The hook had been set, though: it was only a matter of time. That time finally came this year, and I piled into the coach along with a dozen or so clubmates for the jaunt down to the county Cork. There had been a certain rugby match on the Friday night, and I was possibly not fully recovered from this experience by Sunday morning, which led to my first mistake in preparation. I was worried about dehydration, so all morning and the previous evening I had been taking on water. About halfway down I made my second mistake: at a stop in Cashel I ate a 'second breakfast' because A) everyone else was eating, and it seemed like a long time since my first breakfast.

Both of these acts would have negative consequences later on, as we shall see. But meantime, we have arrived at our hotel, the Garryvoe, a few miles from Ballycotton. Very nice it is, too. We check in, change into our gear and head for the shuttle bus. A little while later we alight just outside Ballycotton, and here I make my third mistake: I walk to the start area. Ok, everyone else was walking, too, and I had had ample pre-warning of the 'difficulties' presented at the start, but you don't really appreciate these things until you do them, make the mistakes and walk away bearing the scars. So instead of breaking into a jog and getting some semblance of a warm-up in, I followed the herd, and arrived at the cramped start area about an hour before the gun. In no time at all, though, some guy with a loudhailer was walking up and down telling people to get to the start line. This spooked us, and we ran despairingly up the cliff road hoping for a few hundred metres of asphalt we could work with. Some hope. Suddenly we were climbing steeply. My heart was hammering in my chest, and we hadn't even started. Then we came to a dead end, and started back glumly. We hadn't run a quarter of a mile, and now I was afraid that the road would be jammed with bodies and impassable, so we pushed through the throng and got as close to the tape as possible. I glanced at my watch. Half an hour to go!

(half an hour later)

Right, we were finally off. The one thing we had managed to do right was get ourselves as close to the front as possible. Close enough to hear The Claw and Sergiu being interviewed just before the off (!), and now we were in motion. Once things thinned out I tried to hit a rhythm I could sustain. You know, like you do every race. I was thinking of trying to maintain a 6.45 pace, more or less. The second, downhill, mile was 6.34 but generally I was there or thereabouts. There was a problem though. Not a specific, concrete, physical problem. More of a state of mind. I wasn't happy. While my buddies had chatted and laughed pre-start, I was fretting and grumbling, and I started the race out of sorts. I didn't feel right. No warm up, half an hour standing around, and I'd eaten a bloody tuna wrap, hadn't I? I could feel it sitting in my gut, expanding my stomach, pushing up my diaphragm and taking up room that my lungs needed for breathing, dammit.

After about three miles, I had another problem. I needed a slash. Not the phantom feeling you sometimes get: I really needed to go! I put it off for a while, then gave in and darted into a gateway. It took a little while: I really had needed to go. When I re-joined the race, I hoped that things would settle down, but they didn't. I couldn't seem to hold the pace I wanted. I was breathing way too hard (later I would check and find my heartrate never exceeded 155 - about marathon race effort levels). A little while later I stopped again, dispirited. I wanted to give up. The only things that stopped me were A) the thought of making my way back to the start through the crowd of runners which included my teammates, and the thought of walking to the finish. So I would run for a while, have to stop, start again, and so on. Clubmates passed with words of encouragement, but I was in the proverbial dark place. Miles passed with elephantine slowness. I felt like I was running an ultra, but, eventually, I passed the 8 mile marker (I had noticed it from the bus) and knew the torment was nearly over.

But wait. What about the infamous hill? And as if on cue, the road began to rise, and, the strangest thing happened. I found myself picking up the pace. Was it because I was nearly finished? I have no idea, but somehow I ran a 6.51 last mile up that climb into the village and the finish line. Beforehand I had confidently predicted as a certainty a sub-70 finish (at the very least!) but of course that was long gone. It took me 72 minutes and 48 seconds.

The only consolation I took from the whole farrago, apart from the lashings of beer post-race of course, was the thought that I had a shot at redemption the very next week.

Which brings me neatly to:


MSB 5K ST. PATRICK'S FESTIVAL RACE

After the debacle that was Ballycotton, I was determined to give myself the best possible preparation for this perennially nippy city 5k. The only problems were Paddy's Day and the bloody England game. I'm a sucker for an occasion, but this time I had to behave. Luckily I was working on Paddy's evening, so that was sorted. Then I had to sit through all of Super Saturday - Arsenal, three rugby games and SUPER LEEDS on the telly - and stay dry as a bone. I was doing really well, until it became obvious that England were going back home with their tail between their legs (albeit with a trophy-shaped consolation), and then I uncorked the bottle. Well, you gotta celebrate. But I took it easy, honest.

A nice early bus into town then, and we got the guts of 3 miles of a warm-up in beforehand. I felt as ready as I could be, given that I hadn't been doing 5k-specific training. What would constitute a decent performance today? A sub-19 as per last year (when I had been training 5k-specifically) seemed unlikely, especially with the wind blowing so strongly. I thought that anything under 19.30 would represent a good showing.

Bang

And we're off. Streaming down the south side of Stephen's Green, we've gone barely 100m when a thought hits me. I check my watch, and it tells me I'm going at 5.40 pace. Dude, slow down. Find a rhythm. I try to obey my inner taskmaster, and while I note the elapsed time at the 1k mark, it tells me nothing. I can't think in clicks. Outright distance is fine, but when it comes to pace ("man, I was doing 3.30k pace. Crazy") I'm all at sea.

But a 6:13 mile? That speaks to me just fine. It tells me I'm running well. Maybe not pulling up trees, but, you know, ok. We have had a bit of headwind already, but although a city layout usually involves a lot of turns, and the MSB has more than ever with the course changes, it does break the course up into a lot of discrete 'sections'. Just get to this corner. Get to that corner and the wind will be at your back. And so on. Into mile 2, and I'm running pretty well. I'm going hard, but my eyeballs aren't popping out. I notice I'm gradually passing the odd runner here and there. Never a bad sign. The wind is a problem though. Blustery and gusting, it comes and goes, dropping away, and then hitting you harder than ever. Mile 2 finishes, and it's a 6:12. That makes me really happy. Very rarely do I race this consistently. With 5ks, it's a slightly too-quick first mile, followed by a bit of a slump, then a pickup for the endgame. But I'm doing it by the numbers here. Go me.

And now to the subplot: in the club we have a magnificently crazy athlete who breaks every rule in the training handbook. He refuses to do recovery runs, because he can't understand why you need to run slow, in order to run fast. So he runs all his runs at just over 3 hour marathon pace. He doesn't run as often as me, granted, but every single mile is 7.15 or faster. No-one can talk to him. He's a great lad, but, totally batty. Anyway, the problem is, he's been beating me like a gong for months now. In training I can't get near him. Ok, he's running like a madman, but still.

But I digress. So all of a sudden I spot a Tallaght vest. It's our friend. Let's call him Andy (because that's his name). Andy is up ahead, but I can see that he's toiling. He's very fast, but endurance is his weak spot, and, hand on heart, most of the reason I want to beat him is A) to reassure myself that my way is the right way, and to show HIM that his is the wrong way. Ok, I want to beat him for myself too, but that's allowed, right? I take my time, though, because I still have my own performance to worry about. We've beaten our way up the canal by now, and turned onto Leeson St. It's the last act. All into the wind now, but I promise myself relief from it at the next corner. Down onto Fitzwilliam St., and Andy is looming up ahead. He's definitely struggling. When I go by, I want it to be decisive and definitive. I don't know what he's got left, and he has a mean kick when fresh. Left onto Merrion Row, and I overhaul him near Doheny & Nesbitt's. I think of saying something, then decide I can't spare the breath. Kick on now. Two turns left, and we hit the 3 mile mark. 6:12!

I can't quite work out the implications of that, but it looks good to me. I could be looking at a low 19 here...maybe even better? I plough up past the OPW, turn right and there's the finish line. A little bit further and I can see the clock.......Fcuk me, it's reading 19 already. Bugger that. I throw everything at it and cross the line in 19:31.

I have to say my reaction is disappointment. That felt like a sub-19 run. Officially I'm given a 19:32, but after a quick straw poll, and some past-results-googling later, my suspicions are confirmed. Times were down across the board, a combination of the conditions, and the course changes. Mostly the conditions.

Later, in Synnott's, where we stayed for a long time, Andy's reaction is comical. He can't comprehend that I've beaten him. He swears it'll never, ever happen again.

Liverpool is gonna be fun.

Friday 24th

Short recovery. Done on the Blessington Greenway, but a bit stunted because there was a film being shot.

3.17 @9.41

Saturday 25th

BHAA K Club 10k. The BHAA has always had a certain blue-collar cachet, to my mind, so the notion of a road race within the hallowed confines of the K Club seemed to strike a bum note, somehow. Yet there it was, and for years I had spurned it, despite the enduring tales of 'the spread' afterwards. This year though, finally, the calendar declared no clash with another significant race, so I was free to take part for the first time ever.

So I can confirm that the spread is indeed legendary - hot dogs, buns, cakes, muffins, tea, coffee and soft drinks all being dispensed and serviced by the K Club's 'people'. As for the race, I was very quietly pondering how close I might get to 40 minutes, considering my form thus far, and for about 3 miles I wasn't a kick in the bollix away, as a club colleague likes to put it. However, the weather had a part to play, it being unseasonably warm, and eventually I wilted late on to finish with 40.19 officially. Pretty satisfied with that. 2nd best 10k time ever.

6.17 @6.32 (40.19)

Sunday 26th

Super easy nothing run.

6.02 @9.29

HR 111/137

Week's mileage 52

Streak 92 Miles 658

Wednesday 29th

Very late easy run. These darn streaks. Very hard to let go of. Going out for a run after 8pm is unheard of in danon towers, but there I was, rocking along in the dark. Actually it was quite enjoyable once I got started.

5.04 @9.11

HR 110/126

Thursday 30th

Wicklow Way run, interspersed with outbreaks of walking. I knew from experience that these treks eat up the time, and we were due to go out later on, so I periodically left the OH by herself (with the dog) while I took advantage of any non-ascending sections of the WW between Boranaltry and the Glencullen river to clock up some undemanding mileage. Even so my efforts were enough to have me top of the climbing charts in the club strava group yet again.

6.64 miles

Friday 31st

Short easy run, with 2@HMP. With a clubmate for this. As usual, the race-pace miles done the week of the goal race weren't as easy as desired. But bad dress rehearsal, and all that.

5.32 @7.57

2@HMP (6.39, 6.54)

HR 130/155

Saturday 1st

Bushy parkrun. I wanted to get my run in early because I was racing the next day. The course is twisty, and narrow, but interesting enough. The 180 around a cone (twice) is its worst aspect, I think. Started off nice and relaxed, but gradually wound it up until it almost became a little sharpener, a mini-session. Focussed on a couple of runners who were well ahead of me with a mile to go, and reeled them in satisfyingly in the closing section - moving at virtually HMP at the finish. Garmin hopelessly under-distance with all the tree cover.

2.99 @7.50 (23.24)

HR 134/159

Sunday 2nd

Liverpool Half-Marathon.

6 years ago, in 2011, when I had brought my Half time down from 1:52 in only a couple of years to barely half a minute outside 1:30, I blithely imagined that it was only a matter of time, and not very much time at that, before I dipped under the 90. I was wrong in that assumption. The next time I ran the distance, the National Half was in Athenry, and I had been working at Electric Picnic all weekend, driving up and down from Dublin all three days because of an accommodation snafu. On the Sunday morning I then drove to Galway for the race. Under the circumstances, falling a couple of minutes short, on a dislikable course and a warm day, seemed excusable.

But that was as good as it got, for a long while. Most years I did the RS and the utter pig that is the Rock and Roll, and year after year, my times got ever more mediocre. In 2013, I failed to finish either race, pulling out at around 8-9 miles in both. Yet in between, I produced one of my best-ever performances in the RS 10 mile, setting a 1:06:xx pb. This was starting to not make sense. Was the Half some kind of monster? Was it a distance I just couldn't run anymore?

In the meantime I was lowering my marathon pb, from 3:19 (2012) to 3:17 (2014), then 3:14 (2015). But in the Half? I was becalmed. In 2014 I managed a 1:37 and a 1:34 in the RS/R&R. In training for London (2015) though, I scheduled in the Bohermeen Half, and was quite gratified with the sub-1:33 run. It ‘felt’ better than that.

Maybe my London pb exploits would re-ignite my ability at the Half, I thought. But no, that year’s R&R yielded a miserable 1:36. More and more I felt resigned to the notion that I had reached my limit at this distance. But then, a trip down to Charleville resulted in a first sub-1:32 in ages, and suddenly, like in Star Wars, I had a new hope. But in 2016 there was another fruitless crack at the R&R (1:35), and now I was looking at 6 years of stagnation.

In 2017 I went back to distance work. I had signed up for Liverpool again, for the first time since 2011, and with no appetite for a marathon attempt, I decided that Liverpool would be a goal in itself, rather than a staging-point. The marathon could wait.

The main decision I made was that there would be no days off. I would run every single day, even if it was only a single Ron Hill unit (1 mile). The other was that I wanted to average 50 miles a week at least until the beginning of April. Both of these I managed, and when I lined up on Albert dock for the start, I had ran for 98 consecutive days since Christmas morning 2016.

I wasn’t alone in Liverpool. 30 of my clubmates had also made the trip, our third foray across the Irish sea to the capital of Ireland in the UK since 2011. Of course this meant that there were subplots. Teammates who had been training particularly well had to be watched carefully. Should this runner or that runner be out ahead? Chase them down, or let them go? And then there was Andy, of course. The smart money said that after he had come off second best at 5k and 10k, he had even less chance at 13.1 miles. But what does the smart money know? He swore pre-race that he would beat me, and that he would do it by staying on my shoulder for as long as was necessary. The smart money snickered at the fanciful notion of Andy as a smart racer.

The course is pretty good. There’s a climb after 1 mile, and another at around 3, but generally it’s a flat and fast track. It winds through the city, the middle section taking in Sefton park, before returning to the river for the last 4 miles which follow the promenade back into the city. Just before the off, a clubmate offered me some encouragement: the gist of it was that a steady start would serve me better, rather than trying to hit goal pace from the off. After the first 2 miles came in at 7:07 and 7:02, I wondered was it to be prescient advice. I was trying to run by feel, rather than be a slave to the watch. But having eased my way in, now I had to start to chip away at the deficit. 6:52 per mile was the target. Andy had been as good as his word, for about a mile. Then he gradually started to pull away. I think he was influenced by the fact that the 1:30 pacing group was up ahead, and also that a couple of clubmates and ‘peers’ were on their heels and a good 50 metres away. Another was about to overtake me, meaning I would have four teammates in my training group in front of me, plus the pacers. Time to worry, perhaps. Andy was certainly worried, and I remembered the previous year’s R&R Half, when I had similarly trailed the pacing group, and several teammates, running at low-7 minute pace and already experiencing the helpless feeling of a race slipping away after no more than a mile or two.

But, you need to know yourself, and your teammates. I knew I was strong today, and that I would give this a really good rattle. I also knew that the guy Andy was chasing had run 1:25, more or less out the blue, a couple of years back. This form had clearly been returning at long last. The third chap was just feeling his oats, I reckoned. My equal at least, he has also been trying to recover his best form, but I didn’t think he was there yet. I refused to panic, and concentrated on taking back the seconds I had lost.

After 4 or 5 miles, I could see that my strategy might be paying off. I had had a sticky patch, and come through it feeling stronger. I could see 2 of my buddies up ahead, and I was very gradually reeling the first of them in. As I passed, he said something that again had the whiff of prescience about it: “you’re pacing well”. Slowly he fell behind, and I set my sights on the next target, a guy who had stunned us all with a 3:06 marathon on his first go at the distance, but whose training was always limited by the fact that he was a champion sea fisherman for whom running was only a hobby. In his own words: “I don’t even like running”. My assessment was that he didn’t have the miles in his legs to sustain his pace.

As we wound through Sefton park, I knew that there had to be downhill ahead, because we would be heading down to the river, so I concentrated on pulling back a few seconds here and there, mile by mile. My right hamstring had been unaccountably tight at the very start, but now I was moving smoothly. Out of the park now, we’d gone through the underpass and I was right on the heels of victim No. 2. With him out of the way, there was only Andy to worry about. I wasn’t worried about the fourth member of the quartet - he was obviously having a very good day. With 4 miles to go the course hits the river, and follows into town for the finish. The weather had been perfect, but there was a bit of wind about, but not enough to worry about - until now. Now there was a nasty headwind blowing down the river, and we had four miles of it to go. This was getting really tough, and I still felt the sub-90 was on a knife-edge at best.

In the interim, though, there was Andy to worry about. I didn’t consciously increase the pace, so much as work really hard to keep the numbers the right side of 6.50, and Andy was visibly wobbling up ahead. I caught him up, said a few encouraging words, and ground on. Things were really tough now, the wind was blowing relentlessly, and this was becoming a grim battle, one that I, so far, was refusing to lose. And then, there was a godsend. Some random chap all in black started chatting, saying that if we caught up with the group up ahead - the pacer group - we would get some shelter from the wind. This was just what I needed. For the next while I struggled to stay with him, as we passed struggling runners and avoided the random nautical obstacles that the promenade threw up periodically. At one point I nearly crashed into a huge black anchor.

Now my saviour was pulling away. This was bad, I couldn’t let this happen. The watch was still saying I was there or thereabouts, but if that was so, why was the fecking pacing group still so far ahead? I couldn’t puzzle that one out, but bit by bit the miles ticked by, 11, then 12. This was it. We came to an awkward stretch involving turns, kerbs and cobbled paving through an industrial area and some gates, and now I recognised the squat concrete building up ahead. All of a sudden we rounded yet another corner, and the FINISH line was right there, one bend away. I consulted my watch, and it read 1:28:10 - My Good God, this was on. I drove at the corner, rounded it and piled it on to the end. The watch said 1:29:15. 6 years of frustration melted away. First pb in two years. Thank you, Gods of Running.

TRR_the_turd wrote: »

Brilliant race report Dave and well deserved time but you really need to include your post race shenanigans if you want to get 50 million likes. You are not called the Keith Richards of TAC for nothing!

For example, no mention of you high fiving everyone in the finish area ...... and I mean everyone! And then your one man attempt at drinking Liverpool dry. Followed by the random solo sightings of you in Liverpool in the early hours of the morning including (and in chronological order).

- arguing with 4 homeless guys at the bottom of Mathew Street at 1am.
- having a kebab (possibly with one of the homeless guys) at 2 am.
- Having an argument with a doorman as he wouldn't let you into a club. He had good reason as he had just removed you for falling asleep. Then wondering what his problem was as "I'm awake now".
- And my favourite quote, one of the lads said he didn't get back until 5.30am and you asking "Was I with you?"

You're a fecking rockstar

I didn't have time to round off the report earlier. And anyway, what homeless guys, and what kebab?

All in all, it sounds like I was lucky to get back alive.

Monday 3rd

Rest. The streak, she is dead.

Tuesday 4th

More rest.

Wednesday 5th

Easy run. Longer than envisaged, met some club people and ran with them for a bit.

8.52 @8.54

HR 115/135


Thursday 6th

8x300m@5k pace, 1 min rec. Slightly chaotic session for various reasons. I knew I needed a bit of nippy stuff before taking on the GIR anyway, so I didn't mind too much that we ran these much too fast. Didn't time the intervals at all.

6.09 @7.46

HR 121/155

Friday 7th

Easy run. Five miles, much stopping and starting, fairly weary.

5.03 @9.16

HR 116/122

Murph_D wrote: »

A nice report, congrats on the HM. Another race so soon - any recovery planned at all? Best of luck in the park.

Cheers. A race for the next four weekends, so that would be a no...

Saturday 8th

Pre-race shuffle. 4 miles, nippy enough. Not sure what it signifies; maybe nothing.

4.05 @8.10

HR 126/140

Sunday 9th

National 10k Championships, mysteriously disguised as the 'Great Ireland Run'. The AAI does itself no favours among the grass roots with these ill-advised hookups, it has to be said. But, the course, maligned and feared as it is, isn't Brendan Foster's fault, I suppose. It's a mass-participation event, but then, lots of races (stand up Dublin Marathon Race Series, don't be shy) are. Truth be told, the only aspect of this event that I found really annoying was being asked to 'turn around' for the 'warmup crew', a trio of jumping, leaping fitties on an elevated platform who yelled and bellowed and exhorted the crowd to ape their enthusiastic calisthenics. It was being in the world's largest outdoor gym.

But to the point. We (our club) had hatched a cunning plan to put together the bestest O-50 team that we could, on the suspicion that medals might be had. To that end we were grateful for the timely return to action of a certain Mr. C, of the large and eminent C family, equally prominent in both sporting and political circles. The weather on the Sunday morning looked to be perfect, although the promised cloud cover was a good bit sparser than I had hoped.

After a decent 3 mile warmup, before entering the starting pen, I threw away a technical top I had grabbed at random from the pile of about 60 in my wardrobe. It turned out to be from the GIR 2012, none other than the scene of my pb (39.52). ???? Was this some sort of sign? And if so, was it good or bad? No time to ponder that question though, as there was warmup tw*ts to roundly ignore, and also time for a last-minute Garmin panic before we shuffled across the starting mat.

I won't go into huge race detail here. It's only a bloody 10k after all. The bullet points: I went out feeling strong, and reeled off three successive 6.20 miles. That brought me to the business end of the race: let the agony begin. The first climb I coped with reasonably well, but then the S-bends came, and after battling through them, there was the climb after St. Mary's and I knew I was wilting. The Furry Glen was still to come. When runners started to pass me on the descent (I'm a quick downhiller on roads) it emphasised how much I was struggling. A teammate passed me, and I couldn't respond.

On the home stretch, and I needed to see that the finish line was quite close before I could unleash whatever last effort I had in me. I noticed that I was in danger of not breaking 41 minutes, so that spurred me on, but it wasn't enough. My watch read 41.03, and when the chip time came in at 41.01, I wasn't really that disappointed. You don't mind missing out on a consolation prize.

A bit glum then, but I was happy with the effort on the day. But what about the team, I imagine you all crying.....


Well.........


It was only bloody GOLD!


Time/HR/mileage....Who fecking cares. Let's PARTEEEEEEEEE.