Lichfield Half Marathon race report

 

Everyone had to stop running again 20 yards later!

I decided to enter this race at the back end of 2013, as my running was going pretty well and I wanted an achievable target to work towards. In addition, my mother-in-law lives in Lichfield and we have a few friends down that neck of the woods. Also the course seemed fairly flat to me, though described as ‘undulating’, mainly because they are all softies down there! Undulating in Staffordshire is otherwise known as ‘flat’ in the West Riding…

Anyway, the training went well over the winter, and the week of the race arrived in typical pre-run fashion with a host of imaginary ailments taking hold. My throat is sore, have I got a cold? No. My knees are aching, maybe my legs are shot, etc etc. The run up was also my first real experience of proper ‘tapering’, when you dramatically scale back the intensity and length of training runs. So dropping from running  12 miles, to 9, then a mere 3, left me feeling rather twitchy and irritable. Sorry, everyone!

On the day before the race, we headed to Lichfield via my sister’s in Derby & ended up laying on a grass bank clutching plastic beer glasses under a blue sky, watching cricket at Darley Abbey. It is hard to describe how idyllically magical this was, and it was rather a shame to head off to Lichfield, rather than spending the rest of the day (and night) at the Abbey.

Race day dawned with the customary early rise and into the meticulously laid out race kit, before strolling across the city (a miniature city, incidentally, but with an absolutely massive Cathedral) with Kath & Marcus to the start. First priority was to join the massive queue for the portaloos, and as runners are a terribly friendly bunch, I had a good chat with the fella in front of me, who was a Wolves fan. I think it is safe to say that Roger Johnson & Jamie O’Hara aren’t the most popular footballers in the Black Country at the moment.  

Nipple plasters applied...

As we milled around waiting for the start time, looking at the many splendoured wonders of club running vests (Birchfield Harriers a personal favourite), a chap wandered past & gave Marcus a leaflet, which turned out to be raising awareness about testicular cancer. In view of my previous history in this area (scroll down if you fancy a long read) I chased after him, compared ailments and told him to keep up the good work. Subsequently, I was chuffed to find this on Twitter;

So, be nice to people and encourage them, please! The odd pleasant word can go a long way.

Anyway, race time arrived, I managed to avoid having to participate in the ghastly dance warm up thing where someone shouts “BEND! STRETCH!...” whilst you do embarrassed, shuffling Dad-dancing, and headed towards the start line, which was down a narrow school driveway. More chatter & “good lucks” with assorted people (largely of the middle aged variety), a word about some races – the Barcelona Marathon is “hot” apparently, and then it was time to go….

We slowly shuffled under the starting arch, briefly started running then jammed to an immediate half as the drive kinked  around and narrowed, causing a bit of bumping into each other and many ‘sorrys’. The whole field seemed to then settle into a bizarre, exaggerated running on the spot motion, rocking from side to side as we shuffled for the gateway. Of course, once out on the road, it was nice to finally open up and run properly, through a closed major junction and off down an ‘A’ road. There is something deeply satisfying about seeing traffic stopped for hundreds of people in the road, and it was good to get the legs spinning to banish all those imaginary ailments. After about half a mile, I had a quick look at my GPS watch to see how my pace was coming along. The aim was to run at 8 minute mile pace, which is the threshold speed for ‘proper’ running, and was hoping to get round the 13.1 mile route in somewhere around 1 hour 45 minutes. So it was something of a shock to glance at my watch and see my pace coming up as ‘6 minute .. mile’. Starting too fast is a really common pitfall in a distance running, so I tried to slow down a bit and settle into a steadier pace.

Shortly, we reached the only major ‘hill’ (in a Staffordshire sense) up the road to Whittington, which settled the field down nicely, with some keener starters plummeting back through the field, and the rest of us settling into little groups. I had my first nice chat with a bloke here, and he remained narrowly ahead of me until around the 8 mile mark. It is nice to have someone to follow, and in an ideal world, it is a shapely female (sorry, but it just is), but white t-shirt bloke made a good pace marker. Soon we passed the barracks for the Staffordshire Regiment (“Kingsmen? Troopers?” Not sure…) before turning downhill and heading into the Staffordshire countryside. My pace seemed to be consistently below 8 minute mile speed, but I decided to just flow with it, see what happened and follow the white t-shirt man. 

As we approached the village of Whittington, a couple of blokes in front made a bit of a play to get out an energy gel each, which reminded me to do the same. Energy gels are a revolting flavoured paste that have rather transformed the experience of distance running, or any other endurance sport, for that matter, as they almost instantly deliver a cargo of 300 calories or more in an easily digestible form, which heads directly to your muscles. The effect is miraculous, and reminds me of this clip from Pulp Fiction;

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jpMxpzfSRUA

The only problem with them is that they taste nasty, rather like kids toothpaste, so I had a little laugh with the two blokes about what flavours they had. Apparently, whilst I had gone for ‘disgusting’, they had gone for ‘revolting’ and ‘vile’. We then passed a water station & collected squeezy bottles of water, had a quick sip, a quick splosh on the head (the sun was well and truly out by now), then chucked them into a vast pile of semi-drunk bottles mixed with discarded energy gel  sachets. I suppose that it is just as well that they taste horrible, otherwise humanity could stop eating food altogether & just have the occasional gel...

"Alas, vomit flavoured..."

There isn’t really much more to say about the run; I maintained my pace, the organisation, stewarding and support on the course was good (special mention to the children who put out a trestle table with cups of water), I chatted to assorted other people around me – it seems impolite not to ask when someone is wearing a ‘Running in Memory of…’ t-shirt, as well as midlife crises and carbon fibre bikes with one of the gel blokes (the other one appearing to have blown a gasket). I also resisted various offers to join athletics clubs in the Midlands or go triathlon training in Birmingham. Runners really are a sociable bunch with a shared set of common values, and it was lovely to be out in such company. The miles kept disappearing, my pace kept up and soon we arrived back in Lichfield. I tried to work out what my likely finishing time was going to be throughout the race, and began to suspect that a really fast last mile at ‘Parkrun speed’ would take me under 1 hour 40, but my legs seemed rather reluctant to pick up the pace as we approached the last mile.

Ron Hill tribute running past Marcus on the final stretch.

As I wrote earlier, it is a very small city indeed, suddenly you turn out of a country land into a housing estate and over the railway line. A couple of stewards were giving out sponges here, so I mopped myself down and then tried to pick up the pace. This was slightly impeded by a subway, with the up, down then up again knocking me off my stride a bit. Then down Brownsfield Road, pat Kath & the boys at the ginnel, past Glyn in his garden, round the roundabout and over a bumpy grass field to the finish, stopping my watch in 1.40.48 (the official timing took 3 seconds off that). This was a far better time than I imagined I could do, and would translate into a 3 hour 30 minute marathon, which does beg an obvious question… to which the answer is no, I have no intention of giving that a go. It is just too much training.

A scenic place to end a race

Overall, it was a great day out, capped off by several hours in the Kings Head drinking Pedigree, which was probably a sub-optimal thing to do, but was great fun. Thanks to all who sponsored me, anyone still wishing to do so can visit;

http://www.justgiving.com/Robin-Stewart2

And here are my remarkably even, and even more remarkably boring, splits:

Running in the 80’s

Thinking about the Almondbury 10k in 1989 got me taking a nostalgic trip through my memories of running in the 1980’s… I used to run ‘on and off’ from around the age of 18, in a fairly haphazard fashion, but as the decade wore on, I started to do it more consistently, and by 1989 I must have been running about 80 miles a week. Some things have really changed since then, and other haven’t….

1. Shoes fit properly now…

Thinking back, the equipment was absolutely rubbish – my first pair of ‘proper’ running shoes were grey ‘Hi Tech’ ones acquired in 1984 for the massive sum of 34 quid.  As well as running in them, they would also go to the pub, in the sea, get slopped in beer and worse... Not terribly clever in retrospect!

These were succeeded by some Reeboks,

…these absolutely sucked, they looked quite nice but just didn’t suit my running style.

Then I acquired my all time favourites, Nike Air Windrunners that I wore out in less than a year, and instantly upped my speed by some 30 seconds per mile, then followed by another pair of the same that weren't as good. The design seemed to have changed in subtly annoying way. I kept hoping that they would reintroduce the old version and I could buy 15 pairs.

I suppose the point is that I just went to a sports shop, asked for a size 8 pair of running shoes and coughed up the money. Sometimes they fitted brilliantly and suited your running style, sometimes they didn’t. But it was all a bit random…

 Obviously, it is a more involved task these days, with a trip to the shop featuring a run on the treadmill whilst having your lower leg filmed to assess how your foot is striking and accordingly if you need stability, neutral or barefoot type shoes. It is quite interesting to watch your lower leg running in slow motion – it looks terribly painful, as though your foot is about to fall off and your leg snap. The strain that your legs seem to be under in slow motion is just plain bizarre to look at.

The implausibly skinny and athletic chap who works in every running shop then disappears off into the back room and reappears with a huge assortment of the ‘right’ sort of shoes (currently neutral, trying to strike nice & flat since reading ‘Running with the Kenyans’) which you try on for about 20 minutes, before settling on your current make, because they feel the same… so another pair of Sauconys, another hundred odd quid!

Dewsbury 10k  2/02/2014

I felt as bad as I looked!

I decided to enter this immediately after running in the Abbey Dash in November, as it was described as ‘flat’ and ‘having PB potential’. While the former is undoubtedly true, the latter is rather more open to question – my PB is resolutely stuck at 42.30 from the 1989 Almondbury 10, when I was running 6 times a week and had recently returned from a holiday at altitude in  Nepal. Even with that kind of preparation, I still managed to make a complete hash of it, missing the start with mate Mark ‘because the bus was late’ and setting off in pursuit of the field without a warm up at a blistering pace – I remember going through the first mile marker (old fashioned 10k in Imperial!) in 5.15 minutes, then slowing slightly to just below 6 for the next mile, at which point the route slanted uphill I we caught up with the first two runners from the official start, who were dressed as a pantomime horse… The effort got to me and I had to stop by the side of the road, and the pantomime horse overtook me. I did manage to get it back together and finish in what I regarded as a slightly embarrassing time to 42.30, which I guess is destined to remain my PB for evermore, unless my 48 year old self suddenly becomes rocket powered.

Anyway, I digress (as per usual…). I ran the Abbey Dash in 46 minutes odd, and was entertaining vague hopes of pushing  my time just under 45 minutes this time out. The run up to a race seems to be one where I start to feel slightly ill (the Abbey Dash was the same…) & listless, with endless scrutiny of the weather forecast, imagined colds starting and poor sleep. Saturday night was blowing a gale to the extent that I was woken up in the middle of the night, but Sunday dawned bright, sunny and not too blowy, with a chill in the air and the overnight rain glistening on the road. So about as good as you could ask for on the first Sunday in February…

So the usual routine – synthetic clothing on, race number affixed, variety of energy potions consumed (probably for psychological reasons as much as for needing the fuel) and upbeat music in the car en route to Dewsbury.

Parking turned out to be dead easy, with a giant car park (complete with the grottiest Portaloo in the civilised world) adjacent to the start. There was the usual milling around & stretching, mixed with chatting to random other runners. It was a really friendly crowd, and I chatted to a bunch of venerable ladies from Wetherby, where I was born, who encouraged me to run their 10k in August… It seemed a much more ‘runner’ crowd than the Abbey Dash, which is a giant charity jamboree with more than 10,000 runners – inspiring to see the road totally filled in both directions with so many runners, but also a hazard as you are constantly impeded by slow-coaches starting too far forward in the field.

Anyway, the event director did a fabulous tribute to the late, great Norman Collier with his malfunctioning loud hailer, then we were off, on a flat out and back course, rather like the Abbey Dash, but with Poundland in Batley as the turning point, instead of Kirkstall Abbey. Hey ho. It isn’t the most scenic run, but it is very well organised , with good marshalls & a smattering of locals, notably one house blaring the Village People out of their window & encouraging the runners to do ‘YMCA’!

As for the run, the less said the better. I had changed my Garmin watch onto metric and was looking to run each km in around 4.30, and got off to a faster start than this, before dropping off a little approaching the half way turn. As per usual, the dilemma between being too cold at the start or too warm in the race worked out wrongly, as I overheated in a thermal top and gloves… I could at least take off the gloves & unzip the top fully.

Anyway, the turn for home took us into a slight headwind and the sun shining off the road surface, so I was squinting too much to appreciate the scenery, though I doubt there is any to see! I recited a rather pathetic mantra to myself (‘pain is temporary, disappointment is permanent’ – WTF? It’s the sort of think Gareth Cheeseman would say. Subconscious, you are a complete arse sometimes) & kept running as hard as I could.  A quick look at the watch at the 8k marker seemed to show that I was on course, then it was just a case of running as hard as I could. Keep the knees up. Strike feet properly. Forefoot not heel. ‘Pain is temp… You’re a TIGER! GRR!’

Round the sharp corner, run hard for the finish and stop the watch… 44 YES!... 17 J Unbelievable.

Filter through the finish funnel, collect water & a rather nice orange t-shirt, then time for an emergency sit down, followed by a light stretch.

I was chuffed as anything to get under 45 minutes, which was a target I was kind of aspiring to, rather than thinking I would actively push through, and now I’m thinking… hmmm… maybe I can really get my act together and have a good crack at beating my 23 year old self. That would be something…

Meanwhile, one of the lady veterans I talked to from Wetherby went round in 38 minutes… Respect.

And just to prove I did it, here's the GPS track....