PB's don't come often, but when they do, the taste is sweet. Even in relative isolation, there is the self satisfied warm glow of unrivalled smugness that fuels you for the remainder of the day. No need for gloating or bragging, just an internal acknowledgement that today the cards landed in your favour...that and the Herculean effort that you always make finally counted for something. Llandudno 10 Mile was an almost perfect race, yet ironically I again felt my preparation was catastrophic.
I battled with things I had no control over, and lost control over those I did. An hour and a half ride as a passenger should be plenty of time to deal with my crap, yet there was no end of fiddling and farting around moving 'things' from this part of my bag to another, then back again in some hope to create order. But again on the start line realising I'd forgotten to take my inhaler, wishing I'd remembered to eat my banana, cursing the changeable weather, irritated by my fourth attempt to pin my number straight...
...with 3 pins that matched and one that didn't, concerned by my inability to relax and perform in a crowded pre-race 'Gents'...the list goes on. Yet maybe it is these things, this ritualistic sequence of events and emotions, good and bad, that serve to deliver a positive performance once the gun goes. It's complex, often over analysed, constantly researched and explored, but maybe my catalogue of errors and idiosyncrasies was closest to the sweet spot that is the perfect race preparation.
Which is alarming, because as I stood there on the start line, or to be more accurate, about 5 rows back, I was convinced I'd turned up not wearing any shorts or pants and only one trainer. And then we're off. In an instant, it's all forgotten. I am where I am. The start is dramatic. A 'fun' runner who started at the front falls, her friend stops and goes to help. In an instant, she is brought crashing to the ground as runners behind pile into her. They also fall, causing a further trip hazard, more runners down...like something from a road cycling stage finish. Carnage.
It's a two lap race, along the promenade and into town. Laps really isn't the right word, more an assembly of 6 or 7 out and back straights. What this gave was a constant view of those ahead of you, but more importantly frequent reminders of what was happening behind. No resisting the need to look behind you in this race, you could see them in front, coming after you. And with every turn, you got a measure of those gaining, and those falling behind. No matter, my plan was to hook on to the heels of a few of my club mates to drag me round in a target time of 1.10, but after around 4 miles I sensed there was a bit racing to be done and started to think points. Measuring out as carefully and precisely as I could all the energy and mental resolve I had, I plucked up courage to pass those who I'm normally nowhere near. Confirmation at the next switch-back showed my moves had stuck, and I'd pulled a gap...and so it continued. That last mile was a huge mental effort. Screaming in my head, urging me to stop, louder screams to carry on.
My cap was now pulled down so low, deliberately blocking out any vision of the finish during the final lunge on the promenade, glancing up only once or twice to check for obstacles. Closing on the end, I finally had to look, looked behind and then looked for the clock. No one behind and the clock was just starting on the 1.09. Wow, and with all my effort I crossed the line with a 1.09.14, way over a minute knocked off my pb, with 6.58 min/miles. Pleased with that. Today I raced, and it felt good. I was rewarded well. And with that feeling of self satisfaction came the ability to engage in a proper warm-down run and stretch...something that usually falls by the wayside after a bad race. This time, it was a celebratory cake, not a consolation. After I got home, I even managed to spend the remainder of the day outside doing man-jobs...quietly satisfied and with a renewed confidence in my running. Next weekend, I have a small local Fell race at Langley Village Fete. Back to the hills!
Which is alarming, because as I stood there on the start line, or to be more accurate, about 5 rows back, I was convinced I'd turned up not wearing any shorts or pants and only one trainer. And then we're off. In an instant, it's all forgotten. I am where I am. The start is dramatic. A 'fun' runner who started at the front falls, her friend stops and goes to help. In an instant, she is brought crashing to the ground as runners behind pile into her. They also fall, causing a further trip hazard, more runners down...like something from a road cycling stage finish. Carnage.
It's a two lap race, along the promenade and into town. Laps really isn't the right word, more an assembly of 6 or 7 out and back straights. What this gave was a constant view of those ahead of you, but more importantly frequent reminders of what was happening behind. No resisting the need to look behind you in this race, you could see them in front, coming after you. And with every turn, you got a measure of those gaining, and those falling behind. No matter, my plan was to hook on to the heels of a few of my club mates to drag me round in a target time of 1.10, but after around 4 miles I sensed there was a bit racing to be done and started to think points. Measuring out as carefully and precisely as I could all the energy and mental resolve I had, I plucked up courage to pass those who I'm normally nowhere near. Confirmation at the next switch-back showed my moves had stuck, and I'd pulled a gap...and so it continued. That last mile was a huge mental effort. Screaming in my head, urging me to stop, louder screams to carry on.
