Race Headquarters, you might explain to someone, is the epicentre of everything; registration, results, marshal assembly. It's all here, at this modest picnic table with an authoritative sign leaning majestically at one side, guiding would-be participants to come and declare their age, sign their name, absolve the organisers of all responsibility and pay their £5.00. Job done, another race entered, as you walk away pinning a race number to your vest. Ready for...well...what? I'm not really sure why I'm here.
It's Thursday evening and back to Macc Forest for the 'Forest Five'. There's a clue in the title, but this administrative and procedural prequel to a run seems at odds with the natural beauty of the surroundings. The Ridgegate Reservoir and Leathers Smithy Pub form the start and climb up into the forest, and also the finish along the back of the water. There is blue sky and the air is still. This is why I often come here to run, to embrace this environment, to enjoy the peace and beauty. But tonight I'm racing...yet again.
It occurs to me that recently I've not had a social run with my mates. I have only been racing or training, and as I've eluded to before, racing isn't really my bag. Sure, it's engaging, testing and stirs the fighting spirit. I do enjoy the fitness it brings, but my running lately is missing something. I stand on the wall by the pub watching eager racers prepare for the start, trying to work out who and where I am in all of this. The answer, it seems, is 33rd out of 91 and 31s faster than 2 years ago. Is that good? Did I go home happy?
