On Sunday, 20th March 2011, I did not get a lie-in. I don’t often manage this fabled thing that parents frequently complain about not getting anymore. Anyway, I don’t think that all that many active people over the age of 29 and under the age of 70 do. It is a myth, born of the teenage growth spurt, continued through binge drinking, and abandoned at the age where one has better things to do with one’s weekend that stay in bed (or is tending to a mewling infant in some cases). Anyway, on this particular morning I very much did not stay in bed, rousing myself at 05:30 instead.
I was, of course, racing – this was to be leg two of my so-called Lazy Man’s Marathon, the Reading Half. Wraith-like, I dragged myself downstairs, counted out one banana, two apples, 20 almonds, 50g porridge oats, 250ml milk, my normal pre-race breakfast, and about all that I can hold down at 5:30, an hour invented purely as a story for frightening drinkers returning from an all-nighter. A quick shower, run-down the pre-race morning checklist and I was out of the door by 7am. Reading is about 45 minutes by car from where I live, but obscenely, due to the sheer pre race logistics of packing 17,000 runners plus many more spectators into the area surrounding the Green Park and Madejski stadium, I had to allow more than two hours for early arrival and potential delays, made all the more obscene when the delays added only ten minutes to the usual journey time.
To be fair to the race, the Reading Half is on a much grander scale than most of the races that I run. Runners are well catered for in the race village, with teas, coffees and snacks of various kinds (not my personal choice prior to 13+ miles of making my stomach lurch up and down), a decent selection of stands, and the race organiser, Sweatshop’s large retail tent, a prospect to whet any ardent pavement – eroding athlete’s appetite. Additionally, with warmth and shelter from the elements (and the ever- present toilet queue) available within the “Mad Stad”, home ground and namesake of the club owner of the (formerly Premiership) Royal’s Football Club itself, in many ways this could not be a more ideal setup for pre race prep. Not that shelter was needed on the warm but lightly overcast morning, and I took this opportunity to escape the smell of Deep Heat in the stadium’s corridors in order to mingle with the teeming throngs outside.
Therefore, having stretched and done the necessary, I felt reasonably refreshed and calm making my way to the start line. Of course, superstitious being that I am, I am wont to look on such auspicious omens in a negative light, but in truth I felt ready to run, and the 30 minutes taken to start the race did little to dampen my spirits, giving me the opportunity to engage in some start-line banter with a few of the “older hands”. Due to the number of runners, Reading staggars its start into colour coded categories. I was two groups behind the elite runners, placing in this season’s training well up into the faster groups. Although I’m no kind of snob in this sport (I’m not nearly good enough at it to justify a bad attitude) I have to confess that I appreciate this device, as it does assist in preventing some of the more pushy but ultimately slower runners crowding the start, which given the percentage, in a crowd this size is a lot of awkward overtaking work avoided, and ultimately energy saved towards that elusive Personal Best. Afterall, this event, in common with many others, is chip-timed, meaning that how soon after the gun one gets across the line is utterly irrelevant to finish time.
As the race started I was hit by the usual exhilaration, as my legs began to pump underneath me and the first half mile started to unroll. I always think of those early strides like a steam train puffing into action, my legs slowly but relentlessly coming to life underneath me, and second by second gaining momentum and power to carry me forward to my full pace. So I was feeling pretty good when the other runner, too intent on the walkman that he was fiddling with, stepped across me, briefly tangling his shin with my right ankle, and shoved through with his shoulder, sending me sprawling, hands in front of me awaiting the seemingly inevitable tumble, which somehow never came as I managed to take half a step back up to my feet again. The other runner slowed, turned and apologised, and I did my best to grit my teeth and be gracious, despite a desire to fill the air with profanity.
This early incident done, and pleased with the pace I had maintained so far, I was reminded that there is no such thing as too much pre-race research. At some point, somebody told me that the Reading Half was flat. Running in Gosport at the end of last year, I have certain expectations of the word “flat”, which, I am afraid to say, do not at any point include the concept of a steeply inclined slope. The Reading Half course, for the reference of any of you runners labouring under the same misapprehension that I was, is not flat by any reasonable standard. I counted, within the first four miles, two noteworthy hills, and one rather steep, long one. There was one more minor a bit later on, coming past the Nag’s Head, but I can forgive that. So having confirmed, on the first of these “contours” that this was not going to be a flat race, and cursing those who’d run this race before, of whom there are several, who had not seen fit to disavail me of this misconception, I dug in…and realised that I was dragging my right foot.
I am not sure whether it would be fair to blame the inconsiderate sod who tripped me for injuring my ankle; to be fair I overpronate moderately when I run, and although I wear stability-style trainers to correct this, I had been aware for some time that my current pair were nearing the end of their useful life. I would imagine, therefore, that after a great deal of long-distance training through the winter, and an extremely tough and challenging trail half the previous weekend, that the trip was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. My achilles tendon was swollen, my heel was hitting the ground at the wrong angle, the whole mechanic of my stride was completely wrong, and I knew that I had another 11 miles of it getting worse to look forward to, plus I was still feeling hard-done-by over the hill.
In this situation I have learned over time to take stock of things: A system check informed me that provided no muscle actually gave out in my ankle it would probably go the distance, albeit painfully. The first hill had reminded me that I was less race-fit than I had been a month ago, and that my muscles were still very much looking to rest up after the battering they’d taken in the New Forest the previous weekend. I swallowed my pride and abandoned hopes of a sub 1:40 finish, dropping my pace to something that should, all being well, take me in about 1:45. Not fast, but respectable.
The course continued on, and I realised something else about Reading: It is not a pretty town to run in. As we dashed between fly-overs, multistorey car parks and took in scenic stretches of dual carriageway, I got a taste of what city distance running is all about, and why I should be grateful to live, and run in a suburban area with easy access to more rural, lesser trod paths. For my money, the city runner is to be saluted, as the urban environment that we have created is bleak, industrial, featureless, grey and oppressive. Reading exemplifies all of these less desirable qualities of the modern urban sprawl.
As we passed through the retail centre, however, taking in my formerly beloved Friar Street (another bookshop that I miss), jostling though arches with me becoming increasingly impatient with what I can only describe as a very ill-mannered group of runners, I did recall what used to excite me about this town, as even in such a dingy spot there were still to be found hidden corners with history and character. Alas, on a 13 mile run, hidden corners are not really enough to break the monotony.
Passing the Nag’s Head, I was amused to see the trays of beer awaiting thirsty (and foolhardy) athletes. It reminded me of a story in a recent issue of Runner’s World, detailing a chap who completed the Boston Half Marathon with some ridiculously slow time (I’d be surprised if he even actually finished it within the time allowed for the race) photographed on one of those beautiful American suspension bridge spans with a pint of beer in one hand and a cigarette hanging untidily from his mouth. He consumed a pint per mile, for the benefit of charity. Hats off to the guy, I couldn’t drink 13 pints, much less trot the distance on it. I admire his dedication, if not the state of his abused liver and kidneys.
By now though, my mind was wondering. I had lost much of my initial motivation, and was just about keeping myself on my feet. At 10 miles the pace markers went out, and I was gratified to see that I was still only marginally behind the 1:45. I dug deep to try and catch him up, but as we entered the particularly bleak and featureless landscape of the road network leading back towards the Madejski, and the fetid stench of the previous night’s beer and kebabs emanating for the nearby sewage works filled our nostrils, I finally flagged completely and accepted that the best that I could do now was to put one foot in front of the other at a jog and try to forget everything around me and the ambitions I’d had when entering this race. It was here, at my lowest ebb that the Madejski Stadium finally came into view, and all of a sudden I remembered what, foresaking every other bit of misery, I was here to do. I was here to finish a half marathon, and to finish it as best I was able. That single thought took me, picked me up and carried me. I took deep breaths and straightened my back. I picked up my feet, and I ran. I was late; I was massively off pace; it didn’t matter. I pushed hard. Half a mile to go. My lungs were burning and my eyes were streaming. It didn’t matter. Quarter mile to go. My ankle sang shocks of pain as I crossed the ramp into the stadium itself. It didn’t matter. The terraces sprawled before me and I felt a lump rising in my throat. 200 metres to go. I pushed on, now running as fast as I was able. My foot went up. Photo finish. My foot came down; it was my right one; and hit the ground numbly. I crossed the line, feeling alive and brilliant.
You see I have realised something during my reflections upon the Reading Half over the last few weeks. It is not glamorous, it is not scenic, it is not pleasant, and some of the runners would be best described in a string of expletives, but it is an amazing achievement. The logistics of the thing are mind-blowing. The crowds thronging the barriers all the way along the route are wonderful and inspiring. The finish is unbeatable. For all that I have griped and moaned and slated above (and believe me, following the race I’m not too proud to admit that I had something best described as a tantrum), take those three factors and consider this race completely absolved. Would I run Reading again? I think that I just may have to.
