Twixmas 10k, 2018

This a return to a race that we both did two years ago - and that was the lovely Mrs S's first ever paid-up race.  Unfortunately she was off games this year, but she gamely accompanied me on the final race outing of 2018.

The venue was astonishingly drab.  The home of AFC Portchester, the heavy overcast weather cast a dismal greyness over the football grounds, which had a distinctly 1973 feel to them.  The loos were comically awful.  Sitting in the car was by far the best option.

We caught up OS mates Tony and Dave, but it was an otherwise unknown field.  On the start line I had a good look around and thought to myself, I can't see much in the way of competition here... I hope I'm not going to be out on my own.

But that's exactly what happened.  After about 1km I everyone else had fallen back and I was alone, on the there-and-back flat course.  The waterside was quite pretty (albeit muted by the leaden weather), but I wasn't terribly inspired or motivated, and it felt like a long old slog with an almost certain outcome.  On the return trip it was nice passing other runners on their way out, with lots of mutual well-dones, and I kept anticipating (and almost hoping for) the sound of approaching footsteps behind), but it didn't happen.  I chuntered back on the long circuit of the playing field and finished comfortably in first place.  My watch said 38:11, but the results said 38:30 - not sure what happened there.  I was given a bottle of champagne which was lovely.

At the finish line

Crumbs, I'm not trying to sound pompous, arrogant or ungrateful.  This was a good-natured, friendly event, and I was glad to have had a chance to race after a break of 4 weeks and a cold just before Christmas.  But it did remind me that what I love is competitive racing, and running alone for 34 of the 38 minutes was just a bit unsatisfactory.

Lulworth CTS half, 2018

We've been to several races in Dorset this year in the pouring rain.  As we left the house this particular morning it was the same old story - wet and windy in the half-light.  The forecast was for improvement throughout the morning, but despite saying 'I think it's brightening up' a few times, it patently wasn't.

Last year we parked in a field right next to the start line; this year we tried to park on the roadside next to a hundred other cars but were ushered off to Durdle Door campsite where we spent a miserable few minutes queueing for the ticket machine while the rain whooshed around us, and getting changed out of wet clothes into soon-to-be wet running kit.

Heading to the start in less-than-glorious conditions

Down at the race HQ there was more queueing for the complicated registration process and a crowded briefing in a marquee, where we met Keith Morris.  At the start line I said goodbye to the lovely Mrs S (who was running the 10k) and met Matt Hammerton, the only runner I could see who was wearing a singlet.  By contrast, this was my first ever race wearing a windproof coat.  

With Keith at the race briefing

I'm wearing a waterproof in a race for the first time ever

The start to this race is a bit brutal, taking you immediately up a large hill.  Lungs complaining at the unreasonableness of this, I tried to get into a rhythm, but this initial section was all over the place, being either on a slope or horribly slippery or both.  Instead of following the cliff line as advertised, we took a diagonal section inland on a tricky camber.

After the first checkpoint I started catching the marathon runners, who had left an hour earlier on an extended initial loop.  Close to Lulworth I passed Alice and (dog) Jim, and soon enough was on new ground, heading east.

Up a hill and onto a ridge, where the trail was narrow and treacherously slippery.  Passing marathon runners and staying upright was a real challenge.  But the worse was yet to come.  Steep downward steps, with a steady sensible queue… sod that… I went off-piste and ran down the muddy grass, somehow staying upright, even as faster chaps tore past me.  Steep and slightly perilous, but at least it was soft beneath me and I didn't have the 'I think I may die here' feeling I had on the jagged rocks of Snowdon.  On a wet grassy section a guy with a dog on a lead rushed past and then went sprawling over in comically spectacular fashion.  'He pulled at the wrong moment and unbalanced me', he said with a grin, getting to his feet.

And then around the bend was a monstrous hill rising from the sea.  It just disappeared into the mist.  Into mountain mode I went, pushing hands down on to thighs and getting into a rhythm, occasionally passing others as I heaved uphill.

At the top was a ridge, with more muddy tracks, followed by a huge descent and another whopping climb… it all became a bit of a blur.  Downhill again, then a split separating the marathon and half-marathon runners; and a rare flat section of gravel track before emerging at the abandoned village of Tyneham.

This was mentally useful as I knew this was as far east as we went, so we were now on the homeward straight to Lulworth.  There was a steady climb out of Tyneham, and I resolved to keep running.  I passed a couple of walkers, including a fifty-something looking bloke (Lyndon Clayson) who called out 'blimey, you're keen' and pulled ahead of me as I reached the top.  Aye aye, I thought, this could be interesting.  More sliding around on a ridge at the top, where we closed a loop and started passing runners still on their outward section, adding to the dicey game of stay-on-your-feet-if-you-can. Soon after this I was staring down at the monstrous valley… down down down and then up up up… I was starting to get just a little bit weary of this game but was comforted by the thought that there wasn't far to go.

I pressed on as hard as I could, at this point ahead of Lyndon, imagining everyone around me being more exhausted.  Downhill once more into Lulworth where I could see the finish flags.  There was a road that led straight there, but as a final little sting we were directed away from the road and up a series of steep steps.  I felt done for, and could barely move my legs.  But then I was at the create and it was downhill on grass and then gravel to the finish line, Mrs S and Anna waving and shouting as I passed.

Pushing to the finish line

I finished in 2:30:07 in 5^th place and 1^st M50, which was terrific.  Here are my stats.  A super, tough old race on a really spectacular, full-on section of Dorset coastline.  The weather gave it an edge today, but next time please can we have a clear day so we can enjoy the view?

The long walk back to the car.  I'm not really smiling, just grimacing as I get progressively colder

Avebury8 Nine, 2018

'There's no wind at all', I declaimed as I stood on the doorstep, 'it's cool and calm - definitely singlet weather'.  And so the lovely Mrs S and I headed off to Avebury, Mrs S with sensible race attire and me with minimal kit.  By the time we arrived the temperature outside was just 5 degrees and there was a brisk cold wind. I couldn't back down now - it was singlet or bust.

A chilly morning

But in the village hall there was warmth, noise and hearty bustle.  We didn't know anyone, and it was a bit much in there, so we hovered around the quieter but still warm porch.  Soon enough we were ushered to the start line on the other side of the village, which meant a nippy 10 minutes of bare shoulders trying to keep mobile.  A mercifully short briefing ('it's a trail race... there will be mud') and we were off.

I found myself in a front group of 8 which thinned down to 3 fairly quickly - me, Courtenay Chessell and David Warren.  For a while we were all dead level, but quite suddenly Courtenay seemed to switch a gear and took off.  There was a rutted steep downhill section on the side of Windmill Hill where David ran ahead of me, and then I overtook him... and the holding pattern was now set.

There was a long drag uphill, including a field of winter cereal where the wet soil clung in great lumps to my shoes (but was nothing like last year's comic quagmire), and then a long section downhill and through the hamlet of Yatebury, from where I was aware of David's persistent presence behind me.  A long rutted uphill drag and then downhill along a narrow footpath with dense vegetation on all sides.  A bramble caught against my leg. 'Ow', I yelled in surprise, immediately feeling like an eejit.

Back to Windmill Hill, where David ran decisively past me.  I couldn't hold him, but pushed o to the top of the hill and pushed on for the final descent and then over the multiple stile section back to the village.

There was no chance of reclaiming second place, but I was keen to finish in under an hour.  I heaved through the recreation ground to finish in third place in 59:08, 92 seconds faster than last year, albeit in dryer conditions.

I chatted to Courtenay and David, and got a few gasps from my leg, from which a few scratches had bled into a dramatic-looking injury.  I was urged to go and see the first aid man, but not before I had taken a photo.  Check this out.  Here are my stats.

It's only a flesh wound

Mrs S came home in 1:22, 16 whole minutes faster than last year, and was absolutely made up.  A very successful morning, and another splendid race from Marlborough RC; low-key, no-nonsense, good-humoured.

Souvenirs of a cracking race

Broadway marathon 2018

A cold, early start.  The lovely Mrs S and I had been staying in a hotel in Broadway village which was way more high-end and self-consciously elitist than we had been expecting, and it was quite a relief to get to the Broadway United Football Club HQ where lots of folk in running kit were pinning on race numbers in a noisy, hearty and steamed-up village hall.

The race director gave a droll briefing in which he assured us 'if you get lost, it'll be your fault.  We've put pink arrow signs everywhere', and warned us of dire consequences if we failed to shut gates and let livestock escape.

It's a cold one

Not as pretentious here as last night's hotel

We set off on the village green, ran up the high street and up the first of the hills.  We were less than a km in when the first inkling that the route might not be terribly obvious became apparent, when some of the runners started bearing off to the left.  Was there a sign?  Did you see it?  Me neither.  Onwards and upwards till I reached the Broadway Tower.

Up here it was thick mist.  The fast boys had all disappeared, and I was alone in the mist, looking around for a clue.  Nothing.  I dimly remembered seeing a photo from a previous year of runners passing in front of the tower, and used this to guess my bearing.  Two figures in hi-vis loomed in front of me, and I was back on course.

Remembering this scene was my only navigation clue

Not much visibility up here today

By now I had clocked the signs.  Well, honestly; they were little square jobs about the size of post-its.  You had to keep alert the whole time, and they were dead easy to miss.  Moreover, it wasn't terribly obvious precisely which way they were pointing in landscapes of multiple options.  With no one ahead of me, I took several wrong turns.  Each time, a guy in yellow caught me up and I spent the next ten minutes trying to get some distance before I got lost again.  It was infuriating.

But by now it was a glorious day.  The visibility and the landscape were fantastic.  There were little kissing gates, big field gates and stiles everywhere - I completely lost count of them.  I was feeling good and kept a steady pace as the halfway point led to the last of the big hills.  At this point I was working hard to put some space between me and matey in yellow, who had recently caught me up after a wonky bit of signage.  At the top of the hill I pass a bloke who told me he had under-estimated the toughness of the route and was struggling.

After some exciting technical downhill sections I was back in a hamlet (Wood Stanway) where I went quite badly wrong, turned round, retraced my steps and there was my yellow friend back to haunt me... but also to point me in the right direction.  Five minutes later we joined in with the half-marathoners and with plenty of folk ahead, wayfinding got a lot easier.

It was flatt-ish at this point, but we went through several fields of lytchett strips, and it felt like running over waves.  Among the half-marathon crowd I overtook someone who looked like a marathon runner and tried going up a gear, with quite a lot of shouted warnings as I approached stiles and a few dicey moments climbing over slippery wood.

The final downhill stretch involved one last wrong direction until I spotted a tiny square sign in a different corner of the field, only visible thanks to bright sunshine.  Then on to the road, into the outskirts of Broadway, and quite suddenly over the finish line, confusing me as I thought there were a few hundred metres left.

All over!  The man in yellow turned up a few seconds later - a nice guy called Neil.  Much as I dreaded seeing him on the course, I could have been in trouble without him.  Fifth place, and first M50, which I was very happy with.  Here are my stats.  And check out my duel with Neil. 

Beachy Head marathon, three weeks earlier, felt like a long time ago, and the training is a distant memory.  Today felt a bit cheeky, like I was just turning up without preparation.  But the three-week gap was perfect - a bonus marathon to make it a triple this year.

Remembrance 10k, 2018

There was a right old hoolie on Friday night and before bed we packed our stuff in anticipation of a thoroughly wet race Saturday AM.  But we awoke to bright skies and headed to Fort Nelson on Portsdown Hill, a venue neither of us had ever been to.  I was enthralled by the the military hardware on display outside (and apparently they have part of the fabled Iraqi supergun inside), but the lovely Mrs S was rather less keen.

Now that's what I call a cannon

We met up with Dave, Tony, Julia and Ian from OS and Kate and family from Hampshire Hares and headed off to the start line.  We've learned that the Rural Running guys do great races but often with an element of charming chaos about them.  Today there was no loudhailer or PA system and the 300 or so runners all struggled to hear Jeff's shouted instructions.  A wave of solemn quiet spread through the crowd, as if by osmosis, as the remembrance silence began.  Then the 5k race began (unbeknown to most of the throng, as few could hear, and I suspect that some may have missed it).  Eventually the message got through that we (the 10k runners) needed to be on the other side of the start gantry and there was a comic five minutes of inverting the fast/slow sequence in a tight road space.

There was a very brisk start, and I tried to be sensible about this.  A couple with huskies were doing a comedy seven-league boots trick as their dogs charged ahead.  Round a corner and up a long gentle drag; I gently pulled up the field until there were two guys a way ahead of me.  Round another bend, and I overtook one of them as we hit the first km marker.

The second km was entirely downhill.  It was quite hard work to maintain any kind of technique on a steep-ish slope that went on for ever.  What goes down must come up, I pondered, recalling stories at the start line of a fearsomely hilly final section.  That second km went by in a tidy 3:13, but matey was a good way ahead of me.  But by the 3k marker I was thinking that maybe the gap was not widening.  By 4k I was clearly narrowing the gap.  We had two (and for me unexpected) dog-leg sections after this.  After the first dog-leg there was a water station, and matey (George, according to Strava, of which more later) stopped for a drink at there was I, halfway through, in pole position.

I was uncomfortable about this.  I like to have my enemies where I can see them, and pick them off.  It's not much fun to be competing against an unknown foe, or foes, who have paced better than you have and pick you off in the dying metres (what I call doing a Finch).  I had no choice here but to keep the pressure on and hope for the best.

The bulk of Portsdown Hill loomed ahead and I could just make out the top section of Nelson's Monument, which was next to the start and finish line.  The hill began, I started overtaking the tail end of the 5k race (plenty of breathless well dones) and I kept imagining the sound of footsteps behind me. Onward, upwards and I hit the finish line in first place!

Nelson's Monument

Now, the quality of the field was not terribly high.  It was a million miles from the savage competition of the Hants XC league or the fast runners of the RR10s.  No epic struggles with my old mate Gerry (a la Wickham 10k).  But I was thrilled to bag the trophy on a super course on a beautiful morning.

My time was 39:30.  Here are my Garmin and Strava stats. And check out the race between me and George on Strava flyby - great fun.

Greatly looking forward to the Broadway marathon next Sunday!

The Stinger 2018

I've been looking forward to this race.  I've previously run it in 2015 and 2017, and I really enjoy its understated, no-nonsense approach and the opportunity for a good charge around cross-country New Forest course.

It was a mild, damp morning.  The Lovely Mrs S and I arrived in good time in persistent drizzle that was trying to turn into proper rain.  We said hello to lots of faces from local running clubs, and took off the layers as late as we dared - the feeling of light rain on bare shoulders is not the loveliest sensation.  We gathered on a wide open piece of Stony Cross plain, 5-milers and 10-milers alike, and we were off after a slightly fluffed air horn blast.

We seem to get a lot of race welcomes that l;ook like this

With the Hampshire Hares gang

The first km was largely downhill.  I was trying to be sensible, but found myself in second place quite quickly, and by the time we went under the A31 I was running with Neil Jennings, James Battle and another lad, all of whom were running the 5.  They peeled left shortly afterwards and I was on my own.

Well, sort-of.  I could hear the marshals calling encouragement behind me, and then I started hearing footsteps that gradually got louder.  I'm not keen on setting a leading pace from the start (I'd much rather chase than be chased) and about halfway around I was overtaken by a tall guy.  It was Daniel Campion from Lordshill, who won the half-marathon race last year (no HM this year, though).  He pushed ahead at an ambitious pace and there was no chance of keeping up with him.

There was a great mix of all kinds of surface, some testing long drags uphill and exhilarating downs.  Soon enough I was back on the return trail, passing some of the 5-mile runners with lots of cheery encouragement.

The finish took a different route this year.  Mrs S and I had checked out the final approach, and this year there was a really sharp 10-metre slope right at the end.  The 500m to the finish had countdown signs every 100m, and the course just got steeper and steeper, but the encouragement grew louder. Mrs S, who'd had a cracking run too, was shouting at me and I thought there might be someone on my tail, and it was a great lung-busting finish.  I heaved my way over the line in 1:05:24, my best time to date and it was a bit longer on this route too.  Second place - I'll take that.  Had Neil and James been running the 10-mile race, it might have been a different story. 

It's a zinger, the Stinger.

The spoils of war

Beachy Head marathon 2018

It felt like the dead of night when we got up at 5am, had a quick breakfast and left the house.  Both of us had kept waking up ahead of the alarm clock in anticipation.  As we drove eastwards, the sky gradually lightened, and dawn was just breaking as we reached Eastbourne.

It was a really cold morning, which felt a bit of a shock after a mild, almost balmy, October.  We managed to park surprisingly easily (but we were really lucky as the spaces were filling up quickly), wrapped up in multiple layers and joined the throngs headed for the start area.  There was a real buzz around the registration tent.

Bright and chilly in the start area

We went back to the car and got ourselves into running kit, enduring that unpleasant bit of taking off the nice warm layers and having to decide what to wear for the race.  Then back to the start.

Ready for anything

We were encouraged to get to the start line, with sub-5 hour runners to the front.  I was hoping for 3:30, and tried to get to a sensible position in the start order.  I really didn't get a sense of the size of the field - there were over 2000 of us.  The Lovely Mrs S was running the 10k, so she was able to get some photos of the start, which was at the end of a road facing straight onto a steep section of rutted trail.  The first 500m or so was an unforgiving scramble, heart, legs and lungs all trying to adjust to this outrageous start.

15 minutes to go... no sense yet that 2200 runners are about to start

Off we go!  I'm the orange head in the middle of the picture

I had been quite nervous about this race, having had a few interruptions on the way (including a sore Achilles and a cold) and less long distance and hill training than I would have liked.  I had been studying the course profile and steeled myself for some epic hills in the first half, with the consolation of much gentler terrain in the second half.

The second half is a doddle, surely

But all those monstrous-looking hills were in factfine; long drags which allow you to get into a good rhythm and just keep going.  The visibility was fantastic, and the landscape just got better and better.  I felt strong and was loving it. The villages of Jevington and Alfriston had lots of folk out cheering, and the latter had my first encounter with the Cuckmere valley.  We hit a high point at about 19k and from this point there was a steady, fast descent on grass and then on a track.  I caught a few people, and started to be aware of a general aching feeling through my legs shortly before passing the halfway point in about 1:41.

Then back into the Cuckmere valley and it felt like a different kind of race.  We were routed up and down short, sharp little slopes in woodland around Westdean, with steps that confounded any kind of running pace and forced me to walk for a couple of sections.  I nearly came to grief on a tree root, but staggered onwards, over a wall and back downhill to the meandering Cuckmere.

Now for the Seven Sisters, those little hills of the second half.  Oh my goodness, they were tough, each one around 50m in elevation but really steep both up and down.  I lost count of them, but they went on and on.  I managed to overtake a few more folk, but I became increasingly aware of the tingling feeling in my hands that tells me when I'm getting tired.

Then a final long hill up to Beachy Head and the last 2km was downhill.  I struggled onwards, frustrated that I couldn't move as fast as I normally would.  Eastbourne came into sight, and my watch was telling me that there was less than a km to go. 

And suddenly I was staring down the final hill at the finish gantry, sooner than I expected.  My legs were spent, and it took all my concentration to stay upright on the ruts and concrete steps that led to the finish line.  I heard Mrs S shouting at me, and everything felt a bit fuzzy as I crossed the finish line.

Somehow staying on my feet

Done for

My split time was 3:25:44, and I finished in 22nd place, 2nd M50.  Here are my Garmin and Strava stats.  An absolutely marvellous day out!

Blenheim Rotary 10k 2018

Another Sunday morning up early and heading up the A34 for a race.  This was a return to the fabulous Blenheim Palace for the Rotary 10k.  The lovely Mrs S had switched to the 5k race as a comeback from a hip injury, and it was our first combined race outing for a while.

On the journey the skies were getting brighter after a misty start until some point in Oxfordshire where we hit a wall of fog.  The Blenheim grounds were wreathed in grey as we parked the car and met with with Jo and Ali, two of the Hampshire Hares out for their second-ever race.

The Hares on tour

The Rotary team running the event were priceless.  There were four old chaps in a commentary booth, with one of them gently and sonorously describing every step of the two courses, while the ladies cheerfully manned the registration desk. 

There was a common start for both the 5k and 10k races.  Charmingly, sub 45-minute 10 and sub-30 5k runners were classed as 'elite' and invited to the front.  We set off with a bunch of young children racing out ahead and quickly falling back, as I tried to find a sustainable pace.

The fog was now rapidly clearing and I was really njoying the views of the grounds - I don't remember doing this last year.  At about 3km there was a dog-leg approach to the baroque palace front, and a few of the runners ahead peeled off to the left to do the 5k.  There were now just a few ahead of me.

I was all on my own for the rest of the race.  I felt happy with my pace, I loved the course, and I finished in 4th place in 38:19, over 30 seconds up on last year, albeit in perfect windless conditions.  Here are my stats.  We had to wait forever for the prizegiving (I got the M50), which was a comically hapless (and slightly infuriating) affair... 'Right, now we'll do the men's results.  Oh Roger, that's the wrong bit of paper, that's not right.  I think Fred has the right bit of paper, but Fred seems to have disappeared.  Where's Fred?'  Mrs S, Jo and Ali had all enjoyed their races.  This is a quirky and delightful event that's becoming established as a regular outing.  See you in 2019.

Lost, lost and thrice lost: Chase Half 2018

To get lost once during a race may be regarded as a misfortune, but to be lost three times looks like carelessness.  This was certainly one of the oddest experiences I've ever had in a race.

The day began wet and windy.  The lovely Mrs S and I headed westwards into Dorset, with strong echoes of July's Invader race.  We arrived in Sixpenny Handley in steady rain and ended up in a dismal car park field, muttering what-are-we-doing-here and whose-idea-was-this sentiments.

Plucking up the courage to get out of the car

We were led to the start line on narrow lane, and advised to take a right turn on to a track after about 500m.  We set off, and I quickly found myself in third place.  The two guys in front started looking around for a turn after a minute or two, and a full kilometre in it was clear to all of us that something had gone wrong.  Everyone stopped and looked around in confusion, before turning around.  At this point a car turned up and a man confirmed that we had missed the turning.  The first shall be last and the last shall be first... for the return road section we all did a tricky inversion procedure to restore the original running order.

At the start line

After a section of slippery chalk path and a length of road we were into the countryside proper and climbing up to the ridge that would be the centrepiece of the race.  I found myself behind Jon from Torbay Tri.  We shared snatches of conversation as we struggled to open metal foot gates between fields (we had to climb over one).  Through a really interesting technical bit of woodland with lots of of low overhanging branches - swerving and heads bobbing up and down furiously - and then we were out on the ridge.  I caught up level with Jon on a tarmac stretch just as we approached a photographer.

Jon and I in joint lead

We progressed on to tractor ruts with plenty of splashy puddles and I found myself pulling ahead.  The rain had eased off and far off to my left was a band of bright sunshine.  The landscape and scenery were tremendous.

I took the turn off the ridge and down a steepish slope over tussocky grass and then scrubby woodland, emerging on a road just outside Berwick St John.  A marshal directed me off the road and up a wooded track.  There was a n unsigned fork in the track; keep straight or bend to the right.  I went straight.  The track became progressively more brambly and nettly, and I emerged into an open field.  I stopped and stared, and Jon emerged behind me.  We despaired for a bit.  I did a recce to the far end of the field, but seeing no signs I returned.  There were four of us by this stage.  We went back to the fork and took the alternative route.  I was quite wound up by this stage and went busting up the hill, overtaking a couple of others, and emerged from the woods back in pole position.

I started breathing easier now, confident of my way home.  I kept the pressure on, feeling good, and enjoyed greeting the tail end runners on their way out.  Back through the puddles, the hanging branches, the metal gates and on to the road.  I was enjoying myself and anticipating a dash to the finish.

The road section was a bit longer than I thought it would be, but I saw a couple of yellow signs and carried on.  Then I was in Sixpenny Handley, and I was momentarily confused until I saw a figure in a yellow jacket a way ahead.  I gunned on, but approaching him realised it was just someone out and about wearing hi-viz.  My heart sank.  'Where's the village hall?' I cried.  'I think it's up that hill' came the reply.

Farcical moment number three.  I recognised the way we'd driven in that morning, and turned off the road, sought signs and spent a minute or two rushing around a campsite bellowing 'WHICH WAY?'.  Someone pointed me to a path, and shortly after I spotted a flash of orange rushing past from my right - it was Jon.  I pelted after him but couldn't catch him ahead of the finish line.

It was a really unsatisfactory end.  Jon and I had a little tussle about placing, both arguing that the other deserved first place.  Then a White Star lady came along and said she'd put me at the top of the results sheet, and I walked away with the trophy, feeling rather complicated about the whole thing.  How could I get first place when I had been beaten to the line?

Did that really just happen? Clutching prizes that I only had a partial claim to

So for what they're worth, here are the results.  I ended up running 25.5km, just a few hundred metres shy of last week's metric marathon.  For some entertainment, check out the flyby animation. 

What a strange experience.  I was really struck by the mental confusion that results from being lost in a race; my mind was three times cast in turmoil and it took me some time to calm down and relax afterwards.  A day or two later I learned that some guy had suffered a heart attack just a mile from the start, which put a few missing signs into perspective, but the course was lovely and I'd love to do this again, with a bit less drama.

Chester metric marathon 2018

What on earth is a metric marathon? I hear you cry.  It's 26.2km, or about 10 miles short of a full marathon.  The lovely Mrs S and I were both originally down to run the full monty, but Mrs S in in injury rest-up mode, and I was a bit fearful of the impact of a road marathon just 3 weeks before Beachy Head.  So it was just me, running a new distance in a new part of the world.  What's a good result for 26.2km?  I figured I would be happy with anything under 1:50.

Chester is really extraordinarily lovely.  We drove north through rain on the Saturday and emerged into this beautiful city in golden autumn sunlight.

Central Chester

Sunday started off chilly.  We got to the racecourse in good time and enjoyed generally fooling around before the start.

They cater for the larger clientele here

The marathon runners had set off ahead of the metric marathon.  It was all very laid back and unhurried at the start, with laconic commentary.  You wouldn't have guessed that this was a race of 1000 entrants.  There were about a dozen super-keen blokes on the start line, and I hung back a little behind them.  The local town crier did his Oh Yea thing and shouted out his assertion that a metric marathon is tougher than an imperial marathon because you are not allowed to use feet.  Very droll.

Off we went, over the hill of central Chester and then heading due south.  I reckoned I was in roughly 20th place.  By now it had warmed up and it was mild with a light southerly breeze (mental note - that'll be a help on the return leg).  I found myself next to a guy in a West Cheshire vest, and asked him what time he was hoping for.  One hour fifty-something, he replied, and then glided gently ahead of me.  I think you're going off too fast, pal, I thought.

The terrain was gently undulating and I felt OK.  It was an out-and-back course and I vaguely wondered when I would encounter the lead runners on their homeward leg.  They there were at 9.5km, nearly 4km before the turn.  I couldn't believe it.  As more runners came piling back, it dawned on me that these were the marathon runners on their way home.  They had almost identical numbers on and it was impossible to tell which race everyone was in.  I heard a voice shouting 'Stileman, you bugger'.  It was Andrew Trigg, my old colleague and racing rival (it was Andrew's marathon time that I failed to beat in London earlier this year).

I went around the turn and headed north for home, enjoying the feeling of cruising past the marathon runners, some of whom were really starting to deteriorate in the later stages.  I passed Andrew, with a brief hello, and then overtook the West Cheshire bloke.  Approaching Chester, I kept the pressure on.  In to the old part of the city, down to the riverside and there was lots of noise from the spectators.  I took it up a gear and then really caned it, feeling exhilarated, on the racecourse and appproaching the finish line.

The relief of the finish line

My time was 1:46:39, which was very satisfactory.  Here are my stats.  A bloke approached me and asked me if I was 50-something.  Yes, I replied.  'You bastard', he exclaimed, with proper northern vowels, 'you came sprinting past me in the last mile'.  This was my second-favourite moment of the weekend (the absolute highlight was the teenage waiter in the hotel the night before who dropped a fork from the plates he was carrying and kicked it several times out of the door and down the passageway... priceless).  First M50!  Sorry Chris Yorke - better luck next time.