Race day arrives and I was pretty lucky that the start point was just down the road from me, so strolled down to line up, along with around 7500 others. Little bit of organised chaos ensues where everyone has to try and queue in the section for their predicted finishing time. Obviously pride dictates that most people are in the section which is a bit faster than they can actually do but they'll be damned if they let the other 7499 people know that. For those of you not familiar with the half marathon, here's a couple of things you need to know. A half marathon is 13.1 miles. When you sign up they give you a timing chip (in this case it was attached to the running bib) which activates when you cross the start line and records your total time when you cross the finish line meaning total accuracy (ahem!). Anyway, back to the start line. I'm queuing up and I'm suddenly struck by the level of body odour already emanating from people. How? Why? I mean they hadn't even started running yet, how could they smell already? Did they decide not to shower in preparation, or leave off deodorant? Is it some dastardly plot to throw other personal hygiene minded people off their game and thus finish with a better time than them? Either way it's wrong. After my stint in the stench pit it's off we go. All is well for the first 6 miles, I'm on target and feeling pretty damn good. I do have a slight crisis of confidence when a woman who is 60 if she is a day speeds past me looking way more comfortable than I do. I mean, respect to the lady but it's never good for one's pride to be outdone by someone over double your age. I make a mental note to train more next time. Surely there must be some miracle training plan out there that will stop me being outrun by OAP's? Anyway, back to the run. Miles 6 to 9 hurt a bit more, okay they hurt a lot but I style it out due to the amount of people lining the street saying encouraging things like 'you're doing really well' and 'keep going' etc, etc. I'm even gracious enough to offer a smile/grimace to those kind enough to applaud and cheer me as I pass by. Then just past mile 9 what should happen but STITCH! Not just any stitch but the stitch from hell that literally feels like it's ripping me in half when I run. What a nightmare, heaven forbid I be given an excuse to stop and walk for a bit. That's it, I give in, telling myself I will just walk until the stitch goes. Problem is, it rather seems to like my diaphragm, so in the meantime my legs turn to lead. To cut a long story short (or maybe just shorter), the last few miles pass with me half jogging and half walking and being passed by all the people I felt rather smug about being in front of for the first 9 miles. At this point I want to cry (and maybe I did have a little tear of self pity in my eye) and give up. But I remember I am running for charity (Cancer Research) and my friends have made the effort to come and cheer me on. So, I suck it up. I do my walk, shuffle, run thing right to the end. Maybe half a mile before the end I am in so much pain I think I am going to walk across the finish line (not sprint triumphantly as I had imagined) and then I see my friends. Yes they came down a bit before the finish line and somehow because of them cheering me on (and the fact they were taking photos - I mean pain or no pain, walking in your half marathon photos is just not the done thing) I did manage to run to the end and across the line.
The aftermath is not so bad until my other friends waiting at the finish line come to greet me and enquire if I realise I finished just behind Katie Price. Talk about kick a girl when she's down. I'm not sure what was worse, finishing behind her or being informed she had a camera crew filming her and realising I will probably be in the next episode of her latest reality show huffing and wheezing as I stumble behind her. THEN (as if this tale couldn't get any worse) I manage to hobble home with my gang of supportive friends telling me I did great (those lovable liars), to get a text from the automated chip time service telling me my chip time was 2 hours 9 minutes. That would be amazing if there was even a remote chance of it being true. For a minute, in my fatigued and disappointed mind, I wonder if all the trauma was a dream and I actually did as well as originally planned. But no, there has obviously been some cock up. At this point I kick myself slightly and think if I hadn't milked the sympathy vote from my friends with my tale of woe I could have gone along with my 'official' time. What a naughty thought, I can only think I was delirious from exhaustion as such deceit would never cross my mind usually I assure you....
Anyway, what's the moral of the story? Don't run a half marathon? Don't get a stitch? Don't be honest with your friends? I don't know. What I do know is, it took a couple of days to be able to walk properly again. My final time was 2 hours 34 minutes (about 20 minutes more than my goal time). And you know what? I'll be back next year and Katie Price better watch out because this time she's going to eat my dust.
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| But isn't my medal purty? |
