50km Thames Path Challenge - Sep 2014

For years I’ve thought that one of the best ways to discover the true character of anyone is to get drunk with them. Well, slightly less drunk so you can observe properly. 10p Mark is proof positive – that’s a story to be shared over a pint and not a blog. Another school of thought is to get exhausted through a physical challenge, and maybe that thought lay at the heart of the 2014 ICICI Bank Senior Manager Challenge.

This was to walk 50km from Runnymede to Henley along the river Thames. 50km! The furthest I’ve ever run is 22km. On the other hand, I’ve knocked out 100km plus sportives on a bike so how hard could it be to walk, I stress walk, 50km?

So one Sunday in June five senior managers from ICICI Bank congregated on the start line to commence the walk. I can’t really add much to the photos – we simply walked and walked along the river and it was beautiful. There were a handful of food stops, and they had great treats for us.

At least, I can’t until we got to approximately 38km in and it changed from being 'a walk in the park' to ‘becoming an effort’. At this point muscles were groaning, blisters were forming, and boredom was setting in. Just how many cute fields and gorgeous houses are there alongside the Thames?

It was odd; my legs were seriously complaining and all I’d done was walk, albeit a fair distance. Anyway, at this point I noticed that about 100 yards ahead of me was another guy from the bank who’d put a bit of a push on. I decided to catch him up by jogging (for the first time that day). And as I did so I had a kind of epiphany. All the pain went from my legs, and I caught him in seconds. As I caught him I decided to keep going as there was a food stop a few km up the path. How could it be easier to run than to walk after 38km? This was strange.

At the pit-stop I grabbed some food, and waited for the rest of the group to arrive. When they did, I quietly mentioned to the experienced walker in our group, Layth, the lack of pain that my last 2km jog/run had caused. When we came to leave for the last leg I felt a dilemma. Walking with the others was causing significant pain, but to start running now after 40km would basically be showing off, as most of the others in the group didn’t have decent fitness levels and wouldn’t be able to join me.

Luckily Layth came to the rescue by announcing that he and I would from now on be running as we wanted to beat 8 hours for the challenge. Praise be – we ran off. Incredible but true – after 40km it was easier to run (slowly) than it was to walk.

When we got to Henley I had a fit of the giggles. As the walk was alongside the river, the course was basically flat. However at Henley the organisers clearly hadn’t obtained the rights to go through the centre so we had to bypass the town. That involved a very steep hill. 


I haven’t mentioned it, but on the same day there was a 100km Thames Path Challenge involving runners. What sort of sadist organises a running race of 100km where the first 98km are flat, and the last two involve a ridiculous hill?

We saw some poor suffering souls on that hill – I didn’t have the heart to get out my camera. My sadistic side rose to the fore as I wanted to wait and watch a few more runners appear, and to laugh at their expressions when they saw the hill.

My better nature prevailed, and Layth and I simply finished the walk and drank some beers. And enjoyed the extra 30 minutes drinking time we had over the others as they continued to walk.

And wondered what the 2015 Senior Manager Challenge would be.

"Never Go Back" Marrakech - Jan 2014

“Never go back”

A year earlier I’d gone to Marrakech with Warren, an old friend, to take part in their half marathon, set around the historic Medina, the orange groves and gardens. It proved to be such a superb weekend that we’d vowed to return. The return would also allow Warren a chance to gain revenge in terms of the race.

So once again on a miserable January Friday afternoon we took off from Gatwick for Morocco and the winter sun. We’d made some changes for this trip. Instead of a fairly standard international hotel we’d booked the Riad Charai, a traditional Moroccan guest house (www.riadcharai.com).

Words, especially my words, cannot do justice to the gem we found ourselves staying in. You knock on a nondescript wooden door in the wall in a random alley, and enter an oasis of calm, beauty and serenity. The transformation between the hustle of a Moroccan street market area and the Riad is remarkable. The short walk to the pool from reception is lined with orange trees. I will say no more. Interested readers can follow the link above.

What we didn’t change, however, was the first night’s restaurant. A beautiful location above a carpet ‘shop’, tented and heated overlooking the Medina. And the food is pretty good too.

The climate in Marrakech was as last year’s – daytime temperatures peak in the low to mid 20’s, but falls quickly at dusk to mid single digits. As such small heaters are needed to be comfortable eating outdoors. And eating outdoors is one of the experiences that make Marrakech such a great place to visit.

As last year, Saturday morning was spent wandering around the old souk. We also were given a tour of the tannery, complete with Moroccan gas marks - bunches of mint held to our noses. I felt like a character out of an E M Forster novel, but to be truthful, I didn't care - the smell was unbelievable.

The afternoon, however, was an improvement in that we spent it lounging on the Riad’s sun terraces ‘getting some rays’. In the distance we could see the snow capped Atlas mountain range. We were told that a ski resort is only an hour’s drive away.

Sunday morning – race day. Being honest, my training had not gone to plan. I hadn’t stuck to the schedule during November and December. In early January a family holiday and a business trip to India further interrupted training. Still, I wasn’t unfit, and I’d done it before. How much harder could it be?

From the Riad we took a short taxi ride to the starting area and at 9.15 we were off. Warren set the pace, and it was a comfortable one. As before there were thousands of runners, and it was a good kilometre before we had enough space around us to simply get in the groove. The route was basically a loop around the medina, passing through orange groves, various gardens, main roads, paths etc.

After a while I looked at my watch and saw that we’d been running for and hour and 10 minutes. I felt fine, frankly, and checked with Warren that my watch was, indeed, correct. It was, and he said that we’d covered over 13 km.

“Great”, I replied, “we’re well on the home straight”. I started to think about the finish, and should I say to Warren at the 1 km to go marker: “we’re racing each other from here, aren’t we?”

Hubris*

That’s the only, the perfect, word for it. For a couple of km later my stomach sent me a small signal to say that it was there. And my legs started to let me know that maybe, just maybe, there wasn’t enough gas in the tank.

The run then took on a yoyo type quality, with Warren starting to edge a few yards ahead, and I would do a short sprint to catch up. At the 17.5 km marker my stomach sent a much stronger signal that it was there, and my legs refused to close the gap to Warren.

When his lead stretched to 100 yards and my legs going I had to focus less on racing him, and much more on an impending Paula Radcliffe moment. I walked a bit. I jogged a bit. The cramps were really focussing my attention, and I stopped looking at runners, the crowds etc. I was only looking for one thing. I turned a corner, and bliss – a hotel!

A few minutes later I was back on course. The legs were still grumbling, and a walk/jog to the finish was all they would let me do. Last year’s time of 1h 54 was safe. This year I took just over 2 hours. Warren finished in 1h 53. As an aside, one of the fringe benefits of doing this race is the incredible post race nectarines and dates that are given to finishers. The nectarines are simply the juiciest, tastiest ones I’ve ever had.

Post race we walked slowly to the same restaurant as last year – a Lebanese place serving mixed meze and beer in a sun trap. We followed lunch with a few drinks on the sun terrace back at the Riad before heading out for the evening.

More Moroccan wine was drunk, and during the evening we realised that if we’d listened to the naysayers who trumpet “never go back” then this weekend, that had been even more spectacular than last year’s, would never have happened.

And we also realised that the race scores for the Marrakech event now stood at one apiece.

Isn’t there a man rule that says “Decider, 2015”?

*Hubris (/ˈhjuːbrɪs/, also hybris, from ancient Greek ὕβρις), means extreme pride or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with reality and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities

L'Eroica, Tuscany - Oct 2013

In 1997 an idea was born, and 82 friends and acquaintances came together to realise it. Namely, to celebrate the history and culture of bikes in Italy by spending the day riding vintage bikes (pre 1987) around the Strade Bianchi (“white roads”) of Tuscany, starting in Gaiole, Chianti. The Strade Bianchi are the white gravelled roads that link the minor B roads of that region, typically through the area’s many vineyards.

Clearly the event was a success for the original 82, as they, and more, returned the next year. And the next. This growth continued until a cap of 5000 (of which 2000 places are reserved for non-Italians) had to be placed on the number of riders that could turn up, as the village of Gaiole was getting swamped. Being Italy, this cap is flexible. If you are a woman, you have a place. If you are over 65, you have a place. Still, what’s a few over the limit between friends?

Unsurprisingly the quota isn’t sufficient for the demand, so a ballot system was introduced. A friend of mine, Stephen (a bluff, Old School, Ulsterman given to heavy swearing and boozing between bouts of surprisingly informed academic conversation © Stephen) and I (silver tongued, multilingual, suave, aesthete and bon viveur © Stephen) were successful in applying earlier this year. So flights were booked, bike travel bags purchased, car hire arranged and visas obtained from our better halves.

We both had pre 1987 bikes. Mine belonged to my dad, who bought it around 1980, and I’ve been using it regularly for the last few years. My mum even dug out my dad’s old cycling top so I would also have something vintage to wear. Stephen’s bike was bought off eBay. His top half kit was a very beautiful replica Eroica shirt. I won’t make any comments on his choice of apparel for his lower half.

There are 4 routes that cyclists can take – 35km, 75km, 135km or 205km, and we only had to choose the route on the day of registration. While preparing to go to Italy we could not decide on whether we should simply potter around the 75km one, or make a bit 

of an effort and do the 135km. Obviously we ignored the shortest (hardly worth getting out of bed for) and the longest (we were there to enjoy ourselves after all!). In the end we decided that the weather, and how we felt, would determine which one we did. 

Saturday 5^th October saw us drive into Gaiole to find downpours of a biblical nature. Rivers of water were running down roads. Anyone without a brolly looked like a drowned rat. The stalls were deserted as the people hanging around the village were taking refuge in the wine tasting tent. Before we could join them, however, I insisted that we register. And that meant deciding which distance to ride.

We looked at the rain, heard that the next day showers were forecast, and looked at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to suggest that we do the shorter distance, so at the front of the queue we thought about “Rules 5 & 9” (© Velominati.com) and said loudly and clearly: “135km please”. Our route maps were handed out, along with the checkpoint marker document.

And then we made a bee-line for the wine tasting tent. We discovered that the entrance was 5 Euros – but for that we were given a beautiful wineglass, along with a handy neck pouch that could hold the glass in place should both hands be needed for something else, such as eating the wonderful cheeses and hams on offer. 

Many, many wines were sampled. Young Chiantis, more matured ones. Even a white Chianti. But there was no pressure to buy, which made the hour or so wandering around very enjoyable indeed. Whilst Stephen and I would have happily stayed there longer, it was now 6pm and I insisted that we return to our apartment to put the bikes together, for they were still in their travel bags.

I took the bike frame out, attached the wheels and put the pedals on. 10 minutes, job done. Turning around, I saw Stephen clutching the handle bars of his bike. “Er, Stephen, why are they not attached to the bike? And does that mean the brakes have been disconnected?”. “Yes, took them off to make it easier to pack. Oh, have you got a pedal spanner as I seem to have forgotten mine. And an Allen key, too……I need to decide which saddle to use.”

The apartment was in a vineyard, and they’d helpfully laid out different bottles of wine that they produced. I took one look at Stephen’s increasing pile of bike bits and tools, and cracked open a bottle. 

A couple of hours later we were ready to go for dinner. A small local restaurant was found, and a great meal was had, washed down with a carafe of the local house wine. We were back at the apartment at midnight, and we agreed to set alarms for 6.30am.              

We woke not to more rain but to a blue sky, with the odd scattered clouds. The Gods were smiling on us, and so we drove to Gaiole in a very good mood. We parked about 1km from the start, and pedalled into town. To discover that arriving at 8am meant we had several thousand cyclists in front of us, waiting to leave. Which meant that by the time we got to the exit gate it was 9am and the marshal informed us that we were too late to do the 135km route, and we’d have to do the 75km one. I think we were both secretly relieved, but of course we feigned disappointment.

However, we both quickly realised that actually it was the right distance. This was not a Sunday morning ride in Essex with friends. Almost every corner was yet another photo opportunity – either a vineyard, or a hill top village or a general landscape. This area is picture postcard Tuscany.

So all this meant that by midday we’d only covered 35km. It was then that our serene progress was halted by Stephen falling off his bike. Not going downhill at speed, but on a particularly steep uphill bit on a gravel road. To add to the indignity, the cyclist following him had his head down so failed to see a prostrate Stephen until it was too late, and ran into him.

Getting gingerly to his feet, blood pouring from both hands Stephen quickly self diagnosed a broken middle finger, possible broken wrist, and pain.

Luckily the first food stop was only a further 5km up the road, so we cycled there slowly. Stephen couldn’t easily go uphill, as he couldn’t grip the bars to get leverage on the steep bits. He couldn’t go downhill, either, because it was too painful to brake. Anyway, eventually we arrived and went to visit the paramedics. They confirm

ed Stephens’s diagnosis and stated that I should leave Stephen in a bar, go and get the car to pick Stephen up, and go immediately to the nearest A&E in nearby Sienna to get the hand x-rayed, as there was a possible wrist fracture too.

Stephen, as I knew he would, pooh-poohed the idea. The event was called l’Eroica which translates as The Heroic. Why should mere flesh wounds prevent him from finishing? So finish it we did, albeit slowly, getting to the finish line at 4.30pm. Probably the longest time we’ve ever taken ever to cover 75km.

In mitigation we did lose time to the injury. And the food stops. Because unlike most cycling events where the food on offer is water, bananas and energy gels, here in Tuscany it was wine, hams, salamis, cheeses, bread dipped in olive oils, cakes, fruits…….. It would have been rude just to grab a bite and leave so each stop was, well, let’s say prolonged.

              

Post ride Stephen was still reluctant to go to the hospital. Well, it was less reluctance to go, more he wanted to sit in a bar and drink well deserved ‘post ride malted recovery beverages’ (© Velominati.com).

So we did, until it got dark. Then we had to ride back to the car. The road was unlit, and the bikes had no lights. However, it was less than 1km to the car and there was a fair amount of traffic on the road so we felt it wasn’t that dangerous. We set off, me in the lead. After a few minutes of cycling I turned off the road towards the car park and arriving at the car turned to see no Stephen. I put the bike in the car, and drove out of the car park. 

At the junction I had to decide – turn right and go back to town as Stephen must have had a problem cycling and figured I’d go back for him? Or turn left as Stephen must have missed the turning to the brightly lit up car park?

I turned left. A couple of kilometres down the now pitch black road I see an unlit cyclist wobbling. Sure enough, he’d missed the turning. And tells me that since it was pitch black he’d cycled off the road a few times, and also got cramp for 10 minutes so had been sitting in the verge.

Still, he was rescued, and we returned to the apartment. We dumped the bikes, freshened up, and then returned to Gaiole for the final dinner of the event. And once again the food and wine did us proud. The weekend had been a physical and gastronomic treat for us.

On returning to the apartment we noticed that we’d only sampled one of the bottles left out for us. This seemed a shame, so another was opened. And when that was finished a third one was opened. The last one was the cheapest of the three, but frankly we couldn’t tell. They were all good.

Monday morning was a slow one. Bikes were packed away, the car loaded and goodbyes were said to our hosts. They told us that they also owned a tiny village at the top of the hill, which had a lookout tower with a 360 degree view of the area. So naturally we had to visit, and yet again the beauty of the Tuscan landscape blew us away.

We then headed off to Pisa to catch the flight home. Stephen’s hand still looked a disaster, and it had started to swell half way up his arm. Still, nothing that a few coffees couldn’t fix. On arrival at Pisa we had time to make a quick visit to the Leaning Tower, and came across it lit amazingly by the setting sun.

And thence to the airport, where once again Stephen’s propensity for error came through. He’d packed the special olive oils he’s bought as gifts in his hand luggage, and not the bike bags in hold. So yes, £50 worth of olive oils were confiscated as security risks.

On landing at Stanstead, at midnight, I urged Stephen not to go home but to go to his local A&E. It would be quiet at 1 am, so they’d be able to take a look.

Tuesday morning I received a text from him. They’d kept him in for keyhole surgery that morning, and hooked him up to an intravenous drip for some strong antibiotics. He was let out Wednesday evening.

So overall, the trip was superb. I was worried that there would be the Italian equivalents of adenoidal Englishmen say things like ‘that Raleigh model came out in August 1972 and the Shimano gear it has on was first made in September 1978 so your bike is not correct sir“ etc, etc. If there were any, we didn’t notice them.

I also learned that it is the sort of event that one would enjoy more the second time around, as the first trip is about learning the nuances, the timings etc. And that Tuscany really is as beautiful as the travel brochures make it out to be.

So all in all, only 1 question remains: will Stephen’s better half grant him another travel visa another year?

The Return to Grafham Water - Sep 2013

The Return to Grafham Water

September 2013

Some of you will remember that back in June I entered the standard distance triathlon at Grafham Water and had, to put it bluntly, a nightmare. The open water swim freaked me out, I drank too much of the lake, and that affected both the ride and, especially, the run. However, I AM A TRIATHLETE! I didn’t want to let that setback affect me as I knew most of my swim problems were mental, not physical. A few club members had sent me messages of support, a kind of ‘been there, done that, got the T shirt’ type of thing, which re-enforced my determination to return and to try again.

So on Sunday I returned to Grafham. Following my ‘oh my god’ note to the club coach Les had sent a mail with some open water advice, and I’d taken it on board. I’d swam at Lakeside a few times, got used to bodies swimming over me and not seeing my hands in the water. Special thanks to Liz R and Ricky who mentored me in my efforts (despite turning up with a white swim cap which denotes an expert!).

To cut a long story short, what happened this time? I swam the 1500m 10 minutes faster than in June. I left the water feeling good, and as a result was able to cycle quicker. And because my stomach was not full of Chateau Grafham Water I could run properly too.

In addition to the professional ones from Les may I offer my own tips for open water swimming, from a novice’s perspective?

1. Get in the water as soon as the referee allows, to get used to the cold. When I first got in I still had the “I can’t breathe!” moment as the water hit me. So I just lay on my back and felt the water flow over me, and relaxed. It didn’t take long to get the breathing under control.
2. Pull open your wetsuit from the neck and let the water get in, so the wetsuit can do its job to warm up the boundary layer. Very quickly the body stops feeling cold, and you can concentrate on your head. So…..
3. Dunk your head ten times to get used to the cold. I wore 2 caps – I cared not a jot that I was in the minority. But after 10 relaxed dunkings I found that physically I was in tune with the water and I could now concentrate on swimming.

I will end by saying that overall I was 30 minutes faster than in June, finishing in 2h 46m, despite not being appreciably fitter. OK, I didn’t trouble the leaderboard but if I can improve my time by such an extent simply by following some very simple advice from the experts we have at the club, then that gives me extra motivation to work hard over winter to carry on my improvement.

When is the next race at Grafham?

Grafham Water Olympic Triathlon - Jun 2013

A Salutary Tale

On the Grafham OIympic distance triathlon start-line Pat asked me if I was OK. She could tell, I think, that quite frankly I wasn’t. Sure, I looked the part, wetsuited up, double caps, open water goggles. But inside I wasn’t ready. In an effort to improve my swimming I’ve been having a few one on one lessons with a pro, and I’ve been going to the pool at lunchtimes working on drills. But what I hadn’t done was either a few long distance sessions, nor gone to Lakeside to practice in open water.

The course was an inverted triangle, out, across and back, exiting the water before re-entering to repeat the triangle (6 legs in total, all broadly equal). As the gun went and we ran into the reservoir, my fears were realised. I tried to find an open bit of water, and started to swim. Tried to have relaxed and controlled breathing. Then someone swum over me, and the breathing became forced, I swallowed water, and a sense of foreboding came over me. I’d replied to Pat positively, saying “sure, I’ll be all right” but at that moment I felt anything but. I summoned a canoe, grabbed it, and told my racing heart to calm down, I could do this. I’m only on leg 1 of 6 and already I’m having doubts. I carry on, and again midway through leg 2 the feeling of panic started to overwhelm me. Another canoe, another talking to, and I carried on. Midway through leg 3 I was seriously dreading lap 2.

At the exit point there must have been 100 spectators, and as I left the water there were plenty of shouts of encouragement, so I decided to try again. Of course by now I’m easily at the back, so there were no bodies around me. Ironically my improved technique was now showing, as I was catching the group in front. But then on leg 5 cramp set in my leg. Another canoe, stretching, another talking to, and away I went. I turned into the last leg, and I could semi-relax. I caught a few swimmers and exited to get the bike. There were just 5 swimmers behind me.

The bike went OK – an advantage of being last on the swim is that there are always cyclists in front to aim for. The run was not OK. I felt half the contents of the reservoir were in my stomach, and that is not a good feeling to have when setting off on a 10k run.

So what did I learn? Or rather, what did I forget from last year’s open water swims? Open water swimming is not the same as swimming in a pool with the added complication of dirty water. I know my problem is as much psychological as anything else, but yesterday that knowledge did not help me.

I will turn up at Lakeside, and the next time I won’t be in a canoe as I was last weekend. I’ve done my paddling and now I want to overcome my irrational fears.

How hard can it be to beat 44 minutes, yesterday’s time, when I return to Grafham?

A final congratulations to fellow Tri Sport Epping Athletes. Their results put me to shame:

Andy Bourne - 3rd overall

Pat Green - 1st agegroup

Elisabeth Ross - 2nd agegroup

Mel Barlowe-Kay - 1st agegroup

Kevin Partridge - 1st agegroup

Rob Shepherd - 4th agegroup

Peter van de Bande - 5th agegroup

Marrakech Half Marathon - Jan 2013

The Marrakech Half Marathon

January 2013

As our EasyJet flight took off from a wet and gloomy Gatwick towards sunny North Africa I did wonder what I'd let myself in for. Months earlier I'd challenged a running and cycling friend, Warren (though a non-swimmer), to try a triathlon. He'd accepted, but the quid pro quo was that I had to do a half marathon with him. I saw an ad for the Marrakech Half Marathon to be held on January 27^th and thought that if I had to put myself though 21km of pain I might as well do it somewhere good. Warren agreed.

Marrakech! Of all the place names in the world that appeal, that has to be in the top 10, along with others such as Casablanca, Timbuktu, Istanbul, Buenos Aires and Reykjavik. Places that have lodged in the collective consciousness since childhood as exotic, nay romantic, destinations to visit, to see if they could match up to the images we have of them.

Our wives granted our respective visas, so early November our entries were lodged via Running Inspired travel organisers, and the training commenced. To start with all went well. I developed a target – break 2 hours and be in the top half of the field. We ran several times a week, though rarely together as he lives in Norwich. We separately entered different 10k races, and completed them in times just 6 seconds apart.

Christmas came, and all was good. I was ready to step up to do some training sessions of more than 10k. This was a key distance for me, as that is the furthest I'd run since I did my one and only half marathon over 30 years ago. But then the snow came. And then work sent me to India for a week. I did a couple of runs while out there, but only for 45 minutes. On my return came a head cold.

And then came Jan 25^th, the date of departure, and no long training run had been achieved. Still, how hard could it be to run twice the distance I can already do?

Marrakech immediately lived up to expectations. On arrival the bags were dumped at the hotel and we went to a tented rooftop restaurant overlooking the souks of the walled city. The spice smells, the tagines cooking, the call to prayers, all meant that I immediately knew that whatever happened during the race this would turn out to be a Good Trip.

Saturday we spent far too long walking around the old city. Yes, we should have been resting, preparing, but how could you not explore? We bartered for goods, we ate delicious freshly cooked foods (on another roof top restaurant with amazing views towards the Atlas mountains), we soaked in the atmosphere of a buzzing city. Did I mention the blue sky and the temperatures of around 23?

Sunday morning, and our race started at 9. We jogged to the start, just 5 minutes away from the hotel. There were over 3600 entrants queuing, with another 500 or so already out there doing the full marathon (two laps of the course).

The race started, and for the first few minutes it was a case of walking, barely able to jog let alone run. Relatively quickly the runners fanned out and the race proper started. I felt good, got into a nice 5mins/km pace, and settled into the rhythm. We left the city, and started running though orange groves. And then Warren stated that he needed 'a pit-stop'. He said he'd try to catch me, as I was not going to stop and wait.

So I ran on. And on. And on. As we returned to the city there were crowds everywhere cheering us on. Aged and hooded Berbers with expressions of incredulity. Hundreds of kids shouting. Ordinary Arab families just smiling and waving. Soldiers at every junction holding back the tide of motor bikes, motorised tricycles, donkey carts and cars. We ran along the old city wall, and then I saw the 12.5k marker and thought 'it's uncharted territory here, mate”. And my legs started to complain, and the suffering commenced.

Still, Warren was behind me somewhere, so that spurred me on. The course was unbelievably flat. So flat that post race the single hill in the entire race became a talking point. It consisted of an incline no more than100m rising no more than3m!

Just after this 'hill' came the 17.5km marker, and that gave me renewed energy. Only 3.5km to go! I can do this! A runner started to pass me, so I managed to up my pace and stay on her shoulder. A km or so later there was another drinks station, and in the melee I lost contact with her and couldn't get back the ground. The others around me were either much faster or much slower. It is so much easier running with someone, so again my pace fell.

The last couple of km were so hard. The heat had really come on, the legs were hurting. All that really kept me going was that Warren was behind me. I just did not want to be overtaken. The end of the course is twisty, and there were 100s of spectators that kept shouting 'Nearly there!”. After each bend I'd be hoping to see the finish, but still it wouldn't come. I swear the last km marker was not correctly positioned.

Then, finally, the finish was in sight. I kicked on, determined not to be overtaken by anyone around me. I stopped the clock at just shy of 1h 56. I had met my first target (though during training I was hoping for 1h 50). To put that in perspective the winning time was 1.01.09. And the marathon was won in 2.06.35.

In conclusion – a fantastic weekend. Huge thanks have to go to our wives for allowing us to go. It was the most enjoyable race I've ever done. If Tri Sport Epping members or The Swimmer runners ever want to do a winter sun race I cannot recommend this one highly enough. For what it's worth, next year is the 25^th anniversary of their first one.

Oh, and the second target, to be in the top half of the 3034 male runners?

I came 1510th!

First Cross Country Race, 7.5k - Dec 2012

Cross Country

December 2012

During the winter months Tri Sport Epping, my Triathlon club, enters the East Essex Cross Country League, and encourage all members to race in the 5 race series. So mid December I found myself heading off to Dunton at 7 in the morning, Anne and Rhiannon in tow, for my first cross country race since childhood.

I met the club runners, and looked at the huge variety of gear they were using. Long leggings, short leggings. All sorts of things. Headgear too. So I decided, much to Rhiannon’s amusement, to go for usual running shorts, running T shirt and the club running singlet over that, plus gloves, plus my snood. It was a definite 2 layer jobby.

Bit nippy to start with, but within 100m I had realised/remembered 4 things.

1. I was wearing exactly the right gear to be comfortable temperature wise.
2. I don’t like cross country when you have to run through mud and pools of standing water
3. People buy specialist cross country shoes for a reason
4. Drinking to excess on both Wed and Fri eves was not the best preparation for this.

Still, could have been worse.

I ran through the pool of water at the first turn OK, unlike a teammate who went head first into it. It was at the bottom of a steepish run down to it, and he carried too much speed.

Anyway, the legs started to come back, and barring the fact that my feet were slipping on every stride it was OK. My pace was fine. Then a blonde bombshell in her 20s ran past. Mr H was not happy, so upped the pace some more and overtook her. And promptly fell while turning at the next corner and sliding gracefully across the path.

Bad shoes. Up I get and carry on. Catch her up again, and decide that if I have to follow someone then she might as well be the one. We’re about halfway through this race now, and the recollection of drinking a second bottle of something with a mate at Bishopsgate Balls Bros comes flooding back. As does the fact that my legs are hurting.

And then it gets worse. I don’t mind too much that I’m hanging on to the BB because she’s early/mid 20s. But then a club runner runs past who has just celebrated her 60th. Right, suffering or no suffering, this just is not going to be allowed. I pick a tree in the distance and decide to up the pace to that tree and see what happens. What happened was that I got back to her shoulder. I rest, figuratively speaking. The the BB goes past again. I’m in a race! With 2 women, one almost old enough to be my mum, the other young enough to be my daughter. We have 2k to go, and I’m just behind the pair of them.

Being a typical male, I have to go past them by the finish no matter what. I know there is an incline coming, so decide to take it easy until that and then push. Right, we hit the bottom of it, and I accelerate. I go past them, and start to focus on a guy 50/100 m in front. My breathing gets laboured, but as I reach the top I can’t hear anybody around me so I am sure I’ve dropped them. I don’t look round to check, as the guy in front is from East Essex Tri, our great rivals. I push again, he gets a shout from a teammate close to the finish warning him I’m there. He can’t respond, so I take him on the line.

Jeez, I can’t breathe! And all that for finishing 114, out of 185.