15/2/16 – A Tale of Two Halves

Yesterday Sue and I ran the Headcorn Half Marathon. It was our first time running a Half since the ill-fated Tonbridge Half Marathon back in October. And I don’t mind admitting I was feeling a little uneasy and not just because my knee was acting up that morning.

The Tonbridge Half did not finish well. For starters, Sue beat me in the ‘official’ rankings – barely a day goes by when she doesn’t mention it. The reason being I ended up doing nearly 15 miles to her 12.75.

No, I’d didn’t get lost. No, Sue didn’t take a shortcut (well, not by choice). The reason was a more sobering one.

The Tonbridge Half is a hilly beast, but it’s also Marc’s home town run and we were keen to join him for our Autumn Half – on paper, our most challenging course yet –  even if we wouldn’t see his heels for dust once the run started.

After incorporating a fair bit of hill work into our prep, I was determined to run every step, however long it took, despite the ‘hard miles’ between 8-12 being particularly undulating. As I turned off the main road and hit the final long descent after 11 miles, I wasn’t exactly in the peak of condition but I knew the worst was over – and I had kept going. I was also gasping for a drink at this point – the layout of water stations left something to be desired with nothing in the hilliest section on the way home and I wasn’t carrying a water bottle.

As things levelled out close to mile 12, a steward was stood in the middle of the road telling me to stop. There had been an incident ahead and I was asked to turn around and go back the way I’d come to the main road and run back that way. The unspecified incident ahead had closed the road to runners and stopped the race.

The thought of having to go back a mile up that sodding big hill was bad enough, but the realisation I’d have to do it without a drink stopped me in my tracks. I asked the steward if he had any water I could have and he cheerfully directed to me to the water station about 400 yards away further down the road. I promised to return after I’d had a drink.

When I got to water station, I was met with smiling faces encouraging me on the final three quarters of a mile. ‘What about the race being stopped? I asked. ‘We don’t anything about that’ came the response and I was urged to carry on.

At that point I caught up with a couple of lads, walking together, one suffering horribly from cramp being helped along by his mate. They too were unaware of any problems, so we pushed on around another corner. There we were met by another steward, rather more gruff than the first, who demanded we turn back again.

He told us that a runner had collapsed just up ahead and the ambulance services were in attendance. The mate who had been acting as a crutch, was a heart specialist who was allowed to go and assist. Leaving me and cramp man to the mercy of Mr Grumpy-pants. At that point it occurred to me that I hadn’t run past by anyone else who had been turned back. Now I’m used to running on my own towards the back end of a race and the hills had strung the tail-enders out, but surely there hadn’t been nearly a mile gap to the next runners?

So I asked him which way these other runners had been diverted and he immediately became rather shifty, saying only that he’d turned them around. With perfect comic timing, the hedge behind him parted to reveal at least 20 runners in various stages of dishevelment: hair braided with twigs and leaves; many covered knee-deep in mud. They weren’t happy bears.

It transpired Grumps hadn’t directed them back up the race route at all. He’d consulted his phone, then sent them up an adjacent farm track which ended in a very boggy cow field and an encounter with some angry geese. There was no obvious route back to the main road which led back to the finish.

These runners didn’t take well to being told they’d have to retrace their steps on the race route having already been sent, quite literally, on a wild goose chase. Instead, we all decided to see if the entrance to Haysden Country Park was this side of the incident. Indeed it was, but only by 50 metres. The sight of a fellow runner fighting for his life on the road quickly muted any annoyance felt by the group at the steward’s demeanour and directions.

The Country Park has some lovely lakes, but having to go around them, added almost two miles to the way home. After the allotted 13.1 and knowing the race had been stopped, many of the group, myself included, slowed to a walk and took in the sobering view of the Air Ambulance landing in the nearby field.

Navigating the Park by phone maps and directions from park-users, I fell into a pleasant chat with a fellow runner who’d been part of the cow-field group. We both hoped that we’d still get a medal and cursing the fact that neither of us had our phone on us to let people know were taking the long way home.

After crossing the railway line, we got to an alleyway within 500 metres of the finish line. It was then that we heard the race Tannoy – quite clearly the race hadn’t been stopped at all. My companion shot off at this point – cheers pal! – as I struggled to get back into a jog. In fairness, I think we was part of a club event and his time would have counted in the club competition.

At the finish line, I was greeted by a sea of ashen faces: Sue, Marc and his young family and Sue’s Mum and Dad. What I didn’t immediately realise was they were worried that the collapsed runner was me.  Poor Marc had been home and had a shower and come back to cheer me home with Emma, Poppy and Evie and Sue’s parents . He was expected me to come through between 2:20 and 2:30, getting increasingly concerned when I failed to show. By then the news of the collapse of a middle-aged male runner had filtered through the finish, but not the fact that a significant number of runners had been diverted (and therefore delayed).

When Sue rocked up around 2:45 at the finish line, having been diverted along the main road, there was still no sign of me, concern threatened to descend into panic. It was a long seven minutes until I suddenly shambled into view from an altogether unexpected direction.

I will admit the sudden shock of finding the race had carried on, despite what we’d been told, had put me in a right old mood. Thus I didn’t quite get the fuss and the depth of everyone’s relief until a while afterwards. I’d also managed to miss spotting the lovely posters, Marc’s girls had drawn for us. At least I did get a medal, even if the record books will forever show I finished behind Sue. I console myself that without the diversion, I would have been on for 2:28, which I would have been happy with over a tough course.

Sometime later, we found out that the stricken runner had had a heart attack, but thanks to the ministry of his fellow runners, the local and Air Ambulance Services, had survived the ordeal and was on the mend.

This Sunday’s race in Headcorn was, thankfully, a much more straight-forward affair, albeit in much colder and wetter conditions. I had a game plan and I’m pleased to say, by and large, it worked well. The trouble with training runs, as opposed to races (aside from the lack of medals), is that you miss the element of competition. Even if it is as minor as trying to get ahead of the person who’s been just ahead of you for ages.

My plan was not to go off to fast and keep a steady pace until mile 10, so when I got there, I felt as if I could continue for much further than the ‘parkrun’ distance left.  Then I figured I would have a bit of a go to try and give my time an air of respectability (for me) and see how much was in the tank. In previous halves, I’ve begun to struggle a bit between 6 and 8 miles, I think due to my early speed, so it was important for me to feel like I had plenty left after 10 miles. Not least because we missed the 12 mile step last week, settling instead for a mini-taper down before the race. This consisted of a 6.5K treadmill run, a local 10K (1:07:20), some gym work and Lloyd Parkrun: a pleasing 32:07 in foul weather, although a slightly less muddy course than of late.

Headcorn is pretty flat, not totally, though. The most undulating parts come between miles 7-10, the very time that I usually flag. Add to that, driving rain turning to sleet as I reached that point, I felt I was being properly tested. And although I say so myself, I think I passed. I could have done with not wearing shorts though.

At Mile 10, I took my second glucose gel, hoping it didn’t taste as foul as the ‘Lemon and Lime’ one at 5 miles which was unnervingly reminiscent of Fairy Liquid. This one was Berry flavour and had added caffeine. Wow! KerPow! In the words of James Brown: I FEEL GOOD.

I know I said I was going to give the last three miles a real go, but that gel certainly hit the spot. I wiped nearly two minutes of my split for the previous mile clocking 9.35. Miles 11 & 12 weren’t quite in that league, but still faster than any other mile split in the race. I felt invincible.

I surged past runner after runner, some quite startled to see the plodding big guy they’d passed a while back suddenly streak by. I don’t know how much of it was down to the gel but the legs felt strong and most importantly pain-free. As mentioned before, I’ve noticed some weakness in my bad knee during the last couple of weeks and have been feeling nervous that this might be the start of another slippery slope that will lead to a third Op and really complicate my Marathon chances.

In the last 400 metres, one guy didn’t take to kindly to being overtaken and put on a sprint that Usian Bolt would have been proud of. Even overtaking two ladies right on the line, who he’s been previously happy to follow. I came in with a time of 2:19:07, my second best half marathon time and felt like vindication of my strategy. I wasn’t aiming for a PB as this was, primarily, a training run, so to get within 4 minutes of the PB was pleasing.

Sue appeared on the horizon 20 minutes later, having had some ITB trouble leading to a slower second half of the race and less happy with the way her own race went, but pleased to have another medal for the collection.

A day on from the run and the backs of my thigh muscles certainly know I’ve been in a race. It’s a new place for me to feel sore after a longer run, usually it’s much higher up in my glutes or slightly lower on the hamstrings. The knee feels clicky but no appreciable pain there, which I’m seeing as a positive. Naturally I’m wondering whether this new pain has something to do with that uptempo last 3 miles and/or the boosting effects of that gel.

Whilst she was ordering me some more magic gel, Sue came across a warning about only using two Caffeine gels in a full Marathon. Perhaps it has something to do with engendering a bulletproof feeling which the body can’t necessarily sustain.

Well, that’s the verdict of the thighs jury anyway.