My usual way of finishing a race is wheezing and spluttering and looking close to death. I surpassed myself at the first cross country of the season by adding a ludicrous limp and a pathetic keening noise.
It’s been mixed running fortunes since last I blogged. Apart from a couple of desultory training runs I’ve completed two races. I think that because I have no real concept of pacing and I’m a slacker I tend to look for someone else to take me round at a good clip. Consequently, since starting to run in2008 I’ve identified likely pacemakers and tried to hang onto them in a shamelessly parasitic fashion. Unfortunately, since twanging my hamstring at the end of June the usual suspects have been too quick for me so I’ve just run as fast as I think I can without risking injury.
I’d been feeling pretty chipper of late so decided that for Guy Fawkes 10 I’d aim for 1:15 and try to trail round after Marisol. In the six races we’d both run in prior to “the twang”, I’d finished ahead of her; in the six races we’d both run afterwards, she’d finished ahead of me. Keeping up with her would be an indication that I’m getting over the injury (she’s very consistent).
I overtook her after a couple of miles and the body seemed to be in decent shape. The first hill was horrible; I had to walk the second half and Marisol went past me just before the summit. I got my breath back at the top and went past her. Same story on the second hill, only I couldn’t get past her, just had to dig in and follow. At the third hill I decided not to walk and was just congratulating myself on a noble effort when a bend in the road revealed we were only halfway up the hill. I walked the second half. She got away from me and though I made up some ground, she finished 17 seconds ahead. This was a good result. She’d whupped me by ten minutes at the Bradford half so I was happy with my Ripley run.
There’ll be pressure on at the PECOs this year. Last year we unwisely got promoted and we’re in danger of being the West Bromwich Albion of the PECO league. At the first PECO at Pontefract I decided I had to go as fast as possible as we’ll need all the points we can get. The only tactic I can think of is to chase Russ round. Last year I’d mostly followed Deadly Hedley; by “followed” I mean start just behind him and then watch the gap gradually widen as the race unfolded. He was usually about a minute ahead of me at the end. This worked well last year apart from the race where I lost him at the start. I panicked and desperately went faster and faster trying to catch him up only to be overtaken by him after three miles. The last two miles were a nightmare as a procession of other runners went charging past me as I gasped and wheezed my way to the finish.
At Pontefract Russ set off with Abi and I tucked in behind them. I’d rejected the option of using Abi as a pacemaker as he’s too ……. flighty. When he overtook me at Bradford at mile seven he was running backwards and still finished seven minutes ahead of me. Russ made steady progress in the first couple of miles, regularly passing other runners and I was struggling to keep up. When he went past the familiar figure of Mick from Eccleshill I decided enough was enough and changed horses mid-stream. I swung in behind Mick with the intention of staying there as long as possible. This turned out to be until the top of the last slope about 500 yards from the finish. I was just considering revealing my amazing kick and sprint finish (so far this is just a concept, but one day it may happen) when my calf tightened and I watched him race off. Five other runners overtook me as I hobbled my way to the line in a comedy Long John Silver fashion. My fellow club runners were waiting at the end to cheer me in (there seems to be more of them finishing ahead of me than there used to be) and I must have looked a pitiful sight as I limped over the finishing line.
Bugger. Just recovered from the hamstring and now the calf starts to s play up. On the whole, this isn’t a major concern as the calf has tightened a couple of times a year for the last three or four years. Rest it for a week or so and submit to brutal torture from Tony’s healing hands and I’ll be back in business.
So, Pontefract was a race of mixed fortunes, but on the whole a success. Granted, the finish was pathetic, I picked up an injury and was unable to train for the following week. On the positive side I was closer to Mick than I’ve been in ages and I was first lady home (i.e. none of the ladies finished ahead of me, another measure of whether I’m on form).
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