Race Report - (Half) Kilomathon Scotland 2015

Blast. Race reports are more or less the one thing I can normally pull together with relative competence and now this one’s three weeks late. Cutting edge blogging going on here. What a time to be alive.

Anyway, Kilomathon Scotland. If the word ‘Kilomathon’ is flying over your head like a furious buzzard, then allow me to try to unpick what’s going on here. In 2010 GSi Events invented a new race distance – which they swiftly dubbed ‘the perfect race distance’ – of 26.2km, ie the same number of kilometres as a marathon is in miles. The idea is a step-up from a half marathon towards a marathon, I guess. I ran the first two of them, one between Nottingham and Derby (in 2:03) and the other a circular route over the Forth Road Bridge and back from Ingliston (2:05 and my god those hills). It was a pretty good distance. Not sure if it was perfect, but I enjoyed it all the same.

Since then I’ve been dimly aware that the 26.2km distance had been binned, and that a Kilomathon was now considered 13.1km, which I might have better called a half kilomathon. Interestingly, this distance is ALSO branded as ‘the perfect race distance’. Whatever.

A pal who once beat me in a terrible game of tennis asked if I was up for this event – his first ‘proper’ race – and with nothing else planned I signed myself up. What I hadn’t twigged was the 8.30am start time. In Leith. On the day the clocks go forward. Cripes.

Yes, Leith. It’s really quite nice these days, and the kilomathon route intelligently leaves from Ocean Terminal shopping centre (handy pre-race infrastructure – ie proper loos) and winds its way through a network of high-quality footpaths laid out on a former railway line. It snakes its way south west on a 99% traffic-free course  and finishes on the pitch at Murrayfield Stadium, home of endless disappointment in international rugby (I should know, I have a season ticket) but a magnificent stadium nonetheless.

James and I exchanged chilly pre-race banter on a desolate stretch of access road and before long we were away, looping behind the shopping centre past the Royal Yacht Britannia. James was looking for 75 minutes and I was hoping for 65. It didn’t go to plan for either of us. At all.

Right away I got a wiggle on. I was working hard to run the tangents wherever possible and the cold damp air on my flimsy running vest meant I was in no mood for hanging about. I shot off way too fast, but much like the time we didn’t even BQ when there were four of us, I somehow found a way to hang on to that pace and ran more or less perfect splits all morning.

I had examined the course map ahead of time, but hadn’t fully appreciated just how windy some of the loops were, at times clumsily added to make up the distance rather than to enhance the experience. I was absolutely flying by 3km but frustrated to be directed around Victoria Park on a series of tight turns which really limited my rhythm. I could tell others were annoyed too. Luckily before too long it was back on the footpath proper and steaming towards Murrayfield, and there was really only one random bit of loopy route to contend with from there...

As the kilomathon starts at sea level, the route is a gentle climb pretty much all the way and it’s easy to be caught out in those places where it’s more noticeable. I was working hard to keep my pace on track and the rise in profile did make this challenging. The Crew Chief popped up at a convenient cheering point (one of perhaps 40 spectators on the entire course – a slightly out of the way footpath at 8.45am on a Sunday is not prime cheering territory) and I cheerfully told her that I was dying but would see her at the finish. Luckily I was only half right.

I’m not good at pacing kilometres and I was even more confused as my watch was showing pace and distance in miles and the route markers were interspersed with those for the 6.55km quarter-kilomathon. I’m not joking. In fact there was even a 2.62km event for kids. I passed the start for the quarter kilomathoners around 6 or 7km, who were penned up waiting for, perhaps, a gap in the kilomathon traffic and wondered if I could keep them at bay or if the speedier ones might catch me. So anyway – there were way too many numbered signs, my own confusing watch readout and a sleepy, GMT/BST confused brain, which taken together meant that by 9km I decided to forget about digits and just put the hammer down.

We peeled off the footpath near Murrayfield and barrelled – finally - downhill towards the stadium, skirting Roseburn park. I rounded what I thought was the final corner to see a tunnel leading straight onto the pitch and prepared a last-gasp straight-line sprint. Sadly the kilomathon route instead peeled away to the left as we did a pointless and annoying fingerloop of the stadium’s car park before finally taking a few tight turns to get into that same tunnel.

Just as I stepped onto the hallowed turf – imagining just how bad next year’s 6 Nations run would have to be in order for me to get a call up –  two men flew past me at a full-on sprint. Remember that I’m running at about 7:15/mile here and that these guys blew me away from absolutely nowhere, all elbows and knees. As I crossed the finish line I got mixed up with a load of marshalls trying to hand things to these speedsters – in fact they were the first three finishers of the quarter-kilomathon, and their crazy pace was due to the fact that they got to do the arrow-straight finish into the stadium. I was a tiny bit miffed at having been jostled about by these mere quarter kilomathoners, as if that’s even a thing, but I suppose fair play to them.

Check out this dodgy GoPro video I shot at the finish:

Just as in 2010 the organisers distributed medals that just said ‘Kilomathon’ and showed the event logo – no date, no distance, no location. Clearly they’re reused at multiple events, but whatever. The finish line setup was slick and well organised, felt like a fun stadium finish and best of all was done and dusted well before 10 am.

At the finish, with a Wallace cheeser

I clocked 58:03 (half 24:25 – negative split!), seven minutes faster than I had guessed when I registered and good enough for 94^th overall out of 1,398 finishers. My splits are pretty tasty, too.

James finished almost exactly ten minutes behind me in 68:26. He had also beaten his estimated time by seven minutes. He went for the classic medal-biting pose:

For £20, this is a solid event. But next year I think I’ll stay in bed.

Happy running

Dave

2015 to date: miles run - 320.89, parkruns - 3, races - 2

Race Report - Rock n Roll Edinburgh Half Marathon 2013

The problem with racing – and writing about racing – is that sometimes the thing which colours your experience and memory of the event is something entirely out of the organisers’ control. This year’s Rock n Roll Edinburgh Half Marathon was one of those events, and the thing was weather.

When I ran the Mokrun back in 2011 more or less the entire field of a few hundred hardy souls huddled for shelter in a flimsy marquee mere minutes before the off, sheltering from the howling wind and torrential rain that were relentlessly buffeting the small town.  Miraculously, at the last possible minute the rain stopped and the wind dropped just enough to lift our spirits and set an optimistic tone. It was a wonderful moment.

I thought the same was about to happen in Edinburgh yesterday when a rainbow formed above Holyrood Park, a beacon of hope inside a thrashing storm of bullet rain and monstrous wind. For the last hour the circle of vendors’ marquees that formed the event village had become a parade of shelters for runners desperately hoping for some respite from the grim weather, but as the announcer gamely insisted that the weather was cheering up a bit and that the race would start in mere minutes, we put on our brave faces and headed for our pens.

When I registered for this race, I hadn’t really considered that it was a week out from the VLM and that therefore it would be ridiculous to chase a fast time. I had madly stuck myself in pen two, aiming for sub 1:40. This would have put me just behind the elites, and a couple of pens ahead of Neil ‘4:33’ Gray who was racing his first half marathon. Realising the absurdity of this plan and its potential impact on my pacing duties at VLM, I decided it would be better for my mental and physical well-being to stick with the pacer running the equivalent of my VLM target – i.e. a 2:15 HM. My self-imposed relegation involved an awfully long walk down Queen’s Drive from pen two to pen nine.

The rain continued.

Staggered pen starts – mildly delayed by the weather, apparently – sensibly got the race off to a well-moderated tempo. My pacer carried an enormous blue helium balloon, which flailed around wildly in the huge wind and repeatedly bopped runners within a 4ft radius until he shortened its string to just a couple of inches. The rain hammered loudly on its surface and the wind swung it back and forward. We exchanged conciliatory words at the absurdity of it all.

My knees started bothering me almost immediately, and the pain in one or both would be a constant feature of the race. But the gentle pace and cheery company at this end of the field made for an otherwise good experience physically – in fact I was feeling incredibly fit and well, restrained only by the foul mess I’ve somehow made of my knees. My silent mantras became increasingly profane.

The route of this event should be a major draw for everyone – it is probably the best running race ever designed in Edinburgh. The first few miles loosely copy the Edinburgh marathon: through Holyrood, around Meadowbank and then out towards Portobello prom. But whereas the Edinburgh marathon then winds its way through tediously distant parts of East Lothian, the RnR half does justice to its location and folds back into the city, via Duddingston and then into the city centre – Cowgate, Grassmarket, Meadows, George IV bridge, the Mound, Market Street and the Royal Mile. Regrettably this does create an unfortunate moment where, after 8 miles, you can see the finish line but are cruelly directed uphill and away from it, but otherwise is the kind of ambitious and impressive course that the city deserves.

The rain continued.

The RnR brand is about mixing music and running, but in Edinburgh this year it was about mixing music and running and weather. The bands playing to us throughout the route – perhaps five live acts and two or three DJs – did their best to rock out despite the conditions, but those unlucky enough to be playing on stages facing the horizontal rain seemed understandably lacking in vigour. Nonetheless, the turnout of runners included some impressive facial hair, a plethora of Elvis and Freddie Mercury tributes, and a full wardrobe of tatty band T-shirts. Some of them were even pretty decent runners, too…

I hauled myself around the course, stubbornly keeping level or slightly ahead of my friend with the blue balloon, who did a fantastic job of maintaining his pace even up significant gradients and down promising descents. He also offered cheery advice to the nervous newbies around us, and I think I learnt a thing or two from him that I’ll be applying at the VLM. For a few brief moments I even forgot how much my knees hurt.

Great medals (2012 top, 2013 bottom)

I lumbered across the finish with 2:11 on my watch, slightly ahead of my 2:15 goal – the result of doggedly following the pacer who sped up a fair bit in the last two miles. As I slowed to a walk my right knee immediately locked and I wrenched off the tubigrip that was holding it, which luckily did the trick and let me walk normally again. A huge medal, water, banana, haribo and crisps were gratefully received, but I heard over the tannoy that there were some issues with bag check.

The rain continued, and the wind picked up.

I wandered into the event village, gawping at the enormous queues stretched in every direction. Neil, in the middle of one of them, called me over, a note of confused desperation in his voice. He had finished 30 minutes before me and was not even halfway to the front of the line to retrieve our bags. A similarly massive queue stretched to the tent containing goody-bags and T-shirts. Many runners huddled in foil wraps but I couldn’t find anyone distributing them, so I shivered in my wet gear and bare legs. The queue inched forwards.

After eighteen months of queueing (or thereabouts) we reached the front and some Scouts cheerfully took our numbers and gamely maintained their beaming Scoutly expressions as they fetched our bags. We threw on some clothes to protect us from the force 9 hurricane that was tearing through the village, and decided not to bother with the 40-mile tailback queue for T-shirts. In the classic post-race hobble, we gingerly walked back to the car, stopping only to chat to fellow runners who were incredulous or angry about the bag/T-shirt situations. Eventually we folded ourselves into Neil’s car and set the heaters for ‘surface of the sun’.

Unbelievably, the rain stopped.

Overall, this is a great event that was badly damaged by the weather and the organisers’ reaction to it. The finish area management was not up to scratch, perhaps because contingencies had to be enacted to deal with the high winds or due to a lack of staff. Either way, it was a sad end to a positive experience. No bands were playing on the main stage in the event village as Neil and I scurried back into the city, perhaps because the rain was lashing a lot of electrical equipment, and one side of the stage was flapping wildly in the wind.

I mean there’s Rock n Roll, and there’s downright unpleasant.

Happy running,

Dave

P.S. Oh go on then, as if I wouldn’t mention it. Neil ran a cracking debut half-marathon in 1:44:44, which is much more representative of his general athletic ability than that marathon debut of his which I definitely won’t mention again.

P.P.S. It was 4:33.

2013 to date: miles run - 389.04, races: 2, parkruns: 1, miles biked: 18, metres swum: 500

A most profitable run

Last night I had a plan to go for a run with almost-elite athlete and total jobbyhead Megan Crawford. Megan is an awful lot faster than me and tougher than a pile of tough things tied together with iron chains of toughness, so whenever I can I like to think of a way to slow down our runs so as to save my lungs from exploding. Luckily last night I had a truly excellent idea indeed.

If you’re a whisky fan, you will already know about Jura, an island on the west coast of Scotland with a population of 200 and a major export industry of incredible whiskies. If you’re a whisky fan on Twitter you can follow them on @jura_whisky. This week they’ve started a competition to promote their ‘Superstition’ bottling, a beautiful single malt full of peat - surprisingly smooth and one of my favourites. Jura’s Twitter people hid a number of ‘lucky pennies’ in Edinburgh since, as you know, if you see a lucky penny, and pick it up, then all day long you’ll have good luck. In this case, you win a bottle of Superstition. Jura’s Twitter feed and the hashtag #JuraPennies gave clues as to their locations - first one to find the penny wins the whisky. Simples.

Around lunchtime and early afternoon, three clues went up on Twitter. By the time I left work around 5pm, one penny had already been found, and my heart sank. Surely the others would be gone well before I was meeting Megan at 6.30pm? I sat at home and fretted.

Undeterred, when the time rolled around I explained the plan to Megan, and though quite reasonably confused and slightly suspicious, she agreed to the hunt. Here’s the first clue we pursued:

So near something called Thomas on Princes Street. With no time to lose, we ran straight there, me trying to explain the wider context of the marketing campaign as we went, though most of our conversation revolved elsewhere. Such was our distraction, that by the time we reached Princes Street I felt a little silly for dragging Megan up here, where there’s loads of traffic and plenty of interruptions to running, which is what she actually wanted from the evening. Pressure to find the penny mounted.

We jogged passed a few of the imposing statues on the south side of the street, looking for anyone called Thomas. We settled on Thomas Guthrie, whose statue sat inside Princes Street Gardens but faced north towards the street. It being dark and late and windy and horrible, the gardens were locked. Without hesitation, we levered ourselves gingerly over the fence – though clearly not gingerly enough as one of the fence spikes went straight through my trainer and into the insole, poking me in the foot but causing no lasting damage. We looked nervously at each other once into the gardens, wondering if this was a tad ridiculous, and what on earth we would say to a groundskeeper or PC should they ask. Eager to move on, we started scouring around the base of the statue using the headtorch I’d brought for the purpose, but to no avail. Bringing Megan was a stroke of genius – she gamely rummaged through piles of leaves and clambered all over the statue feeling for hiding places, but still nothing. Things were looking bleak. We had trespassed on council property on a whim and had nothing to show for it. Hmm.

Just as I thought all was probably lost, I pulled out my phone to re-read the clue. ‘Take a seat to find your penny.’ That’s it! The penny must be under or near a seat! If you know Princes Street gardens and the general area, you will know that there are dozens of benches to hide things under, and we started the process of scouring all of them around the statue. Again having two of us to share the search was ideal. But still nothing.

Hopping carefully back over the fence (no puncture wounds this time) we crossed the road to try the benches which faced the statue, but again found only chewing gum mixed with disappointment. We agreed to give up on this clue and started thinking about the second, though we agreed to have a cursory look on the last few benches on the south side of the street before we left the area.

And we only ruddy well found the penny.

We leapt around like season-winning F1 drivers, confusing the commuters and drawing a load of mad looks. I held the penny aloft like Charlie (of Chocolate Factory fame) and we hastily read the rules on the packet. No doubt about it – we had won ourselves a bottle of Superstition.

But wait, only one? To share?

Five seconds later the penny was stowed in my pack and we were sprinting along Princes Street, heading up the Mound and onto the Castle Esplanade. We had tasted victory and we wanted more. The last unclaimed clue was as follows:

The side of the castle. Hmm. Have you seen Edinburgh Castle? It’s enormous and built on a volcano. It has more sides than you can shake a stick at, and even if you did you would need a stick that could shake at dozens of roads, footpaths, building, alleyways, a railway and plenty of other stuff. And a map? Like a tourist information board, perhaps? Again there are hundreds of those all over the centre of Edinburgh. This could take hours to find.

Running straight up to the castle and through a ghost tour (we probably looked dead and can only have added to the effect) we carefully toured the perimeter of the castle esplanade, looking for a map. In the near-total darkness, we convinced each other that many things were maps – memorial plaques, a guardsman’s hut, a blank wall. Megan even closely inspected a drain cover in case that turned out to be a map. But no joy. Returning to the top of the Royal Mile, we spotted the Scotch Whisky Experience, a visitor attraction all about whisky – and lo and behold it had a map of its many attractions displayed on the wall outside the building! This had to be it.

It wasn’t. We ran our fingers over every possible nook and cranny. We focussed on the phrase ‘lead to your penny’, thinking maybe that it could be hidden near something made of lead. We dismissed this idea. Eventually.

There are some stairs running down the south side of Castle Rock near the entrance to the esplanade, and I suggested we go down them looking for an info board or map, maybe somewhere towards the Grassmarket. Megan eventually agreed after I promised we could come back to the Scotch Whisky Experience and look again if we still couldn’t find it. We ran just a few steps down before coming across a black box, stood on a post on its own at the edge of the stairs. A box that dispensed something. A paper something. A tourist map kind-of-paper something. And taped underneath the box was only another ruddy penny! No doubt you got this hours ago, but here we were on some steps to the side of the castle, finding a map. Obvious when you know how. The ghost tour guide looked a bit miffed at our whooping and laughing and cheering, but we didn’t care. We had two pennies.

The pennies were safe but the night was young. We ran another four or five miles around Edinburgh, taking in a few little hills and chatting some more. When we got back to my flat we took photos, laughed at the madness of it all and sent tweets to Jura so we could claim our prizes. I tried to tempt Megan with a wee celebratory dram, but she took her penny home, probably for some sports supplements and stretching or whatever it is she does of an evening. I stared at the penny I was left with and laughed. What a wonderful and mad evening.

The competition continues throughout the UK as the Edinburgh competition is just the beginning – you should follow @jura_whisky and get your own paws on some tasty aqua vita. I strongly recommend running as a way to find your quarry. If nothing else, runners tend to know their cities inside out, and you may find the clues much easier than the competition will...

Happy running (and hunting!)

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 402.8, miles biked - 73.2, metres swum - 3950, races - 4

Race Report - Survival of the Fittest (Edinburgh) 2012

After all that nonsense back in March at The Mighty Deerstalker, I approached the Men's Health Survival of the Fittest – run by the same company of hardcore athletes and escaped mental patients - with a much greater level of suspicion, a heftier training regime and several bucketloads more fear.  I wasn’t getting caught out by half an hour of surprise scree-climbing again, nor was I planning to leap into any rivers unprepared. This time I was going to do things properly.

To my utter astonishment, it appears to have paid off.

Venture Trust’s showing at Survival was pretty weak compared to the team we fielded at the Deerstalker. Whilst more than 20 VT types were up for the mud-eating hill-climbing mountain-scrambling nonsense down in Innerleithen, a mere half-dozen volunteered to test whether or not they were among ‘the fittest’ in Edinburgh. Perhaps the lack of sewage tunnels and mudbaths put people off? Weird. But we mustered nonetheless and donned traditional green VT warpaint, basing ourselves practically on top of the finish line in Princes Street gardens, basking in the glorious October weather – bright, crisp, clear and perfect for running – and distracting ourselves by the company of good friends and an excitable Labrador puppy.

Rubbing the VT puppy for luck.

Due to the narrow, twisty-turny course and the constraints of the obstacles we would be encountering, the race sets off its 3,000 competitors in ten waves of 300 people, arbitrarily assigned so as to minimise the potential for bottlenecking (something I had been darkly warned about by Survival veterans). We had randomly chosen wave 7, starting at 11.30 am, and thus had the pleasure of watching six other waves warm up and receive a pre-race briefing before walking to the start line on The Royal Mile. A little before we crowded round for our own briefing, the race winner appeared from the western end of Princes Street Gardens. Laden with muscles but covered in bruises and scrapes, as well as being completely soaked with water, this Herculean figure nimbly leapt up and over the 8-foot high, 3-foot deep wall that separated him from the finish line and his prizes. Second place was nowhere to be seen for some minutes to come, but when he did arrive he was snarling and lurching like a man possessed. The steam rising off his body was more testament to how hard he had worked than how cold it was. We looked at each other nervously. What on earth had we let ourselves in for?

Actually, I knew most of what we had let ourselves in for, and had trained appropriately. A full (and exact) 10km of running, interspersed with nonsense including monkey bars, cargo nets, almost endless staircases and at least a small quantity of mud and water. My training had been adjusted appropriately, regularly taking in some of the nastier staircases used on the course, and incorporating the adventure/assault course recently installed in Inverleith park. So when our time came for the longer-than-you-remember walk from the event’s finish line in the gardens up to its start line in front of St Giles’ Cathedral (which had services in progress, muting the starter’s pistol to a quiet clap), I was energised, excited, ready to tackle what was coming up.

I knew that speed was of the essence in the early kilometres, and happily jostled for position as I hurdled hay bales and barrelled down steep closes. Dodging traffic was to become a theme too, since none of the roads were closed, but before long I had already overcome the first km marker and was preparing mentally for Jacob’s Ladder. But those sneaky organisers had other ideas, and had set up the first obstacle section in a vacant lot immediately before the stairs. We carried heavy cones, heaved ourselves over pyramids of scaffolding, swung on monkey bars and otherwise navigated a pair of heavily-obstructed finger loops, before eventually being released to tackle the stairs.

They’re awful, no doubt about it. I’ve practised running them at least half a dozen times, and they really don’t get much easier. I wheezed my way to the top, clutching my exploding chest with one rugby-gloved hand and propelling myself onwards with the other. Round to the summit of Calton Hill my least favourite type of people awaited us: Army PT instructors. Here we moved some sandbags around (I was pleased to help but unsure whether there was a flood warning at the top of the hill – most confusing), launched on rope swings, scrambled over more cargo nets (can anyone explain what this is preparation for? How much modern warfare involves cargo nets? Are wars being fought on container ships?) and generally spoiled a stunning view of the city, sea, Fife and the Borders with the kind of nonsense you can only get from Rat Race events. I was having a ball.

Assault course finished, I flew back down Calton Hill, looking forward to the next challenge. I had caught the back of the previous wave by now, and was picking my way through slower runners, notably a group of approximately a hundred million women dressed in hessian sacks labelled ‘Hot Potatoes’ who were trying hard to stick together. Behind the Parliament and into Holyrood park, the course posed no more obstacles for another couple of km, as the real challenge involved picking one’s way up and through a muddy, hilly section that would have suited trail shoes much better than my knackered road Asics. But the reward was worth it – a huge waterslide, set up to launch you sideways into the next part of the race along the Innocent cyclepath.

What surprised me here was the amount of uninterrupted path to run on – for at least two kilometres this could just as well have been any other road race, although imaginatively designed to take in footpaths, a very long disused railway tunnel and some interesting parts of town. I picked off a few more groups and individuals in this section, hampered only slightly by some slightly rubbish obstacles that clearly were low on the priority list, being placed at the furthest outreaches of the course around 6-7k. I would regret these observations.

Because the next few sections were very, very tough. We moved along the Cowgate for just a few hundred metres before slowly slogging up another previously-unnoticed ancient close, popping out back on the Royal Mile.  An articulated lorry with its sides open stood blocking our progress, and the challenge here was to haul ourselves off the road and into the lorry and back down over the other side. Three times. For me this was – by far – the toughest obstacle on the course, and it left me drained and aching. The merciful downhill back to the Cowgate came as some relief as I tend to recharge on the run, and I hit the Grassmarket flying, weaving in and out between groups of tourists. At the far end of the Grassmarket I barrelled into a maze constructed of the kind of silver-grey mesh fencing you see at building sites, a disorientating experience as the near- and middle-distance fences all blended into one. I had two enormous guys running right on my shoulder, looking for a spot to overtake in the impossibly tight maze, and was astonished to find that when I eventually escaped the fence-tastic labyrinth they were nowhere to be seen. They must have given up on overtaking and gambled on taking a different - much longer - route through the maze, because their mad-dash sprints only overtook me another 500 metres later. Just luck, I suppose, as they were definitely closer to the much-overused label ‘the fittest’ than me.

It was almost over. Back in Princes Street Gardens there was more very important clambering to do, before a quick hop in a huge, inflatable pool full of filthy water that bore signs of already having been trampled through by 600 muddy runners. A last few hundred metres and then my own crack at the final wall, by now too congested and covered in writhing bodies for anyone to attempt a solo leap. Just as at the Deerstalker, runners now selflessly launched one another up and over, and after paying my dues I took my turn, happily running the few yards to the finish line.

Job done.

Having estimated around two hours to complete the course, thinking that congestion and constant obstacles would be its MO, I was startled to find that I'd finished in just 64 minutes. The Crew Chief, who had planned to come and see me finish an hour later, was still at home eating her lunch. I had overtaken hundreds of people from waves ahead of mine, and secured a final position of 586^th out of nearly 3,000. High fives to the rest of the VT crew - Kathryn, Sherien and Ruth (plus a couple who I didn't even set eyes on!). I am a little bruised, very sore and covered in scrapes, but utterly delighted and very eager to do it again, knowing now that I can plan for much more running and much less cardio than anticipated. This one – and by association its sister events in London, Cardiff and Nottingham – come highly recommended despite the hefty price tag. (Which, incidentally, is lower if you’re a real cool frood and do it for Venture Trust).

Coming soon on irunbecause.blogspot.com – some thoughts that may be of genuine non-narcissistic value, some exciting VLM news and more of the usual tosh. Exciting times.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 369.9, miles biked - 73.2, metres swum - 3950, races - 4

Edinbra Moonwalk 2012 - playing hard to get

It is a little-known fact that the Crew Chief became a marathoner before I did.

In spring 2008 Linds completed the Edinburgh Moonwalk with a motley crew of about twenty others. Wearing their decorated bras and reflective hi-viz caps they walked a marathon around the streets of the capital, starting at midnight and ploughing on until dawn broke and they finally completed their 26.2 miles. That same night I was in Oxford at the Christ Church Commemoration Ball with my brother, enjoying a 12 hour dusk-til-dawn white tie festival of extravagance and gluttony. I joked at the time that I had completed my own endurance event while Linds was power-walking around freezing cold and largely empty parts of Edinburgh, and was of the opinion that covering nearly 30 miles on foot, at any speed, was utter nonsense. After Paris, Brighton, SF, Loch Ness and Edinburgh, I’m still of the same opinion.

Our shared involvement with the Moonwalk has plodded alongside my obsession with marathon running, and Linds has since completed the ‘half moon’ part of the event in 2010 in a much-diminished team of just two. That night I crewed for her and Louise, running ahead of them to source a good supporting/photo spot and ready to dispense the requested warm clothes and spare food. I ran all over the city until around 2.30am, when I decided it was high time for my bed.

But this year I set upon the idea of leaving my nice warm bed in the early hours, then going out to find the loneliest, the emptiest, the most miserable and forlorn part of the route I could find, and bringing some cheer and banter to the poor souls still out there. Among my  very few premeditated altruistic gestures, I reckoned that this was a pretty good one. But then I came across a problem. A problem which led me to discover other problems. Fascinating problems.

The Moonwalk is a quality event, and achieves a great deal both in terms of promoting fitness and fundraising for its charity. Let us be in no doubt that I am in favour of fighting breast cancer. But I think the event has a tiny bit of an attitude problem. In trying to plan my early-morning solo cheer station, I wanted to check the route and work out roughly where I should go. But there’s no map. It’s deliberately withheld, apparently ‘for health and safety reasons’ – unlike any other event of its kind that I’ve ever heard of. Instead I found a vague description of the areas it covers, which isn’t what I needed. I needed street names and mile markers, so I could work out where the majority of people would be at a given time. I needed this because I wanted to go and support people I’ve never met, who are out walking in my home city in the middle of the night. Clearly I must be a health and safety risk.

In scouring the FAQs and other material on the Moonwalk website, I consistently come across the same overly-protective and sometimes haughty tone. No, you can’t wear your decorated bra over a T-shirt (they did). No, you can’t use walking poles (they did). No, we haven’t shut the roads, you should walk on the pavement (they didn’t). No, your family can’t come to the event village. No, you can’t run. No, there’s no recognition for being first or having your time recorded (but there are timing clocks, for some reason). No, you can’t raise money for other charities. No No No No No.

I can sort-of see why the organisers have done most of these things, perhaps in protecting their brand, fears of overcrowding or other quasi-legitimate concerns, but I can’t help but feel that as a non-participant  I was unwelcome. This is the opposite of what I adore about big city marathons – that buzzy, community, happy atmosphere that includes everyone. Races that have webpages devoted to helping spectators plan their cheering. Events that encourage people to be involved at all levels and in all ways. Finish line areas that are more like wonderfully chaotic festivals. The Moonwalk felt more like a private function. Maybe they're playing hard to get?

Driech.

But despite the organisers more or less actively discouraging spectators, I decided that the walkers deserved support nonetheless and was out of the door shortly after 6am. I took a stab at a likely direction, and headed east on my trusty bike to find one of the further outreaches of the course. I snaked my way through the city, piecing together a rough idea of the route from mile markers and glimpses of walkers. 20 minutes later I parked the bike and set up shop on a grey, concrete and otherwise abandoned part of the seafront, with the rear of a bus depot as my backdrop.

As the buses idled their filthy engines, puttering diesel fumes towards the walkers, and with spray from the sea occasionally harassing them from the other side, I cheered like an American. I handed out sweets, engaged in banter and generally tried to raise a smile from the poor unfortunates who had only covered 19 ½ miles since the official start seven hours ago. They would be on their feet for at least another two. The crazy-awesome-women-together-Dunkirk-spirit had ebbed a bit, replaced by a grim determination to get the job done. No more decorated bras and jolly fairy lights. I was cheering for women bundled up in fleeces, cardigans, ponchos, jackets, hoodies, scarves and plenty of other very sensible things to be wearing on exposed seafront in the drizzle. A couple were sheepishly scoffing on a takeaway McDonalds. One was carrying a Lidl shopping bag. I stayed there until I could see the very last walker, offering her a cheery ‘good morning’. She was, quite reasonably, not cheery.

Mile 26, in Inverleith park

On the way home I stopped in Inverleith park to congratulate some finishers, and contemplated bartering access to the event village – a sprawling city of enormous marquees, noise, light and cheery excitement, occupying a quarter of the park. But on seeing the fences and security drones in place, at that very moment turning away the bleary-eyed husband and children of a recent finisher, I thought better of it and headed for home a little deflated. Linds stayed in bed. Just saying.

I am suggesting very little in the way of change:

• Publicise a route map, like every other event. I will use it to plan my cheering and promise not to be a health or safety risk. 
• Remove some of the 'No's from the website and be a bit more flexible.
• Provide an event village which supporters can share in, particularly if you're going to take over a large part of a public park.

Edinburgh may be a capital city, but it's really just a small community, which rallies behind events like this. Please don't shut us out.

Happy walking

Dave


2012 to date: miles run - 221.95, miles biked - 69.2, metres swum - 2350, races - 3

Race Report - Edinburgh Marathon 2012

Hot. Very hot. Hotter than the surface of the sun on quite a warm day indeed.

These are the words which followed us around the Edinburgh marathon and the few panicked days beforehand. Forget the abysmal training regime, the injuries, the sleepless night, the fact that our entire running and supporting crew had their minds elsewhere, it was the heat that really kicked us in the face all the way to Gosford House and most of the way back. But what a kicking. What a run. What a day. What a weekend.

Allow me to introduce the players in this story. You should definitely know the Crew Chief by now – she cheers like an American, crews like a trooper and is generally awesome in many ways. You may have heard of Neil Gray: he was a crucial part of my dress rehearsal disaster, he took a cool photo of some surprising zebras, and about a hundred years ago was an international standard age-group sprinter for Orkney and Scotland.  His fiancée Karlie Robinson is his own personal crew – and pacer, as it turns out. Finally the inimitable Alex B Dixon, a man of boundless talent and energy, who was there for my first ever Edinburgh marathon relay back in 2008, and was there for the whole thing yesterday too. In a supporting role was Rebecca Schmidt, herself a marathoner but today acting in a professional capacity, cheering from one of the Barnardo’s stands. Neil, Alex and I were running, and Linds, Karlie and Rebecca were crewing. We were all to be very hot.

 _________________

I’d like to write this post purely about the race, but that doesn’t feel remotely possible. Late on Saturday night a mutual friend of us all passed away in sudden, tragic and unexpected circumstances. The shock and devastation sat incongruously, impossibly, miserably alongside a glorious summer’s day and the pre-race marathon nerves. None of us slept well, and in the morning I would have happily traded anything to be waking up without that news. I lay in bed for an hour or so as the early morning light crept into the room, too sad and angry to imagine running a marathon.

But a marathon is what we had signed up for, and no good would come of us abandoning our endeavours. No-one spoke a word of dissent as the early morning preparations unfolded. Perhaps I was the only one who doubted whether we should be doing this. Perhaps everyone did.

_________________

Our plan started to falter immediately. Living just a couple of miles from the start line, I guessed that we could easily call a cab to shuttle us from the flat to the off. Amazingly, one or two other marathoners had the same idea, and as the clock ticked to 9:20 (for a 9:50 start!) there was still no taxi to be seen, evidently busy ferrying others around. We gave a small sigh at our atrocious failure and started to walk there, eventually hailing a cab for the last mile or so, and arriving at the start line with about eight minutes to spare.

Back when I registered for this race, hot on the heels of my 3:49 PB in ‘the race even marathoners fear’, I had optimistically put 3:40 as my target time for ‘the fastest marathon in the UK’. Seven months later, with a wrecked ankle, an aching oedema and having run less than 200 miles in training, I knew I would be nowhere near that so positioned myself at the very back of the London Road start. Neil and Alex, who had predicted finishes of 3:59 and 4:05 respectively, were starting from Regent Road, and it was for this reason that I loitered outside Holyrood Palace, less than a mile into the race, waiting for Neil to arrive. For those few early miles together nothing could have been better. A beautiful day, out for a run, with my mate and 12,000 others, having some headspace to try to unpick the sad events of the past 24 hours. Marathoning isn’t therapy, it’s just time, space, and the simple act of putting one foot in front of the other. Which is what we needed.

We ran to mile three together, already sweating heavily through our factor 50 sun cream, where Neil left me to pursue my run/walk strategy. I planned to walk the first 30-60 seconds of every mile, running thereafter, in the hope of staving off serious fatigue until later in the race. Which sort-of worked. Around mile 5 Alex overtook me too, and I kept him in sight for the next four miles or so, letting him slip away as I walked then catching up to within a few feet on the runs. Crowd support was much better than in previous years, and even early on people were out in their gardens launching sprays of water across the course. No hosepipe ban for us.

Of course, as I’ve mentioned before, at mile 7 or 8 you really aren’t in Edinburgh any more, instead running through small coastal towns in East Lothian. By the time I reached Linds and Karlie’s cheer station in Musselburgh, just before mile 10, I felt good and strong, ready for more. Unpressured by time or racing, I took in the luxury of stopping to chat to them, wolfing down Haribo and reassuring them that the heat wasn’t getting to me just yet. However, the blistering was. Though I had no complaints from my awful ankle, the balls of my feet were starting to blister. At mile 11 I ran into a first aid tent, and with very little haste a well-meaning but possibly rather simple volunteer taped some padding to the underside of my feet. I reapplied socks and shoes, and wondered how on earth I was going to cover another 15 miles on these uncomfortable things...

With very little shade and having already stopped three times, I thought it best to push on for a few miles and make some good progress. But by the halfway point, clocking around 2:08, I was starting to feel the energy sapped from my muscles and was having difficulty balancing between taking on water and staying cool with it. I did not want hyponatremia for my trouble. But the heat was serious, and I probably saw at least 10 runners being tended to at the side of the road, some on drips, others with oxygen. I counted my blessings and thought of other things. For a mile or two it looked like a haar was coming in off the sea, but sadly it never materialised and we continued to roast in the sun. I struggled to maintain enthusiasm and focus as I passed such delightful landmarks as Cockenzie power station and bland featureless roads, but unconditionally adored the enthused crowd support in the pockets of civilisation, and sporadically remembered why I love this sport so much.

Between 16 and 18 I gradually felt my strength rebuilding, and on one of the switchbacks, impossibly, I saw that Neil was behind me by around 40 seconds. Enthused by this miraculous turnaround I pushed on into the grounds of Gosford House, where I paused briefly to give a TV interview to a woman who told me it was ‘only 6 miles to go!’, which was an outrageous lie. I suspect that I may have been too rude for transmission. Some small respite from the sun came in a wooded path, and it was here that I stopped for a while to help a woman who had tripped over her feet and landed nastily, cutting her knee and hand. I walked with her for a while as she got over the shock. We ambled and talked and eventually she disappeared back into the crowd. I saw her briefly a little later as she sailed past me looking strong and determined. I was genuinely delighted for her.

And from here, it was a struggle. I ran/walked/hobbled/walked/power-walked/ran in intermittent bursts, going as fast as my cramping, popping muscles would allow. I chatted to some people, remarked that it was really rather warm and generally enjoyed the atmosphere and banter. I made a point of running past the bloody awful power station, wanting it out of my sight as quickly as possible, but otherwise chose my pace according to hills, company and the whim of the universe. It felt like it took weeks but eventually, by some miracle, I loped into mile 25 where Linds was waiting for me. Karlie had left with Neil about 10 minutes earlier, incredibly, pacing him to the finish line in her flip-flops. With two bags and two folding chairs to carry, the Crew Chief declined to pace me home, so I jogged as much of the last mile as I could manage before finally turning into the park and the finish line, crossing in a spectacular PW of 4:44:15.

Me, Alex and Neil with our impossibly enormous medals.

Despite the trademark Edinburgh Marathon disappointment of the reunion areas and general finish logistics, we eventually found each other. Neil finished in a solid 4:33, and Alex ran a stonking 4:14. Both will improve massively on a cooler day, and I look forward to writing about their next accomplishments one day soon. We lay on the grass under a cloudless sky and thought about things. After a small period of regrouping, swapping war stories, stretching and admiring sunburn we hauled ourselves up a 900-mile hill to the shuttle bus departure point. We joined the back of a queue of 1.2 million people and eventually got a bus back to the city, and another cab back home. We talked about our day, and our weekend, and what it meant to us. We laughed. We had a lot of food and a small amount of beer, and eventually our day was done. I was asleep just before 10pm.

Never again will I run a marathon without adequate training. I enjoyed this experience and the opportunity to take time over things, and being released from time pressure meant that my head was clearer to just have fun with it. But the constant feeling that I could have done better was nagging me all the way round, if only I had done some training.

Quite separately, painful thoughts affected all of us throughout the day, and in a way I took strength from an ongoing determination to make this whole mad enterprise worthwhile. Neil and I agreed later that if we were going to run a marathon with a lost friend in our thoughts, then we should bloody well do it properly. DNF was never an option.

Happy running, friends. And rest in peace Steven.

Dave


2012 to date: miles run - 215.2, miles biked - 52.2, metres swum - 1150, races - 3

How I deliberately cycled 35 miles

Exactly one year ago, when the Crew Chief was away for the weekend, I packed a rucksack and fairly spontaneously ran 18 miles along theWater of Leith on my own. I don’t know where this impulse comes from, but when left to my own devices I seem to get an uncontrollable urge to go on some sort of self-supported adventure. Perhaps it’s because the Chief would point out the obvious flaws in my (lack of) planning. Or maybe just that I’d rather spend my free days with her when I can.

Whatever it is, it’s happened again.

This time there was slightly more planning, mostly because I recruited another person to join me on my frivolous jaunt – Will Wright. If Will had been born in the early eighteenth century, he would have been some sort of swashbuckling pioneer, discovering new lands and claiming them for floppy-haired Welshmen everywhere. Since he was born in the late eighties he has to make do with a lot of travel, mad business ventures and cycling all over the place instead. I also needed to make more of an equipment plan, as this was to be a cycling adventure. Since I know nothing about bike maintenance I ended up spending eleventy billion pounds getting my bike serviced before daring to use it over a significant distance. So slightly more planning, yes. But not much.

Having never cycled more than about 10 miles in one go, I didn’t really have a frame of reference about what was achievable. So instead we picked a route, the towpath that runs alongside the Union Canal, and a vague destination, the extraordinary Falkirk Wheel, planning to get the train home afterwards. The canal runs all the way from Edinburgh to Glasgow, and Falkirk is a little under two-thirds between the two. 

Ready for the off.

And so it was that at precisely 10.38 a.m. on Sunday that Will and I set off – the pedals on his mountain bike held together with duct tape and the narrow, brand new tyres on my hybrid entirely inappropriate for the varied terrain ahead. We cycled the early miles through the heavily-populated part of the canal’s path, where cheerful barges share the canal with rowers and kayakers, calm suburban gardens back onto the water and almost everyone seems to be walking a small white terrier. There was very little chance to pick up any speed, as this carefully-maintained part of the route is neatly tarmaced and often crowded with walkers, runners, cyclists and children. But no matter – it’s a lovely place to be. Once we had crossed the aqueduct over the Edinburgh bypass, we were deposited into beautiful green countryside. We were making good time and enjoying the freedom of a day on the bike, by and large, and I was waiting for some tiredness to kick in so I could get on with the ensuing endorphin surge.

We managed a little over six miles before needing a pit stop, when Will had to remove his rear mudguard to stop it angrily rubbing against the back tyre. Will is the kind of person who never goes anywhere without an adjustable spanner, a multi-tool and a roll of duct tape. He is a useful person to have around if things move when they shouldn't or don’t when they should. Five minutes later we were back on the trail, speeding though countryside.

Then more countryside.

And some more countryside.

Then, suddenly, even more countryside.

In fact, 15 miles in, we were getting a little bit bored of countryside. With the canal always on our left, a quickly-deteriorating trail under our wheels and fields spread out everywhere else, the view was beautiful but monotonous. Those few landmarks that did pop up quickly receded into the distance, leaving us to continue contemplating the fields. The trail was becoming an issue too. Perhaps when it was built by some bearded Victorians it was carefully laid down and relatively smooth, but in 2011 the majority of the path is either hard earth or broken stones, which my unforgiving tyres juddered over for miles on end. My hands slowly shook to pieces as the handlebars vibrated viciously in my grip. As I watched Will sail off into the distance, smoothly riding his mountain bike on chunky fat tyres, I conceded that I had brought the wrong tool for the job...

Two hours after setting off we arrived in Linlithgow, our nominally-designated lunch stop, and cycled into town in search of sustenance. We had covered just over 21 miles. I was utterly starving and starting to tire, with sore knees and a few other niggling complaints. Weirdly, I seem to have missed out on the endorphin surge that I would have expected from two hours of non-stop exercise. Maybe I was doing it wrong, but I know for certain that after running for two hours I am always exhausted and elated – two hours into our bike ride I was just exhausted.

After lunch, the trail got worse. Large muddy patches posed a serious skidding risk, as I frequently lost what little traction I had. In places we were cycling on what looked like a thin forest track, very far removed from the smooth, broad path we started the morning on. Weaving around puddles was turning into a dangerous activity too, as we swerved pointlessly away from the mud and water. We ended up covered in a thin layer of mud and Will’s lack of a rear mudguard made a predictable mess of his back and trousers. 

But as it deteriorated the route was getting more interesting. At one point we cycled through the most extraordinary tunnel, probably a mile long and bored directly through an enormous hill. The roof of the tunnel was lit up every 20 metres or so, showing the rough rock edges and giving the impression of some sort of underground boat ride at Disneyland, looking almost too spooky to be real. All we could do was focus on the light at the end of the tunnel, as in places it was so dark that when I looked down I lost my balance, unable to distinguish between the wall, the ground and my wheels. Veering off course here would have ended very badly indeed – specifically, in the canal, in the dark, with a bike.

The miles kept ticking along, albeit rather slower than they had earlier. We were both pretty tired, and happy to bimble along side-by-side where the path allowed, discussing the monotony of the landscape and generally putting the world to rights. Just a mile and  a half from Falkirk, Will’s duct-taped pedal finally snapped in two and he made the rest of the journey with his foot resting on its broken shaft. Closing in on the last mile we passed a lock, the first we had seen after the miles and miles of perfectly flat water, and suddenly we were cycling along a heavily developed section of canal, including going through a modern concrete (and mercifully well lit) tunnel. As we broached daylight at the end, the Falkirk Wheel popped up in front of us, an impressive and very welcome sight.

Mission accomplished. And before you shout at me, I took my helmet off for this photo.
Otherwise I wore it all day, promise.

We had a very brief look around (disappointed not to see the wheel in action) and then meandered into Falkirk in search of the train station. After having cycled over 35 miles and spending most of the day travelling under my own steam, it was quite depressing to find that my train fare home was less than £4, for a journey of just 25 minutes. Such is life.

I have concluded a few things from this cycling initiative. First, that cycling is much more efficient than running. If I was even capable of doing it, a 35 mile run would probably take me between five and six hours, and I would be struggling to walk for weeks afterwards. On the bike it took us less than 3 ½ at a leisurely, comfortable pace. Second, that my bike is really not suitable for all terrains. Third, and probably most importantly, I’ve concluded what I long suspected: that cycling, for me, lacks the magic that makes it so hard to explain the appeal of running. Cycling feels like a means to an end – just a way to get from A to B. Running isn’t about A or B, it’s about the journey. If I had run 35 miles yesterday I know I would have finished the trip forever changed by the experience. Instead I’ve just got some mud on my trainers and had a nice day out. Cycling lacks the magic.

Unless, of course, I just didn't cycle far enough...

Happy locomotion

Dave

2011 to date: miles: 1020.62, parkruns: 6, races: 6, miles biked: 155, metres swum: 1225

Home Turf

2012, by and large, is supposed to be a money-saving year. In September the Crew Chief and I will be buying dinner for 110 of our closest friends, then jetting off on some sort of exotic holiday in pursuit of sun, sea and upgrades – so until then we will be saving.
 
2012 won’t be a year, therefore, in which I hop on a plane to fly halfway around the world for a marathon. In fact for a while I thought I wouldn’t be running a marathon at all, instead focussing on shorter distances and building up some core strength and speed. But after just a small amount of soul-searching, I can’t bear the thought of leaving it until 2013 to run marathon number five...
 
So I’ve decided to run a 26.2 that starts less than two miles from my front door: The Edinburgh Marathon.
 
Yes, I know, I’ve complained about it before. There’s a lot wrong with this race, some of it fundamental, and going by previous form it seems unlikely that it’s going to change any time soon. But in the spirit of austerity I’m thinking that running a race which incurs no travel costs and no accommodation costs, no time off work and no peripheral sightseeing expense is a Good Thing.
 
In fact the more I think about it the more I like the idea of running a ‘home’ marathon. I have seven and a half months to prepare for it, plenty of time to explore every inch of the course and learn every turn and undulation (although I’ve run the first half of this race during the relay, I’ve yet to experience what the route is like after 13 miles). The 10am start means I don’t need to be up for breakfast until 8, don’t need to leave the flat until 9.15 at the earliest. Assuming a half decent run and some post-race cunning, I could be back home with a frosty beer by mid-afternoon.
 
A half-decent run...
 
Yes, alright, my interest was piqued by the idea of running a mostly-downhill course, certified as ‘the fastest marathon in the UK’. Loch Ness and SF were wildly undulating; aggressive, spiky hills popping up at most turns for punishment on the way up and the way down in equal measure. Edinburgh starts with a gentle descent and is then overwhelmingly flat. I can’t help but imagine what might have happened if I had run Edinburgh instead of SF this year – no jetlag, no crazy early start, no mad sightseeing or cycling adventures the day before and most of all no real hills. All else being equal, how much time could I have taken off? 5 minutes? More?
 
The trade-off, of course, is that whilst SF was a 26.2 mile sightseeing tour of an iconic American city, Edinburgh’s course is mostly on tedious, exposed seafront and largely run in rural East Lothian. Instead of enjoying a two-week holiday in the USA I’ll be back to work the next day. Instead of finishing on a palm tree-lined boulevard with the Bay Bridge in the background I’ll be crossing the line on a random street in an anonymous suburb. But who cares? If all goes to plan, maybe I won’t be out there for long...
 
Put simply, I want to run for a PB in Edinburgh in May 2012. And I am going to work very, very hard to get it.
 
Watch this space.
 
Happy running
 
Dave

2011 to date: miles: 1008.56, parkruns: 6, races: 6, miles biked: 120.06, metres swum: 1225 

Zero to Hero

At 11am on Saturday I was sprawled over the sofa in my pyjamas; lethargic, grumpy and bemoaning various aches and pains. I had more or less no interest in leaving the flat for any reason whatsoever, least of all to pursue the 16+ mile run I had scheduled in for myself. I was on my own, slightly glum and generally not bothered. At all.

By 2pm I was back in the flat, elated, surging with endorphins and having recorded my longest run of the year to date. How did this miraculous turnaround happen? I’m not sure, but I’ll try to work it out.

The first hurdle was to bully myself into getting dressed and ready. I agreed with myself that if I put my gear on, I would go for at least a little run. No way would I put my running kit on and then endure the shame of taking it all off again to return to pyjamas. I did, however, take an outrageously long time to get dressed, postponing the moment that I’d actually have to step outside for as long as possible. My procrastination was epic. I downloaded a new podcast (The Marathon Show) to listen to on the run. I tied and retied my laces. I insisted on adding ice to my water bottle. I pursued every avenue of potential timewasting for as long as possible, until I had literally no further excuses.

I finally got out of the door at 11.55, almost an hour and a half later than optimum-run-o’clock. I stubbornly maintained absolutely no interest in running the full, prescribed 16 miles, but since the first 8 miles of my planned route were loops relatively near the flat I thought I may as well pursue them. I trotted cheerfully up the hill, confident in the knowledge that I had dozens of opportunities to cut things short.

My first mile was heavily handicapped by traffic lights, registering an impressively slow 9:41. I didn’t care. This run didn’t matter. It wasn’t a long training outing or anything. I trotted cheerfully along the Grassmarket and eventually all the way down to Holyrood Park, ticking off the miles slowly but surely. I dug in and put in a lap of Arthur’s Seat, slowly remembering why I like running and amiably racing a few other pavement-pounders who had joined me on the popular route. At the highest point, with a staggering view over the Forth and across to Fife, I knew this run was going to go well.

At the foot of Arthur’s Seat I headed for the Royal Mile, intending to run all the way up to Edinburgh Castle and rack up some altitude. Seemed like a great idea. But no, terrible mistake – the Royal Mile on a Saturday lunchtime is more or less the most densely populated place in the entire Universe (it’s definitely in the top ten). I was weaving in and out of the camera-toting masses, trying to contain my pedestrian-hating rage as I picked my way through the crowds. There was a wedding, some street performers, half a dozen bagpipers and coach loads of bimbling tourists. Nightmare.

Then suddenly, like a triathlete sensing the very gravest injustice, I could feel someone running on my shoulder. I glanced back. A greasy boy of about 16, laughing and shouting in Italian to a friend toting a camera, was keeping pace with me. His reeking cigarette hung lazily from two fingers. His gleaming white tracksuit shimmered in the sunlight.  I doubt it has ever been near a track. My brief stint of studying Italian was enough to know that I was being mocked for running slowly. 

The boy kept pace for just a fraction too long.

I know, I know. I was out for a training session. I was 6 miles into what was clearly now going to be a 16 mile serious long run. I was climbing a very steep hill and maintaining a carefully modulated pace. I am a serious marathoner with multiple long-distance goals in both the short and long term. But the Italian was very, very annoying. I know I shouldn’t have. But I did it anyway. 

I decided to teach him a thing or two about runners.

I surged forward like a shot, sprinting at full pelt up the cobbled street. The Italian laughed, he was game, this was what he wanted. He picked up too, a fraction behind. But I just kept sprinting, dodging back and forward between bollards and groups of tourists. I glanced back to see the look on his stupid face, and saw him fading faster than a free commemorative T-shirt. After just a few seconds he was long gone, I imagine he started crying. To prove the point I pounded out another few hundred metres at suicide pace, finally reaching the castle with burning lungs and heavy legs. It was awesome.

The next 10 miles were more difficult as a result, if I'm honest. But who cares? Some random tourist who I'll never see again was taught a pointless lesson and it made me feel great. I finished the full 16.6 miles in 2:17, averaging 8:18 minutes/mile. I was elated.

Aaw, yeah. Click to enlarge.

I encourage you to educate any Italians who annoy you, too.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 570.52, parkruns: 6, races: 3, miles biked: 47.44, metres swum: 925

When I grow up I want to be...

...a race director. It would be my perfect job.

I came to this conclusion on Sunday afternoon, after supporting the Edinburgh Marathon and later reading comments that runners had left in various places – on the facebook page, on the Runners’ World website and in The Scotsman, all of which highlight basic errors made by marathon organisers who really should know better. This was the 9^th running of the Edinburgh Marathon in its present form, under the same corporate for-profit leadership, and to my mind it’s getting worse.

The many complaints highlight the fact that runners expect a product that is high-quality overall and supported by top-notch attention to detail. The Edinburgh race used to get away with its weird course, (of which 80% is nowhere near Edinburgh and large portions are exposed to the seafront), by virtue of a high-quality experience for the runner elsewhere. This year it was the overlooked details which damaged its appeal. Runners’ comments focussed on:

• Small or missing mile markers. An inexcusable mistake in a road race. I read a comment which simply said ‘Not enough mile markers. The optimum number is 26.’
• A course which includes a loose gravel surface, large sections through industrial areas, very little association to the City of Edinburgh and a frustrating finger-loop right at the end of the race- these are annual problems, usually forgiven, but this year thrown into sharp relief asdisgruntled customers seek to increase their lists of grievances...
• Large sections with no crowd support at all. Hardly surprising given the course layout, and again an annual problem.
• An uninspiring finish. The race used to finish at Musselburgh Racecourse in front of a grandstand, this year it was diverted to a featureless residential street near the racecourse for reasons unclear.
• Poor post-race support and facilities. No spectators were allowed in the final few hundred metres of the race, creating a strange and slightly deflated finish-line environment. The reunion areas and shuttle buses were a hefty distance from the finish, and access to those areas was insufficient and potentially dangerous given the crowd size.
• Wrong medals and T-shirts. When you finish a marathon effort, the last thing you want is someone handing you a half-marathon T-shirt, or a generic medal that doesn’t properly commemorate your achievement.
• A big screen in the reunion area, purportedly placed to show the finish line action to the displaced spectators, was instead showing footage from last year’s T in the Park. With the sound off.
• Inefficient, slow and not enough shuttle buses. Imagine you’ve just finished a marathon, then walked two miles on blistered feet to find a bus, only to wait in a lengthy queue for a slow, old vehicle where no-one checks the ticket you’ve paid for before taking you on a 45-minute journey to somewhere not terribly near the city centre. Misery.

All this for just £45! I read these comments open-mouthed.

Marathoners deserve better. Whether Edinburgh was their first or fiftieth 26.2, the race’s practical shortcomings will probably have tarnished many runners’ experience. It looked like a race organised by a bank, not a group of dedicated and inspired pavement pounders. I couldn’t help but think that I could organise a better race than this with my eyes closed.

So I’m going to. Watch this space.

Happy running.

Dave

P.S. I'm off to the Mull of Kintyre tomorrow to cover the half marathon and festival of running over the weekend for an article. More details to follow.

2011 to date - miles: 518.31, parkruns: 6, races: 2, miles biked: 47.44, metres swum: 675