HP40: Two More Sleeps!

Greetings – and thanks for taking the time to read this. Has tha really got nowt better to do?

Bonus kudos if you took the time to read my previous post. A few people did – and their feedback was highly reassuring. Faith and religion don’t feature on the list of Standard UK Discussion Topics: it took me a while to convince myself the piece was ready to be shared and that I’d worded it in the inoffensive way intended, seems I got there in the end. Phew!

Just a quick parish notice: I ran the Bristol Half Marathon on Sunday. When I ran it less than twelve months ago, it was my first Half Marathon and only my second race, after the previous week’s Sheffield TenTenTen. In 2012, I clocked 1h49’56” and was ecstatic. On Sunday, I clocked 1h37’11”! So, as you can imagine, I was…

…well, disappointed. Indeed: well disappointed! I’d set off hoping to break the 1h30’ barrier. I did so at the right pace to achieve that goal, but halfway through downgraded my expectations to 1h35’. And, by the time I’d struggled through the final few miles, even that proved over-optimistic.

Having slept on the result for three nights now, it’s not as bad as I first thought in the heat of the moment (and subsequent hours). My summer training’s been all about the High Peak Challenge 40: I may have overdone it in the quantity vs quality stakes, but at least I know I’ve done the miles to look ahead confidently to Buxton, whenever that may be. And, regardless, I have shaved off 12’48” in twelve months – virtually a minute per mile. Sub-1h30’ was simply an overambitious goal; and, had I not set off at the pace I did, I would probably have comfortably hit 1h35’, maybe (but unlikely) even sneaked in under my 1h33’44” PB from Sheffield. But I set off at the exact 6’45”/mi pace I’d planned and I can’t have regrets now. I did nothing unplanned on the day. Or on the eve, for that matter: the fish&chips I ate on the Saturday night had been planned for a week. It just so happens that I had to implement Plan B (“I can always slow down if need be”) earlier than feared. And that I should know better than to eat fish and blinkin’ chips the night before a race – whatever some folk might say on’t Interweb. I’ve read whole books on nutrition, for crying out loud…

…as I posted on Strava on Sunday evening (amongst many things):

“Would have liked to have at least managed sub-1h35' but it's still OK. In fact… truth be told… …all a cunning plan! 1,177th a decent improvement on 3,481st: sure, we only really race against ourselves, but still… And, by "holding back" from hitting 1h30', I've left myself something to aim for next year (21/09/14) – sub 1h30’ AND Top 1,000!”

Ah well – live and learn. Can’t set a PB every time I race, can I? No, I can’t – and, after six races, that day came. Not to worry. And that’s my final word on Sunday. Because, as I’ve said all along during the summer, my autumn racing is all about the High Peak 40 Challenge. And that takes place… when is it again? Oh yes, that’s right – it takes place…

SATURDAY!!!

Forget 21/09/2013: it’s SATURDAY. 40 miles of Peak District countryside. Over 5,000ft of elevation. Saturday.

You can expect a post-event briefing next week. It’s already got a working title (“Running With The Twirler”), even though I’ve not started working on it yet. I expect I’ll mention the running bit, although Saturday more than ever it really is not just about the running – even if there will be more of that than I’ve ever done…

…Saturday will be about the camaraderie. The camaraderie with Chris, Martin B, Martin H, Matt, Mike, Philip, Simon and Trevor that, together with the breath-taking scenery, will be the foundation for a glorious day. A day that will hurt, that will hurt in places I didn’t know I had places – but each and every drop of sweat, grimace and sigh will pale into insignificance compared to the prize on offer. And I don’t mean the medal: indeed, there is no medal. Just a patch badge and a certificate. Oh, and I think I paid separately for a t-shirt, too. Fortunately there’ll be food along the way – but even that, even the flapjack hardly constitutes a prize. Not when it’s set to disappear within seconds rather than be on display for a lifetime. No, the prize is…

…a lifetime of friendships.

Last December, I wrote about the importance of “DYRWW” (“Do You Remember When We”) moments in male friendships. Of how running last year’s Bristol Half Marathon, as well as two training runs beforehand, changed and cemented my friendship with Jon, who paced me to my sub-2hr effort. That was no small achievement, five months into my relationship with running. But Saturday…

…Saturday’s run will be three times the length. It will be over eight times the elevation. There won’t be too much tarmac (although more than most fell races, to be fair) and the descents will be just as challenging as the ascents, just in a different manner. For me, it’ll be unfamiliar territory: the nearest to this I’ve done is the Portishead Coast Path. The Coast Path is scenic, at times narrow (especially beyond the point I’ve captured in this album, a section which I only discovered this year), but Peak District-like it ain’t. So it’ll be a… er, “steep learning curve” come Saturday.

Oh, I have a working title because I know whom I’ll be running with. In theory, anyway. Recognising it’s unlikely that a dozen or so people will stick together for 40 miles, Mike went to the trouble of suggesting pairings, to ensure nevertheless that nobody will be on their own. Where he went wrong in his otherwise inspired effort was in pairing himself up with me. And I’ve told him as such. He, the whippersnapper of Highland Fling fame; me, the trail virgin, the flat-track bully. And not even that bully – not in Bristol, anyway. Regardless, it’s a gesture I appreciate: I’ll do my best to not hold him back. And if he does need to kill some time… well, he can twirl away, as is his want. But let me run the thing before I report on it.

Fortunately (or as the result of hard graft – you decide), I’m feeling good about Saturday. I feel my legs are ready for the challenge and I believe that, Deo adjuvante, labor proficit*. I am not putting myself under any time pressure, meaning my one and only goal is to get round: a long way round, granted, but without spending too much time looking at my Garmin. There will be plenty of other things to look at: the breath-taking views all around, the terrain right in front…

As long as I stay clear of injuries (and that’s no small assumption on a 40mi ultra in the Peak District), I am prepared for a glorious day. To a day at the end of which I can look up to the sky and whisper: “We did it”. Which is not to say I’m expecting this to be easy: I am equally prepared for the fight, the grimaces, the sweat and the tears that will precede (and follow) my crossing the line. There may be tears of pain: hopefully not, realistically quite possibly. And I expect there will be the usual pre-start tears, as was once again the case on Sunday. I wasn’t actually thinking about my brothers right then, yet all of a sudden there I was, fighting them back. I mentioned this to Karen in the evening and she said it wasn’t fare that I carried this burden. But it’s no burden. It’s strength, inspiration, motivation, support. But having two angels who carry you over the wall… no, that’s no burden.

‘Brothers’… it’s a big word. It’s one I consciously use at times when addressing kindred spirits, with no feeling of guilt towards the original ones. It’s one I may use on Saturday: not in the literal sense, but as an all-encompassing expression of friendship, trust, reliance and kinship. Use, not abuse. Because there are two sets of people towards whom I need to be fair and respectful, in different ways. And I will be.

Anyway…

…the bag’s packed. I keep wondering whether I’ve got everything in there – but that’s OK, they have supermarkets in Sheffield. Three en route from Sheffield Train Station to Simon’s place, in fact – and two within walking distance from there! Waaa-heeey!

Do I sound excited? Well let me let you into a secret: I am. There’s a Christmas eve eve-like childish exhilaration about how I’m feeling right now. Like a kid on December 23, I’m two sleeps away from the big day. Like a kid on December 23, I’ve high hopes not just about what I’ll get, but about how I’ll feel about getting it. And, like a kid on December 23, I have the knowledge that my dreams may not come true. But that’s not to say I’m not dying to find out.

Bring it on, High Peak 40. You don’t scare me. You don’t scare me because I don’t view you as an adversary. I view you as an old friend to whom I’m paying an overdue visit, a different one to all those that have come before. It’s high time we caught up on a few things. And that’s fine with me: I’ve got all day. A day I’ll be spending with new-found friends who get it, who understand what it is with me and running – indeed, who are largely responsible for that relationship’s existence and progress. Saturday will seal friendships that have so far only existed, in the main, from behind keyboards, across the Internet: but it will mark neither their beginning nor their end.So put t’kettle on, High Peak 40 – I’m coming home. To my original home, anyway.

There was a time when I couldn’t stand running. That time is over. Hey, Mike – do remind me I actually said that if I start moaning on Saturday..!


* in principle I do, anyway – let’s not get into that whole discussion again, not now!