A Tale of Two Halves

Catchy, right? I thought so!

I came up with it during the first of two Half Marathons I ran recently. What I didn’t realise at the time was just quite how apt a title it would prove. Sometimes I surprise even myself. Just not always for the right reasons.

For years now, I’ve been carrying the sub-90 HM monkey on my back. Unfairly, I’ve since realised: certainly in 2013 I was no sub-90 runner. In March that year I clocked 01:34’38” at the Bath Half: and, whilst six months later the night-before-race-day fishandchipsandmushypeas didn’t help, it wasn’t the sole factor in denying me sub-90’ in Bristol, although it certainly had an impact on a sorry 1:37’11” since, during the latter half of the race, I unsurprisingly regretted giving in to Mrs S’ request. However, last year’s Bristol was the first time sub-90’ was a realistic goal: one I missed out on by 70”, a stitch hampering me during the final four miles and even forcing me to a walking pace for thirty seconds or so. Annoying as that was, it was the first time I could view sub-90’ as a realistic next step rather than some far-flung dream.

Between January and August 2015 I ran four ultras and one marathon, as well as half a 10k (before being “seizured out”). September would feature two Halves, and I would race them both; October is set to feature three marathons, of which I’ll truly race none. My sole post-West Highland Way Race goal has been a sub-90’ half, something just about reflected by my summer runs, with only two breaking the twenty-mile barrier, one of those being the Devil O’The Highlands 42-mile race. Marathons aside, the one race that will attract some attention now is a 10k in December, my last race as a Senior before I evolve into a Vet. But, till last Sunday, my focus had been on 13.1.

The first half was the Chippenham Half Marathon. An undulating route through the country lanes of Wiltshire, featuring less than two-thousand competitors. But don’t let that suggest it was an amateur event: its organisation was textbook. Well done Chippenham Harriers!

I underwent my usual alcohol-deprivation in the weeks prior to the race, on the morning of which I was far more nervous than at the start of the West Highland Way Race. Back in June, I knew I’d put in the training, and firmly believed that, barring the unpredictable (and thus the not-worth-whittling-about), I would reach Fort William. I had a time goal (on which I narrowly, if somewhat hilariously, missed out), but that was purely indicative: the indicator of success was completion. And, because of the training I’d put in, because of those back-to-back runs (especially the forty-milers), I felt confident I’d do it. Not in a presumptuous way, but in that relaxed way that unites Ultrarunners: we know it won’t be easy, we know there’ll be dark moments, but we know we are likely to meet up at the end smiles-a-gleamin’, our times of relative importance. For the likes of me, anyroad.

But Sunday, September 6 was different. I could run the Chippenham HM course seven times and I’d still be four miles short of the West Highland Way route: and that without mentioning some 9,570ft of elevation. The trouble was, this time it was a matter of time. I had more butterflies in my stomach that morning than I’d had midgies along The West Highland Way. And that’s saying summat.

At least the logistics had been simplified for me. I’d booked myself on a train from Bristol to Chippenham, least I thought: turned out the Bath-Chippenham section would be by bus. I was due to get off the train around 9:00 for a 9:30 start. Doable, but hardly an ideal start to the day, especially when you factor in I’d have to leave home around 06:45. I’d failed to find a fellow Portishead R.C. member who’d be running it and could get me there, but that’s where Facebook came to my rescue: Dom offered to help, as did Jane, a Bristol & West AC runner who lives in Portishead. In simple terms, this meant I was able to walk out of my front door ten minutes later than my train left Bristol Temple Meads, converting a taxi fare into two post-race cups of tea for Jane and her partner. Not to mention getting to the race in perfect time, without whittling about toilets and… well, toilets.

The Dom I mentioned above is a fellow Little Stoke parkrunner, who’d run the race before. We’d chatted briefly about it at parkrun on the eve of the race, and his view that it was a better PB course than Bristol surprised me. The official site offers some information about the route, but no great detail on elevation. Fortunately, Dom’s 2014 Strava record allowed me to better study the profile, and become aware of incline at miles 10.8 and 12 (one mile and half a mile respectively) and a downhill finish. So: try to run the first eleven miles at 6’45”/mi to get there with some time in hand, hang on and give it whatever’s left over the last half a mile.

I spotted Dom before the start, what with him being 7ft tall. I also met Darren, this not a weekly occurrence but a first, other than me shouting encouragement as he headed for the finish at last year’s Chester Marathon. He’d also offered to help with a lift, although that was never really going to work, what with him coming down from the Midlands. It was nice to finally meet after years of tweets and Strava comments, even if Darren wasn’t overly confident, a job change having blown away the regularity of his training. I volunteered that sometimes we run our best races when we least expect it and we made our way to the start. Cometh 9:30, the Town Mayor said a few words that nobody heard, as the loudspeaker covered his lips but failed to amplify what came out of them – and we were off!

The first few miles set the scene in terms of undulation. Dom’s description of “Wiltshire flat” was pretty spot on. Sure, no WHW: but, equally, as someone who lives and runs in Portishead, this was no variation from the norm. If we exclude the tempo runs along a three-quarter of a mile flat stretch of road, that is…
…the highlight of those first few miles? A kid around mile one asking his mum if “they start to go faster soon”. Not sure he heard my “No”! If I had the time to spare, I’d have indeed added that, exceptions notwithstanding, the longer you watch a race at any given point, the slower the racers. I hope the experience didn’t put him off running for life.

The first half of the race was uneventful by any runners’ standards, exponentially so mine. Pace was where I wanted it and I soon found a cluster of runners who seemed as if they could make an unknowing pacing group. Halfway through the race and all was good. I reached 6.6mi in forty-five minutes: not that I realised this at the time, as all I care for during a race are mile-splits. But I remember thinking I was on track…

Around mile seven came a point where I felt my pace falling. Not crashing: but then this was a mission of fine margins. I was looking to shave 71” off my PB: in April I’d taken 628” off my marathon PB, but the last few seconds are always the toughest… So I was instantly aware I could not procrastinate and needed to pick up the pace right away. To do so, I motivated myself with the promise of beer. Of a lovely ale I’d sip in Sheffield three days later, when staying with relatives ahead of a work engagement on the Thursday. I’d been in Sheffield in the week prior to the race, and shared a drink with Uncle Tim, whose half PB is (and was set) somewhere in the mid-80s, and with Uncle Rog, who’d run the occasional half for fun in his teenage years with no running training and was also a member of the sub-90 Club. As they supped beer, I supped orange juice and water, longing to earn my place alongside them at the bar… a thought that, four days later, didn’t’alf com’in’andy.

A sub-90’ half requires 6’52”/miling. My miles seven, eight, nine and ten came in at 6:51”, 6’48”, 6’52” and 6’55” respectively. It hung in the balance. And then came… The Climb.

Not a huge climb. But one of those climbs that you don’t particularly want as the eleventh mile of a PB-chasing HM. I ran mile eleven in 7’05”. Mile 12 was even slower, its climb shorter but steeper: 7’16”. It was game on.

Whilst I don’t keep an eye on overall time, ten miles in I did glance at it. Because being ten miles into a half marathon means being one parkrun out. I needed a sub-22’ parkrun to seal sub-90’. I’d run a 20’30” parkrun just the previous day, at a relaxed pace. But this was a different game. This was no relaxed affair: the pressure was on.

Now, by this point the pacing group had disbanded. Most of its members had fallen behind, whereas the leader was still within sight, maybe ten yards ahead. I was then overtaken for the first time in a while, which alerted me to a need to raise my game. She was clearly younger and fitter, but if she was overtaking me at that stage of the race she probably had a similar goal to mine. Keep up with her and I should nail sub-90’. I overtook her briefly about half a mile later, but she responded. By that point I was just waiting for the downhill to begin. I knew there was a downhill finish – where was it hiding?

It came 12.5mi in. I had about four minutes to cover the last kilometre. I see this now looking calmly at my Strava record. At the time, all I knew was that I needed to do some serious shifting. There was a risk those last two miles, whilst by no means disastrous, would take me above the great divide I was so keen to stay within.

And shift I did. The final two-hundred metres were very reminiscent of the Devil O’Highlands finish, a right-hand bend on grass leading runners to the finishing arc. It took a sprint finish, but the clock stopped at 1:29’40”. I didn’t expect to be twenty seconds out, but I couldn’t wait for the official times to be pinned to the board. Only I had to, because there was no alternative: but it was worth it, because for once watch and chip were in perfect agreement. I’d done it!

Whilst awaiting for the results to be printed, I took to the barriers around the finish to cheer on all the runners and keep an eye out for three of them: Jane, Dom and Darren. Jane clocked 1:34’39”; Dom struggled before agreeing to pace someone to sub-1:40’, arriving home in 1:39’46”; and Darren…
…Darren stormed home in 1:35’40”, well exceeding his expectations!

It was great to see his “disrupted training” pay off – or, at least, not mess things up. Like me, Darren’s got Chester Marathon on the horizon: and this race suggested he’s on track for a good one there! We’ll find out in a fortnight…

Spot the 2:46' mara runner!
(The other two can but dream.)

…as we chatted, we were approached by a smiling gentleman with a humongous gong around his neck. It was indeed the Town Mayor who’d seen us on our way. Small talk helped us discover he was a kindred spirit, just of a different class, his marathon PB standing at 2:46’. If you’re a runner, you know just how awesome that is. If you’re not… trust me, that’s chuffin’ awesome. I bet Chippenham Harriers don’t have too much trouble getting race permits with such a fantastic runner at the town’s helm! For sure, that PB may hark back some thirty years, to a time when runners didn’t have the likes of GPS watches and modern shoes to help them along their way: but that’s irrelevant. Your PB is your PB, regardless of his or your age. And 2:46’ is onehelluva PB.

The sun shining kindly upon Chippenham’s green and pleasant land (a great example of multiple sport clubs joining forces to share excellent facilities, by the way), with time passing far more slowly than it had done around 10:55, Jane, her partner Brendon and I waited for the presentation supping tea and, in my case, enjoying a piece of cake, in exuberant defiance of the strict denials I’d imposed upon myself in the build-up. I’ve often said that the most elated I’ve ever felt after a run was on May 6, 2012. I wrote such a short blog post that night that I might as well just paste it here:

Squintani's shortest post ever?

Just run 5.4k. Without stopping or even dropping down to walking pace. 34'.

I've never run for thirty-four consecutive minutes before. I've never run 5.4k before. The road ahead is still long (and, as I found out yesterday, uphill!) - more of that in due course. But, right now, I'm elated.

Goodnight,

g.o.s

Since posting that I’ve completed four marathons, six ultras, sub-20’d over 5k, yet never felt that same sense of elation. Even in Fort William. I’d run a good West Highland Way Race, its completion alone guaranteeing me lifetime membership of a pretty special club. Yet something about my first 5k still protected its status.

Until.

Chippenham.

 

September 6, 2015 Chippenham Half Marathon, 1:29’40”. My most elating run ever. Not my best, not the most special: the most elating. Just as well it didn’t take me an extra twenty seconds, mind.

Photobombing Darren's post-race shot. I must have been in a good mood...

No wild celebrations followed, but there was a bit of food-related indulgence that an extra twenty seconds would have cost me. I was back in Sheffield on the Wednesday and duly indulged in that pint of bitter, even if it was a can of John Smith’s rather than a draft, craft ale. I was determined for the build-up to the Bristol Half to be relaxed: no goals, no pressure. Just be sensible, turn up and run. And see how it goes.

 . . .

This would be my fourth stab at the race: I have yet to run any other race more than twice. If we don’t count Manchester 2014, which of course we don’t. Three years ago, Bristol was my first half, and I was delighted with my 1:49’54” debut. Indeed, it was probably my second most elating run at the time… Many have followed since, relegating Bristol 2012 to a spot outside the Top 10. Could I sub-90’ for the second Sunday running with a run that might gatecrash that chart again?

I got a lift into Bristol with Jon, who had paced me for most of my 2012 debut after we’d covered the distance in training a few weeks prior. Upon entering the en-suite less than twenty-four hours prior I’d gone and kicked a door frame, which had left me with a bruised second toe on my left foot. I didn’t get much sympathy from Karen, but then she never seems to think I’m in pain, as forever proven by her refusal to take me to hospital in December 2010 when I complained of sharp and constant pain in my lower back. A day later I began getting ready to bus it to a walk-in centre, at which point she kindly offered to drive me to A&E. Whence I was rushed into theatre, had a cyst removed, spent a day in hospital and had to go and get the wound cleaned every week for about two months, a right pain in… Oh, apparently a simple course of antibiotics could have sorted it. Had I turned up a day or so earlier, that is. But I digress…

…on race day, I genuinely thought of wearing two Green Silences in different sizes, allowing a 9 ½ for my suffering toe. In the end I wore the bigger pair on both feet. Black and green shoes to go with my Totley vest: perfect, right?

I’d not had the best night’s sleep, purely because of toegate. Even getting out of Jon’s car I felt it would severely impact my race, much as I hoped the pain would grow milder once race adrenalin kicked in. As it happens, just loitering with intent around the start did the job: I’ve not felt a shred of pain since.

Maybe this combination would
have worked better after all?

Heading for the pen, I saw fellow Little Stoke parkrunner Ciaran McQuade looking like a caged lion and waiting to explode out and run. I knew that’d be the last I’d see of him and, sure enough, he went and clocked 1:14’22”. The man’s a beast!

I also saw a couple of Steel City Striders some ten yards in front of me in the pen, as I anxiously waited for the start. Even relaxed, a race is a race. Plus… well, you know when I said I didn’t have a plan or a goal?

Well, I didn’t. Not earlier in the week. Then I thought I’d try and run at 6’40” and see if I could give myself enough of a cushion to drop off that over the final three or four miles and still beat Chippenham. After all, the weight of the monkey on my back had gone… mentally I now knew I could run sub-90’… surely that put me in a better position than seven days prior? Whilst there were no guarantees, aiming for sub-89’ wasn’t unreasonable?

. . .

It certainly didn’t feel so, over the first few miles. Although of my first seven miles only three were at 6’40” or below, they were all sub-6’48”. The first 10k were my fastest ever, the 41’27” some eight seconds within my PB over the distance. Miles eight and nine were tougher, but I dug in and stayed sub-7’/mi. But then…

…then we got to where I’d struggled last year. This was weighing on my mind: keen to avoid any stitches, I still drank at every aid station, but stuck to water, turning down gels and energy drinks. Miles 10, 11 and 12 took me 7’02”, 7’07” and 7’11” respectively, although a decrease in pace at this stage of the race is not my sole prerogative and reflects the course. Twelve and a half miles in and I was still on for sub-90’, although it would again take a sprint finish. Which I would eventually deliver, approaching the finish line at sub-6’20”/mi pace. However, the half mile in between was… well… ‘slow’.

I was struggling. I wouldn’t want it any other way: I was half a mile from a PB attempt in a half marathon, I should be struggling. However, I might have been struggling more than I thought. I honestly don’t know if I conked out or not, but the paramedic and a spectating doctor seemed to think I had. My request to get going again was flatly turned down, and I was forced to sit down. I may have veered towards the barriers, yes: but then that’s the nature of the sideways incline, surely?

So there I was, detained against my will. I did not back up my vociferous requests with physical action, tempting as it was to break free. Half a mile… half a mile… I can run half a mile! And grab water at the end!

But they had none of it. I had enquired as to whether it had been an epileptic seizure, although I knew the answer as, whilst I may not feel them coming on, as soon as I come round I know I’ve had one. But I figured I owed Karen expert confirmation of that. They assessed I had low sugar levels (as you would at mile 12.5, right?), called for an ambulance whose staff gave me two glucose shots (a non-running term for ‘gels’, surely?!) and some water… they did some other checks and filled out some paperwork… I was even asked the standard “What’s the date?” question, which I had to work out as I can never recall the date but knew that it had been the anniversary of 9/11 on the Friday… I even threw in “and David Cameron’s our Prime Minister”, a line I rehearsed only too well when proving my sanity post-epilepsy surgery… and then they begrudgingly let me go, agreeing with me on, if nothing else, the proximity of the finish line and advising me to “not cane it”. So off I went, at 7’/mi…

…crossing the line in an official time of 1:58’31”, of which I’d been in motion for 1:30’00”. Well, probably 1:29’59” – but I wasn’t in my usual rush to stop the watch…

It must have been a decent finish, as a few days later Ciaran commented on it. And it might have been a second or two quicker but for me holding back ever so slightly with twenty yards to go. A man was cheering on the woman with whom he was racing and I instinctively got that this was a big deal. PB? First HM? Whatever. You could tell it mattered. No need for me to overtake them. That’s my one regret of making my way back onto the Manchester route in 2014, the way I had no awareness of fellow runners who were finishing their marathon as I breezed past with my jacket and draw-string bag. This time I’d not been given a six-mile lift from an ambulance; this time I’d earnt my shirt and my medal and was going to wear them both. Just… not right away.

The rest of the Portishead R.C. crew had long gone home, Matt and Mike with shiny new PBs. The exception was Jon, which is just as well as I was relying on him for a lift. Equally fortunate was that I’d seen him from my vantage point on the pavement, and he’d seen me: down but not out and in the care of people who knew what to do with me. We headed back to the car not via the habitual Starbucks, now shut, rather the flagship Boston Tea Party, which thankfully offered a ‘Marathon’ milkshake with peanut butter, chocolate and vanilla. One for the good old days… they didn’t offer a ‘Half’ version, so I duly treated myself to the full. Chocolate is excellent for recovery, and a bit of sugar wasn’t going to go amiss either…

Photobombing again! Well, sort of...
...see, I’m a member of two clubs, even though I run with neither...
...and Totley AC is my first option, so I race in Totley green.
Even when surrounded by fellow Portishead RC'ers.
Contrary? Moi?

So: what had gone wrong? Should I have taken gels? Did I not eat enough at breakfast? Was I simply dehydrated, even though it wasn’t anywhere near as warm as it had been the previous week? Should I have not approached the race in a happy, relaxed manner?

Truth is, I don’t know. I’d had a toasted bagel with honey and jam for breakfast, as well as a quarter of a Clif bar on the way in, so I’ve no concerns over breakfast. I’d drunk on the way in and taken in water at every aid station. But yes, maybe sipping a little more would have spared me the 28’ pit stop. Who knows? All that matters, quite frankly, is that it wasn’t a seizure.

Was it something about the distance? About going for a time?

Unlikely. I’ve now required medical attention over all four classic distances, from 5k to Mara via 10k and HM. And yes, I was going for a time. But nowhere near as much as the previous week.

Was it something about the time of year? Or of day?

I’ve needed medical attention on runs around noon in April, around 9:20am in July, around 7:30pm in June and, now, around 11:00am in September. If there is a pattern, any pattern, I can’t see it.

This latest incident (so seemingly similar, yet fundamentally different, to “earlier stuff”) has obviously not put me off running. However, I did spend a good while pondering about racing, not least about racing non-Ultras, where time does matter.

And it’s made me all the more grateful to Karen for not asking that question. She didn’t waste time banning me from cycling after my second seizure within a twelve-month window along the A38, at commute o’clock: and she was right. She understands why running matters as much as it does to me, and, whilst sometimes caught between bewilderment and despair, she’s never asked me to give it up. Here’s hoping I never give her reason to do so.

So, Bristol… don’t tell anyone, but I really thought I was going to own you this year. It would have made for a good Strava title. I can’t deny having it already in my mind.

But I’ll have to park it. For a year, at least. I suspect I’ll be back next year, much as part of me would rather run the High Peak 40 Challenge in the Peak District. Indeed, this year I was going to do both: but I figured I’d spare myself the £92, 10-hour round-trip journey and just go for a wee jog around here on my own. But this ain’t over. If I did conk out heading for a 90’, one of the reasons is that I wasn’t in sub-90’ shape. And I should have been, seven days after recording that time. We’re talking thirteenpointone here: I should be able to run two decent ones eight days apart. So sure, next year I’ll drink a little more: but I’ll make sure I train better in the build-up, too. Not ‘more’, maybe not even ‘harder’. But ‘better’… you better, you better, you bet.

. . .

Roll on December 6, now – and the Christmas Cracker! It’s not ‘that’ season until I’ve crossed the line and been offered the first mince pie I will actually accept!

Last year’s time was 42’17”. It’s not an ideal PB course, especially when the wind is up – which it usually is by the seaside. My best shot at sub-40 is Clevedon, but by stupidly taking a caffeine gel before the race I blew that shot for this year. June 2016 is such a long way off… so I might as well give it a go by the seaside.

. . .

To sign off on an epileptic note, someone I’ve known for a while but without really ‘knowing’ came up to me yesterday and told me we had “something in common”. He soon added he was now also having epileptic seizures, albeit of a different type to mine. It sounds like his are more frequent but milder: more importantly, he appears to have identified a trigger, and is doing something about it, whereas, almost four decades in, I’ve yet to identify one consistent cause…

Look, I was meant to be away, racing
High Peak 40... but didn't because of train prices...
...Karen was gutted because, since I'd be away,
she'd volunteered to go on The Boys' Cubs/Beavers
camping trip when could have the weekend to ourselves...
...so it made sense to go and run 40+ miles on my own!
If only so that she'd not think I was loafing at home!

…his seizures have all followed carb-heavy days or meals. Diet has never been mentioned in discussions about my seizures: not now, nor when I was four stone heavier. Now, I’ve managed to keep on running in spite of a few seizures. But… imagine if I were told to ease off the carbs… now, that probably would curtail my long-distance runs. Or maybe there’d be some way round it. It certainly would make it more likely for me to run to Tintern Abbey and sample cold pizza in the grounds, mind. Which is what I did the following Saturday to cheer myself up after my latest race shenanigans. A purely self-indulgent run, albeit one that followed a more productive sub-20 parkrun, on a day when I could have done a lot worse than a pacier 20-miler a fortnight out from Chester (my first of three October marathons): but, for once, I prioritised fun. Soz.

. . .

That was Saturday. Earlier in the month, it had been pretty much just about the running. Pretty much a matter of time. Sub-90’: ticked.