“Mile 9 should feel like halfway”

This was the sage advice that resulted in an entirely unexpected half-marathon pb.

After breaking my ankle in February (small avulsion fracture), I spent six months doing nothing, then going to the gym, then gradually remembering how to run.

In a fit of excitement, I signed up for the Richmond half-marathon with a view to pootling round slowly. I wasn’t even sure whether I’d run.

Come Sunday 6th September, it was a beautiful sunny day in Kew Gardens where the race began. I was queuing for the loos, as one does before a race, when I got chatting. In fact, the queues for the loos were so long that every time I went, I turned around and immediately rejoined the back of said queue, knowing the effect race nerves can have.

Anyway, it was on the second round-trip that I got chatting to a man who was aiming for 71 minutes. He was very sweet and self-effacing and when I asked for help with breaching two hours, he said ‘mile 9 should feel like halfway’.

It was with this in mind that I started. And, in line with his advice, I ran very slowly so as to ensure I had plenty of energy left at mile 9. At mile 8, I recall watching a flock of geese fly over the Thames. I think those first few miles were the most enjoyable of any race.

Then, at mile 9, I decided to speed up. Except it didn’t quite work like that. I had loads of energy – and then suddenly I had none. It was hot, I was thirsty and I didn’t have anything on me. So, effectively, miles 9 to 13 were as slow as the first 9, but less enjoyable.

That said, I did have enough to kick for the last 100 metres. Without a stopwatch or any other measuring device, I had no idea of time, but it occurred to me that a short sprint at the end couldn’t hurt.

All in all, it was a lovely race and one I highly recommend. And the biggest shocker, despite the apparent slowness, it was a pb. And not just a pb, it was only 55 seconds off the 2-hour mark. 55 seconds. So close. Next time!

Stats: 13.1 miles; 2 hours 55 seconds; 9'17" per mile. Hmmm... just worked out, had I managed four seconds faster per mile, I'd have come in under two hours. Food for thought.

Pics: Lovely Kew on a beautiful day; the 'winning' medal; blister - must buy new socks.

And a good time was had by all...

So, the 10k race on Sunday was an absolute triumph. Not only did I beat last year's time. (Hooray!) But I actually enjoyed it.

That morning, things did not look good. I'd woken up terrified and even a calming bath hadn't helped. I lay my p.e. kit out on the bed and with trembling hands pinned my race number to my t-shirt. I made the decision not to wear my club vest as I felt this would give the wrong impression. Instead, I inadvertently wore the colours of another club, so enjoyed much misguided cheering from the local Harrow supporters (go Metros!)

Due to transport issues, I arrived at the clubhouse late (too late to buy raffle tickets. Damn!) I also forgot my stopwatch. My plans to stick to a 9 minute mile and aim for a negative split went flying out of the window.

Which was probably just as well.

I'd been so keen to beat my time from last year that I'd worked myself up into a frenzy. I thought I was going to be sick on the start line. And so I paused and had a quiet word with myself.

Why do something that makes you feel so awful? Balls to character-building.

I decided that enjoying the race was more important than time. If it hurt, I would run slower. If it felt good, I would speed up. I anticipated more of the former than the latter.

With that, the starting pistol went. Soon, I was surrounded by faster runners. They rushed past and I can honestly say that I had absolutely no urge to keep up. In the morning sunshine, I found my place and pootled happily at the back of the pack. It was nice to run in a new location, with a mix of gentle hills, main roads and park (though even at a slow-speed, running on grass is a killer). There were loads of marshals, stopping traffic, so I made sure I thanked all of them for their support on the way. I also had a race with a toddler. I won.

At the end of the first 5k, I felt fine so considered speeding up. I spent another 4k thinking about it, then decided to really give it my all. With about 100 metres to go.

I did feel shattered. And I did have to lie on the floor for a bit, cooling my face in the grass. (I hope that wet patch was dew. I didn't see any dogs.) But I was soon up and about and ready for a complimentary coffee back at the clubhouse. What I didn't have a clue about was my time. I felt okay, so assumed it wasn't the fastest in history.

So imagine my delight, when I won! Okay, imagine my delight when I discovered my time was 54.39. A whole 1 minute and 41 seconds quicker than last year. And I was feeling good. On an 8.48 minute mile. A miracle.

It's one month and counting till the half. Things are looking up.


(Pic: The best medal I've ever won. The nicest coffee I've ever drunk. My foot.)