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Yorkshire, home of the puddings...
Race Day
Yorkshire, home of the puddings...
Race Day
The day in numbers ...
The day in numbers ...
Miles ran : 26.33
Gels eaten : 6
Salt Sticks eaten : 8
Kendal mint cake bars eaten : 1
Crisps eaten : 3 bags
Alcohol drunk : 1 Erdinger, 1 mini bottle red, 2 large glasses of red
Pizzas eaten : 1
Sunday 20th October
Sunday 20th October
A terrible nights sleep once again but this one was truly awful.
In bed for about 10 and I slept a bit and then awake and jumping between short spells of deep sleep and then from 2am just waking constantly. Realised it was pointless lying in bed so got up about half 4 and went downstairs for coffee and breakfast.
Woke Murphy up and he scowled at me, farted and went back to sleep, that's my boy. Sat and watched telly and ate some porridge and drank some coffee. Taxi booked for 6am to drop me at Bain's for the drive down.
Taxi was ten minutes early, made him wait and then jumped in, he was listening to Fontaines and Idles and he wasn't a talker, that's my kind of taxi driver. We both sat there in silence nodding our heads to the music.
Get to Bain's for about 10 past 6, his front doors wide open so I walk up and scare the shit out of him as he walks past, an excellent start to the day.
A decent drive down where we discuss all life's great problems, we solve the Middle East crisis, world hunger and the state of the UK economy.
We also talk about various other things that I cant remember but I do recall pissing myself laughing a lot and the time flies. Funnily enough I'll come back to 'pissing myself' a bit later, well not myself but definitely pissing ones self and no I don't know what's going on with Paul's hair in that photo either, probably why he often wears a cap.
We park up on a sidestreet and the weathers not too bad, we both decide to change into race shoes and leave the clean, dry shoes in the car for later.
A short stroll to the start where Paul once again needs a piss and vanishes into a bush, the man has a bladder the size of a child.
We get to the start zone and Paul goes off to sit down and caress his freshly shaven knee and I queue for the toilet, 45 minutes later and I'm still waiting. Now the thing that really gets me here is the two ladies on front of me are both clearly spectators and everyone behind is a runner, its now 45 minutes before the race starts and I still need to get changed, dump my bag and walk 10 minutes to the start line.
Stay calm Simon, remember the Great North Run, you don't want to be called a selfish prick again. Toilet done, then head across to a bench to get ready.
The wind is starting to pick up, weather report has changed to say no rain but wind is going to be around 30-40mph throughout, put my vest on the bench and it blows away, someone grabs it for me and passes it back, get complimented on my pink socks and matching shoes by a French lady who tells me they look stylish, she is of course absolutely correct.
Grab my lube stick and start applying. Lesson 1 failed here as I got this cheap from Amazon and didn't bother testing it out, it's basically more a glue stick and less a lube stick. Rub it around my left arm where the vest is and my vest instantly sticks to it, shite! I decide it's no good so dont bother doing anywhere else, now this may come back to punish me later but I'll deal with that later. Grab the deep heat stick, first used this at London last year, it's superb stuff.
Rub it all over my legs, oh my god this shit burns, its like normal deep heat with added heat. My legs are absolutely on fire, I weirdly enjoy this feeling and dump my bag and head to the start line with burning legs and my vest glued to my left armpit.
Get to the start line and head to the front.
They have pacers at the marathon, I hate pacers and I don't want to be anywhere near one or even see one so I head to the front and stand at the very fist sub 3 hour section, just behind the sub 2:45 starters.
Now naturally I'm not running this pace but my theory here is that the 3:30 pacer will be far enough behind me that I should never have to see him. If i'm on for 3:30 then I'll finish before him and even if I fail spectacularly I should be far enough ahead that I won't see him until late on.
It starts raining, the rain that the weather forecast said wasn't happening and then the wind starts. The announcer tells us they are having to take some mile markers down on the course because the wind is making them unsafe, this is gonna be grim.
And we're off.
Now I haven't told you what time I'm going for yet, my plan is sub 3:30, I ran 3:32 in London and I'm fairly certain I'm capable of more but I just want to hit sub 3:30 here and then Manchester next year will be the faster attempt. For sub 3:30 I just need 8 minute miles throughout.
So the plan is first 10 miles around 7:40-7:50 mile pace and then see how I'm feeling, if all is good then next 10 miles 7:30-7:40 pace and then see what happens. Now, I'm well aware that's faster than 3:30 pace but you see I'm a bit of an idiot and although I just want sub 3:30 I know I can go faster so decide this is the plan and I'm sticking to it.
First mile is downhill and a bit quick so i start to pull it back and run 7:41, next mile and still a bit quick at 7:39 so I make a real effort to slow it down. Around this time I notice a guy running just in front of me wearing a very thin strapped cotton vest and can't help thinking that it's not a great choice of attire, as I pass him my feelings are confirmed but at least there will be no nipple chaffage.
Parkrun day.
I'm settled well into my rhythm now and next 3 miles are 7:46, 7:48 and 7:44 and I feel really strong, the pace is comfortable, heart rate is steady and I'm running well.
Hang on.
What's that up ahead, that's a white vest with blue hoops, it's a South Shields Harrier. Oh yes. I'm in my North Shields vest, he's in his South Shields vest, I'm doing it, I'm doing it, Northside....
He's a good 100m or so ahead of me and I'm getting excited about catching him turning and shouting Northside at him, I start to pick up the pace, glance at my Garmin and I'm running 7:10 pace trying to close the gap.
Simon, you're an idiot, stop it. I slow back down, I can't balls this up just to do a shit joke that makes me laugh to a complete stranger on a country lane in Yorkshire.
Can I ....
No, no I can't.
Next 3 miles go by on pace, 7:48, 7:46, 7:44 and I still like I'm fully in control and running well.
Hang on.
There he is, he's slowing and I'm going to catch him.
He's on the right of the road by the gutter running with a bloke in a vest I don't recognise, I'm on the left of the road, I start to cross over to get behind him.
His mate's in my way but I'm Northsiding this fella in his white and blue vest.
Get behind him, close the gap until I'm next to his mate, his mate nods at me, I nod back, South Shields guy is slightly hidden from me, I go ahead, I glance back, I'm ready....
Green.
They were green stripes.
Not blue.
I'm staring at him, it's been too long for just a runners nod and is now a bit awkward.
I give him a thumbs up and say well done mate and speed up a bit to get away from him.
I'm such a dick.
At this point I feel good, apart from the Northside incident all has gone well. Mile 9 is 7:49 and mile 10 is 7:37, that's because I wanted to run away from fake South Shields man.
I decide not to lift the pace for the next 10 miles and stay at 7:40-7:50, not because I don't think I can but because I feel comfortable and this is the sensible thing to do. Keep it steady and nothing faster than 7:40
Next few miles are 7:32, 7:26, 7:35, 7:27 and I can feel it. I slow down and try and be sensible, turn the music up and get lost in some Chemical Brothers and then The Prodigy come on and the familiar opening of one of my favourites.
I'm running right behind a couple of very small and skinny people who are keeping a nice pace and I'm lost in the music and every now and again she glances back at me and I'm aware I'm almost clipping her heels, I drop back but they slow and I get faster and keep doing it.
I'm singing in my head, then I'm singing out loud, not loud enough for anyone to hear but I'm mouthing along with the words and every now and again I'm a bit louder.
Here it comes, the songs building, I'm right on his heels now and decide to go wide and past him, I'm just ahead and here it is....
I'm singing a bit louder as I pass him, the music builds, instinct just kicks in, I punch the air and shout Smack My Bitch Up and follow it up with a second air punch.
And with that I'm gone and leave them behind.
I'm not gone for long as they pass me soon after.
I hate them both.
The next section I have a bit of a dip, it's a long out and back session and I can see the fast lot on their way back and it seems to go on forever. Next few miles are 7:42, 7:48 and 7:51
I see the 19 mile marker facing me but on the other side of the road and can't decide if it's my 19 mile marker or the people on the way back, I know deep down it's theirs but you never know...
It's theirs.
I've just gone past 17 and now I know 19 is on the switchback but the run til 18 seems to go on forever and mentally I start to lose it a little bit.
There it is and the watch beeps for 7:36 , pace was good but my brains not happy and starting to tell me how long there is left, I tell it to shut the fuck up, stupid brain.
I chuck some Kendal mint cake in my mouth and try and get back into a happy place with my music.
I hit the 19 mile marker with a hard fought 7:52 and boost myself by being thankful I'm not one of those losers at 17 miles still.
Now I cheer up a bit as I see the 3:45 pacer on the other side and realise Bain must be near and we get to shout abuse at each other and do 'the finger'
I'm running and scanning the crowd, I'm running right in the middle of the road next to the tape seperating both sides and then there he is, he's doing exactly the same thing as me.
We point at each other, both smile and then the fingers come out, we're about 20m or so from each other so this goes on for quite a while until we pass each other and laugh.
Paul tells me later that the two ladies in front of him thought I was doing it to them and were quite disgusted, I'm awaiting the complaint email from York Marathon committee.
At this point it's been raining for pretty much the whole time, I'm soaked through and the wind in parts has been nasty and a constant wind just blowing across the course.
Now there is a left turn and as I turn down a country lane from the main road the wind whips up hard and knocks me back, this is head down time and plough through. I find this whole section really tough and I'm almost bent over fighting against the wind and I slow a fair bit.
8:05, 8:02, 8:18 and I'm through 22 miles. This is the point in London I stopped and walked and that's not happening here.
Rule 1: Don't Fucking Walk.
The wind eases a bit but running for the last 3 miles bent over hasn't done me any favours, go through 23 in 8:43 and decide my 3:30 dream is probably not going to happen now. Average pace has been around 7:40 most of the past 22 miles but this has slowed me and I;m struggling to get back into any decent running form.
I see the 24 mile marker, I pass it in 8:46 and then bang!
A sharp stabbing pain right in my left hamstring down near my knee, a proper take your breath away stabbing pain that shoots through it.
I'm not stopping.
I'm not walking.
I have to slow up and start running with a limp, I can't walk, I try landing my foot differently hoping that stops the sharp pain, my Garmin tells me I'm running over 10 min miles and I'm so pissed off and know the 3:30 has now gone.
I develop a fantastic running gait here, I bend over to the left at my waist and allow my left foot to land on the outside edge and quickly lift again whilst I plant the right foot down heavily and for longer, it looks and feels ridiculous but I'm still moving forward.
The course starts to look familiar, I know I'm nearly finished but I just can't run properly. I hit 25 miles and its a pathetic 9:39, after the race Bain tells me that because my slowest mile was slower than his slowest mile that means he actually beat me and takes the moral victory, I can't argue with this logic.
Into the final mile.
An old guy at the side of the road shouts at me to lift my head up, my head being down really is the least of my problems at this stage but I appreciate his concern.
Turn the corner and the finish is all uphill, I try and run a bit more normally but as soon as I do my back spasms so I bend forward again, less than a mile to go.
No distance markers anywhere, it must be about half a mile, that's two laps of the track, I've missed 3:30 and my head tells me to just stop, it really doesn't matter.
For one second I actually stop.
Then he passes me, the 3:30 pacer who I had forgotten all about has just passed me. I immediately start running again, there's the 400m sign, I pass him and change my Garmin screen and I can still do it, I miss the 300 sign but see the 200m sign and push on past it and there's the finish.
I'd love to say I sprinted but I really didn't, the video shows me bent over limping but I cross the line with an official time of 3:28:55
Final mile was 9:00 and that last little bit was at 7:13 pace.
I don't actually recall anything from this point, I think I just follow the masses but next thing I know I'm walking back across the bridge to the bagdrop with my medal and t shirt on.
I'm surrounded by people with their kids, partners and family and I suddenly have this real deep down feeling overcome me and I realise I'm going to burst into tears, I feel an absolute tit as I'm just on my own but I just want to stop and cuddle someone and cry my fucking eyes out.
I suck it up and walk and get my bag.
I eat two bags of crisps, drink a can of Erdinger and a bottle of coke, I'm shivering and freezing cold and need to get changed.
I find a space by a wall and manage to kick my shoes off, get my vest off which knocks my headphones and sunglasses off and they fall to the floor, put my warm dry top and coat on and take my shorts off and pull my trousers on, so far so good.
Now I need to pick all my stuff up and put some dry socks on.
I bend over and get my right sock off and my clean one on, I rtry my left foot and the sharp pain somes back and I can't do it, my socks half off and I do a yelp in pain.
An old lady who's just stood next to me with her husband to shelter from the rain looks at me and asks if she can help. I ask her like some pitiful child if she could help me put my sock on, she puts her hand on my shoulder and says "of course darling" and she picks my dry sock up from the floor and I burst into tears, full on lose control emotional crying as I thank her and she gives me a little cuddle and pulls my wet sock off and puts my dry on and then pulls my shoes on for me and then picks all my stuff up from the floor and puts it in my bag.
I'm still crying as she passes me my little bottle of wine and she says "I think you probably need this"
I thank her again and stick my bag on my back and start drinking my wine whilst I wait for Paul.
I meet Paul, he's smashed his PB and tells me he's pulled a muscle in his back from crying, I tell him I cried when an old lady he,ped me put my sock on. We have a sweaty cuddle and grab Paul's stuff so he can warm up.
Meet up with Jess who also smashed her target and looks ridiculously fresh and Christine also smashed her target time, Paul is shivering and can't warm up so we head to the car via the toilets as that man can't stop pissing.
And that was that, 16 weeks of build up and all finished in just under three and a half hours of running, crying, singing, smacking my bitch up, northsiding strangers, eating gels, hobbling, limping and a bit more crying.
Manchester 2025, here I come.
Oh I almost forgot.
Paul pissed himself during the marathon.
Twice.
I told you he can't stop pissing.
Dirty boy.
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