Britain's Ocean City Half Marathon (the unofficial version)
Quite a long time ago - almost two and a half years in fact, I felt unwell. The tissues and the linctus were dragged from the cupboards along with the extra strong Lemsip and the cheap whisky (I refuse to waste the single malt on maladies). I spent the entire May afternoon lying on the sofa with the back of my hand over my forehead feeling sorry for myself.
In one sense I'd picked a good day to be ill. Manchester City rewarded me for being poorly by matching the long standing record score for an FA Cup Final and beating an unfortunate Watford team by six goals to nil. Later on I could enjoy the crazy annual political manoeuvring that is the Eurovision Song Contest - again Britain finished last and barely managed a single point, while our Dutch friends romped away with the title. At least I felt I'd been entertained during my convalescence. Meanwhile the following day's appointment festered inside my brain, playing mind games. I'd already cancelled my stay with Colin in Saltash before heading over the bridge the next morning to take part in the annual half marathon in Plymouth, or Britain's Ocean City as it styles itself for these events. I'd told my friends I wasn't going. For the second year in three I'd developed a serious case of man flu twenty-four hours before the race. The previous time I'd succumbed I still ran, despite eating completely the wrong type of food (erm fish and chips actually) the night beforehand. It went badly and the picture of the red faced sweaty man hiding behind his mirrored running glasses and heading to his slowest ever finish time on the final strait tells the tale on its own. I wasn't going to put myself through that again.
So it will come as no surprise at all for you to read that at 5am the following morning I was in my car, readying myself for the sixty mile drive to Britain's Ocean City, for the frankly unreasonable 8:30am Sunday start. Quite what I was thinking of I'll never really know, but I have an unhealthy obsession with adding medals to the collection - I'd paid the entry fee and I wanted the bling, the goody bag and the finisher's shirt so that I could add them to the pile. I was armed with a bag of dates, which I'd recently discovered to be a magic ingredient. "What could go wrong?" I reasoned. Well frankly a lot could have gone wrong, but bizarrely the opposite happened and I knocked more than three minutes off my previous personal best - even more bizarrely on a hilly course where I'd never dreamed I could run such a time. I still can't explain what went right that day, but I'd never felt so strong, all the more odd after the previous day's indolence on the sofa. I think it was the dates; either that or there was an unknown ingredient in the Lemsip that would have a vastly more capable runner ejected from the Olympic Games.
Buoyed by my success I duly signed up for a fourth consecutive year despite the 8:30am start in a city 90 minutes drive away. This was some time in the back half of 2019, before the word "Covid" entered unpopular parlance; before the world stopped and everything you'd booked and paid for months in advance was cancelled. As I write I'm still waiting for three concerts and a holiday, all of which are now re-scheduled for the first half of 2022; all of which were supposed to happen in the first half of 2020. But you know that because you've got your own collection of postponements to attend at some point in the future,
Apart from the concerts and the holiday I'd also had to wait for the races I'd entered to take place twelve, eighteen or twenty-four months later, including Britain's Ocean City Half Marathon. But in the meantime my fitness had suffered without the benefit of regular exercise, and I'd got to the point where I wasn't sure that I could run thirteen miles at all, let alone in a time I'd be happy with. So when the event finally came and went on 5 September, I excused myself from the proceedings in favour of a lie in. Money down the drain, but at least I'd still be walking the following day.
And then I received an email, inviting me to run, jog or walk the distance at a more convenient time, with an end of October deadline. All I'd have to do is register, pay a delivery charge, submit the evidence that I'd actually done the distance in one go and I'd get the bling sent to me in the post. I couldn't resist. Today Ali and I put on our walking boots and pounded the thirteen and a bit miles along the local bike trail. She deserves a medal for putting up with me most of the time so I'll share this one with her.
And while I was at it, I thought I'd try out the new toy, the one they gave me when I retired last month - the Olympus underwater camera, that's likely to remain dry until next summer. It's even got RAW format files among the options. It's a while since I've used a point and shoot camera - remember when you used to get your fingers into the frame all the time? Yes I did that a lot - I'll learn hopefully.
I hope you all have a good weekend - I've got another postponed event tomorrow - a five mile obstacle course involving mud, mud and more mud - apart from the bit where we have to wade chest deep through a river and the bit where we have to crawl through a swamp under barbed wire that is. On Sunday I'm going to lie in a darkened room with the rest of that bottle of whisky.
Britain's Ocean City Half Marathon (the unofficial version)
Quite a long time ago - almost two and a half years in fact, I felt unwell. The tissues and the linctus were dragged from the cupboards along with the extra strong Lemsip and the cheap whisky (I refuse to waste the single malt on maladies). I spent the entire May afternoon lying on the sofa with the back of my hand over my forehead feeling sorry for myself.
In one sense I'd picked a good day to be ill. Manchester City rewarded me for being poorly by matching the long standing record score for an FA Cup Final and beating an unfortunate Watford team by six goals to nil. Later on I could enjoy the crazy annual political manoeuvring that is the Eurovision Song Contest - again Britain finished last and barely managed a single point, while our Dutch friends romped away with the title. At least I felt I'd been entertained during my convalescence. Meanwhile the following day's appointment festered inside my brain, playing mind games. I'd already cancelled my stay with Colin in Saltash before heading over the bridge the next morning to take part in the annual half marathon in Plymouth, or Britain's Ocean City as it styles itself for these events. I'd told my friends I wasn't going. For the second year in three I'd developed a serious case of man flu twenty-four hours before the race. The previous time I'd succumbed I still ran, despite eating completely the wrong type of food (erm fish and chips actually) the night beforehand. It went badly and the picture of the red faced sweaty man hiding behind his mirrored running glasses and heading to his slowest ever finish time on the final strait tells the tale on its own. I wasn't going to put myself through that again.
So it will come as no surprise at all for you to read that at 5am the following morning I was in my car, readying myself for the sixty mile drive to Britain's Ocean City, for the frankly unreasonable 8:30am Sunday start. Quite what I was thinking of I'll never really know, but I have an unhealthy obsession with adding medals to the collection - I'd paid the entry fee and I wanted the bling, the goody bag and the finisher's shirt so that I could add them to the pile. I was armed with a bag of dates, which I'd recently discovered to be a magic ingredient. "What could go wrong?" I reasoned. Well frankly a lot could have gone wrong, but bizarrely the opposite happened and I knocked more than three minutes off my previous personal best - even more bizarrely on a hilly course where I'd never dreamed I could run such a time. I still can't explain what went right that day, but I'd never felt so strong, all the more odd after the previous day's indolence on the sofa. I think it was the dates; either that or there was an unknown ingredient in the Lemsip that would have a vastly more capable runner ejected from the Olympic Games.
Buoyed by my success I duly signed up for a fourth consecutive year despite the 8:30am start in a city 90 minutes drive away. This was some time in the back half of 2019, before the word "Covid" entered unpopular parlance; before the world stopped and everything you'd booked and paid for months in advance was cancelled. As I write I'm still waiting for three concerts and a holiday, all of which are now re-scheduled for the first half of 2022; all of which were supposed to happen in the first half of 2020. But you know that because you've got your own collection of postponements to attend at some point in the future,
Apart from the concerts and the holiday I'd also had to wait for the races I'd entered to take place twelve, eighteen or twenty-four months later, including Britain's Ocean City Half Marathon. But in the meantime my fitness had suffered without the benefit of regular exercise, and I'd got to the point where I wasn't sure that I could run thirteen miles at all, let alone in a time I'd be happy with. So when the event finally came and went on 5 September, I excused myself from the proceedings in favour of a lie in. Money down the drain, but at least I'd still be walking the following day.
And then I received an email, inviting me to run, jog or walk the distance at a more convenient time, with an end of October deadline. All I'd have to do is register, pay a delivery charge, submit the evidence that I'd actually done the distance in one go and I'd get the bling sent to me in the post. I couldn't resist. Today Ali and I put on our walking boots and pounded the thirteen and a bit miles along the local bike trail. She deserves a medal for putting up with me most of the time so I'll share this one with her.
And while I was at it, I thought I'd try out the new toy, the one they gave me when I retired last month - the Olympus underwater camera, that's likely to remain dry until next summer. It's even got RAW format files among the options. It's a while since I've used a point and shoot camera - remember when you used to get your fingers into the frame all the time? Yes I did that a lot - I'll learn hopefully.
I hope you all have a good weekend - I've got another postponed event tomorrow - a five mile obstacle course involving mud, mud and more mud - apart from the bit where we have to wade chest deep through a river and the bit where we have to crawl through a swamp under barbed wire that is. On Sunday I'm going to lie in a darkened room with the rest of that bottle of whisky.