Racing Lines

This is going to sound really weird, but I have a definite fondness for the M3 and A34 in autumn. The roads plough through some quintessentially English countryside, bounded on both sides by oak and ash, auburn tinged.  To pass by them at 80mph on a sunny October morning is really quite a treat.

And so it goes, as I make my way to Thruxton Circuit for the Thruxton "Mass Attack" Duathlon.  I signed up for the race way back in March, the second part of a double header who's first part was cruelly snatched from me, so it's been a long time coming.  Confidence in this installment has not exactly been high either, as the distances and start time chop and change right up to the week of the race.  Finally the decision is made on a 5km first run (1 lap + a bit), a 30.4km bike (8 laps) and a 3.8km second run (1 lap).

Admittedly, preparation for this race has been somewhere between "poor" and "non-existent", with a leaning towards the non-existent. A bike ride and a couple of 5k runs (one of which was blighted by a novel pain in the hip) since the half-marathon are the meagre foundations on which this temple of athleticism will be built.

One hundred and thirteen duathletes gather on the start grid.  Most are in tri-suits, and quite a few have very professional looking accoutrements. The guy next to me is wearing bright green compression socks pulled right up to his knees.  The outlier is perhaps the girl behind me, wearing slightly grubby tracky bottoms, Nike tennis shoes and a top that is printed to look like the wearer has donned a tux.  It is a strange combination to say the least.  However, I am dismayed to find that none of my fellow competitors look particularly out of shape, or to be here for the taking.

And so it proves as the hooter goes, and 90% of the field storm out ahead of me.  A couple of hundred metres in, I glance at the Garmin, which reads a pace of 7:07/mi - ridiculously fast for my little legs.  It doesn't feel that fast though, so I go with it.  The run is heading anti-clockwise around the track, down to the bottom of a hill at which waits Patricia, a lady of mature years astride a marshal's motorbike, who forms a turn marker before the field heads back clockwise to complete a further lap of the course.  Heading around Patricia, we get our first taste of the wind that is blowing from the south west, as well as having to head back uphill.  I keep glancing at the Garmin, convinced that it must be on the blink.

The rest of the run is largely uneventful. Even heading back into the wind for the second half of the lap, and up the hill, I maintain a decent pace, although it's nice to get back to transition - in the pit lane, of course. At an average pace of 7:53/mi, it's actually very close to my PB, and surely without that wind and two hills it would have smashed the elusive 24 minute barrier.

I have learned a couple of lessons about transition this year.  Firstly, triathlon checklists tend to have an insane number of things on them that cover every eventuality.  You will use virtually none of them. To that extent, the blue crate I've used in previous events to hold my transition stuff has gone.  For this duathlon, the only things next to my bike are a towel (a useful way to spot your bike), my bike shoes, and a bottle of water.  Secondly, undo your bloody shoelaces when you take your trainers off. As someone who prefers to just kick off their trainers, I've been caught out at least twice by having to try and undo laces before getting them on.  When you're a bit unsteady from physical exertion, that's easier said than done.  And so it is that in T1 I dutifully undo my shoelaces fully before slipping my bike shoes on.

The pit lane exits heading eastwards, and with the strong wind at our backs, it is a joy to be on the bike.  The tarmac is smooth, there are no sharp bends to brake for, and there is little gradient to speak of.  I immediately overtake a couple of folks up ahead, and settle in for the next hour of riding. 

Three minutes later, I'm at the far end of the track, which turns slowly back westwards.  I come around a corner, and suddenly the bike is leaning heavily to one side, like I'm on a container ship mid-Atlantic.  That wind is coming back to bite.  I shift down a gear and dig in, but the course continues to turn until we're head on to it.  At this point, it's downhill, but one has to pedal hard to keep going anywhere, and it's even worse when the track starts to head back uphill, still into the fierce wind.  One of the leaders comes past - all Cervelo, aero bars and pointy helmet - and even he looks like he'd rather be at home in front of Sunday Brunch.

In front, number 12 is next in my sights, and he's weaving all over the road, hunched over the bars, looking exhausted already.  As I pass, he looks over and shakes his head.  "Only another 7 to go," he says.

At the top of the hill, the track weaves through a chicane and you're back at the start grid for another lap.  The wind is behind again, and we power along merrily, the wind and the hill forgotten about, until a mere two and half minutes later, when we arrive back at the far end and face another five minute slog back to the start line. It reminds me of a favourite punchline - "right lads, break's over, back on your heads".

The bike is 8 laps - we're required to count our own laps.  By lap 4 I start worrying about forgetting the count, so I resort to songs in my head.  Four. The Fab Four. The Beatles. All You Need Is Love. Five.  Housemartins - Five Get Over Excited.  Six. Cricket. 10CC - Dreadlock Holiday.  Seven.  S Club Seven - Reach For The Stars. To be honest though, the Housemartins song is stuck in my head, so I abandon that strategy.  Also, any strategy that has you singing S Club Seven to yourself deserves to be abandoned.

Just over an hour of cycling later, and having tackled the wind and the hill at ever decreasing speeds, I head into the pits once more.  The winner has already finished - nearly 9 minutes ahead of his nearest rival, but then again, he is the ITU Duathlon world champion for his age group (40-44) two years running.  I limp out of transition on the run, just behind green compression sock guy.  He's tall, thin and wearing an Andover Triathlon club tri-suit, so I'm surprised he's lurking back here, and I take a small pleasure from going past him, albeit like a slug overtaking a snail. 

There's no way I'm going to keep up the same pace as the first run, and I just about manage an 8:30/mi pace.  At the far end, I turn into the wind for the final time, and whimper slightly as I spy the pit lane, way off in the distance.  But I keep it together, and as I head up the hill, I'm at least grateful to not be one of the backmarkers still pedalling in grim determination. 

Over the line in 1:50.29, 78th of 111 finishers.  Seeing as I'd predicted 1:55, and it's not the bottom 10%, I'm happy with the result.  Quick on the first run, not quite as quick as I'd like on the bike, and ok-ish on the second run.  Not too bad for very little prep.

Enduro Racer

Did I mention I was doing a half-marathon?  I don't think I did.  I did a half-marathon.  For why, I cannot say, other than for the same reasons Mallory climbed Everest, although I rather hoped I would not meet the same fate.

The Bournemouth Half Marathon starts, handily enough, less than a quarter of a mile from home, within the leafy bounds of Kings Park. It's a crisp but sunny autumn morning, and the family gamely tag along to watch the early start.  They set up camp on a sunlit bank whilst I jog off to find my starting pen. I'm confident that I can complete the race, having gradually increased my training runs to nearly 11 miles, but I'm keen to bag a decent time.  Under 2 hours is the target, which a handy pace chart suggests needs an average 9:09/mi pace. A hooter goes, Bryan Adams' "Run To You" blares out the PA, and we're off.  With a wave to the kids on the roadside, we exit the park and head through Southbourne.  About a hundred metres in, I feel the need for a wee.

Other runners. Other bloody runners. What a nuisance they are.  As we crowd through the narrow channels, everyone else is just in the way. The heavy breathers. The chatterers. The overtakers. A couple in particular are annoying enough that I have to inject bursts of pace to get ahead of them.  The first has a set of keys in his pocket that jangle with every step. The second is a racewalker, a rare breed indeed. This athletic stroll is actually quite impressive - he's doing about 8:45/mi pace - but the technique necessitates flailing elbows that clear a space behind him.  Somehow I keep finding myself hemmed in behind him, until I make a conscious effort to overtake.

As the race hits the third mile and turns on to Southbourne Overcliff, the field spreads, the road opens up slightly, and I can finally settle in to a decent rhythm, around 8:40/mi pace. It's a bit quicker than planned, but I feel good.  As I pass the Spyglass and Kettle pub, the leaders are heading back on the other side of the road, setting a pace that I can only dream of.  At the front of the field is Commonwealth marathon runner, British 100km champion and local legend Steve Way (motto: "Don't be shit"), a man for whom a half marathon is a light jog to the shops.

As the air warms up, spectators start to appear along the course.  Gathered on the Overcliff are a bunch holding placards -  "You're looking good!", "Your legs will forgive you.  Just not today (or tomorrow)", "Pain is temporary, Internet results are forever" - which provide some light relief.  Not that I particularly need it, the first 4 miles seem to have flown by.  Despite my earlier claims, being in a crowd actually helps pull you along, and I spend most of my time scanning the hordes for anyone I might know (none), or failing that, someone who might make a good blog subject (none, except for perhaps the guy running with a fridge on his back).

The race drops down and turns 180 degrees again, on to the promenade.  At this point, the whole rest of the course is laid before you - to Boscombe, up on to the cliff top to Bournemouth, before returning back along the beach to Boscombe Pier, and a final leg back to Bournemouth Pier and the finish.  From here, a mile or so from the halfway point, it looks simple, and in glorious sunshine, possibly enjoyable.

Meanwhile, my bladder hasn't given in. At Fisherman's Walk, I make the decision to take a now-almost-traditional mid-race wee stop. With one eye on the clock, I don't really want to, but it's also a chance to rescue a couple of chewy glucose tablets out my sock (wrapped in clingfilm, in case you're wondering) for a bit of energy reload.  Refreshment achieved, I pick up the pace again, only to find myself once again right behind the key jangler, who I have to once again power past.

For all it's beautiful views, Bournemouth seafront is actually a little dull to run along, being straight and flat, and also a touch annoying, for it has a camber to it that is wearing on the knees.  I weave around to find the slightly flatter parts at either side.  By the time I reach Boscombe Pier, I'm actually quite looking forward to the variety of the run up to the East Overcliff.  At the feeding station, I grab an energy gel, which I tuck into my waistband - not being a regular user, I'm wary of the warnings that such things can have a less than desirable effect on the stomach, so I'll only use it if I need to.

The route turns at Boscombe Pier to climb up through Boscombe Gardens.  A man at the side of the path claps and booms "Fantastic! You're brilliant! You're great, all of you!" at everyone who passes, in a wonderfully un-British show of support ("did he have learning difficulties?" someone enquired at my description). It's well received, and necessary, for the path takes a left and steepens sharply to take runners to the Overcliff.

It's like a scene from Dawn Of The Dead.  The previously perky runners have suddenly slowed to a crawl.  Some walk, some creep, some try and power on up.  I adopt a sort of Cliff Young shuffle.  It's a steep hill, no doubt, and at the top I'm panting for air for the first time in the race.  The edge of the energy gel packet is also cutting into my flab, so I retrieve it and carry it for now.  Things are starting to feel a little tougher now, but the crowds along the cliff top help push me, and everyone else, along.

As we head downhill towards the Pier, I scan the crowds knowing that Emma and the kids will be around. I locate Emma and mother-in-law Angela, waving frantically, and take a couple of seconds to spot the kids sat high on a wall, clutching the same "Go Daddy Piper" banner that served so well at the triathlon. We all wave and shout at each other, and just as I'm starting to flag, it's the high point of my day. I feel a little jealous of the woman next to me, who has "Maggie" printed across the front of her top, and receives numerous shouts of "Go on Maggie!" and "Well done Maggie!", from presumably complete strangers.

The last 3 miles is along to Boscombe Pier and back.  It's a run I've done a few times before, not least on the triathlon, and it seems like a fairly trivial jog.  But 10 miles in, it's starting to hurt.  I consume the energy gel, assuming that it might not have any deleterious effects before the finish, although also really far too late to have anything but a placebo effect. I spend most of the run to Boscombe considering the annoyance of having to run along Boscombe Pier before returning.  Half way along, the enthusiastic supporter from Boscombe Gardens is making his way towards Bournemouth, still shouting encouragement.

At end of the pier, another runner, who I recognise having got out his car as we walked to the start, is stood at the side, for reasons unknown, cheering others on.  "Smile!" he says to me as I pass, and we attempt a high five that barely connects. I'm struggling to smile, because by now The Blerch is on my shoulder, whispering to me to stop and take a break.  I feel like I'm keeping up the pace, but the Garmin tells me differently.

It is a blessed relief to arrive back at Bournemouth Pier.  The crowds gradually increase, and once again I find the family crowded against the barrier, waving and shouting.  A quick up and down Bournemouth Pier, and I'm home.  In front of me, a pair run with arms around each other - necessary, for one of the runners has knees that buckle with every step.  I navigate around the Pier amusements, as the PA requests First Aid at the finish, and make what sort of counts as a sprint for the line.  It hasn't come a moment too soon.  The Garmin shows a total time of 1:56.20. Accounting for the refreshment break, moving time was 1:55.37, a testament to my speed weeing ability.  All in all, I'm delighted with the time.

I spend the rest of the day eating everything in sight.  The following day, I have a day off, on which it rains biblically until early afternoon.  This is handy, for my thighs are in no rush to get out of bed, or to get down the stairs.

The natural next question is "so, are you going to do a marathon?".

No.

(but, next up, the Thruxton Mass Attack Duathlon, the sequel to the ill-fated first part)