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)
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