Banstead Woods ParkRun 379

I’m just eight days away from my Great North Run hack and I’m woefully under prepared. To put it simply, I just haven’t done the training.

Still, on the plus side, I’m still looking forward to ticking it off my running bucket list of races (a National road relay of some description is the thing left on there for me at the moment but I would imagine that won’t happen for a while yet).

And so lining up at the 379^th Banstead Woods ParkRun represents my last quality session before 13.1 miles of joy comes around. By quality I mean a 2.5mile warm-up jog to the race from my house (normally struggling to wake the legs up), blasting the 5K itself and then dragging my aching limbs the 2.5miles back home.

Standing on the start-line at Banstead, I go through the usual routines. Knowing I’ll probably be around 20^th I stand on the third line of runners back from the front...and there aren’t many races I can do that in let me assure you. It is also a good opportunity to eye the regulars who I’ve been enjoying a few duels with recently. There are a couple of nippy teenage brothers who are always a few places ahead of me in these things so they provide a good target. I spot a chap in an England cricket shirt who is always there or thereabouts in relation to me and then there is a super Vet who has amassed 200+ ParkRuns and leads me 17-6 on head to heads. It was clear...I had my targets.

I also had half an eye on trying to better my personal best here at Banstead which stands at 19:59 I set last in April of last year. Since then I’ve been in the zone of 20:20-40’s but it has been a struggle to get close to breaking that elusive 20 minute barrier. 20:15 is my best this year and that came after an arduous cross-country season. It is obvious that it is lack of training that is having an effect but today feels slightly different...I feel strong...I’m confident I can run it closer this time.

The Race Director shouts go and sure enough I get swamped at the start. I really need to attack the starts of races more, even having done hundreds of competitions I’m still scared of doing so.

“It is only a 5K Matthew....FOR GOODNESS SAKE attack it!” is the mantra I desperately need to employ. There are legs and heels flying everywhere and then there’s the inevitable bottleneck soon after starting, but soon enough we were into our running and away.

The first mile went by without incident and I was through in 6:42. Not bad. And the bonus was that a nice long downhill follows shortly receiving this news. Oh how good I feel at this moment, peaking at 5:34 miling, opening up the stride and feeling full of running. Oh how awful I will feel when I have to do this again on the next lap...

Despite my slow start, I had been reeling people in at regular intervals during the first lap so was confident I’d be running close to the 20 minute barrier I so desperately want to break. I was anxious as I approached the halfway mark and as the marshal shouting the time-checks neared everything seemed to go in slow motion (quite literally).

“Ten minutes Ten” was the cry and disappointment was my instant response.

Damn it...it is nearly impossible to run negative splits on this course in my experience, a 9:40-49 second lap is completely out of the question. A defeatist yet realistic approach...I’d just have to fight to the finish now.

The great thing about Banstead is that there is no time to rest on your laurels. As soon as you go past the halfway marker you head straight up an energy sapping gravel hill. I flew past a teenager who had overcooked it too early. I felt sorry for him, we’ve all been there that’s for sure.

I missed my 2nd mile time due to fatigue and instead focused on the England cricket shirt chap ahead of me who in turn was reeling in one of the speedy teenage brothers who appeared to be struggling. I had about 50m to make up and thankfully closed the gap as we began the long descent to home.

Tucked in behind them, the England cricket shirted chap looked to the teenager “Come on mate let’s keep going”. Fair play to him, ParkRunners are all in this together, and comments like that provide such a boost when the going gets tough. It was great of the guy to shout encouragement at this late stage when he must have been hurting like hell at the same time. I doubt I could have formed a coherent word let alone sentence...such was the state of my wheezing at this point. It clearly worked for the teenager who picked up the pace.

As we approached the corner for 200m to home I tried to attack if only to try and get close to 20:15 (my best this year). I had no challenge behind me, it was now (as Bill Withers once didn’t sing) just the three of us. The time check was read out at 19:50...so the PB goal had long gone, but two more scalps hadn’t. It turned out to be the battle for 18^th, 19^th and 20^th.

I made my move as soon as we reached the flat stuff. The theory being that this might be enough to run the teenager’s almighty kick out of his legs. It wasn’t. I rounded both of them but the teenager flew past with unnerving ease and I had no more gears to give. It is amazing how many times this has happened to me in races. The sight of me going past people in the latter stages clearly has a mystical effect on other runners. I clung on to the end for 19^th, one out of the two scalps wasn’t bad in the circumstances even if the time of 20:32 was essentially just par for course.

A top 20 finish out of 186 was nothing to be sniffed at. Better not get used to it though. Soon I’ll be in Newcastle against 50,000 others...

2014 Wimbledon 5km

The County 5K. A race traditionally where more than half the field goes under 20 minutes. My local ParkRun therefore...this certainly is not.

The Wimbledon 5 has, up until recently, always been in my calendar. The old race/course - the “Belgrave Bolt” in 2008 was one of the first times I felt everything click as a runner. A run of 19minutes and 38seconds was in the grand scheme of things nothing to write home about, but for me, one of my quickest 5K’s I’ve done to this day. I remember the feeling of overtaking people who had in the past I’d seen running off into the distance. I felt like I was flying (mostly thanks to the sessions done with Bournemouth AC the previous winter) and I was loving every minute. I also remember winning a voucher for the third best handicap score in the Surrey Road League one year (the dark days when I was managing 55 minutes for a 10K) and one year laughing heartily at the sight of the Fulham FC badger setting off the race. This race therefore has more than its fair share of happy memories for me.

Since then of course, the race has moved to Wimbledon, and surprisingly (browsing through my race diaries) I’ve only had one go at this since it has found its new home. That came in 2011, where I ran a not terrible 20:23. A realistic target then, this time round.

Training of late has been just above the technically termed “enough to get away with” mostly containing track & field gap filling (18.2secs for a 100m takes pride and place on my Power of 10) and runs to and from the local train station. I have however managed to at least get some longer runs in recently with my Great North Run hack looming ever larger in a fortnight’s time.

My day began in the best possible fashion bumping into a local running legend at the train station Robin Dickson. The man is an inspiration. A prolific runner in his day (I’m fairly certain his PB’s would win most of the local road races nowadays including this one) he is now a prolific coach and still runs now even in his 70’s. 40 minutes on the trams and trains to get there exchanging stories was just the boost I needed on a grey Sunday morning.

After the usual hellos and chats with the rest of the team and a full warm up it was time to start and it wasn't long before I'd made my first howling error of the morning.

Not wanting to get too cold, I kept doing drills until the last possible minute before the race start. The bad news for me however was that the last possible minute for me in this case meant that the whole field had already lined up meaning I had to start from the back. A more aggressive runner would have shoved politely through the melee into a part of the field more befitting of their standard. By contrast I stood at the back, metaphorically kicking myself, because I am a lemon. Oh how wonderful hindsight is.

Howler number two came in my choice of lane. The first 450m would be on the track, I foolishly chose (out of the entire track) lane one to start in. The worst lane choice imaginable, under the circumstances. The klaxon went and I was practically crawling as the rest of the field sped off jockeying for position. Trapped and boxed in, it would be 200m before I could force my way out in lane seven. With my lack of training, it is imperative to at least get the basics right in race situations, so far I was doing my best to throw it away before the race had barely even begun.

Now in lane seven, I could get into my running, the aim was to get to just under 4min kilometres before the infamously hill 2km into the course. And that's what I did, 3:50s flashed up on my Garmin. At the Parkrun, that pace would be enough to dispatch a handful of people who had overcooked it at the start. Here however it made no difference whatsoever. No one went past me, and no one bit my dust - we were all going at the same pace. Time to panic...

Approaching the hill at 2km, things were going well, I'd picked up a dozen places and I wasn't feeling overtly tired since my gentle 8miles the previous day (not recommended race prep, but needs must in times of mileage hunting). And then came the hill, with Wimbledon tennis courts looming over on the right hand side of the road. To be honest the hill isn't the steepest it in the world if you've got training in the bank. I don't however, and although it didn't kill me off entirely, I only picked up one or two places mostly due to others blowing up rather than my own skill. I lost a few more.

What goes up must come down, and if the hill was like vegetables (horrible but good for you) then the downhill at 3k was very much like dessert. Letting the legs flow and being at full stride is probably one of the best feelings in sport, and here at least, I could enjoy that at least for a few hundred metres. Looking around me there was a group of six of us all going at the same pace, two of whom I definitely recognised, I'd have to get ahead of them if I wanted my course best.

2km to go, and we were back in the park, only two left hand turnings (after some long straights) and we'd be back in the stadium. The legs hurt, I was breathing heavily, this would be an awful fight all the way to the end. I’d edged past the half a dozen who were with me on the downhill and now trying to reel in anyone else who was in front of me. I got to 4km in 16:20...aims of a sub 20 were now out of the window, now it was just about survival. A Wimbledon Windmiler had been tracking me for the last kilometre, it is incredible the difference a good battle can do for pace. Back and forth we went, until I turned for the final time towards the arena. A quick look on Power of 10 revealed I’d only beaten him once before to his four wins over me, so that was a nice scalp if nothing else.

Into the stadium, and suddenly the tartan underfoot put a spring in the step. There’s something quite special about finishing in the stadium – even if it is just a local road race. And so the obvious reaction was to begin sprinting with 200m left. I dropped one chap who I’d never beaten before but then took another with me. Back and forth we went, going through the gears and neck and neck as we went into the home straight. It was like Chris Thompson and Daniele Meucci in the European Champs in 2010 (except about 6 minutes slower....than they went through 5k...in a 10k race...). Seb Coe once alluded to going through the gears in the last 100m, reaching top and praying no-one went past. Well I had reached my “top”, but it was to no avail, and my neighbour got away with five metres to go.

Collapsing on the grass after the finish line, the good news was I’d bettered my time from three years ago with 20:17 for 113^th out of 244. But it was a case of what ifs. What if I’d attacked the start more? What if I’d started higher up in the field? Could I have pushed it more? Who knows, this is after all, the curse of every runner. And ultimately the reason runners come back time and again to toe the start-line. Until next time I thought as I staggered to my feet coughing up a lung...until next time...

2014 Bookham 10K

You know you are a runner when you base your entire local geography by race venues.

There isn't a week that goes by that I don't have a conversation with someone that goes along the following lines:

Me: Sooooooo where are you based?

Unwilling victim: (Insert location in London or south east England)

Me: Ah yes I've raced a 10k there, fast course actually, although a few hills near the start to test the legs...

The reaction to this is normally somewhere between bemusement and ambivalence.

So when my now girlfriend and I met up for our first date, I was geared up for the inevitable "Where are you based" question. I thought could wow her with personal bests (41:21 for 10k thanks for asking) that I'd done at races where she lived and regale her with training routes in the region. This, I thought, will definitely impress her....

And so when the time came, I puffed out my chest, one hand clenching the table the other with my fingers crossed, and I asked the question:

"So where are you based?"

"Bookham" came the reply.

I paused and reached into my mind vaults like Charles Augustus Magnuson from Sherlock (although for less maniacal reasons, and definitely sans face licking...) - I found nothing.

Nine months later, and there we were expecting...the starting gun for the Bookham 10K. I love the circuit of club races that we do every year but its always good to have new challenges. And 2013's race certainly was that, full of mud, knee deep puddles and stony hills, it was of epic proportions to say the least and adds about ten minutes onto what you would normally do for the distance. I was 50th in 53:13.

Fast forward 12 months and I was back for a second go at this horrendous course. A rousing rendition of the national anthem soon raised the spirits however. It wasn't just me singing by myself I hasten to add, this was coordinated en mass by the organisers and the whole field joined in. Maybe they could do this before every championship or league race in the County, now that would be brilliant...

Soon enough, the race was on and immediately whole swathes of runners launched past me. My tactics and aims were simple, keep at 7-7.30 minutes a mile and try and get in a coveted (in my mind anyway) top 50 slot. And for goodness sake don't get injured ahead of next week's Surrey cross country league finale.

The first of these aims was proving all the more difficult after my Garmin packed up five minutes before the start. Lovely, £80 well spent. And so I'd have to go on feel and trust in my Casio f-91w (£4.99) that has never let me down yet.

At roughly 5K in, I hadn't made much progress through the field as I'd have liked. But then it came...one of the steepest inclines in all the races I compete in. Last year I approached it and wondered why people near the top of it were walking, I quickly found out why.

Not only is it steep - it proceeds to go on and on and on. But one thing my horrific experience in Parliament Hill gave me seven days ago, it was strength up the hills, and sure enough, despite treading water when I was at the top, I'd taken a dozen or so athletes in the process.

After 32 minutes. I overheard two other runners talking about the race, one of them turned out to be 2nd in the women's comp. Turns out we had run 6k. 6k?! This is abysmal. Next up was a downhill, a very long descent that is borderline dangerous if you actively try and sprint down due to perilous tree roots, stones, gravel, old brick and drain covers. I decided to play it safe, until another runner from an all too familiar club got beside me.

It was a Wimbledon Windmiler.

Six days from now, my club would be facing the windmilers in a straight shoot out to see who will be promoted to the 1st division of the Surrey XC league. It is all horrendously nerve wracking but it is likely that every spot will count on the day.

It is amazing what the heat of battle can do to the brain. My tactics of playing it safe quickly went out the window, and my focus changed to trying to beat him at all costs. A bizarre (and silly) thing to think considering it extremely unlikely that myself or indeed himself are likely to feature in our clubs scoring teams if we are seven minutes a mile.

But it doesn't matter, nothing matters more in this moment than beating him, I must vanquish him at all costs.

And then I rolled my ankle.

A funny thing...injuries.Or in this case a close call to injury - it all happens in a matter of a split second. Here I hit a rock embedded in the ground and nearly went over. Instinctively my body bolted upright to correct itself. I landed back flat on my feet and all was well...I'd got away with it. Common sense prevailed, and I put the brakes on. Next week is the biggie...not this one. I didn't get close to the Windmiler again.

The last few kilometres were an almighty slog. Boggy and hilly, I was slipping everywhere all the while losing precious positions. There is nothing more frustrating than not being out of breath and yet being unable to push the pace on, purely down to footwear and the sludge underfoot.

Be that as it may, I approached the last kilometre with some relief and reached the infamous of "puddles of death". I've coined that phrase, I don't think it'll catch on. These puddles are so deep, they are knee high, and it's basically a gamble as to where your foot lands, and indeed whether it comes back out again with a shoe still encasing it.

I launch in and as soon as I do, my foot turned to ice. It was freezing and unpleasant memories of last years National Champs in Sunderland came flooding back to me. After ploughing through the first puddle and neared the second, the one saving grace was that my girlfriend's parents were on hand to cheer me on. I was in much need of the support after such a hard slog and they were also able to document my pain in photographic format.

"That'll be a good one for Facebook" I thought and thus confirming to the social media 

Having lost a place through the puddles I made it back on the road to home on the pavements that I was oh so relieved to see. Little did I know that that move was for 50th place and that is where I'd remain in a time of 53:04, nine seconds quicker than 12 months ago. My lack of training at least hasn't killed me off entirely then....

Objective achieved then, but this wasn't the real battle, that comes in six days from now, and it comes at the Surrey league finale...

2014 SEAA Cross-Country Championships

Parliament Hill….my nemesis. Words can’t really do justice for my feelings towards this course, which is full of hills, mud, more hills and yet more mud. I’d go as far as saying that I've never run well here prior to this season. It is…in short…hell.

It was with some trepidation then that I lined up on the start-line for the South of England cross-country championships to take on nine miles of joy. As I did, all the horror stories of my previous runs quickly came flooding back.

My first ever run here came back in 2006 at the National championships as a junior man. The race was won by GB international Andy Vernon, in third was former National champion Keith Gerrard and in fourth was a certain Olympic Triathlon gold medallist Alistair Brownlee. But while these guys laid the foundation for their successful senior years, I however was at the back having a character building experience of my own. And when I write “at the back” I really do mean it. After the first 400m (which is completely uphill) I was rock stone last. I’d turned up to this competition without having run at all for the past month due to studying and clearly thought I could wing it. How wrong I was. In the distance, I could only see one other runner, a chap from Orion Harriers who was equally as unfit as I was. I caught him up and we vowed to help each other for the remainder of the race.

And help each other we did, tortuously wading through the quagmire and trotting painfully slowly up hills of increasing difficulty, every step getting ever more painful. At one point we reached a part of the course which appeared to be closed off. As it turned out, an official had in fact taped it off thinking it all the runners in our race had gone through. We duly ducked under the tape and trudged on. About 1km from the finish, the Orion Harrier got away, and I never saw him again, meanwhile hundreds of under 13’s swarmed me (which must have included GB junior internationals Rikki Letch and Charlie Grice), meaning that I was being overtaken by a race that had started 30 minutes after I’d set off. Humiliating doesn’t even begin to sum up how I felt. Tired and exhausted I dragged myself over the line in about an hour and duly collapsed. Trying to explain to the organizers that I wasn’t in fact an overgrown twelve year-old was an interesting and ultimately fruitless exercise. To this day, there remains no evidence of me ever having competed and there’s no sign of the Orion Harrier either.

Fast forward seven years, and the SEAA Champs last year which easily ranks as my worst race as a senior. The reasons for this were, as always, self-inflicted. Firstly I had eaten virtually nothing in preparation for the race barring breakfast (eight hours before the race) and a few Jaffa cakes. Time had got the better of me while cheering on the young athletes at the club, and I foolishly had forgotten to eat. Schoolboy error. The second fatal flaw was the fact that I opted for trail shoes. Never again will I make this mistake, slipping and sliding, it was a nightmare and not one I would recommend to anyone under any circumstances. Tired and weary, as I slid towards 1km to go, I fell flat on my face. I got up, humiliated, and promptly repeated the feat in front of another local club’s photographer.

“Nice dive Matt…”

Thanks…

Thankfully he missed the photographic opportunity.

When I crossed the line (83:26 for nine miles…), I was wobbling all over the place and had to get photographer and supporter of the club Thomas Haywood to force feed me his energy bar (my hands were mud covered after the earlier falls on my face). If he hadn't, I may not have completed the 400m walk to my bag. I remain ever so grateful.

And so to this year….

As I lined up in my pen, I knew that at the very least I’d done the basics right. I had actually eaten food (hurrah!) and I had spikes this time round. On the start-line next to us included two very talented runners who I’d met before, Gilbert Grundy a thoroughly nice guy from Woking who’d finish 23^rd and Rob McTaggart another top chap from Bournemouth, who was always very supportive when I was hacking around at Bournemouth AC (I still hold their record for their slowest marathon) during Uni – he’d finish 92^nd. Both of those results are incredible given the standard, and for the fact that there were nearly a thousand runners in the field. My aims were a lot less ambitious than top 100 finishes – they were don’t come last, don’t fall over and don’t get lapped…preferably in that order.

The gun went, and an inspiring sight, as nearly a thousand of us ploughed up the hill. “Don’t go off too fast Matt” I tell myself while trying not to skewer the bloke in front of me with my 15mm spikes. Reaching the top in one piece, we turn right downhill and this is when it hit me….the sheer volume of mud was gargantuan. Wading through, it was hard work to say the least and this was only five minutes into the race. With so many people in close proximity, it was hard work trying to stay with my colleague Martin Rowe. We had made a pact to try and work together as much as possible, but it took me about half a lap to catch him. And so we battled on through the mud and hills, as this hellish course became all too familiar once more.

After the first lap, things were going smoothly, I felt remarkably fresh, and trotting along at eight minutes a mile was doing the trick. And indeed on the second lap things ticked along nicely, the only downside was I lost Martin along the way and gave my sunglasses to spectator (and excellent runner) Peter Chambers as it was just too dark to see…a storm brewing perhaps?

As I approached my third and final lap I realized that I hadn’t been lapped which was excellent news. But one problem had crept in and that was hunger pangs. Time to implement operation “jelly babies” (other sweets are available), and start wolfing down said sweets which were stored in my shorts (not a euphemism). They got me through my two marathons and they were going to get me through this one if it killed me.

One mile to go and the heavens opened with a drizzle. “Oh please hold off until the finish” I pleaded to myself internally but it wasn't to be, the weather was here to stay. I fought onto the line even managing a sprint to the finish, frankly delighted with the result. Under 74 minutes, about nine minutes faster than last year and ahead of over three hundred people to boot.

The euphoria lasted all of about ten seconds.

“Take your chips off please” cried the officials who had been standing there all day. What unsung heroes they are.

I knelt down into the mud to tackle this seemingly simple task. The chip, strapped by Velcro to my mud caked leg was almost glued to my calf. I fumbled around trying to find the way to unfasten it (not an unfamiliar feeling…) but to no avail; I must have been there for minutes messing around and crucially began to shiver. Bet Usain Bolt doesn't have this problem…

Eventually I got rid of the chip shaped shackle and began to jog to the team tent…and then the worst happened, the heavens REALLY opened. Down came the rain, then the winds picked up….and then came the apocalyptic thunder. I've never seen anything like the weather we had in that short space of time, trying to get changed, pack away the tent/club flag without being able to feel my hands is not an experience I want to repeat any time soon. I screamed an array of fruity language into the sky, wondering what on earth I was doing here, much to the bemusement of other runners who had packed up and were heading home. OK for some…

Having left the house at 7.30am, I made it back home at 7.40pm (thanks Southern Rail). Everything I had on that day either went into the bath, washing machine or next to a radiator. I slept for nearly twelve hours that night.

Until next year I thought as my head hit the pillow, until next year… 

Introducing - Track & Field Trundling

I love my running. The open air, the freedom, the sense of achievement (neatly forgetting the agony) - I love everything about the sport of long distance running. So much so, that it's been a huge part of my life for past decade in terms of competing, training and volunteering.

It must be said however that I'm not exactly the world’s greatest runner, my 20-21 minute runs at Banstead Woods ParkRun are hardly going to get the National selector’s juices flowing. In fact it is fair to say that when it comes to describing my ability level, I’m very much in the middle of pack (and that’s on a good day).

This sport however never fails to disappoint in my opinion and is full of twists, turns and new challenges every time we step out for a training run. And in essence that’s why I’ve decided to start this blog, to try and capture what it is like in grass roots athletics/running, and to give a view from the back/middle/lower middle (delete as appropriate...) of the pack.

I hope you enjoy, and come along for a spot of track & field trundling with me over the coming months.