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 23rd 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 92nd. 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…
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