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.
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 113th 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...
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