Well here we are again. That sick, twisting feeling in your stomach. That nail biting anxiousness and the only thing you can hear is the thumping of your own heart; you’ve learnt how to drown out the crowds by now. Surely two years in you’re classed as a veteran. But still, Leeds Abbey Dash. I’ve done the training, done the speed, the tune up race, the warm up. Now it’s time to race. Race bib on: music blaring, time to go.
The time counted down quicker than I’d anticipated and we were off, a bit of red hot chilli peppers will get me to the first kilometre. My feet are numb and I’m just powering through, keeping the 45 minute pacers behind me until at least half way. Before I knew it I was in the third km, god I needed my dad, this feels hard. I shove the doubt out of my brain and power on; the worst bits over. The climb to 5k wasn’t half as bad as I recall it to be, and I even saw my dad heading the other way – I’d be ok. And then we were on the way back, my pace had dropped and I was now relying on Blink-182 to increase it again on the downhill. Yes. Back on pace. Sometimes during races it’s hard to remember why you started – the point of it all. But I had my heart surgery in Leeds and giving up is not an option, it never has been. I feel my legs tightening but I won’t let them, I increased my stride and just encouraged myself to get to 7k. It means only 3 to go. I remember this bit from last year, where I’d crashed, burned and rolled out. It was still a PB – but I was deflated and almost crawling to the finish. Not today, no. Today I’d sprint. 8km. It’ll all be over in 10 minutes. Rob Zombie comes on. Focus on the music and zone out. 9k. Push. 9.2. Push, come on! 9.5k you know this bit, give it everything.
I gritted my teeth and forced my legs up, up, up. I can see the finish! Sprint. Sprint. Sprint! 46:05, I’d done it! Over a minute PB. The best part? Running into my parents’ arms at they cheered. Yeah, that was worth it.
