Whether or not to check the weather forecast for a race is always a dual-edged sword. On the one hand knowledge is power and you’ll be better prepared, on the other if it’s going to be 1 degree above 0 and hailing then you inevitably marinate in a pool of self loathing and misery whilst you pack 50 buffs and gloves into your race bag. A 7.20am start saw me glide majestically down the M1, ‘Dad rock’ on full blast, with not one but two thermoses of coffee to keep me going. Having done ‘Bingley Bollocks’ last year with “It’s Grim Up North” racing, I had already earmarked a sneaky place to park the car, and tootled on down to race HQ on the banks of the Leeds to Liverpool canal.
I arrived in good time, and was able to catch the 5k group set off at 8.30, whistling their way merrily out from Beckfoot towards Crossflatts. Nose was already streaming, and I begrudgingly did a half-arsed warm up in the opposite direction along the canal bank. This helped. Just before 9am the race director pulled a tiny lady to the front of the amassed crowd, and announced that this absolute weapon having done over 200 marathons was now participating in her last IGUN race, before moving to Scotland to live with her daughter. She was 85. Incredible. What a privilege to share the race with her! 9am and we were off, speeding towards the 3 and 5 rise locks. From last year I remembered that the photographer was cruelly placed at the summit of the 5 rise, ready to capture awful photos of our strained faces as we panted our way up the incline. I straightened myself up and slapped a smile on my face…for no photographer. Fantastic. At least it looked like I sort of knew what I was doing for the small gaggle of friends and family gathered at the top.
My cheery God-father and his friend Pauline were at the Micklethwaite bridge to shout me on, and despite trying to give way to an ambulance at the road crossing (so I could sneakily catch a 2 second breather), the paramedic courteously waved me across the road. Thanks for nothing, pal. Panting on towards the East-Morton bridge I saw Momma and Papa Fulford with umbrellas and waves, and I shouted “horrific, I’m dying” as Momma Fulf dramatically stopped traffic to help runners cross un-impeded. Thanks Mum. Out we went towards Swine Lane where the halfway marshal offered words of encouragement. Having tricked myself into believing that the DEFINITELY FLAT canal towpath was in fact at a slight incline on the way out, I had to then imagine it was slightly downhill on the way back. A cry of “still dying” as I whipped past the parentals, and I was relieved to see the (actual) downhill slopes of the locks as I approached the 8km mark.
At this stage I spotted a race photographer and did manage to get my ‘heel click’ in at the last second, which buoyed me. Not being amongst the speedy elite has its advantages; you can muck around in a race and have fun a bit without worrying about a podium finish. Excellent. As per last year the course measured a little long by my Garmin, but I cantered over the line in 52:05. Not my best performance for a 10k by any stretch, but I’ll take it. Buns were eaten, congratulations to other runners was given, and a weighty heart shaped medal was slung around my neck. I cunningly remembered to pre-heat the car as I walked back up to my secret parking spot, and spent a good 10 minutes waiting for my thighs to come back to life. Bravo to all runners.
If you like a HEARTY AND DELICIOUS post-race spread, cheerful marshals and a relaxed and friendly group of competitors, It’s Grim Up North’s “Besotted at Bingley” is for you.
