Weekly Report #4

This past week has seen members of the club stay close to home with two events taking place with the local area. Firstly last Monday was race 8 of 9 in the local Trunce series from Oxspring, with 3 members taking part. Nick Boxall was first back and in a new club male record time of 36:47. Next up was Heather Lindley in 46:46. Then Jolene Allen was the sweeper as she still takes part but without risking injury as she is training for the marathon.

Saturday morning so runners do various parkruns around the region with 6 runners taking part. Nick Wright ran 23:58 at Barnsley, Steve Watts ran 23:27 at Concord, Colin Mansell and David Downs headed up the M1 to do Dewsbury in 32:30 and 33:50 respectively. Andy Gosling stayed local running 26:10 at Hillsborough and finally Heather Lindley ran 29:26 at Rother Valley.

Also in action on Saturday was club treasurer Nicola Heaton who took part in Triathlon Relay swim with the Sheffield Triathlon Club.

Narni’s race report:

Trail, Trains and Tunnels. We arrived at Penistone 30 minutes prior to the start of the event and collected our numbers from the recurrently friendly race team and said hello to a few other competitors before heading outside for a race briefing.

Soon enough, we headed down onto the trail and lined up on a very frequented start line; a place I tend to begin my long runs.

We were acquainted with the team and who to look for when we reached the turn around, before being given a few tips and a good luck: a five second countdown to the next two hours (for me, anyways).

My job was simple: 10k pace downhill on the trail, easy on the turn around. As we set off, it became immediately apparent that I would be the one leading this race, and allowed a very friendly man to lead the first 200m, before I decided it was time for me to work and pushed on. Saying a goodbye to him, my dad, and the rest of the pack.

I started well: right on pace, Bon Jovi in my ears, life was good.
Soon enough I reached the end of the tunnel at Thurgoland, where my very confused mum asked where the turn around point was and as I, also confused, continued down it became evident that the lovely man acting as a turning marker wasn’t prepared for me to be as fast as I was, making it to him in 5.5km in 23 minutes. He asked how I was doing and hurriedly told me to turn with a very helpful sign as I made my way back up the trail. This is where I began to take a turn for the worse.
I saw my dad, who told me not to let the person behind me catch up – this dragged me out of the comforting bubble I’d created on the way down and caused me to absentmindedly speed up what was supposed to be my recovery to a steady 5:00/km pace. As I got further up the trail, the lady behind me took the lead and I decided it was best for me not to fight it – after all the whole goal was to run a workout, not a race. Regardless, the competitor in me was determined to stay with her as it became apparent that I was in a position to win the ‘Heavy Half’.

We reached the start again, where it was revealed that the lady id been holding off was actually only doing a lap, and there was no reason for me to exert myself back up.

I was offered some water, and despite the pain in my legs and uneasy stomach; I relented. Saying a farewell, seeing my dad, restarting my watch and heading onto the second half of my endeavour; a three minute stoppage time.

It was at this point, with Gerry Cinnamon in my ears, when I got a ‘second wind’ and managed to get back up to goal pace, however after umpteen kind competitors telling me ‘well done’ the constant conversation began to get on my nerves, as I reached 16km my legs began to ache and my sweat began to turn to salt: an avoidable situation if I had fuelled properly, which I’ll admit probably won’t change so I won’t even began to question whether or not it can improve because I know what I’m like when it comes to food.

As I got further down the trail, I noticed my pace had wearied substantially, however I decided it wasn’t worth pushing myself for another 800m to force my pace back up to be even worse than it was already foreshadowed to be, so I accepted my fate and powered on as much as I could; now running on pure feeling and adrenaline and continuing.

I reached the turn around point, offered a strained smile to the man who took my photo and headed back up for the final time: this is where the pain really kicked in.

I knew what was coming. I knew all the points to look for, and I feel like this was my downfall. 5.5km of pain to go.
My body is used to 17km, anything else is a stranger; an unknown. I closed my eyes and asked God to send me my dad, I knew he was the only person that could get me to the finish now, I didn’t even trust myself.
I opened my eyes and there was that infamous Mohican, he sped up as he’d told me he’d saw my grimace and asked if I wanted him. I told him ‘I don’t care’ but he speaks fluent Molly, which translates to ‘I need you now dad’ and he’s become accustomed to recognising when I need my coach, or when I needed my dad.

Right now, I needed my dad.

He ran beside me, letting me follow him and let me just work. My legs were burning, my thighs were bleeding (no I don’t know how this happened either), my feet were blistering, my stomach was churning and my head was aching – seeing black spots as the sun had decided to make an appearance and the temperature had raised at least 10 degrees since we set off 90 minutes ago.
The style: 4km left. I let out a frustrated sigh and dad told me ‘it’s okay’. He knows I just need to run in silence now. No music. No talking. Just my feet and the pavement.

The overgrown roots: 3km left. The pain really started to kick in, I considered walking, but dad tripped and I got a slight burst of adrenaline as I’d gone into concerned mode rather than pained. He was alright: 2.8km left.

His watch buzzed before mine, 2 to go. 20km down. I knew what was left. 5:20 pace, come on Molly.
The final km. I felt the tears in my eyes, I felt the lactic acid in my legs, I reached for my dad’s hand. He offered a comforting squeeze and dragged me in front of him. ‘You know what to do. You know how longs left.’ He was right. I did.

I pushed, first mound. Ouch. Again I accelerated, second lump. I can see the sign: why isn’t it getting closer?

Finally, I head up the hill and to the table where I collapse into my mum’s arms. Legs shaking, legs bleeding which I hadn’t actually realised until now, eyes darkening.

I sat down, head in hands, nursing a bottle of water. 1:48 half marathon. I’d done it. I’d won.
I’d led the whole half marathon. Start to finish. I’d done it. After coming back to earth from planet pain, I’d been told to head inside where I collected a medal, a PB badge and rang a bell for the furthest distance I’d ever ran. A rush of relief came over me, I’d done it! And it was so worth it.