So there it is then. The first leg of my season finale done in fine style. The Great North Run done in 93 minutes allowing me to complete a bucket list wish – three half marathons in the 90 minute range.
Truth be told I have never enjoyed running long distances. The training can be tedious, hours out on the roads and fields. Old injuries from a lifetime away flare up. Warm downs can take longer than the training itself. Preparing for autumn events can break into a summer better spent reading books and lying on the beach. I had been told my right knee was at risk of serious damage and I should consider stopping. I misheard and stopped considering.
The Great North is less of a run for the first kilometer, more of the largest lycra fetish event ever. The crowding in the pens meant I felt real kinship with battery hens and as you literally shuffle out onto the less than open roads your first instinct is to bomb a little, to get some distance between you and the pack. The pack, obviously, has the same idea…
So even after a kilometer or two you are still sprinting to ‘get away’. My first 5k was as good as the vast majority of my parkrun time. My first 10k the fastest 10k I have ever done. At 15k I was on for a sub 90 minute time. But obviously there was a price to pay.
At 15k I had a twinge. In the left leg. After all that worry and concern the left leg started to complain. Having to slow down was not what was on the agenda but as my body adjusted to ‘protect’ the left, everything began to moan. I am a scrawny old man so I run mainly on empty anyway. With 1.5k to go the 95 minute pacer caught up with me and, stupidly, male pride overtook human sensibility. Gritting teeth I sprinted home, passing a few of the delirious who had mistimed completely and momentarily enjoying the announcement over the finishing line tannoy that “the first of the charity runners” were coming home.
With little time before my flight home (told you I was stupid) I had little time to warm down. I had to get back to my AirBnB, shower and check in. At this point both knees had gone and I began limping with both legs. The flight, apart from a small crying child and Denise Lewis (no connection) was uneventful. The coach back home survivable. Sadly both my knees were shot.
To this day I have no idea what damage has been done. The pain has subsided but only a fool what suggest I am back to normal whatever normal is for a man with MS and a tumour named Nigel. I have the Barcelona Sprint Triathlon in under two weeks and, for a reason I don’t quite understand, the Great South (a 10 miler) in just under four weeks. I managed a moral boosting 20.28 at the Shrewsbury Parkrun on Saturday but am not so stupid that I don’t know that race was more body memory than new achievement. More wounded animal screaming across the line than anything else. The knees are gone, another clock starts to tick.
So why keep going? Because if it is a choice of letting my body eat itself or running it into the ground then it is no choice at all. As I keep saying, if the MS or Nigel wants me they are either going to have to run faster or risk finding nowt left to feed on.
See you on the beach…