"Be Prepared"

So today I ran the Dronfield 10k. This was the second of the fifteen events I’m running for the Weston 100 and, because I did manage (only just)to complete it, I’ve now run 10 miles of the 100 I’m intending to run. 90 to go. Doesn’t sound that much. If you say it quickly.

The Dronfield 10k was organised by the 7th Dronfield Scout Group, hence the title of this week’s entry. Being prepared, sadly, was something I didn’t really feel today. Indeed, in spite of the fact that I finished the race without expiring midway around the course (and it felt like a close call sometimes) I felt dreadfully unprepared for this race. I don’t know why. My training has been going okay. I’ve not been skiving off or anything like that. I’ve been dutifully dragging myself up the big hill on Monyash Road and around the even bigger hill that leads up to Sheldon. Last Sunday I ran 10 miles (10 miles!) and didn’t feel too rough after it. But today... I don’t know. It just wasn’t happening today.

When we used to go snowboarding (b.c. – before children – of course) we used to have days when you’d go out on the slopes and for some reason - your legs were tired, you’d done too much the day before, you’d drunk too much the night before (yes, these really were the days before children) – for whatever reason, it just wasn’t happening on that day. And today, I had a day like that. I don’t want to make excuses, even to myself. I think I was rubbish today. But I did finish the race. I thought I might get a better time – I thought I was running quite quickly in some parts (in some parts I was just shambling along feeling terrible) – but I still did it in exactly the same time I would have run an equivalent distance if it had been a training session. So here, for the statistic junkies amongst you, are the facts of the matter: I finished 606th (crap) out of 771. I ran it in 59 minutes 49 seconds (according to the race chip time). I was beaten by 605 other people – some of whom were twice my age... Is this a pertinent point? Is this even relevant? Well, I should like to say not... (But getting lapped by a pensioner is never going to do your confidence any good...) But this point aside, does my finishing position even matter? Let’s face it. I set myself the challenge of running these distances – I didn’t say I’d do it quickly. In fact, I’ve been totally honest from the beginning. I am not, and never have been a fast runner. So why does it bother me so much that I didn’t get a better time/finishing place?

Some of you will already know the answer to this. Yes, I have become an addict. I’m addicted to the thrill of the race and the challenge of trying to beat my previous best’s already. And I’ve only done two events. There’s no hope for me. I know there’s no hope for me because a friend posted a website on Facebook for the “Hellrunner.com” event. You may or may not have heard of this one. It’s basically a 10-12 mile trail run (no roads, no kilometre markings, no timings – oh, and it ends with you running up to your chest (or up to your neck if you’re small like me) through a watery bog. It’s held in November and there’s a good chance that any event which involves running through icy water at that time of year is going to involve a flirtation with hypothermia. I know there’s no hope for me because most reasonable, rational, sane people would view the video footage of the misery that comprises this race and would shudder, turn it off and thank God that they weren’t entered into that one. Sadly, I did not have this reaction. I got excited and thought, “Gosh, that looks good.” You see what I mean? No hope at all. I’m completely hooked.

Today’s event, bad as I perceive it to be, is actually the culmination of a terrible week. It’s just been awful. I can’t even go into it. It’s only the usual stuff I suppose. Stuff other people cope with every day. Family upsets, domestic upheavals, the general turbulence that is unavoidable when you choose to live with other people. It’s involved a few rows. Mainly concerning the mother-in-law. I think I had the worst Friday the 13th I’ve ever had to date. Talk about triskadecaphobia... I could develop it after last Friday. (That’s the fear of the number 13 if you didn’t know and you can’t be bothered to Google it – I only know because there’s a racehorse called Triskadecaphobia which I’ve laid a few bets on as part of my work at the bookies from time to time.) It might even be because of the awful week I’ve had that I feel that today’s race, and, yes, even this blog entry, hasn’t/isn’t going that well. Perhaps it’s best to draw a veil over the week leading up to it and get onto the actual race.

The course of the race didn’t really help, I feel. It was one of those jobs where you had to do two laps. On the first lap, I ran past a sign saying “6 km”. I thought “Fantastic. This is easy this one. I’ve done 6k already.” I failed to notice the small writing underneath the 6 km sign which read “2nd lap”, indicating that you had actually done 6km when you’ve passed it twice. I realised my error when I passed the next sign which read 3 km and thought “Oh God, I’ve got another 7km to do still and I feel like sh1t.” I did as well. I had reached shambling along like an old lady whilst simultaneously being overtaken by several old ladies stage. Then I passed another sign saying 8 km (2nd lap) and a further sign saying 2km... I didn’t know where I was at all by that stage and I still felt dreadful. It was very confusing for one such as me (a simple soul with no sense of either direction or distance travelled). After I had passed the dentists at the bottom of Stubley Lane, the Total Garage, a pub and several other confusing kilometre signs for what felt like the 68th time, I eventually passed a sign reading “10 km at this point when you have passed this sign twice”. Surely I had passed it twice? Or had I? The marshalls marshalled me under a flyover and around again so perhaps not. After I had passed the dentists at the bottom of Stubley Lane, the Total Garage, a pub and the confusing kilometre signs around 93 times more, past the smug singing blackbird with absolutely no mother in law to worry about whatsoever (but let’s draw a veil over that), I eventually stumbled around the corner into Sindelfingen park and across the finish line. At the top of this entry is a picture of me crossing the finish line. It's in black and white because the light was a bit bright today and it made all of the pictures my husband took with our camera appear pink. Changing it to black and white was the only way to fix this.

I’ve got to say, that in this picture, I don’t actually look that bad (considering how I felt). Obviously, you can't really tell how I'm feeling - the black and white photo hides a multitude of things. What you may, however, notice immediately is the first error I’ve made in this race. I’m dressed for the Great Winter Run (i.e. tracksuit, thermal layering, etc). However, today it’s been a beautiful spring day. I was feeling the heat before I’d even run 1 km, never mind the 6 I thought I’d run by that stage. It’s just my inexperience showing here. The only race I’d ever run before this one was the Great Winter Run, so I dressed the same, despite the fact that there’s a BIG difference between a windswept hill in Edinburgh in January and a housing estate outside a scout hut in Dronfield in March. There’s a BIG difference between Edinburgh in January and Dronfield in January for that matter, but never mind. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll wear less next time. The second error I made (less obvious from the picture, but I could feel it) was that I got in with a pack of runners who were much faster than me just because I didn’t start the race from the right point. I think I started it from around the point where the runners were anticipating they would finish the race in 50 minutes. I knew it would take me at least an hour. This was just an inattention to detail thing (and the fact that – as you can see from the photo – I’m not wearing my glasses and didn’t even see the signs). I then tried to keep up with the runners who were going much faster than me, failed dismally and became demoralised.

This is fairly par for the course this week, though, as I have said. I have felt demoralised all week and generally on a downer about things. Perhaps that didn’t help my performance either – it certainly didn’t enhance it. But, never mind, onwards and upwards. I said I would do the event for the Weston 100 and I’ve done it. I didn’t achieve anything fantastic in terms of time or position, but I did do it. If I didn’t distinguish myself, I certainly didn’t disgrace myself either. For instance, I did not collapse a few yards from the start line and have to be brought back in by the people from St John’s Ambulance (as did one runner, apparently – not sure why – maybe just the thought of running the event was too much for them). I did finish and I’ve got another medal to prove it. This one’s looking a bit worse for wear by now – I let my young son wear it all afternoon and it’s got a bit beaten up.

Tomorrow, I’m going to step up the training a bit. I was rubbish today and will probably be rubbish in three weeks’ time when I do the Theo’s 10k in Rother Valley Country Park. Well, I might be rubbish again, but at least, this time, I’ll be prepared...

Some Successes... More Failures...

So here we are – one week to go until my next event and I’ve started fundraising with a vengeance. I’ve got even more reason to reach my target of £3,000 now – my (most generous) employer has agreed to match whatever I raise up to a maximum of £3,000. So, in other words, if I raise £3,000, William Hill will also donate £3,000 to the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity. How cool is that? It’s fantastic. It means that if I can reach my target of £3k, then the hospital will actually get £6k.

But, of course, I have first got to reach that £3,000 target. And it’s really hard. First of all there’s the current economic climate. It’s difficult to pester your friends for donations when you know they can barely afford to pay their bills. As one of my (more cynical) colleagues pointed out. “Well, you’re not going to reach £3,000 are you? Let’s face it, why else would they say they’d match you to that amount?” But he is just one lone (miserable) voice in the workplace. Well, he’s not the only miserable voice in the workplace, but he was the only lone miserly miserable misery who refused to sponsor me. Everybody else at work who I have asked has donated something. One person gave 62 pence as it was all he had on him, but it doesn’t matter. Every penny helps. In fact, I haven’t asked everybody yet, but in two shifts alone my kind colleagues have sponsored me over £150. I count that as a success. Particularly as I haven’t asked everybody yet. In fact, there’s quite a few people yet to go...

As well as seeking sponsorship, I’ve tried to raise funds through other ways. Last time I wrote I related how I had placed my original “Run the Greats” running T-shirts on Ebay for sale in the hope of starting a bidding frenzy which would secure at least a further £100 into the fundraising account. I was quite optimistic of achieving this, I have to say. One of my friends came over for lunch and she was telling me how her husband has raised some money for the Sheffield Children’s Hospital by selling some T-shirts. From these T-shirts he raised a few hundred pounds, she informed me. Admittedly her husband is an ice-hockey player with the Sheffield Steelers and therefore has a certain celebrity status, whereas I’m just a middle-aged mum-of-two, call-centre operator... But, still, if he can raise a few hundred pounds out of just the sale of T-shirts, I should be able to raise at least £50... Right?

Well, I can now inform you that my T-shirts have sold through Ebay. I have packaged them up and tomorrow, when the post office opens, I will be mailing them to their new owner (Why? Sorry, but why would anyone want to buy them? Never mind. None of my business why a man from Cornwall should want to purchase two women’s running T-shirts, size small, both with my name and website on them. What goes on in that man’s home is his own affair. It might be just as well not to know). He is probably just very public spirited and in a very public-spirited manner wishes to selflessly devote cupboard space to my old T-shirts so that he can have an excuse to donate to my cause. Good for him.

And just how much did I make out of these T-shirts for the Weston Park Hospital Cancer Charity? Well, sadly, it fell slightly short of the hundreds of pounds mark. It also fell slightly short of the fifty pound mark. In fact, to say that it was more in the region of the three pound mark would be about right. Well, that is to say, approximately right. If I was to say that I sold the T-shirts for one whole English pence, that would be a fact. The three pounds was for the postage. So, in other words, I made £3.01 for these items. Not great. A failure, I suppose. But, as I have said, every penny counts.