The British 10k

A typical Sunday morning will often see me sleep right through it, stagger blearily from my bed around lunchtime and weigh up the pros and cons of heading to the local cafe for a greasy spoon breakfast. So it was with some trepidation that I set my alarm for 7AM on Saturday night, knowing that I was planning on heading into the centre of London for my first 10k race. A night of disturbed sleep followed, my dreams filled with delayed buses, missed trains and various other time related concerns. While this wasn’t exactly restful, I did get to drink lots of water each time I woke up, and there was no chance of oversleeping. There was the usual slightly chaotic approach to getting out of the house, but somehow Claire and I managed to get out within 5 minutes of the plan, and were soon on our way in to town to meet Tom and Alex before heading for the start.

My training for this had been far less than I had planned – a combination of injury and laziness had meant that I only started running properly again the week before, after a solid 5 week break. As a result, my original plan of getting a sub-50 minute time had been abandoned, but I still thought that I should be able to get sub-55. Tom and I discussed our race plans as we worked our way down Piccadilly, the crowd of runners slowly building ahead of us. He’d been trying for sub-50 the last couple of runs, so it was clear we weren’t going to be running together.

My tiredness and nerves were slowly giving way to excitement – the anticipation of the hundreds of people around me generating a charged atmosphere. I had been hoping for a light drizzle to keep the temperature down, but as we stood in the increasingly crowded holding area, I was glad to be dry – we had a good half an hour to wait for the start.

The minutes ticked by, with a plummy, almost Churchill-ian announcer talking through a poorly set up PA system to keep us company. The Band of Her Majesty’s Life Guard played the National Anthem, twice, and the runners bunched up more and more as people tried to worm their way closer to the front. The start time of 9:35 came and went, the sky got clearer and the temperature started to rise. At 9:40, the bell rang, and a ragged cheer went up, the race had started. Tom and I stood where we were, craning for a view, wondering how long it would take us to get to the start, and whether it would be nightmare of tripping over people running too slow, and being clobbered by people running too fast.

Slowly, the runners in front of us began to move. It was so crowded, we couldn’t really tell how far up Piccadilly we were going to go before we turned back on ourselves for the start. I wasn’t sure whether to start my playlist on my iPod or not – I didn’t want to use up all the inspiring stuff at the top whilst trotting to the start line. Suddenly the crowd thinned, and we could see the turn ahead. I stuck my headphones in and worked out the line I was going to take. The design of the corner and the path through had a natural thinning effect, leaving a run up to the start line which prevented the feared congestion. I hit play on my iPod, and headed for the line, a surge of adrenalin pushing me forward.

With a big grin on my face, I ran across the start. Looking down Piccadilly, I was gobsmacked to see the size of the queue of runners, a sea of people stretching from Hyde Park Corner to The Ritz, slowly crawling toward the line. I’d opted for Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ at the top of my playlist, and the beatiful strings were the perfect accompaniment at the beginning: the sun gently streaming down on me and my fellow runners, and supporters cheering from the sidelines. I couldn’t believe I was finally doing a 10k, and enjoying it more than I ever imagined possible.

Halfway down Piccadilly, I suddenly realised that I was still keeping pace with Tom, and looking at my watch saw that I was running way too fast. At a 4:20/km pace, I had about as much chance of running the whole race as I would at winning the London Marathon. I forced myself to slow down, but couldn’t quite convince myself to drop back to the pace I really needed to be at (between 5:15 and 5:30), and maintained something like a 5 minute pace as I came down into Pall Mall and toward Trafalger Square.

The crowds in Trafalger Square were amazing, a truly thrilling sight as they willed us on. Heading down toward the river, I realised I still needed to shave a little bit off my pace if I wanted to sustain it and recover my race plan. There was a moment when I thought I heard my name being shouted, and I turned in surprise. After the race it turned out that this had been Claire trying to get my attention, but at the time I just had to turn back and focus on the running.

The first watering station came up, and I was surprised to see it was bottles instead of cups. The gutters were filled with the discards, and I was soon adding to the problem as I realised I didn’t want to run with the bottle once I’d had a few mouthfuls. As I turned the corner at the river, I was assaulted by a strong smell of waste, but fortunately son left it behind.

We headed along Embankment, and I began to feel the effects of my earlier exuberance. Not exactly experienced in these matters, I had to trust that having brought my pace down a little, I would slowly recover over the next couple of kilometres. The weather was glorious at this point, with the sunshine adding to my sense of enjoyment. The leader of the race (who went on to finish in just over 30 minutes) passed us on the other side of the road, and the runners I was with joined in with the applause of the crowd. When you’re running it yourself, you really appreciate how good the guy at the front is (a good 4 km ahead of us already).

As I entered the tunnels of Blackfriars, I think I hit my lowest point. Everything felt a bit of an effort, and the loss of satellite coverage meant that I didn’t really know what pace I was doing. Whilst I never reached the point of thinking I might not finish, I was getting concerned about when that finish might be. I also noticed that the distance my watch was showing was ahead of the markers – I headed over the 5km point on my watch at 27 minutes and change, a good pace for me and the average pace I’d been hoping for. But I wasn’t at the 5km marker for the race. Would the pacing on my watch be enough to get my target time?

Just before 6km, there was another drink station, which was gatorade. I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to put gatorade in cups, but I can assure you it wasn’t. Throwing a sticky drink down your front is not a pleasant sensation at the best of times, when you’re trying to focus on a race, it’s just plain annoying.

But not long after this, I started to feel good. My legs were showing no hint of the injury I had suffered; they felt good for another 10km! I was also headed back along Embankment, which gave me a sense of being homeward bound, which I am sure helped. I was able to enjoy myself again. Heading toward Parliament, you were able to enjoy the location again (past Blackfriars it had all been tunnels etc – not exactly landmark filled). I was lovely to be able to look across the river toward the South Bank (however ugly it might be, it’s still an important landmark for me!), and run toward Big Ben.

Then, coming up to 8km, I saw Claire for the first time, cheering me on. It put a silly bloody smile on my face, and I decided it was time to start upping the pace. Checking the watch, it looked like I had plenty of time to get in under the 55 minute mark, but that wasn’t taking into account the difference between the watch distance, and the actual race distance.

Down Westminster Bridge, and then back up round a tight hairpin, I was willing my legs to push harder. Claire almost missed me as I ran past her again, so I startled her with a big shout and wave. Feeling the glow of support once more. I was soon in Parliament Square, up Victoria Street before doubling back to come through the other side of square and heading into the home stretch.

By this point I was really pushing, my pace improving in spite of the slowly rising sense of nausea. I pulled my headphones off, the music now just irritating me instead of entertaining me. I wanted to hear people shouting, and enjoy the last stretch. Someone yelled out for a sprint finish, I am I thought to myself, but tried to put on a bit more speed. My watch had ticked over to 54 minutes. I was on Whitehall. Surely I could make it?

Some guy cruised past me like I was standing still. I could see the finish line. The clock was ticking toward the hour mark. I’d crossed the start at the 5 minute point. If I could get in under the hour, I’d have my time. My stomach was churning, my chest tightening. All I could see was the line and the clock. My foot hit the decking on the line, a wave of elation and triumph surged through me. I’d finished.

I’d beaten the hour on the clock by 11 seconds. I looked down at my watch. It had a distance of 10.32km. And I’d done it in 54.13.

It was a brilliant event – I honestly had so much fun doing it. Which is extraordinary considering how I used to feel about the whole idea of running for ‘fun’. The atmosphere of a race is amazing, and there’s a real sense of camaraderie and achievement that comes with it. I am seriously fired up, and am definitely going to be doing more 10k. After all, I now need to beat my personal best, and try to get under 50 minutes.