The Blonde, The Brunette and Their Blisters
Part 5
The Windsor Half-Marathon …by a whisker!
I was having an awful flashback. I was ten years old, standing in a pair of polyester athletics pants’ at the far end of the hockey pitch. It was the last Tuesday of term, which meant the inaugural House Cross Country Race. I loved cross country, but I hated the Big Race. The nerves, the hollow feeling at the back of your throat, the boys who didn’t like being beaten … it was a lose-lose situation, no matter how well you ran.
Standing on the platform at Vauxhall station, that familiar fluttering was coming back to haunt me. I hadn’t even seen the start line yet, hadn’t even pinned on my number, taken off my tracksuit, but the mere sight of other runners, marching to Windsor like soldiers marching to battle was enough to churn my stomach.
This is good therapy I tell myself. In New York there are going to be 40,000 other runners. This is a fun run, a little test. I was missing the brunette. Unable to take part due to a conflicting work event in Ireland, I was all alone … well almost. I had coerced my Dad into running too! We had arranged to meet in Windsor so after swallowing my butterflies, I bought myself a paper and tried to forget the task ahead.
It was a beautiful day … warm and sunny, almost too warm I thought anxiously,re-hydrating after a light-hearted drinking session the night before. Dad called, 12.05pm. He was running a bit late (no surprise there!) It turns out he’d had a few drinks the night before too, and had cut it a bit fine. No need to worry, we’ll meet in the car park near the start as planned. Fine. I began to meander slowly through the ancient town, snaking along with the crowds (smelling faintly of Deep Heat), past the castle and into the great park. My brother called, ‘just phoning to wish you luck … remember right foot, left foot …’ Great advice.
There was lots of activity at the start. A mass of grand tents sprawled out like a circus. There were things to buy, potions to sample, camouflaged army cadets sorting unwanted kit and endless queues for the row of blue porta-loos. Pre-run nerves seem to be a general consensus. 12.35pm. Dad phoned … traffic jam. He sounded a bit panicky. My nerves started flooding back. Okay, keep busy, organise yourself … I stripped off my gear and gave it to a sergeant major. I fixed my chip to my shoes, and pinned on my number. I waited patiently in the loo queue. It was 12.48pm. Dad phoned. It wasn’t looking good. He was in Windsor but at a standstill. The cars were gridlocked. Best to go ahead without him and hope that we’d find each other on the course. Proper nerves now … this was definitely not part of my race strategy.
It was time to line up. Flashbacks. No polyester pants, but I did notice I had put my leggings on back to front! Dilemma. Would the 6,000 other runners notice if I slipped them off and on again? Oh, too late, as more and more athletes crammedt owards the start, there was not enough room to turn round, let alone complete a complicated changing procedure. Everyone was jostling forward, eager to get going. There were signs indicating where you should be positioned, according toyour target time, but no one was paying them much notice. I soon learnt it was a dog-eat-dog world when you are standing at the start line. I glanced at my watch. 12.58pm. Not long to go.
SuddenlyI glanced across to my right, and something caught my attention. A mad runner,dressed in red, racing across the fields from the car park. I waved. The figure waved back. The countdown had begun and the crowd were starting to surge forwards. I was trying to push backwards to find my running partner. Phew. A quick, adrenaline fuelled embrace (and a relieved ticking-off!) and we were ready to begin. Watches were synchronised and we were off … the Windsor Half Marathon had begun.
The course was beautiful. Lush green vegetation, all about to turn with the beginning of Autumn. The first 2 miles were uphill, so we started gently, easing our way round hundreds of runners scattered across the narrow ascent. The path curved round to the right and through a wooded area. We were starting to find our pace … it was great to be running with dad. After years of sharing a similar passion, it felt good to be able to show him how far I’d come. No longer a junior 800m runner, I was now a serious athlete, training for my first marathon. I was continuing his work … carrying on the baton. I wanted him to be proud.
We were moving easily now. The course was hilly, more so than anyone had prepared me for. Every so often we rounded a corner and gasped at the sweeping view of Windsor and the historic castle. I also enjoyed checking out the other runners, the techniques and attire. I hadn’t seen dad for a couple of weeks, so spent the first few miles updating him on my news … developments at work, progress on our sponsorship, how our training had been going. Near the 7 mile marker I told him about my new boyfriend. After a pretty tough year recovering from my first heart break, this information was well-received. Before long we had passed 9 miles without even realising it.
A quick pit-stop for water and Dad dashed to the loo. A mile later I got a stitch. The perils of drinking too fast. We slowed down a touch whilst I furiously massaged the pain. The crowds were thickening either side of the path … the finish must be close. We had been steadily overtaking all the way along the course and it felt good. As we passed the 12 mile marker, the end came into sight. The final strait was a long, fast downhill and we kicked our heels a little higher and accelerated. The distance to the actual line was deceptive. Had we sped up too early? Other runners cheered us on as we hurtled towards the end. I could see the clock ticking away above the line. The faces to either side blurred into a confused haze. It was all about the finish. Keep going. Watch the ground, don’t stumble. Focus on the last steps. Breathe, oh blimey, I wasn’t breathing. Ok, getting closer. More cheers. A photographer. The line.
We’d done it. The last hurdle was over. The marathon loomed ever closer.
13.1miles. 1 hour, 47 minutes. 1,102 calories.
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