February 2005 - Week 3

[Sweder]

Brighton Half Marathon, Brighton, Sussex
Date: 20th February 2005-02-20
Start time: 10:30 Hrs
Conditions: Cold, windy, sunny, dry
Distance: 13.1 miles
Duration: 1:50:15

I finished.
Let’s get that out of the way. I’m delighted, and a little surprised, as the conditions were not conducive to a successful run on a dodgy hamstring, but hats off to Nicola’s torture technique on Thursday night and some good advice.

SP popped round just after 9 so we could travel in convoy into Brighton. He seemed in fine fettle, sporting new shoes and a bizarre piece of German headgear which I’ll leave to him to explain. We discussed the weather and our conflicting information on wind direction. There was, we agreed, plenty of it, and it was mighty cold.

To the car park then, accompanied by Mrs Sweder and the Swederettes (Jake and Phoebe) plus Willow, the only one of the three dogs to be trusted all day on the lead. We met up with Tim and Simon, race virgins, in the ASDA car park near Brighton Marina. I had assured Mrs Sweder that this would be a ‘short walk’ from the start/ finish line. This was, of course, a horrible lie, as the distance was well over half a mile. We climbed the steps to leave the car park and Mrs S announced ‘Hey, the wind’s not too bad’.

Right on cue we crested the rise at Madeira Drive. ‘WHOOSH!’ a strong, continuous blast of artic air knocked us back. I shuddered, not entirely from the drop in temperature; this is not good for the hamstring. Up to this point I’d ignored the offending musculature, focused on my usual pre-race routine and some boisterous banter with SP. Now a small storm cloud formed in the back of my mind, and an icy wind was blowing it closer.

We checked in, stripped to race-wear and dumped our warm togs with the race officials. It was obvious with 15 minutes to go that Sussex Beacon had enjoyed a record entry this year; the start area was packed. I elected to wear my NZ All Blacks top with my JDRF vest over the top. Leggings, whilst accentuating my sparrow’s legs, were de rigueur.

We lined up some way back from the start line, hopping about to keep warm, chattering excitedly about the beauty of the day – crystal clear skies, fabulous sea views, Brighton’s eclectic mixture of Art Deco and abrasive post-modern high-rise bathed in the strongest sunshine of the year so far. And then we were off, inevitably shuffling towards the start, the Championchip readers chirruping like demented pedestrian crossing signals, and we were into the race proper.

My running thoughts were well rehearsed, and they circled in my head now like cautionary vultures. shorten the stride, run well within yourself, take it easy. I had considered the obvious temptations placed before me: race conditions, good friends around (one of whom -Tim - I felt sure would be right on the money as far as my best time was concerned) and the inevitable lure of lycra-clad bottoms screaming ahead with their ‘catch me if you can’ taunts. I considered them and I rejected them, coldly, one by one.

This 'race' was about survival, getting to the finish. Nothing more, nothing less. My race plan was to set off easy, get easier, and take stock at half way. If all seemed well I would gently increase the pace and see where that got me.

The first couple of miles, restricted to narrow areas of the esplanade, were crowded. Maintaining a gentle pace was no hardship; it was unavoidable. The occasional latecomer seeking a PB sped by, but generally my fellow runners seemed content to plod along. Tim was right with me (we’d stay together for several miles) and appeared comfortable. I considered the wind direction. By my reckoning with the Westerly wind (as predicted correctly by SP) we should be struggling for the first 3 miles, but the combination of the crowd and the easy start reduced the impact on our progress.

To the turn past Hove Lagoon, and I felt my pace increase without additional effort. Another willed reminded to throttle back and shorten the stride, but we were still moving faster with the wind at our backs. I had special internal sensors on leg patrol, which curiously reported back several groin and knee niggles, but joyfully the hamstring department remained clear.

On past the West Pier, it’s rusting, burned-out hulk separated from the shore, cutting an eerie silhouette against the sunlit sea. Recent inhabitants, hundreds of sea birds, squawked and screamed, circling their des res, disturbed by the multi-coloured snake wending it’s noisy way along the shore.
And on, to the Palace Pier and it’s funfair and bars, the rides in full flow, lights wastefully flashing, dull in the bright winter sunshine. Another sweep of the danger zone: nothing to report. I relaxed again, checked my stride pattern and stepped down into Madeira drive and the half mile to the start/finish line and half-way.

I’d not thought about time. This will come as anathema to my fellow RC competitors, but I had avoided use of any electronic devices to so much as hint at time. Time today was irrelevant. Any indication that I might approach the proximity of my best time at any stage could prove a fatal distraction. However I was not so blind as to avoid the electronic readout at the start line. 1:01 flashed up as I passed, bringing warm memories of Haile G and the Almerĩa Half to mind, this being the great man’s finishing time on that wonderful day.

It occurred to me that, my easy start considered, I would, without further complication, easily complete the race in under two hours, a secondary target I had allowed myself in moments of quiet reflection ‘if all goes well’.

continued . . .