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RE: September
Pace judgement.
A few months ago I mentioned a runner who finished just behind me at an uphill race. It was only when I looked at the pictures afterwards that I realised how far she'd hung back during the first half of the race and how strongly she'd finished.
When I was a kid we used to visit my Grandparents in Kent. One indelible memory is the quality of potatoes they enjoyed. Always huge, new potatoes in flaky skins and perfectly cooked. Served with butter and mint. Delicious.
When I tried to cook my own version, years later, I would bring them to the boil quickly and cook them at a high temperature. The outside would start to crumble before the middle was properly cooked. It took years for me to realise that they needed to be brought to the boil slowly and then simmered gently.
And so it is with pacing. Particularly as you get older. I was gasping for breadth one third of the way up Great Whernside. I then proceeded to boil-over until landing at the top in a heap of soft broken peices.
Another example is the 3 Peaks fell race. Old hands at this race will tell you that the race begins at the top of Whernside, the second peak. If you've not burnt all your matches by then you can start to plan the second half of the race and hoover-up runners who weren't as smart as you. You can feed off other people's bad judgement.
During the hands-and-toes ascent of Whernside another legendary runner came alongside me.
'We're never happy are we?', she said. 'No matter how fit we get, we always think there's room for improvement.' And off she clambered. Beating me to the top before, no doubt, surging through a decent proportion of the field.
Good pace judgement. And a willingness to engage with other people whilst you're at it. The secret to a long and happy running life? Is it a coincidence they're both women? I think not.
And so back to The Ethiad for the Northern Road Relays this year. Gathering together to test ourselves over 6 legs of 4.2 miles. It was a good turn-out. 130 teams in the Senior Men's race. The parcour was a track, flagged-walkways and tarmac carparks. Not overly inspiring; but that's missing the point somewhat.
Our team were a hotch-potch of runners just about able to hold our heads above the rushing current of sub-5-minute-mile gazelles.
There was little at stake personally. Just the desire to push hard and at an even pace. But after our Leg 4 runner appeared on the track I turned towards the start line and saw another runner. My standard, but recently defected from us and now wearing the colours of a neighbouring club.
And so the inevitable companion to judgement makes it's entrance at the last possible second: emotion. Fear, pride, jeopardy, pressure, ambition. I had a 100 meter lead. But this guy had often beaten me and was a master at wringing the last drop of effort from a run. He could run a mile at whatever pace you suggested down to the second. Decades of experience.
Our brains, left to their own devices, seem to be pretty good at estimating pace. We make the calculation without conscious effort. And if you believe Tim Noakes (and why wouldn't you?) then these calcultions are on the conservative side. We can override them. But context is everything. Emotion will muscle-in and scupper your best plans.
The first thing is to recognise what's going on then try and resist it. Rarely have I concentrated so intensely on a short effort like this. Constantly asking the same questions: can I push harder? will I be able to sustain this to the line? The run had been given much more meaning; and was better for it. He took about 10 seconds out of me. But it wasn't enough to overhaul our lead.
So there we are. My observations about pace judgement.
Study the art of boiling potatoes.
Wherever you're at, enjoy your fitness by running at a realistic pace.
Push hard but don't let emotion ruin your plan.
Race choices.
There were a couple of options at the weekend. At the sharp-end of fell running the English Championship was being decided in Kettlewell up-and-down the aforementioned Great Whernside. Hundreds of the country's best hill runners would be gathering in Upper Wharfdale.
But I chose a local race in the small village of Glusburn a few miles down the road. The Fallfest 5. Upto and around a couple of pinnacles known locally as the Salt and Pepper Pots. 44 runners turned up to test themselves. And you could be forgiven for thinking that we were all missing-out on the real drama happening a mere 20 miles north.
And perhaps we were. But as I sat on-the-pot, pre-race at the Glusburn Institute, listening to the choir warming-up in the room next door, I certainly didn't think so.
The choir then proceeded to serenade the runners before we set-off. There was a drumming band to greet us on the finish line. Beer in the goodie bag. Wine for the prize-winners. A beer and gin festival at the race HQ. And a tea and cake stall any WI chapter would be proud of.
In retrospect, one of my better choices.
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