Introducing....

The Colossus of Roads

Championship Race number 10. Freckleton. It sounds distinctly unimpressive. Certainly not the sort of place-name to strike fear into the heart of the hardened (northern) runner. And yet, we all wondered, what will it be like to run at 2pm on the longest day of the year, on an almost totally flat, tarmac course? What heights of endurance, what depths of determination would we need to fathom in order to, as we call it, ‘get round in one piece’. None of us, except Karen (and that was when she was just a bairn) had run this course before. Entries had closed weeks before, leading to frustration among those who missed the cut. Last chance for 13.1m PB points this side of summer, and apprehension outweighed expectation (16tons v 12.1kg) at the pre-race ER gathering. Tony, alone, was hopeful of doing something, but still kept his powder dry. I think everyone else thought of survival, in the mental sense at least.

The omens weren’t good - but then, they rarely are. We all oozed negativity on the drive down the M6. On arrival, we discovered a bowling green-flat sports field complete with attached funfair. I hoped, out loud, that the helter-skelter would be included on the course, perhaps adding excitement to the usual desperate gallop to the finish. And there was an enormous, perfectly straight and evenly measured carparking grid marked out in white lines on the field. That, and the pre-race instructions’ insistence that we use FOUR safety pins (no, not two, and certainly not three), gave the distinct impression that this was not so much a race as an exercise in mass manipulation. And woe betide anyone who even considered folding their number. Suitably frightened in case the undercover shoe-lacing stasi were watching, we milled around on the field, each going through his/her own version of a ‘proper warm up’. Yes, you know what I mean. A little slow running, a stop to tighten your laces, a little more gentle running. A pause as you pass the toilets queue, pondering whether you feel the need (again) . You don’t, but as you stand at the start, you wish you had. All this to a pre-race soundtrack which included every song I can think of with the word run’ or ‘running’ in the title. Yes, including ‘Keep On Running’, which I’d got sick of hearing by about 1974. Why do they have to DO that? Maybe it’s just me...

On the upside, today we had the pleasure of running in the same race as Dr Ron Hill, famous for some fast endurance stuff and some clothing. He was deservedly given the big build up by the race director at the start, and I for one felt pathetic just listening to what he’s done in this thing we call running.

The weather was decidedly on the warm side, and as runner turned to runner to wish each other good luck, we all quietly regretted that we weren’t able to find some other way to fill this particularly muggy Sunday afternoon. No matter, we were off. There were 5 drinks stations en route and man, were they necessary. There were also showers organised for those who were overheating to cool themselves off under. Of course I misunderstood their purpose, and was shoved out of the way at the second one before I’d even got the conditioner properly rinsed out of my hair. Undeterred by this setback, I picked up my gel and towels and sped off.

I got sent the wrong way at around Mile 5 which caused me some amusement, but with no change in gradient expected anywhere, it was about trying to hold your pace and position. It soon became the usual attritional battle between tiring limbs and flagging willpower & concentration. After 9 miles of running mostly on country lanes there came a long, almost straight section on path beside a main road back towards Freckleton itself. This was the most difficult part for me. I was lucky to be running with a bloke in a yellow vest who seemed determined to run away from me, so keeping him in check was helpful. Why are these people so competitive? It's only a bit of fun after all....

It doesn't matter how many races I run, I still convince myself that I can't possibly run any further, and intend just to run to that corner or that tree or whatever the nearest visible hiding place is, and then quietly sneak off and lie down. Does anybody else do this? Thought not...

At the finish, there is sadly no helter-skelter ride, only that familiar mix of exhaustion and relief. And heat. But no PB. There are free bananas, and the race memento is a towel rather than the ubiquitous t-shirt. Other ERs begin to appear. Karen (no PB either), then John (nope), then Julia (nah, not today), then Tony. He battered his way over the finish line a full 6 mins and 30 secs faster than previously. That's very nearly 30 seconds a mile faster. Quite a performance. And 15 extra points in the bag.

We awaited SuperKev's arrival slumped in a heap on the grass, exchanging tales of woe and regret, but at the same time pleased to be there. Kevin finished, clearly not feeling well, having battled through the heat with great determination. But again, no PB.

So we wound our way back out of Freckleton to the M55, Tony's PB points stashed in the boot. Today, having been there and done it, I resolved that I would make sure that next time would be better. And that, I think, is what makes me keep coming back.

For the record, Tony would go on to race twice more in the next six days. And in the second one, he racked up another 15 PB points. Truly, a good week. But, why do these people have to be so competitive? It's only a bit of fun after all....