Happily Ever After
Life in The Rural Retreat with a beautiful wife, three cats, garden wildlife, a camera, a computer – and increasing amounts about running
Earlier posts can be found on Adventures of a Lone Bass Player, where this blog began life. Recent entries can be found here.
Oxford Half Marathon
by Russell Turner - 22:10 on 14 October 2024
The Oxford Half Marathon was to be the fastest this year; it turned out to be the slowest. I’m uncertain what was the main reason for this dismal showing: maybe lack of sleep (a gig on Thursday night, music and pub sounds from my halfway down hotel on Friday, strange bed syndrome on Saturday); maybe not sticking to the training plan; maybe the ridiculously low temperature on Sunday morning. Probably some of all three; plus, I am a pensioner now so some slowing down is to be expected (even if the 65-70 winner finished in 1:26 – the freak).
The cold certainly made things harder. When I saw the forecast of 4ºC and no wind I was delighted, thinking that they would be perfect running conditions. Even as I walked the mile from the shopping centre car park to the event village with my hosts, Cyril, who was running for Oxfordshire Mind, and Dianne, who was supporting, I thought all would be well. But at the village, where there was little to do but mill around until we were called to our start pens, the cold began to bite. The runners who favoured tiny shorts and vests (male) or skimpy tops (female) are made of sterner stuff than me. I abandoned the plan for just a T-shirt, wearing it over a thin long-sleeved shirt; I stuck with shorts because that’s all I had. The legs didn’t seem to mind.
The early pens were called, then pens E (me) and F (Cyril) which meant another one mile stroll to a side street just off Broad Street, where the start line was situated, surrounded by historic Oxford architecture and crowds of well-wrapped-up spectators. We waited, and we waited, doing our best to stay warm (the long-sleeved shirt was supposed to be my throwaway top) until after 40 minutes we began the shuffle to the start.
My plan was to follow the 2:10 pacers then surge ahead if I felt good, drop back to the 2:15 pacers if I didn’t, or just stick with them. So it’s a pity that all the pacers were behind me. Instead, I set off at a comfortable pace, unworried by the fact that everyone seemed to be passing me.
I was two miles in before the 2:10 pacers passed me. I hung on, with only a slight increase of effort. Maybe I could do this? The course was flat, the crowds were cheering, and after a few more miles I was well warmed and even wondering of the long sleeves had been a mistake. But the legs got heavier, the slightest incline meant increased effort, and after 7.5 miles no mantra, positive thinking or Eliud Kipchoge smile could stop me from taking a brief walk, then another when I encountered a water station, even though I was well supplied with Tailwind (and sipping it regularly).
The running resumed, slower than before, then a little faster when the 2:15 pacers drew level. I stayed with them for a mile, until my legs were too heavy even for that and more walking happened. The final three miles saw very slow running on legs that felt like logs and a couple more walk breaks, during which I crossed and recrossed with a couple of similarly afflicted runners, swapped encouragement, and laughed at the spectators who insisted that we looked good.
I completed the run with a flourish, doing the Morecambe and Wise dance over the finish line to prove to cheering onlookers that I’d enjoyed my race – which I mostly had, even the hard bits. At 2:26, I was only 16mins slower than I’d hoped, but much more tired, and I’d fared better than some participants: I saw three sets of medics in action, one of them working on a runner screened off from public view.
Medal collected, I walked the mile back to the event village to collect my T-shirt (which turned out to be a “Lady XL”) and baggage, changed into my lady shirt, warm hoodie and jogging bottoms, ate a burger, then set off back to the finish line to find Cyril and Dianne, who I met halfway. He’d finished in 3:18 after little proper training and was delighted.
Cyril’s baggage was collected, more food taken, then we walked the mile back to the shopping centre car park, much more slowly than earlier, but smug in our parking foresight that had avoided the huge queues for the park and ride we’d passed at 7.30. The smugness faded when our arrival coincided with a fire alarm and evacuation of the centre, leading to 50 minutes of disgruntlement for shoppers and drivers not allowed to retrieve their cars. With nowhere to sit (I’d have needed to be helped up if I’d tried the pavement), and no handy cafe, it was a long wait.
Back at C&D’s, plans for a celebration restaurant meal were abandoned in favour of tomato soup, cheese on toast and the Strictly results. Perfect, although it failed to lead to a much needed good night’s rest. Post race sleep is always rubbish. At least I didn’t get cramp.
I left Oxford this morning and made a remarkably roadworks-free journey up the M40, M6 and M74 (in stark contrast to the M1 on the way down) although the several miles of 50mph restrictions on a trouble-free stretch of the M6 was a mystery. However, as rain in Oxford had given way to clear blue skies over the Howgill Fells I was prepared to forgive it. A splendid cottage pie at Tebay services was a bonus.
Also a bonus is that the wedding party in tonight’s accommodation – The Bentley Hotel in Motherwell (not as posh as it sounds but a decent place, although too shabby for Matchgirl) – finished at 10pm so my sleep, if it comes, shouldn’t be disturbed. Who gets married on a Monday? Bizarre.
Would I do Oxford again? Probably not, although I’m glad I’ve done it once. The city centre is worth seeing, but outside that the route covers residential streets, commuter roads and pleasant but unexciting countryside that can be found anywhere. It’s a great run if you live there; less so when it involves a 1,120-mile round trip. That said, it was certainly memorable.
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