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.
Stirling 10k
by Russell Turner - 10:12 on 08 September 2025
If I hadn’t been poorly for Durham, or forgotten my ID for Kinloss, the Stirling 10k would have been my 10th this year, so you’d imagine I’d have got the hang of it by now. If only.
The auspices were promising: a pleasant drive along back roads, avoiding the A9 wherever possible; an unremarkable but comfortable B&B; a decent curry for pre-race nutrition. Two weeks ago I’d broken 60mins on a hilly course; Stirling’s is probably the flattest I’d ever faced: maybe this would be a new year’s PB?
Earlier in the week, rain had been forecast, scaled back over successive days until a dry day was promised. So the sight of damp streets and rain on the window when I opened the curtains of my room was a bit of a downer, but the temperature was mild and the wind light. By the time Mrs Google had directed me the few minutes from the B&B to the start line outside the Forthbank Stadium the rain had stopped. Perfect.
I wandered around for a while until I found the baggage tent, which turned out to be an unattended gazebo, open to the elements on all four sides, where bags could be dumped. Not wanting to leave my phone at the mercy of any light-fingered Stirlingians, I returned to the car (just a few minutes away) and locked up the baggage. After all, I wouldn’t need a post-race hoodie now the clouds had passed.
Looking strong at the start…
By 10.15, everyone had warmed up and assembled in their appropriate starting place, me in my usual 60min finish spot. The hooter sounded, we shuffled forward, then we were off, me dogging the heels of the 60min pacer who I planned to follow until I felt ready to overtake and achieve the best 10k time of the year. Simples.
The first few kilometres were through industrial then residential streets, countryside and the castle in the distance. The pacer kept a steady, ever-so-slightly sub-60 pace which I was able to follow with not too much difficulty, comfortably uncomfortable, as they say. The roads were flat, with only a few turns to break them up, the first, brief, rise and fall coming near 4k when we crossed a small bridge over the River Forth, passed through Cambuskenneth and turned to begin an out-and-back with the Wallace Monument ahead of us. A few of the pace group had fallen behind, and a smaller number had pressed ahead, but I stuck with him, exchanging the occasional word.
By now, we’d been passed on the other side of the road by the leading racing snakes, then more runners of more varied shape, size and age. We hit 5k at 29:53, so the pacer was doing his job well, but had still not reached the turn. That appeared, at last, another half kilometre later, at which point I was able to appreciate the sight of runners behind me. It helped with the long, straight slog back to Cambuskenneth.
Comfortably uncomfortable was becoming more of an effort but after 7k I was still with the pacer, less then 3k to go. Then he told us “The difficult bit is just ahead. After that it’s easy” or words to that effect. And just like that, my willpower (such as it is) disappeared. Half a kilometre later, encountering an infinitesimal rise, I slowed to a walk. Then another, and another.
…Looking knackered – and wet – at the finish
In retrospect, the “difficult bit” was no more difficult than the rest of the course. If the pacer had said nothing, or jollied me along when I told him I was going to walk, I probably could have kept going. Maybe the few drops of rain we’d encountered at halfway becoming heavier had something to do with it too. Who knows? On the flattest course this year (Garmin claimed only 14m of ascent) I finished in a chip time of 1:01:44. Such is life; maybe the Kinloss runway wouldn’t have suited me after all.
I’d planned to hang around after finishing but the rain was no encouragement. After collecting a rather nice medal and a paper goody bag (eco-friendly but disintegrating in the damp) which contained an empire biscuit, caramel wafer, banana and – bizarrely – a rubber duck (appropriate for the wet finish) I returned to the car, put on a dry top, ate what was there and set off for home, stopping when I could to get out of wet shorts and socks. I had dry replacements but feet so damp I couldn’t get dry socks on. We athletes must suffer.
Along the way, I stopped off at Ralia for more sustenance, during which the 3pm national emergency alarm took place. I’d looked forward to pandemonium as everyone’s phone shrieked a warning. The muted trilling could barely be heard; what an anticlimax.
So that’s Stirling done: well organised, flat but not my race on the day. Maybe I’ve tried too many fast (for me) 10ks during this half marathon training block, or not done enough miles, or maybe I’m just rubbish and should do the strength training I ignore. Whatever, I’ve dismissed the thought of the Cumbernauld 10k this weekend which means the next will be River Ness at the end of the month, the week before Lincoln. Despite doing Alloa and Carlisle in 2:14 and 2:18 earlier this year, I’m becoming a little nervous about another HM. That may not be a bad thing,
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