England, not France

February came and went, and in the midst of it I ran a race. Not the race I intended to run, but this year is about adventures, right?

The date was Friday 14th February. I was heading to France for a romantic weekend of meeting strangers and running around. I got up early, bought doughnuts on the way to work as a present for the colleagues whom would let me leave early to get to the airport. I did some work: told a few boys they didn’t have HIV, advised a few more that they should think about using condoms before that unplanned pregnancy, sprayed a few sets of genitals with liquid nitrogen and laughed with more than a few about their crazy relationships/nights out/boyfriends/Valentine’s plan. And at lunchtime, I wheeled my suitcase out the door and began to get excited about my weekend.

At the same time, the UK was in the midst of the worst Winter in a generation. Homes flooded, roads washed away, power outages.. and on Friday 14th February a new storm front hit and caused chaos across the south of England. Including chaos at Gatwick Airport. Unfortunately for me, that meant a cancelled flight to France and missing my race in Nice. And leaving my friend Penny alone on the Cote d’Azur, as she managed to get a flight out ahead of my cancellation.

I got frustrated, got a delayed train back to London (the lines were flooded, of course), got a glass of wine and then got busy: I have 12 races to run this year, and I wasn’t about to lose my resolution at the second hurdle! There followed hours of angry phonecalls to my airline, internet searches for Eurostar trains, coaches that might drive through the night to Nice and even a quick punt on the carpooling version of CouchSurfing. Veering wildly between “Whoa, £300 is too much too extra to pay to take a 10hour train ride to Nice the day before the race” and “Whoa, you only live once, let’s do it!” for a while, I eventually came down on the sensible side and gave up racing in France. But I didn’t give up on racing, and after a few more hours of googling I woke up the next and caught a train to Bournemouth instead, on the south coast of England ahead of a ten-mile race on the Sunday morning.
Well, they do call it the English Riviera. It seemed the next best thing to the Cote d’Azur.

The race I found to run was the Lytchett 10, described on their website as “a hilly, ten mile road race”. Let’s be honest here: I like running, but not up hills, or even really down hills either. Not to mention, I hadn’t done much preparation since Norway as I’d been sick for two weeks with tonsillitis. Not to mention Norway was six miles of flat running. Not to mention, I hadn’t run more than six miles since September 2013. Not to mention, I was without my running buddy, not in fancy dress and not at a carnival in Nice! That aside, it was a beautiful blue-sky day and I was excited to see how far I could push myself.

The route was basically a there-and-back race, with a few loops thrown in to add miles. It runs around the countryside of Lytchett Minster, in Dorset, with lovely long stretches of quiet country roads and views across Poole Harbour and the Purbecks (that’ll be thanks to those hills). As a predominantly running club race, there were a lot serious runners, aiming for PBs and points to contribute to the South West Vets Championships and a Dorset Road Race League. Usually that sort of thing makes me feel a bit rubbish and I get reverse-running snobbery, where I think the serious ones should lighten up and just enjoy a gentle meander round the track and stop trying to be so fast. However, the Lytchett 10 is in the running for My Friendliest Race Ever and I’m not the only who thinks so, check out the reviews for the race on Runner’s World, with 100% of people who’ve written a review saying they would run the race again.

I got myself race ready, rocking a snazzy black and pink polka-dot top, some sunglasses and my Nice necklace that I’d bought in the airport before my flight got cancelled.

I had a great first six miles, running up the hills and chatting to everyone I passed, or passed me! There were a lot a people from the local area who’d run the race before and could warn me of the next hill and let me know when the worst was over. I was feeling strong and impressed that my legs were coping so well.

Then mile six edged its way towards mile seven and Dolman’s Hill began to take its toll. Rather than one straight hill that you can power up, Dolman’s is a series of ups and downs, ups and downs, and then more ups and downs, over about a mile. My legs turned to lead and I got out my emergency fudge, settling in for a run/walk combination as I sugar-loaded ahead of the three-mile, gentle descent towards the finish line.

This was Emotional Mile criteria and it was all I could do not to weep when a friendly marshall told me I was “the most glamorous runner” he’d seen all day- I may not be fast, but I sure do look good.

The uphill eventually turned into the gentle descent and I headed back to the finish line to endless encouragements of “its all downhill to the finish”, which was nice, and a bit irritating. Yes, it’s all downhill to the finish line but it is still three miles away from here! Mile 9 felt particularly long, one of those miles where you start to think you missed the marker and you must surely be halfway through Mile 10 by now. Alas not. The gentle descent went on FOREVER and was a long lesson in not really being ready to race that far. But finally, hallelujah, I made it to the finish line and got a cup of tea, a banana, cake, a goody bag and a Lytchett 10 keyring for my troubles. Okay, yes, I wish it was a medal and not a keyring. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I’m almost more proud of that keyring for all it symbolises for February 2014. I even got an incredible and FREE massage from the lovely Naomi of Active Therapy South leaving me with pain-free legs post-race and in the days afterwards too- which rather took the edge off the not-medal disappointment.

 

Next up, Loop Den Hague this weekend….!!