‘Don’t rush me sonny, you rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.’

Miracle Max – The Princess Bride

Blackpool. Home of the Illuminations, donkeys, 3 piers, a midget version of that there Eiffel Tower, and a Golden Mile of stag and hen pavement pizza. Before you reach for the comments section and the #offended hashtag, I actually love the place. During my 38 fun packed years on this planet I’ve probably been to Blackpool 50+ times. It gives me that warm, fuzzy, nostalgic bollocks feeling you get when you smell something burning and it reminds you of tea at your Nana’s house.

I’ve run the Blackpool Half Marathon once before, in 2015, and it remains the fastest Half Marathon I’ve ever done. At mile 8 of that one I was flying and on for the mythical gold paved unicorn populated land of sub 2 hours, before the weather and my general shitness saw the wheels fall off and I rolled in at 2:03. Still, I was delighted, really enjoyed the race and course, and promised I’d be back for another crack.

Fast forward to April 23rd 2018 and I’d made good on that promise. As per the last time, the sign up and everything else that follows can’t be faltered. Big shout out at this point to the organisers Fylde Coast Runners, who put together a cracking event without any of the ridiculous razzmatazz and corporate bollocks you sometimes get at other events (I’m looking at you Great North Run).

What I really love about Blackpool though is the course. It starts at the North end, quite close to the B&B I used to stay at as a kid and therefore an area I know like an old friend. After that it’s basically a flat as a fart road run South past the Pleasure Beach (boo friggin hiss at having to pay to get in there now by the way) before heading back to Bispham then finally turning once again and returning to where you started. Basically, you pass all 3 Piers, the Tower, and the aforementioned PAY TO GET IN FASCIST Pleasure Beach twice. So every Blackpool icon you can think of. What’s not to love?

The morning of the run I picked up my number early doors from the start (again, easy) before returning to the B&B where Jim the owner, mistakenly thinking he was in the presence of some sort of athlete, kindly offered me an early breakfast. It’s fun to point out at this juncture that the weather was shite. And I mean shite. Wind and rain from the Irish Sea was lashing in, and the temptation to order the Full English while pointing and laughing at those heading to the start was growing. The London Marathon is happening the same day, and the tele is reporting soaring temperatures from the capital. Well whoop de do for them, I’d currently kill to nick a couple of degrees from them. I decide to make my way to the start. The couple from Room 6 give me a sarcastic thumbs up good luck, while my wife declines the invitation to stand in the rain for 15 minutes to watch me stand in the rain for 15 minutes. Fair enough.

The start is divided into two. The Marathoners (the brilliant/brave/mad runners depending on your views) facing one direction while the rest of us mere mortals would head in the other. I make a bee line for the sane pen and instantly eye the 2 hour pacer. I take up a position quite close to him, casually of course, I don’t want to look desperate, and make a conscious decision there and then that my race goal should be to pass him early doors and keep him behind me. A youngish trendy couple in front of me start pointing at every ones running shoes, including my own, and whispering to each other. I therefore make my secondary race goal to also pass these two shitehawks and keep them behind me.

Then we’re off. Training has gone well, and I set my Garmin to pace at 9 min miles. Half a mile in I pass the 2 hour pacer. He’s surrounded by what I can only describe as groupies, determined to cling to him like flies to shit to attain that magic sub 2 hours. A little further on I pass arrogant bastard trainer staring couple, who I give stink eye. That’ll learn them.

Miles 1 to 5 are great. The rain has stopped but it’s still dull and wet. Slight head wind, not enough to whinge about though, with the added bonus it will be behind me when we turn. We’ve merged in with the Marathoners, or should I say they’ve merged in with us, but this causes some confusion with the mile markers. We hit 4 miles yet the lamppost has a huge 5 stuck to it, prompting a young lad running alongside me to let out a loud ‘What the fuck is wrong with the signage?’ Runners Tourette’s.

As I turn at the tram terminus it’s so far so good. I’m averaging around 8:50 min miles and I feel fine. The weather is starting to improve and now the wind is behind me. Piece of piss this Half Marathon malarkey. I pass the Tower for the second time and feel the first signs of tiredness. I’m worried I’ve gone too fast too soon and have one of those self doubt conversation in my head that most runners experience from time to time. Thankfully this seems to pass quickly and I find my pace increasing mile on mile till we get to Bispham.

Past mile 10 I’m starting to believe not only in a PB, but a sub 2 hour one at that. The 2 hour pacer is nowhere to be seen and hasn’t passed me. Or has he? I’d have noticed surely. Paranoia time. Then we drop onto the lower prom and I’m hit with an almighty head wind. Back in 2015, this was the part of the race where I died on my arse and lost a lot of time. I decide to take the shit or bust approach and put my foot down. This 3 mile feels longer than the previous 10. We’ve all been there.

Then I see it. The ramp to the middle prom and on it the Finish line. I go for a sprint finish and check the official clock on my approach. It looks like it’s saying 1:55. Shut the front door. I cross the line and stop my Garmin. 1:55:16. Holy shit. My wife shouts over to me but I’m a bit spaced out. I actually can’t believe it. I’ve destroyed my PB by a huge 8 minutes and after 9 years of trying have finally cracked 2 hours. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I collect my complimentary banana, mars bar, t-shirt and medal whilst trying to comprehend what just happened.

Veni, Vidi, Vici. I celebrate by taking the wife for a slap up Harry Ramsdens and downing a couple of cold pints in the Beach House Bar overlooking the sea. We ring our 6 year old and tell her my result. ‘Did you run really fast?’ she says. ‘Yes. Yes I did.’

Thanks Blackpool. See you next year.