‘Never forget your roots son….you‘ll always be a Geordie no matter where you go’

Leonard “Oz” Osborne – Auf Wiedersehen, Pet

5ks. I hate them. When I first started to run they were my goal; get up and run a 5k everyday. Then I discovered the sexy world of distance running, 10ks and Half Marathons. The 5k found itself dumped. So, I don’t run them. Not even in training, not as races, not even for fun.

So. Here we are at the Quayside 5k. I was invited by work and they’re paying for it. Plus, my wife and child are away visiting family and I have nothing better to do. Hypocritical tosser. Sell out. Sad twat. All of these are true and the reason I’m spending my Wednesday evening hanging around the Quayside to run a distance I dislike with the local weather forecast currently reporting ‘Mate, it’s going to absolutely piss it down.’

This particular race is organised by local running club the Gateshead Harriers, they of Brendan Forster fame. Despite this, 99% of the race takes place in Newcastle – its only the final few yards that are Gateshead side. Clever.

The course itself is Geordie mafia tastic. It’s like every Newcastle advert has literally thrown up all over you. It would make many a Tyneside ex-pat bubble Pease Pudding tears whilst stroking a Pastie. Starting at the Pitcher and Piano bar on the North side of the Millennium Bridge (and obviously, the River Tyne), you run straight and flat along the Quayside for about 1.5m till you literally just turn round and come back. When you get back to the Start, you cross the Millennium Bridge onto the South (Gateshead side) and finish in the Square in front of the Baltic.

I’ve actually run this course once before, under the guise of the Sunshine Run. Again, this was through work and was for chariteee mate. It was a fairly low turnout of local businesses and nobody really cared about times or positions. Case in point, I ran the whole thing clutching a large inflatable banana. This run is way, way different.

I manage to cadge a lift from work and there are a group of 7 of us brave souls representing the company. We’ve all been giving official firm apparel to run in. Get us. More on that later. I’ve strapped my dodgy calf up, more as an insurance policy rather than a must need, but it just emphasises how much older and broken I am than the rest of the squad.

It’s a 7:15pm start but we get down there much earlier. One because we need to pick up numbers and two because we just can’t bear to sit at work any longer than needs be. We park further up the river and walk to the start (again, more on this later).

As we get nearer to the Pitcher and Piano it looks like there is a large police presence and we notice crime scene tape everywhere. Now, I don’t want to be grim, but this part of the Tyne is notorious for dead bodies washing up. I’m surprised the Pitcher and Piano haven’t tried to cash in on this infamy with some sort of shot named after it. But behold, as we get to the tape it’s non other than Brenda Blethyn filming a scene from Vera pet.

Those unaware of Vera, think of a Geordie version of Morse except Brenda says pet at the end of every sentence pet. I watch Vera religiously. Not because I particular enjoy it, I just like playing the ‘eeh where is that?’ game at every outside scene. We also give out the ‘Whey Mr Partridge’ award in our house to the actor with the shittest Geordie accent that week.

Getting over the star struckness (is that a word?) we head over to collect the numbers and it’s a fairly easy process – good old pick up by your surname. Just like the NT10k, this race has brought out the machines who are already warming up and pulling the kind of stretches that would snap my tendons.

Sadly, a few of them have decided to warm up by running over the Millennium Bridge, nudging anyone out the way who dares to be walking over the thing at the same time. I’ll be honest, this is where I dislike some of the so called ‘local elite’ runners at events. Most are great, but you always get the impression there is a certain minority who view the rest of us as plebs who just get in the way.

The race itself is in two parts. Anyone who can run a sub 20 min 5k can join the elite race at 6:45pm, with the rest of us setting off at 7:15pm. This seems like a sensible approach, and I watch in awe the machines come over the bridge at breakneck speed.

With the proper race over, the rest of us mere mortals get into position at the start. It’s a bit of a bottleneck, and I nearly shite myself when the gun goes off as it’s louder than my child. Surprised it hasn’t spurred Vera pet into sprinting along to investigate the shooting and look for the corpse.

Anyway, we’re off. Last time I ran this it was hotter than the surface of the sun with no breeze and I was a horrible red, sweaty mess pretty much after the first 400 yards. Today the conditions are far more favourable, overcast and cool with a slight headwind for the first half and I feel pretty good as we set off.

Much to my surprise, the field spreads quite early on and despite that bottleneck at the very start I feel like I have loads of space. Not everyone feels this way however. One knacker comes shooting through from the back, mumbling and grumbling under his breath like a whining toddler as he struggles to get past a couple of ladies just in front of me.

I pass the Quayside pub and there are a few people in the Beer Garden enjoying a nice cool pint, probably pissed off that their chilled-by-the-river ambience has been shattered by 500 sweaty people hurtling past. Still, last time I ran past here I was carrying that aforementioned inflatable banana, which a drunken group of blokes advised I should stick up my arse. I do get some stick, my work apparel is spotted by some genius who shouts ‘hope you’re on the clock’ – a witty retort to the fact its a law firm. Oh how I laughed.

Eventually the leaders come past me going the other way. Depending where you currently are in the pack, and how you feel, this can be either a fantastic morale boosting moment or a viciously delivered kick in nether regions. I check my Garmin and see I’m at 1.3 miles, meaning the turn point is only 0.2 miles away and therefore I’m practically winning man.

Three of my much younger and fitter colleagues pass me and we offer each other words of encouragement. I don’t catch what they say, but it was probably something like ‘don’t die Grandad.’

The turn and last 1.5 miles is a breeze. The wind is behind me, the field really opens up and there are pretty much no runners coming the other way so there’s room to get a bus through. I get on the Millennium Bridge for the final burst and have a second wind, carrying myself over the line in a nice respectable 25.51.

I pick up my goodie bag, no medal but another running shirt which always helps when you’re shit at putting the washing on, and I head to the bridge to shout my final 3 colleagues in, all of whom also post respectable times they’re happy with. Then it rains.

When I say rain I don’t mean the odd annoying drop. I mean torrential. The kind of stuff they built boats in the bible for. Guess who hasn’t brought a coat? That’s right, this dickhead. The walk back to the car with my colleague seems far longer than on the way in and we get drenched. Even Vera pet has packed up, probably enjoying a nice G&T somewhere swish like Malmasion, smugly thinking it’s karma for setting off the gun and putting the shits up her.

I get kindly dropped off at the Metro, looking and smelling like a dead rat. Did I mention I don’t like 5ks?