‘I’ll see you on the Beach’

Captain Miller – Saving Private Ryan

The Great North Run (Or GNR as I will refer to it from now on as my fingers are tired already). The biggest and probably most famous Half Marathon in the world/solar system/galaxy. On my doorstep. In the city of my birth. The city of my conception. Possibly. I don’t like to ask. The subject has never come up in conversation to be honest. I might ask at Christmas. I probably won’t like the answer. 

Anyway. It’s September the 8th 2018 and I’m in the pen for what will be GNR number 8. All the 8s. Possibly a sign, although 888 are a betting site so I’m not sure what that sign would be. This morning’s prep has been slightly different than the previous 7. I’m sure Farah won’t be shiteing himself at this change of tact. Usually I stay over at my mother in laws who lives around the corner from the start. It’s the main reason I married my wife to be honest. Today though I’ve stopped at home, got up early and hammered a large scrambled egg on toast breakfast, literally thrown clothes onto my 6-year-old child, and driven over to the start in a time that would qualify me either on the front grid at Monza or get me 6 points at Court. 

First off, it’s time to go to Church. Devout Christians everywhere are currently hyperventilating into paper bags at the thought of this potty mouth shitehawk being allowed to worship in any house of God. Don’t panic, I’m attending in a non-Jesus-chatting capacity this morning. The local Church are missing a Vicar (careless, although not surprising after Operation Yewtree) so they’ve cancelled the service. You can almost hear the air punching and whooping of the local repressed teenagers destined for a future of crack dens and bad choices.  

My, mother in law – who is also the Church Warden – has therefore very kindly decided to open the Church up to sell Breakfast sarnies, teas and coffees to help me raise money for my running charity, St. Oswald’s Hospice. This is a fantastic gesture and, even though I usually recoil like Damien when approaching any kind of religious building, I pop in to help. By help I mean stand outside and guilt trip runners and their families into buying a breakfast they don’t need or want. My daughter Beth even offers to dance for them in exchange for cash, which I laugh about openly but panic about privately in case it’s a career choice. 

Soon it’s time to leave the church and my stripper daughter and head for the start. It’s overcast and there’s a slight chill in the air. It’s about time as well. The last 4 GNRs have been unseasonably warm and therefore, frankly, a right pain in the arse. This year though that trip to the Church has paid off, and Jesus has taken time off from his busy schedule to bless me with a perfect running conditions and a sub 2 hour. Cheers JC. 

As always, it’s busy at the start of the GNR. Not only do you have 10s of thousands of runners there, you’ve also got their families and supporters. I have to say though, I never feel like its chaos at the start. Hipster knacker runners (you know the ones) like to flood social media in the weeks leading up to the run to declare it overpriced and overcrowded. Lets face it, they don’t like it because it’s popular. Half the fuckers whinging probably haven’t even run it. They’d much rather run a race with only 25 entries that involves running up Snowdonia, backwards, with a large slab of cheese attached to them which has been dowsed in arsenic, set alight and forced to chant. Why? Because it’s not popular. Arseholes. The GNR has its faults (which I’m going to happily point out later) but one thing it does well is that it’s really, really, well organised. Did I say Arseholes? Arseholes. 

Diazepam taken, let’s get back to the race. I’m in the White pen, about middle and par, those looking for 2 hours and sub. Basically the cool kids. I like people watching in the pen. It’s full of different types of runners with different motivations. A group of women in front of me are properly geared up. Lots of layers of pro running gear, each armed with what looks like Batman’s Utility belt full of gels and other magical potions. They’re only missing cramp ons and a sleeping bag. Hilariously, they all then start to vape. 

The warm up follows which I always find a bit pointless. There’s no room in the pen to swing a cat never mind stretch your arms out. The irony of doing this to avoid injury is not lost as the lass next to me accidentally smashes her forearm into my face whilst attempting to star jump. 

The wheelchair and the Women’s race set off and then it’s time for the Mens and the Plebs. The starter gun goes and we’re off. But not really. 25 minutes of walking and stopping follow before I finally cross the line. I once took 45 minutes to get over. I think whoever won that year had already finished by then. It is annoying, but would you want 40,000 people all charging for the line at the same time? Nee chance. 

Local radio DJ and ‘celebrity’ Alan Robson is once again our motivational man on the mic. I once met Alan as he came and compered an event I helped organise. He arrived in the tightest leather trousers you’ll ever see on a human. I don’t know or want to visualise how he got them on and off. Lube and a shoehorn I imagine. Hobbling towards me whilst making a strange creaking noise like something was about to pop, he flicked the keys of his Ford Mondeo in my direction, ordering me to empty the boot and make sure ‘none of these local knuckle draggers touch it son’. He was with his 3rd wife at the time, a small gob stopper sucking sour blonde lady who was in charge of his dance troupe The Blade-etts, the job spec of which seem to involve spending 3 hours shouting at scantily clad 14 year old girls and Alan. Honestly, I’m not making this shit up. 

Alans job, as every year, is to give a motivational ‘shout out’ to runners and their charities as they cross the start line. However, the reality is he just ends up shouting a huge list of Diseases. ‘MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY!’ screeches Alan. ‘FELINE AIDS CENTRE!’  ‘ANAL CANCER RESEARCH!’ ‘THE PLAGUE!’ 

Passing Alan and feeling a little bit more depressed about life, I’m finally on the run. This is where I notice something. The clouds have cleared. The sun is out. It’s quite warm. For fucks sake. 

First top tip GNR virgins. At the very start you’re presented with two options; over the Central Motorway or under it. I always go over. Firstly because you’ll notice all the Elites do. But more importantly, is that under will completely balls up your GPS app and you’ll find yourself all over the shop. You’ll either be flying along at 4 min mile pace or get no signal at all. If you’re anal like me, this will fuck with your equilibrium. Over. Every time. 

Central motorway dealt with, it’s time for the icon that is the Tyne Bridge. As always, rain or shine, the bridge is packed with spectators looking for family or friends – or simply there to shout out motivational slogans at you. It’s a great moment if you’ve never done the run before, so soak it up. However, if you’re one of those runners who bombed out looking for a PB, GNR reality is about to slam you square in the mush. 

The pace on the bridge slows dramatically, just one of several bottlenecks throughout the course. I said earlier on that the GNR isn’t perfect and has its issues, so here’s the biggie; there are just too many runners. If you’re after a fast time, you’ve come to the wrong race, it’s not going to happen. Remember when you’ve been shit at something in the past and someone says ‘it’s not about the winning, it’s about the taking part.’ That’s the GNR. Deal with it, like it or lump it, just don’t be an aforementioned hipster dick about it. 

Bridge survived, the next landmark is Gateshead Stadium at mile 3. I’ve set off at a decent pace, but it’s bastard warm already. No clouds, no breeze. I make a bottling but sensible dad decision. Slow the pace down. This is GNR number 8, finally doing a sub 2 hour would be great but it’s also got disaster written all over it in this heat. Double for fucks sake. 

Ever read a professional footballers autobiography? Well, you’ll know what mile 3 to 12 of the GNR is like. Nothing of interest, drab, grey, dual carriageway (Tony Adams), borefest. Not even the crowds, who are cracking by the way (although I am biased) can tart this section up. The GNR course is a shit sandwich, and this is chunky mess in the middle. 

It’s getting warmer. I’ve run in much warmer than this, but there’s something different about this heat. Like its humid, stifling almost. I decide it’s probably just me, that my body and head don’t really fancy it, and a Sunday stroll is the way forward. Then another bottleneck, in a part of the course that’s usually free flowing. I almost slow down to walking pace. Then I spot the Ambulance. This happens another 8 times before I even get to the coast. I’ve never seen anything like it before, people are dropping like flies. 

Miles 10 – 12 are carnage. Both John Reid and Prince Edward Roads are like the start of Saving Private Ryan. Casualties everywhere. In the days that follow, everyone I know who ran it or was a spectator has a war story. People having to give up. Runners collapsing. Runners hoying their hoop up. The heat has taken everyone by surprise. I can’t tell you how happy/relieved/cocky I am that I’ve taken it easy. 

Then I spot it. A sight more wonderful that Faye Tozer dressed in Burlesque theme during Rumba week. The roundabout at the top of Prince Edward Road. You’ll never be more aroused by a roundabout anywhere else. Once you spot it, it means two things. Number one – there’s only a mile left. Number two – you’ve reached the coast, and over the brow of that hill is flat sea breeze all the way to the finish. Orgasmic. 

Sir Mo Farrah apparently HATES this roundabout, as the drop on the other side is quite steep and he worries about injuring himself. Of course, Sir Mo is like shit of a stick. He’ll be flying down it. The rest of us would happily roll down it by this point to be honest. First world problems Mo. 

At the bottom of that bank though we’re on the golden mile, the squelch in the shit sarnie. Get to this point, and you’ve made it. The last mile will give you a much wanted and needed sea breeze. The uphill gradients are over, the crowds are plentiful and vocally shouting you home. Plus it’s flatter than a hedgehog strolling across the A1. Get the cigars out. 

I always get a second wind at this point, regardless of how good, bad or indifferent the run has been. I’ve only ever had one shitter at the GNR, in 2015. A summer injury meant I wasn’t as well prepared for the distance as usual. Even though I still managed the whole thing in a respectable time, the entire run was one big unenjoyable sloggy ball ache. Apart from the last mile. 

The last mile is also where you’ll see the many faces of just how much (or not) preparation people did. Those who really have got plenty in the tank and are pretty much sprinting to the finish. Those who are struggling, gritted teeth, pushing themselves one last time to the finish. Those that have realised that wearing fancy dress was hilarious last year when they first thought of it but now want to die. And those that lied about their time, got in a pen at the front, did fuck all training, and have been walking pretty much since mile 3. You know who you are. Stop it. Clowns. 

As I approach the finish it’s still warmer than lucifer’s kegs and I pass a guy dressed in one of those full latex suits. I ask him how the frig he’s managed to get round in that with this heat. ‘Lots of illegal drugs’ he answers. I hope this is true. 

I head for the line and from the timer can tell it’s over 2 hours but not far over. Stop the watch and it’s 2:02:52. I’ve not broken 2 hours, but it’s still a GNR PB and I feel pretty good. It’s busy as usual at the finish, and if John Reid Rd was like Omaha Beach for casualties, then the Finishers Village at the end feels like the Field Hospital. Lots of sirens and ambulances flying about, people on stretchers, laying in the back of golf buggies. I feel like I’ve been to battle and returned to camp. I said it before; never known a GNR like it.  

I collect my gear from the baggage bus and head straight for the St. Oswald’s Hospice tent. Am I glad to see those guys. I’m given a hero’s welcome and a hug before having my photo taken.

After depositing my sweat upon the wonderful volunteers, I head into the tent looking for anything cold and wet. I’d lick a North Sea Cod at this point I’m so desperate. I chat to other ‘veteran’ runners and we all agree on one word to describe it: ‘Brutal.’ We can’t put our finger on why, but it just feels like the right adjective. I take my swag of cold drinks, ice pops, and sweets and bid my farewell. 

20 minutes later I’m on the Shields Ferry and heading back to the correct side of the Tyne. I take in the refreshing Tyne breeze, legs starting the first signs of ache and cramp, body and mind starting to tire, and tell myself that is the last one, time to retire. You’ve done it 8 times, you’ve already said that 8 miles of it is canny depressing, you won’t miss it. Retire now, before you become one of those runners that the crowds go ‘aaaah’ at out of sympathy.  

Then I think; Na, fuck that. Sub 2 hours next year.