‘One does not simply walk into Mordor’

Boromir – The Fellowship of the Ring

Now, for those of you unaware, I am from Newcastle upon Tyne. Well, I’m from Whitley Bay via North Shields for all the picky twats. I was born there, went to uni there, my wife is from there, my daughter was born there, I work there and – most importantly – I am a long standing NUFC season ticket holder. I am from Newcastle. Fact.

11 miles down the road, as the crow flies, sits Sunderland. This is definitely not my city. Relations between the two cities is problematic. I wouldn’t necessarily use the word hate. Actually, yes, hate is the word. The two cities historically don’t like each other. This mainly comes down to the old tribal ritual of football, although it goes a bit deeper than that. Two big cities, two big rivers, competing against each other in industry as well as on the football pitch.

Now when I was younger, I bought into this nonsense. The Mackems – as we call them – were all knuckle dragging inbreds who didn’t take baths and ate their young. When I got older and went to university, I had a revelation. People who looked different to me, might fancy the same sex, and worshiped other Deity’s were not actually the savages I’d been told they were. They were not going to sacrifice, eat or hump me without my expressed permission. They were different to me, but they were normal. Just like the people from Sunderland.

I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not holier than thou when it comes to this. When the Mackems get stuffed/relegated I’m the first one fist pumping and dancing the Macarena. So why am I telling you all this? Because on a mild Sunday in May, I crossed the divide and travelled the 11 miles to Mordor. Sorry, I mean Sunderland. In the interests of clarity, for the rest of this blog, anything negative/piss taking about Sunderland will have ‘Bantz’ attached to it. This is just so everyone is very clear that I’m being jokey and not a right nasty bastard. Well, maybe a little.

The Sunderland City Half Marathon is in its 9th year. The Jarrow Arrow Steve Cram appears to have something to do with it, although I can’t figure out whether this is his brain child or he just pushes it as a figurehead. He’s a proud mackem anyway, and a damn finer runner in his day so either way it works. See, I’m being lovely.

I’ve never been able to enter before due to logistic reasons. It always falls on the last day of the Premier League season and we (NUFC) are always at home. Basically, in order for the run to take place then Sunderland will need to be playing away. Kick off for our last game is always around noon, so there is not a snowballs chance in a sauna of me being able to do it. I also like to drink heavily at the last home game of the season. It’s a thing. Not this year though. Due to the mackems pretty much playing non-league now or something (Bantz!), their season has finished meaning the toon have been given an away trip to Fulham. Game fucking on.

Training for the run has gone well. Perhaps too well. I’ve even managed to fit in a couple of 13 milers in the run up which is unheard of. Usually I’ll complete regular 10-11 milers with the half arsed assumption that I’ll find the extra two mile from somewhere. It’s not very scientific, but I get away with it.

The biggest challenge of the day therefore is not if I can complete the run, nor if I get a great time. It’s whether I can get there in the first place. Ladies and gents, I present to you the Tyne and Wear Metro. Or as it’s called in my house, the Fucking Metro. For those who aren’t aware of this shit show, the Fucking Metro is a light railway system that covers 60 stations around the North East. Badly. I know the Fucking Metro really well. I use it to commute every day and due to it’s general wankyness I’ve probably spent more time in it than my house.

Today, it’s the only way I’m getting to the run and home again. My whole run relies on it. And that’s usually when it’s epic shitness comes out dressed in drag and doing the hula.

I arrive at the Fucking Metro station to find a couple of other hardy local souls suited and booted for running. Being a right anti-social twat, I give them the ‘Yes. Yes I am’ nod before strutting off to the other end of the platform in an attempt to look like I know what the actual fuck I’m doing.

Unlike many Fucking Metro journeys this one is painless and uneventful and, in exactly the time it promised, it’s delivered me to the Norths answer to Mos Eisley (Bantz!). The station isn’t far from the start, about a 5 minute walk and it looks like the weather is going to be kind. Yes it’s a clear and sunny, but there is a welcoming light cool breeze in the air which should prevent me from cooking.

The start is situated on the road right next to Keel Square, as per my fucking boss of a map below.

The Square itself has a few stalls and info points, including the customary pom-pom woolly hat one. I’ve never understood how this is a thing with runners, even in the winter I couldn’t run in one without having to take it off 10 minutes in as, pumped full of my unfit sweat, it expands to three times the size and weight and nearly breaks my neck.

I put my bag in the pub. Yes, that’s right, the pub. It’s a bit left field granted, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t a tad worried when I first was relayed this info. I envisaged some small mackem radge, jogging pants tucked into huge socks, extending his hand and telling me it would be ‘cushty for a quid like.’(Bantz!) Instead, it was upstairs in The Peacock in a decent function room. You were just dumping it somewhere and expected to remember where you’d put it, but I’m led to believe this was a late change of venue for baggage so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. It seemed secure, and my bag was there when I got back. Although if anyone wanted to nick a travel pass and a Mars Bar multipack then knock yourself out.

There are two runs today. The 10k is starting at 10am, and the Half Marathon 25 minutes later. There seems to be a lot of people doing the 10k, and from the spiel I’m sure this is the actual banner event of the day. The local ‘dee-jay’ is trying to whip the crowd up by constantly mentioning that the mackems won their 1st Leg Play Off game last night, so it’s a real ‘feel good’ day. I’m writing this after May 26th. If you don’t like football, Google that date plus Sunderland AFC. Chortle. (Bantz!)

The 10k-ers are off and after a quick piss stop I get into the pen. I say pen, there isn’t really a pen. They have some sort of markers by the side of the road indicating where you should stand if you run certain paces. I position myself somewhere between 1:50 and 2 hours, but in fairness there’s only about 20 yards between the two of them. If I had OCD this would proper annoy the shit out of me and I’d be moving forward and backwards till I figured out exactly where the fuck 1:54 was.

It seems like there’s loads of space in the pen and, as the race starts, it becomes evident that there will also be plenty of room out on the course. As soon as we get going it feels like I’m thrown into some sort of Hunger Games/Running Man scenario, we’re into the city centre streets and hanging quick left and rights. We’ll repeat some of these streets later on as well, a snip of my Strava below hopefully illustrates it.

It’s feels a bit like when I go for a run and have only done 3.80 miles, so I go circling round my neighbouring streets and alleyways till I’ve made that extra 0.20 up. You’ve all done it, admit it. I don’t mind this though to be honest, I’m getting to see the city centre and it adds a bit of Zombie Apocalypse experience to the proceedings.

This pretty much sums up the first 3 miles, before we then head South out onto longer sections of straight roads and into what many would call Suburbia ie the places what people live. We’re starting to get some climbs now as well, nothing to wet your kegs about or plant a flag, but enough to make your work a bit harder and curse a bit louder. This seems to stretch the field about a bit further – I could swing a giraffe around my head and still fail to hit anyone.

We’ve come south into Grangetown which, according to its Wikipedia page, is famous for traffic congestion. That’s literally its claim to fame. Even then, they opened some sort of new diversion route in 2018 which cleared most of it up. I could find nothing more of interest about the area other than two facts that appear at odds with each other. It has a Chinese take away called Buddha Belly (chortle) and a highly successful Slimming World. Accidental Partridge this bit.

Anyway, we’re back into the city centre now and repeating some of the streets from the start. However, I think I now see the method in this madness. We’ve done 8 miles and so far we’ve seen nothing of real interest, save from the fact I now know where the Poundland is. That’s all about to change, cue the scenic bit.

So, at mile 8 I’m now heading out of the centre and over Wearmouth Bridge. Ever seen the Tyne Bridge? Well, this is like the smaller shitter Meccano version (Bantz). Once over, it’s a sharp right and a steep long drop that’s going to take us down to the riverside. Now, when people ask me what I’ve learnt from running, one of them is thus; What goes down, must come up. You gan down a hill, you’re going to have to gan up a hill. Other runners are flying down this bank like gazelles. Not this clever shite. I slip on the brakes. There’s a big bastard hill coming soon. I can feel it.

The run along the River Wear is pretty nice. I wave to Charon the Ferryman (Bantz!) and admire the University Campus and Marina which I’ve never seen before. Then what do we meet…a big bastard hill of course. I won’t lie to you, I feel smug as fuck as I pass panting runners who flew down the bank and are now dying on their arses.

Suddenly I pop out of the Marina like a new born, birthed onto the sea front. Again, I’ve never been to the sea front at Sunderland so it’s a nice surprise. I enjoy the refreshing sea coastal breeze and admire the view of the half sunken Statue of Liberty on the beach (Bantz!).

I’m on Mile 10 now and dare I say it but I’ve never felt so comfortable at this stage of a Half Marathon before. The extra training and 13 mile runs leading up to the race appear to have really helped. I’m not going to PB I’m certain of that, but at least I don’t feel like I want to stop/cry/hurl/die.

We run out of prom and I take a sharp left with a short climb into a park. No ordinary park, this is Roker Park. This used to be the site of Sunderland’s home ground until they demolished it and moved out to the Stade de Plop (Bantz!). It’s a nice park, although my what should of been tranquil run through it is spoilt by the sound of my dad spinning violently in his grave.

Out of the park and we’re back on to a Prom for the last mile. I’ve hardly got anyone around me now, apart from a really annoying woman who’s obviously fucked but keeps sprinting past me before stopping, then doing it again. I hear this is called Jeffing in the technical running world. I know what I call it; Absolute Bollocks. Stop it.

The end is nigh. Simply back over Wearmouth Bridge and then finish where we started. As I turn on to the road leading to the bridge, a fresh and athletic looking lady is sprinting down the road and shouting encouragement. I later find out this is Aly Dixon, local girl and elite Marathon runner, drafted in to motivate us for the last few hundred yards. Her cheery not looking at all knackered machine like demeaner is one part beautiful and one part piss take.

The end is funnelled with large crowds shouting friends and relatives home. I go for the sprint finish and the legs feel belter. I cross the line in 1:54:38, my second fastest Half Marathon time. I’ll take that all day and then some. It’s then a smooth funnel through to pick up bags and medal and I’m back where I stood 2 hour earlier. Seamless.

All in all it’s been a satisfying day. The Fucking Metro worked (and also on the way back like a friggin Utopian dream), the race was well organised, the weather was canny, there was loads of room to run, and I ran a comfortable and canny near perfect race. Would I do it again? Absolutely. As of writing, they haven’t yet confirmed the date for 2020. Fingers crossed for the 10th May – the mackems don’t have a game as their season has finished (it’ll hopefully be over by Christmas tbh – BANTZ!) and NUFC are away that weekend. If it’s the week after, then I’m fucked basically.

Cheap bantz digs aside, well done Sunderland. A well organised and nice course with just the right amount of runners. See, I told you I could be a right soft bastard.

PS Enjoy League One. (Bantz!)