“You know what *else* could draw a crowd? A golfer with an arm growing out of his ass.”

Shooter McGavin – Happy Gilmore

North Tyneside 10k anyone? I’ve reviewed this race a couple of times before. It’s my favourite child and I do it every year. Well, except it didn’t happen in 2020 as we were in the middle of a Plague. And I didn’t do it in 2022. I completely forgot to enter it until it was full. I know, what a tit.

It’s a great run. It always takes place on an Easter Sunday, which means it’s part of a long weekend off work. Afterwards, I usually reward myself with a big Lunch and shit loads of Chocolate. It’s what Jesus would have wanted.

This year though is going to be slightly different. I’m running, for the very first time, in the Club Vest. Fully fledged Club Wanker. I’m not actually sure how I feel about this. I’ve always seen Club Vests as a target on someone’s back. I’ll hold my hands up here, if I pass someone in a Club Vest, I absolutely love it. The pointless satisfaction I get from it is like no drug you’ll ever take. I am very much aware that this year non-club runners will be eyeing me up with the same blood lust and sense of smarm.

Of course, I need a Club Vest first. Getting my hands on one was very much an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. It involves a Club Shop that is open for approximately 3 and half minutes two days a week, staffed by a lady who appears to have sniper rifles pointed at either herself or close family members.

The Vest saga sorted, it’s race day. The first bit of good news is that the weather is going to be perfect. Cloudy, dry, and with a decent coldish tail wind. Beautiful. 

The run always starts at the Parks Leisure Centre in North Shields. This is technically an area called the Meadowell, a rather ropey council estate famous for rioting in the 90s. I like to think they start it there as motivation to run as fast as you possibly can away from it. As a Shields boy, I’m allowed to say that.

Usually, pre Club Wanker days, I would mull around the start pretending to stretch, stink eyeing the Vegan Runners, and basically try to remain as inconspicuous as possible. This year though, like flies to shit, we’re all drawn together by our vests. I’ve been a member for 7 months now, so I do know the odd body to talk to. Whilst not fully in the inner circle of the greater good, I am welcomed slightly into the fold to join in the usual pre-race shit run craic. What time you aiming for, the weather, any niggles, the weather again, etc.

This year they’ve changed where the start line is, as well as the route itself for around the first half mile. I knew about this in advance and approve of both. Rather than start right outside the Parks then head towards the town centre, dodging traffic islands and zombie locals off their tits on Spice, we’re going to start on a side road that takes us straight down to the Fish Quay. 

It’s a bit tight as the road isn’t as wide, so I kind of get squashed in with the crowd and realise I’m in a crap position. It reminds me of the time I got right in the middle of the mosh to see Ocean Colour Scene and really needed a piss. I won’t tell you how that story ends. Anyway it’s 10am, and we’re off.

This new start also means we avoid Borough Bank, an extremely steep hell of a hill that usually drops us down on the Quay. I climb this bank following every Great North Run after getting off the Ferry and usually want to die around a quarter of the way up it, looking and sounding like Arnie in that scene from Total Recall when he’s on Mars with no oxygen.

I know what you’re thinking, this prize prick is complaining about running downhill. Is he nuts? Not when the gradient is so steep that one wrong foot will have you cartwheeling into the Tyne minus your ankle ligaments. I’m not a masochist. Or a member of Diversity.

Instead, we’re going to drop down a much calmer and wider road. Lovely. We hit mile 1 and I clock that my pace is pretty good – 8:21. I like that. I nod to myself in approval and seemingly outwardly to the guy next to me. He looks at me a bit scared and sprints off.

I also pass one of my neighbours at this point, and in one of the most Accidental Partridge things I’ve ever done, fist bump him. Jesus wept. A week later, this still wakes me up screaming at 3am and I can now never interact with him again.

It’s time for my first decision. Stay at that pace or slow it down? We hit the Prom to head towards Tynemouth and this option is cruelly snatched from me. There are a lot of bodies about and I’m boxed in. I think about windmilling people, channelling myself as a little tank whilst I smash people out the way like a fat Richard Ashcroft. Maybe not. My pace drops to 8:41.

Later, when I check the results, there are just over 1,800 finishers. That’s about 400 or so more than usual years and it feels like it. Still, can’t be helped. This is the NT10K, not Olympic Qualifiers. Whilst it’s a little frustrating, it’s not the end of the world.

The 2 mile mark also coincides with the worst/challenging/shittest part of the course, the climb from the River to the Sea Front. I always compare this bit to a battlefield. Screams of pain, bodies everywhere, runners telling their buddies dramatically to ‘leave me, you go on and finish’.  This year is no different. It’s a swine, but I always seem to get up it without stopping. Selfishly, I also like this part as it opens up the course and I’m no longer boxed in. I like to think of it as one of the rounds in Squid Games. 

4 mile left, I’ve done the hill, I’m at the Coast at Tynemouth, the wind is on my tail. Previously I’ve mentioned that I have a setting in a race called ‘Fuck It Mode’. I like to think this is self-explanatory. In my head I say ‘Fuck It’ and then up the pace. The CBeebies version is ‘Beast Mode.’ I shout this out loud several times to other runners around me whilst beating my chest. Not really.

Rather than having more regrets than the morning after a night spent posting on social media drunk, the ‘Fuck It’ strategy is going well. This seems quite fast for me. I run the last 5k in 24:34. I don’t run a normal 5k as quick as that, never mind the second half of a 10k. I’m going fast and comfortable. 

Passing the Spanish City is usually the stage at which I start to tire. Not this year. In fact, a picture taken by someone from the club at exactly this point appears below as Exhibit A that I ran it and didn’t get a backer off a mate.

The finish is always on the road that leads to the Lighthouse. I take the right turn and notice they’ve moved it back about 100 yards, the absolute swines. This is probably due to the start changing and the organisers realising it had knocked some of the distance off. That’s fair enough. There is no angrier beast than the runner robbed off a PB because someone measured the distance short. People lose their shit.

I cross the line and another first happens. The bloke doing the shit craic on the mic mentions me by name. Wha? Apparently this is another ‘perk’ of being a Club Wanker. They spot a vest, check your number from their huge list, read your name out. I kind of miss being anonyous. Disco Stu does not advertise.

I stop my watch and this feels like a good time. It is. 51:51. That’s a 10k PB. Even better news, my Chip Time comes in at 51:47 to give me 4 more seconds. Personally I think that latter time is lies. I started and stopped my watch bang on the timing mats. Still, 51 seconds off my previous PB. Have it. Even better, the distance was slightly further than 10k. A further dip into the stats shows that I hit the EXACT 10k mark in 51:16. 

I’ll be honest, I’m surprised but not surprised. 7 months turning up twice a week for sessions at the running club I hoped, but never assumed, would push me my running up a notch. And well, it has. I’ve run a race faster than I ever have before.  This is no coincidence or fluke. 

Something else to mention here as well. I notice that I feel surprisingly great. I didn’t feel uncomfortable or struggled coming in, even with the push of the extra pace. I recover pretty quicky, I’m not really out of breath and I’m certainly not knackered. In fact, I’m kind of annoyed with myself that I didn’t push myself harder to try and duck under 50 mins. Who would have thunk it. 

All that is left to do is pick up this year’s horrendous bright yellow race top. In the Winter, it will be great as a hi-viz. In the Summer, every Insect in the area will be landing on me. To book end this nicely, I spot some of my fellow club runners and join in the post race shit craic. How did you do, happy with it, the weather again. 

Then it’s time to walk back home. I have an epiphany during this. You could break 50 minutes you know, if you worked a bit harder. So, it’s on. The 49:59 challenge is on. Straight after my Easter Egg demolition. Obviously.