“We’ve got a secret weapon. God is our co-pilot”

Fenderbaum, The Cannonball Run

At the start of January I should have been running – then subsequently reviewing – the North Tyneside Trail Run.

Jesus, or whoever it is that controls the weather, had other ideas though. Snow – an absolute shite load of it – fell from the sky a mere 24 hours before.

After a course inspection, the organisers declared it more dangerous and unpredictable than an ICE Agent, and called it off. I say called off – postponed till March. When it will probably absolutely piss down with rain. Masochistic bastards.

So instead, let’s review something I’ve mentioned a few times in the past – The Club Grand Prix. Race 6 of the series, to be precise.

I was trying to think of a way to describe the format and rules of the Grand Prix. I decided to ask ChatGPT, but all that did was kill a Tree, and possibly also a Polar Bear, before producing a shit picture of Ayrton Senna with 7 fingers.

So, without using the killing machine, the rules are thus:

• There are 8 races between August and March/April.
• Race 1 is a 10k
• Races 2-7 are around 3.5 miles. I have no idea why this is such a random distance.
• Race 8 is 5 miles.
• You form Teams of 8 in advance of Race 1. Usually just your friend group in the Club, or you can whore yourself about to any Team.
• You get a points total after every race based on position. For example, finishing 1st = 1 point. Finishing 38th = 38 points and so on. There’s usually around 200+ run.
• If you don’t turn up for a race, you get allocated maximum points.
• As I’m bored of the rules already, it’s basically lowest score as a Team wins.

Got it? No? It doesn’t matter.

Now I know what some of you are thinking – surely all the fasties will just piss this, as they will constantly have low number finishes. A HA! No, because the race is handicapped. I’m not talking Timmy from South Park handicapped, I mean times.

So those who got the slowest times from the last race go out first, then the next fastest, all the way to the really fast ones have to go out last.

The idea being, we all kind of finish at the same time, which sets up some belter drama at the line. More of that later.

I’ve mentioned several times in the past now about my complete failure when it comes to being competitive. This is no different. These 8 races for me are basically a great way to stay motivated during the dark, cold, and grim Winter months.

And tonight is certainly all of those things. It is fucking freezing. There’s a cold, strong wind lashing straight off the sea accompanied by rain and a little bit of sleet. Awful.

I get in a warm up run down to the start and I feel pretty good. That is until I hit the coast and a sea of utter shitness and despair.

On the plus side, I’ve done quite well in the Grand Prix the last couple of years, steadily getting quicker. As such, I have a rather stinking handicap of 20:10.

Like the tit that I am, I get here far too early. Bang on 7pm. Which means I’m going to be hanging around for that 20 minutes (and 10 seconds) until my number is called.

I chat to a few runners I know, which helps pass the time and take my mind off the wanky weather. A quick look around reveals that everyone looks miserable as fuck. We’re all cold, wet and questioning our life choices.

As runners get called forward and set off, it’s noticeable that I’m surrounded more and more by the beasts of the club. The kind of runners who, if they were animals in the wild, would kill, eat, then shit me out without even needing to wipe.

The great thing about the Grand Prix races are that they are superbly organised. And this isn’t me blowing smoke up my club colleagues arses either. Setting off runners at different times must be like herding cats. However, it’s always absolutely spot on.

It’s got even better over the last couple of years. We now have a digital timer, so you can see exactly how close you are to getting called forward, as well as chipped time bibs and mats. Honestly, superb for a smallish local club.

Anyway, my time has finally arrived and my number is called forward with a few others in a group. We line up, the digital timer hits 20:10, and we’re off.

We’re going to be heading South along the coast for the first half and it is, as I predicted, fucking grim.

It’s a cold head wind, but not directly head on. It’s more South-Easterly than Southern, so it’s sort of hitting the left side more. As we’re on that path running beside the coast, we’re massively exposed and there is no hiding from it. Apart from when I pass a couple of bus stops, where it blocks it out for a nano-second.

Last time out, I clocked a 24:22. I would like on or around the same time. It’s not going to be easy though. The wind is brutal and slowing me down – a quick check of the watch has me a good 9 seconds off my usual pace for this first mile.

Having said that, I do notice that I’ve left the rest of my starting group behind. So I must be doing quite well. I’ve also started passing a few people – and I don’t recall anyone passing me yet (don’t worry, they will!)

Special mention to the Marshals at this point. I maybe cold, but I can guaranfuckintee you I’m not as cold as the Marshals. At least I’m moving to help warm me up. Absolutely fair play to them, they must be fucking freezing.

We’re still on that top Prom, it’s still windy, and now we have a short climb to ‘High Point’ – so-called because it’s the highest point of the coast. That’s right, the founders of my town had no imagination. A Marshal takes a photo of me just before this climb. Sort of..

A quick glance at the watch and I can see I’ve lost more time. The wind really is killing my pace.

We’re now going to ‘drop’ onto an old and run down part of the lower Prom. The long ramp to get down there is a welcome relief to be honest. It’s the first time we’ve really had some shelter from the elements, so I put my foot down in some sort of misguided second wind.

The bottom prom is dark and covered in huge puddles of water, tossed over the side by waves earlier in the day. If you’re one of those runners who doesn’t like getting your feet wet, then it’s tough shit time. When it comes to this part of the course – it’s pretty unavoidable.

I’m wet (and cold) already, so I just plough through these puddles of doom like a German Panzer Tank. I notice I’m catching and passing a few runners on this section. I don’t think it’s because I’m going particularly fast. My guess is it’s just one of those nights where people are fed up of the conditions and have given up giving a fuck. I don’t blame them.

There is a steepish long ramp at the end of the Prom that we have to get up to pop us back onto the upper Prom, where we then turn and head ‘home.’ Sadly not my warm home, pipe and slippers in front of the fire, cat on lap. It’s the course finish.

I decide to ‘attack’ this ramp. Just because I want it over with as soon as possible. When I say ‘attack’, think more of a limp wristed bitchslap.

However, good news, we’ve done the hard bit. We’re now heading back whence we came, wind behind us and 2 miles down. This second mile has been slow though – 7:18.

Now I’m going back down High Point with a tail wind. It’s almost like a sling shot effect. It feels a little less grim and more like a normal run. I’m able to get my pace up for the first time.

Is this a second wind or a third wind now? It doesn’t matter, whatever wind this is, it’s a good wind, and I’m going to embrace it. I mean, fuck it, we all just want this race to end now don’t we?

I’ve started passing more runners, getting told off by a Marshall for overtaking some of them in the cycle lane (‘Sorry Marshall!’).

I’m back at the Spanish City, and it’s going to be a slightly different route back – via the lower prom, rather than the roadside path.

The Prom is a straight, flat 1km ish section. This is the part of the race where everyone either ups the pace, runs out of gas or, as I saw once, violently throws up. My shoelaces also came undone here one time, but we don’t like to talk about that.

It’s here the 3 mile comes up and ooooof…it’s a 6:51 mile. I think that’s the fastest mile I’ve ever recorded in a Grand Prix race. A sign that the tail wind really is strong and pushing me right up the arse.

It’s time for the final section, a climb up out of the prom. This can be a real killer. In my head, I feel like this must be what it’s like running up the Travelator on Gladiators. You can feel the lactic acid burn.

Once you’re up and over, it’s a sharp right turn, then a short sprint to the finish. This final sprint also has a slight climb on it, and I’ve seen people literally stumble over the line.

I’ve also seen, in the past, runners (ok, men) pushing women out of the way at the finish. Like, proper shoving. Proper dick moves. On one occasion, I actually approached one of the push victims straight after and asked them if they wanted to complain – as I would back her up.

She declined, saying ‘grasses get slashes’ (not really). No, she just didn’t want to make a fuss. I mean, I know this is a competition of sorts, but pushing lasses out the way to gain one higher place. Give your head a fucking wobble.

Anyway, I’m finished, thank Christ. It’s 24:21, my second fastest Grand Prix time, and it went a little something like this:

When the results come out later in the week, I’ve also finished in 35th. Again, the second highest I’ve ever placed (the highest being 24th, when I got my PB).

Chatting with others after the race, I’m now convinced that I have definitely benefited from a large part of the field just not being at their best at the moment. There are a few who’ve been injured and/or ill, plus I think the weather kicked the mojo out of a good chunk of people.

Still, I somehow managed to run this quite well (and fast) so I’m not staying too humble. Well done mate, you did great.

Six down, two more to go. Can our team win the big one? I have no idea – I still don’t understand the rules. I’ll just make sure I keep trying to run fast. I think that helps.