“Make a move and the bunny gets it”

Cyrus Grissom, Con Air

Easter. The season of Chocolate, fluffy bunnies, chickens and a four day weekend (woo-hoo!)

And Jesus. Shit. I always forget Jesus.

But more importantly than that, it means it’s North Tyneside 10k time. Apart from last year, when it was in September. And 2021, when it was held in October. And 2020 when it never happened at all.

But usually, it’s always Easter Sunday.

This year I’m feeling in fairly good nick. I gave up Cheese for Lent. Which doesn’t sound that impressive, but you should see how much of the evil fucking orange stuff I eat.

I’ve also been cutting down the drink. The hungover shit show of the Trail Run was an experience I would not like to repeat. Ever.

This race is also the first of four ‘fast’ ones between now and June. Two of them 10ks, two of them 5 mile plussers. Then, it’ll be straight into Marathon training through to September.

Wanker Weather Watch Corner time. It’s not good. We have a Storm a-coming. One of those tossers with a name. This once, rather mockingly, is called Storm Dave. Fuck off Dave.

The only saving grace is that Storm Dave will be at its strongest overnight. By the 10am start, it should be fairly windy, but not a head wind.

This prediction turns out to be true. A little too painfully correct in fact. As at about 1am, this happens to my roof.

At 6am, as I pick up the slates from my front garden and wonder what I did to offend God on the day of his son’s resurrection, I decide I’m not going to run.

After coming back in and breaking the glorious news to my wife that we now have a new unplanned skylight, she tells me I should just go and do the race.

It’s Easter Sunday, it’s not going to rain, just sort it out when I get back at lunchtime. God I love than woman.

So, off I fuck.

Whatever race plan I might have had, I’ve abandoned. I’m tired, I’m pissed off, it’s cold, and it’s still windy. Not just any windy, head wind windy. Windy mcfuckface windy.

As always, the start of this one is at the Parks Leisure Centre in North Shields. We’ll drop down onto the Fish Quay, back up onto the coast, then follow the sea front all the way to the Lighthouse. Into a headwind. Have I mentioned the wind?

I mooch around at the start, finding anyone I can from my club to bore them with my roof story. In fact, the local newspaper caught me in the act. They declined a write up about my roof.

Look at me. Hands in pockets. What a fucking athlete.

Thankfully, for the sanity of everyone within earshot of my roof story, we’re called to the start.

Like last year, I’ve got balls of steel when it comes to these races now – and I squeeze/elbow my way nearer the front like a dick.

The start of this race is always a pop corn fart. Usually done by someone who’s never started a race in their life. I’m almost positive now they just get someone’s mam to do it for shits and giggles.

Despite this anticlimax, we’re off, and I find myself with far more space than usual. The start always involves a downhill towards the Fish Quay. This usually guarantees a quick start and pace. It can also be the undoing of runners, who start far too fast and pay for it later.

Due to the aforementioned space, I get off to a far quicker start than usual. In fact, my first mile is a 6:59, something I rarely hit on a 5k, never mind a 10k.

I’m delighted and annoyed with myself in equal measure. I’ve had like 3 hours sleep, my blood pressure is probably off the scale, and this is the easy bit. Shit.

I therefore calm it right down on this second mile along the Quay. Again though, starting near the front and putting my foot down makes it a perfect storm. Not the one that fucked my roof, I mean I’ve never had so much room in all the years I’ve done this race.

I do calm down and slow it down a little though – mile 2 is a much less insane 7:15.

Next up, it’s double whammy time. The Hill of Death, with its special guest star this year, the King of the Headwind.

That’s right, we’re going up, and it coincides with us turning into the wind. Can’t wait!

I say this every year, but the best thing to do with the Priory Hill is just attack it. Give the sign of the cross at the bottom, loudly call it a ‘Shithead’, then keep as upright as possible and just fucking run.

This always feels like it’s working for the first half of the hill, but by the second part the lactic acid is building and you’re running through treacle.

But once at the top, the hard bit was a done, and we’re onto a nice downhill for the start of the 3 miles along the coast to home. Look at me man, I’m not even tired. Ahem.

We hit the bottom of this lovely, welcoming hill at the mile 3 mark. I have slowed down a little – that one was a 7:25. We’re at the half way point now, and I’m now predicting that the head wind and my night of storm trauma will see me slow down even further as we go on.

From now till the finish the course will be flat and windy. I’m so bored of the wind now, or maybe it’s the PTSD, that it’s not bothering me at all.

I’m just in autopilot now, not even really bothering to look at my time, but feeling like I’m not don’t anywhere near any kind of PB speed.

Mile 4 however is back up to a 7:16. I’m quite surprised/delighted, but then not shocked to see Mile 5 slump back to a 7:26. On the plus side, I seem to have my photogenic head on today.

I’ve reached that point where I just want this over now. I’m not feeling that tired, or injured, or even fed up. I’ve just had enough of today, even though it’s probably only around 10:35am.

We’re into the final mile now, and even though I mentioned earlier the camera was being kind today, it finally delivers an honest and damning image with about half a mile to go. Urgh.

One taken just after this is a bit better. Mainly because, like a right misogynist bastard, I’ve overtaken the girl in front of me. Disclaimer – for full disclosure, this is a joke. I actually elbowed her out the way.

Are we nearly there yet? Yes we are! It’s a sharp right onto the road to the Lighthouse and then a quick dash to the finish line.

I put on the boosters here. Tom Cruise arms and all that. Someone takes another photo of me here (I’m really popular today, I know) while in full flight.

My last mile is back down to a 7:16. My pace has been up and down like my trousers the morning after that ill advised back street curry I had in Prague.

Finally, the finish line is here, and I cross it in 45:18. Against all the odds, roofs and wind, it’s both a course and 10k PB – knocking 8 seconds off my previous 45:26

My rave reviews from the past couple of years are full of ‘surprise’ PBs, but this one really is. It shouldn’t have been a PB day, but it is.

Unlike previous years, I piss off straight away at the finish. I need to get back to patch the roof up some more before it rains.

I’m sure I could be pithy at this point and do some sort of Storm Dave/Run Dave metaphor. But I can’t be arsed.

Strange fucking day.