“Our mutual friend has a flair for the dramatic”

Dr. King Schultz, Django Unchained

You know what’s really clever? Running a 5 mile race, 48 hours after you’ve just run the fastest 10k of your life.

What kind of absolute doylum would do that.

Step forward this dipshit. On the Tuesday evening following the North Tyneside 10k, here I am, racing the Fairbairn Cup.

Oooooo…a Cup. Sounds important. Well, it is and it isn’t. This is the 8th and final race of the club’s Grand Prix season.

I’ve covered the Grand Prix series and its rules in the past on here. It’s complicated. Like the lass you went to school with’s Facebook relationship status.

For brevity and sanity, it’s a series of Handicapped races, you score points, freeze your tits off in cold winter weather and so on.

This last race of the series is slightly different in that it’s slightly longer. Around 2 miles longer. Ish.

However, it’s basically the same course as the earlier races – you just start and then finish a bit further away.

It’s also April now – Spring time – so the weather should be picking up, right?

Wrong.

Not only do we have that manky head wind from the NT10k at the weekend, it appears to have also got colder and stronger.

When I check my Garmin later, it claims it was 11 degrees with a 10mph wind. Absolute lies.

I’ve also got an awful handicap. I’ve only got myself to blame. I’ve had a great Grand Prix season. I’ve been massively consistent, and pushed myself to some decent times, so it’s only right that I’m given a handicap to reflect that. It is kind of the point of the system.

Having said all that, 32:10 feels excessive. As this is a longer race, it’s probably right to be fair. It’s just a bit soul destroying when you see it written down. I’ll also have to deal with the psychological torture of setting off a full half an hour after the first runners.

You could watch an episode of Corrie in that time. Or avoid watching an episode of Corrie.

As it’s kind of getting lighter in the evenings, we don’t need to wear hi-viz for this one. In fact, we’re encouraged to wear our club racing vests.

No problem.

But it’s going on over a base layer.

I’ve gone proper soft.

The start (and subsequently, the finish) is on the lower prom next to the Lighthouse. We couldn’t be standing on a more exposed part of the coast if we tried. I may as well be standing in a wind tunnel in my undercrackers.

As it’s April, I refuse to wear my gloves. A brave and ultimately misguided decision. My poor Raynards ravaged hands are barely still attached.

The clock has started and the first few runners are away. This is going to be a loooong half an hour. I do have lots of people to chat to. But as time ticks over, more and more of them cross the line and start their race.

Which in turn means there are less and less runners hanging around. As the clock hits 30 minutes, I take a look around. There aren’t many people left to start.

And those that are left are absolute beasts. I can’t spot one person who I think I could potentially run faster than. They are all people in the higher groups. They will hunt me down and destroy me.

With the vast majority of the field already off with a big time lead, and the few still left to go stone cold killers, there is a real danger I could finish last here.

I had no real race plan coming in to tonight, but now I do – run really fucking fast.

32 fucking 10 is finally almost here. My group is as I expected – about half a dozen other runners who are definitely quicker than me on paper. My hope is that at least a few of them ate themselves into an Easter Egg coma over the weekend and are still dealing with the sugar hangover.

Off we go, straight into that head wind. I manage to keep pace with the group. For about 400m. Then they pull away.

I do somehow keep on the coat tails of one. He’s someone I know is a good runner, but has had a few injuries, coupled alongside he’s currently in the middle of those ‘wonderful’ years where you have a child who is a toddler. I remember those days. The man is shattered.

This race is going to very much be a game of two halfs Brian.

The first 2.5 miles will be South into the headwind. The second 2.5 miles we’ll have it behind us. So, basically, grind that first bit out. Chin up, tits out.

The mixture of the fear of finishing last, along with going off with a fast group, sees me post a rather impressive 7:07 Mile 1. Mile 2 also isn’t too shabby – with a 7:15.

These first two miles go over in a blur to be honest. Like when you try to blank out traumatic moments in your life.

It’s now time to drop onto the lower prom, dash across 300 metres of it, before climbing out (well, not literally climbing – up a ramp) and turning back to the Lighthouse.

Halfway through now – hey, this isn’t going as badly as I thought. The wind is now behind me, and I’m still within spitting distance of one of the group I started with. As predicted, a few who started behind have galloped past me like thoroughbreds on roids.

However, not as many as I thought. Or maybe I just haven’t noticed. I’ve also caught a few people here and there. Yeah, this is actually going quite well.

In fact, mile 3 is a 7:09. I’ve picked up the pace slightly, and the hope is that the wind will maintain that.

I somehow, from somewhere, do even better than this – mile 4 is a 6:59. A sub seven minute mile, four miles into a 10k. Would you fucking look at me.

Buoyed by this, I kick on for the final mile. I start to pick off more runners who went out before me, but am also now getting caught by more of those who started behind me. It’s the handicap system working beautifully – we’re all coming in at around the same time.

Mile 5 is also quick – a 7:01. As I sprint for the line I notice one of my Grand Prix team members right in front of me. I’m going to catch and pass her.

Instead though, I run alongside, tell her she’s run a great race (she has) then let her cross the line first.

Being an overthinker and natural people pleaser, I immediately question what I’ve just done. In my attempt at chivalry, have I done something quite patronising? Or misogynistic?

Surely it would be more of a dick move to sprint past her at the finish? I’ll be waking up in a cold sweat at 2am for the next couple of months thinking about this.

In the end, I cover 5.17 miles in 36:40, with a 7:05 average pace. Just to show how far I’ve come, in the same race last year, I clocked a 42.09. I’ve pretty much knocked a minute a mile off.

They’ll make me piss in a bottle if I’m not careful.

And with that, the 2025/26 Grand Prix season is over. How did we do?

Well, the team ended up finishing 3rd out of 36. Cracking. On the individual table, I finish 8th out of 288 runners. I said in an earlier post about the Grand Prix that I wasn’t arsed about what I did.

But bollocks to that. I finished 8th.

I will milk that cow for at least another 6 months.

Next up, one of my favourite races – The Cookson 10k. PB anyone?

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