“Uh, guten tag, my family and I are looking for sechs.”
Clark Griswold, National Lampoons European Vacation
Don’t panic, don’t panic.
Unlike my last post, which was Tolstoy in length but certainly not in quality, this one will be brief.
Let’s jump straight in and set the scene. At the start of every year, I post about the 12 months ahead. Expectations, goals, any Races I’m planning on doing. It’s not self promotion or humble bragging, it serves much higher purposes than that.
Firstly – and most importantly – it pushes me into actually having some sort of plan. Get it down on paper, make it real.
Secondly, the process of noting it all down works as a great motivator. January, by and large, is a shitter of a month. It’s long, it’s cold, it’s usually spent in poverty. Reminding yourself of what you have to look forward to once we’re past it can help lift the mood.
Finally, on a very personal level, I always find it an interesting read at the end of the year. Did everything go as planned? Did it go monumentally tits up?
Anyway, the 2026 version was called Smalltown Boy and was posted on New Year’s Day.
Yes, I’m getting to the point, which is – the plan has changed. Already.
I did have a hunch it might, even as I was writing it. The original plan, the one in that post, was to train for and complete the Solway Coast Marathon at the end of June. Which to be honest, I was really looking forward to.
However, a slightly cheeky throwaway comment in a work team meeting has changed things quite dramatically.
I’ve posted before about my occasional work visits to Poland – the vast majority of the team I work with are based there. Last time I was out there, I noticed a poster for a Running Event.
My Polish is a bit shit (I blame the superb English of my colleagues, meaning I’ve never had to use it) but even I could decipher that it was an advert for the Warsaw Marathon, taking place every September.
Armed with that knowledge, when it came to meeting with my boss to organise my next visit, I drop in a rather casual ‘well if you send me in the last week of September, I could do the Marathon while I’m there.’ Followed by a nervous laugh.
And to cut a long story short, they said crack on.
‘Ooo..look at me with my non shit photo’
So, the Warsaw Marathon on the 27th September it is then. I did flirt with the idea of still doing the Solway Coast one as well, but decided for the benefit of my physical health that it was a bad idea. I’m not talking about tiredness, I more worried that my wife would kick my head in.
Thankfully, the lovely people at Solway have let me defer till 2027. They took pity on the thought of me being slapped about by an angry posh lass.
“I never really sleep well. Got one eye open, always”
Leon, Leon
Bonjour! Ca va? That’s about as good as my French gets. Actually, that’s not entirely true.
Back in the mid 90s, I not only had a questionable haircut, I also had French GCSE every Monday morning. Our teacher, Madame Bates, would ask us what we did at the weekend. In French, of course.
My answer was the same every week.
‘Samedi, j’ai joué au football avec mes amis au Wallsend Sports Centre’
And every week she’d roll her eyes and let out a big sigh. As I used to point out to her though, are you asking me to lie Miss? My parents have always taught me to tell the truth. What do you want me to say? That I rode a Bear topless round the streets of Damascus, whilst shouting ‘I am a Fish’?
Cocky little twat, wasn’t I. You should have heard me in Religious Studies. ‘Sir, don’t you think Jesus was, like, just a clever conjuror?’ Not the greatest opinion to have at a strict Catholic School, but one I stuck to.
So, my grasp of French as a language is a bit rubbish, but I’ve always quite liked the people. They go on Strike the minute they get annoyed with something, they take long breaks for lunch, and they executed their Royal Family.
Therefore I had no complaints when my wife suggested we head off to the South of France for our 2025 family holiday. Possibly one of the most middle class sentences I’ve ever typed on this blog.
So, last July, we headed off to Mougins, a medieval hillside (uh-oh) town in the Côte d’Azur, just 15 minutes from the much more famous celebrity bastion of Cannes. C’est formidable.
And yes, I’m taking my running gear.
This will be the seventh different country I will have run in now. As an aside, I still kick myself that back in 2008 I wasn’t yet the fully fledged obsessive running sad case you see before you today.
That year, I went to New York City, staying a stones throw from Central Park, and never ran around it. A huge missed opportunity, potentially not one I’ll get again. Such is life. Je ne regrette rien.
Anyway, fast forward back to 2025. I’ve Google Mapped this place in advance. Of course I have. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. And, well, it’s pretty hilly.
As you know, I’m a glass half full person. It does look a stunning landscape to run round. After doing a bit of research, it seems I’m only going to be a mile from a decent size Public Park.
It’s called L’Etang de Fontmerle, and appears to be the go to place for local runners. In English, that translates as ‘The Fontmerle Pond.’ Man the French make everything sound so much more exotic. Anyway, apart from sounding sexy, it’s flat, off road, safe, with lots of tree cover to give shade.
It may be my only option during the whole holiday, but it looks lovely, and I’m not planning on doing any ‘big’ runs while I’m away. It’s all about ticking over with some 5ks.
We’re going on the Wednesday evening, so like the sad, sad man that I am, I front load my running at the start of the week. I do a 5k on the Monday (I never run on a Monday usually), the Club session on Tuesday, then a 16 miler on the Wednesday morning.
The 16 miler seems a bit extreme, but as always with me, there is method behind my madness. I have to drive overnight on the Wednesday. I can never have a lie in. So let’s get up early, run long to knacker myself out, then go back to bed. It’s either genius or a terrible idea.
That run goes fairly well. I’ve been upping my pace slightly on these long ones. My legs are a bit tired after doing a speed session the night before, but I’m still knocking out an 8:47 pace. If I could maintain that for another 10 miles, then there’s a 3:50 Marathon. But that’s a discussion for another day.
Project 3:59 in action
I won’t bore you with the details, but after an overnight drive to Edinburgh, a flight to Nice, and a Taxi ride to Mougins, we’re here. Phew.
That Taxi ride is a real eye opener, I can tell you. Google Maps has not done the hills here justice. I really don’t know the best way to put this – they are steep as fuck.
It’s all part of the adventure though. I mean, I’m always telling people I love a hill. Usually.
After a fairly decent nights sleep I wake up early with the first lot of many, many Mosquito bites this week. I like to think it’s because my fitness levels make me tasty as shit. These flying fascists take one look at my magnificent calf’s and can’t believe their luck. Bastards.
Anyway, off we go for run number one. As I mentioned earlier, my destination is L’Etang de Fontmerle – aka the sexy pond.
Now the biggest problem with this sexy beast is getting to and from it. It’s only around a mile away, piece of piss. The problem is, I’m on top of a geet big hill, and the park is at the top of another one.
Therefore, the journey to get there is a bit of a pain in the arse. I mean, look at the state of this:
A 300 foot drop in only half a mile, followed by an immediate 200 foot climb in the next half. I can already hear my knees shouting ‘ARE YOU TAKING THE PISS MATE?’ before I attempt it.
But attempt it I do. The first run is always into the unknown, but the drop is as big a bastard as I thought it might be. I drop down carefully though, running downhill is always hard for me, especially with this gradient.
Downhill survived, its tester number two – a busy main road. I’ve actually been looking forward to this less than the hills if I’m honest. I’ve driven in France before. They’re nuts frankly.
This is pre rush hour, but it’s still fairly busy. There is a pedestrian crossing, but have you ever tried using one of these on the continent? It’s like a round of Squid Games.
I dodge traffic and get into the designated pedestrian zone, which is about as safe as leaving a toddler alone by a swimming pool. It’s at this point that I realise I’m running the wrong way. Whoopsy.
After a quick stop and check of Google Maps (and it is quick as I feel like a sitting target here) I’m back on track and on a side road that will take me to the sexy pond.
I say side road, but what I meant was ‘huge fuck off hill.’ Yes, this is the climb. As mentioned earlier, 200ft of it in less than half a mile. I attack it and actually feel quite good. For the first 0.20 of a mile of it, anyway.
By the time I get to the top I am feeling it. But at the top I am. Another quick map check (to make sure I’m not lost, and not at all because the hill has killed me) and I’m soon at the park.
I have never – I mean never – been so happy to see such a flat and boring park. The two hills, down and up, to get here were only just over a mile, but my legs feel drained already.
It also doesn’t help that the temperature is already 23c. Add on being 600 foot above sea level, when you live at sea level for the other 11 months of the year, and this is a real slog. It’s stunning though, that can’t be questioned.
French Sunrise. Not a Cocktail.
Whilst it’s certainly not busy, there are a few people milling about. Mostly dog walkers, but also half a dozen runners. The park has a dirt track round it, with grass, trees, and that sexy pond in the middle of it.
Sexy Pond
The plan on this first run is to just do laps around it until I can’t be bothered. One loop comes to just shy of a mile. Which is handy. After hitting mile 4, I keep running and head out of the park onto a different road to where I came in.
I have a hunch this was the way I originally meant to come in, before I ballsed up on the main road. I’m dropping down the hill on a dirt track before suddenly finding myself on a canal.
Hang on a minute, a canal? On a hill? Wouldn’t that be a waterfall? Well, no. I seem to have stumbled upon another bit of flat I wasn’t expecting. I make a note to investigate this more when I get back to the villa. For now though, I’m bored of hills – the up and the down ones. So I walk back to the villa. Not a bad first run though.
Not flat
After eating my weight in French Pastry for Breakfast, I do some investigation on the random canal I stumbled on.
It’s called the Canal de la Siagne. It’s long disused, but basically is how they got drinking water down from the mountains to Canne on the coast. Clever.
Handily, even though it serves no real purpose now, they’ve turned sections of it into part of a walk – therefore popping a handy trail path along it. As well as being flat, it’s also only halfway up the hill I climbed yesterday. I’m all over this for Day 2.
So, into Day 2. I’m up early on another glorious warm French morning. Back down the hill, over the Road of Death, then up half the hill to join the Canal.
Once I’m on it, I play a quick game of ‘ip-dip-dogs-shit’ and head left. It’s quite a wide path, although it does get a little tight in sections. It’s also surrounded either side by tree lines, making it cooler and more comfortable than yesterday.
Canal de la Siagne
I do encounter some locals on a couple of occasions. I knock out my good old Pigeon French – Bonjour, Salut, Merci – as I pass them.
I go over a little wooden bridge, through a very tight tunnel, before the track ends at another very busy road. I’m not going to negotiate this one, so I turn back the way I came.
I get back to my starting point and keep going the other way. This part of the Canal is much better. No bridges or tunnels. This is a running utopia you very rarely get. A quiet path off the beaten track on a French hillside. Through the trees, the view is something else – the Alps sitting spectacularly on the horizon through the morning haze. Bottle it.
I again hit a road – this one has no traffic at all on it – and lose sight of the canal. This appears to be the end of the line for this section. So I turn until I finish back where I started. Just shy of 4 miles, a nice 30 min work out to sweat out the local wine.
Over the next week, I get up each morning and do a mixture of the Sexy Pond Park and the Canal. Usually 3-4 miles, except for one day when I push the boat out and do a 10k. It stays warm all week, which I slowly acclimatise to.
I do deviate off on a completely different route one morning – heading down the other side of the hill our villa is on – into the nearby town of Tournamy. However, despite being fairly flat (nothing is truly flat round here I’ve discovered) it’s disappointingly devoid of any character whatsoever. Lots of new build apartments and business units. More like a Retail Park than a Town.
It’s on the day before my final run out of the holiday that I find out something amazing about my Pond/Canal jaunts. I’ve been running right past the home of Picasso. In fact, the place where he died – Château de Vie.
It’s up on the hill, right next to the canal and on the way to the Sexy Pond. Right next to a beautiful old church. Therefore on my last day, I decide to stop there and take a look.
There isn’t much you can see. It’s privately owner and only open to the public once a year, but like a shit Paparazzi I take a photo of the gate.
Picasso’s House. He wasn’t in.
Amazing. Right under my nose all this time.
And thankfully for you all, that is that for running in France. I know, how long? If you’ve got this far, you’re an absolute trooper.
Ideally, it would have been nice to have also got a run in down the coast in Cannes or Nice, along the Promenade with a warm Med breeze, rather than the usual North Sea artic blast.
All in all, some fantastic exploring of some very scenic, albeit very hilly, French culture. Sexy ponds, canals, and Picasso.
“1,000 years from now there will be no guys and no girls, just wankers. Sounds great to me”
Mark Renton, Trainspotting
2026 is rubbish number isn’t it? It’s neither nowt nor something as we say round here. Look at it written down. Rubbish. Say it out loud. Rubbish. At least 2025 sounded a bit sexy. Like we were in the future.
But 2026 it is. Maybe it will be a grower. Like a bands difficult second album.
Running wise, it’s set to be another busy year. It will also be a year of plateauing and managing expectations. As I mentioned in the bumper Christmas Special, 2025 was the best running year I’ve ever had. PBs tumbled in every distance. I expect that in 2026 they won’t – and that’s ok.
I also got lucky in 2025 with things like the weather, plus a lack of either injury or illness. The stars seemed to align.
Just like 2025, I’m keeping my goals for 2026 simple and (hopefully) achievable. The main one being a sub 4 hour Marathon. Project 3:59 if you want to give it a wanky name.
Where do I hope to achieve this epic feat? After much deliberation and research, I finally decided on the Solway Coast Marathon in June.
It ticks lots of boxes for me. I did the ‘big city’ Marathon as my first one because I wanted the ‘happening’ around the run. The Expo, the atmosphere, the crowds. It was brilliant and massively added to the experience.
Second time round, I’m going for the complete opposite. There will be no crowds here – it’s all country road – and last year only 72 runners did it. It’s almost going to be like a very scenic long training run, but someone will give me a medal at the end.
Just a scenic training run
It’s also only an hour and a half drive away. So no big epic effort in time, logistics, or money to get there. As it’s June, I won’t have to start the training cycle till March – Spring instead of manky January.
Sounds great doesn’t it? Lots of pros. There is one potential con though, and it could be a biggie – the weather.
In particular, the heat. Because running a Marathon in the middle of the summer might not be a brilliant idea. Yes it’s the UK, yes it’s Cumbria, but the chances of it being warm are much higher than a Spring/Autumn one.
So that might put the kibosh on a 3:59. But you know, if it is warm, then bollocks to the sub 4 hour. I’ll just have a nice summer plod around it, enjoy the scenery and work on my tan. I’m philosophical about these things.
Other than that, I have other races lined up throughout the year. Already confirmed and signed up for are the North Tyneside Trail run in January (idiot), the North Tyneside 10k in April, the Cookson 10k in May, and the Great North Run in September. I’m pretty sure that there will be more as the mood takes me.
So, 2026, here we come. Lots of good running to look forward to, another Marathon cycle to complete, and hopefully the magic sub 4 hour will be delivered.
Happy New Year, whatever your goals are in the next 12 months. Whether it’s returning to running, staying injury free, or completing a Half or Full Marathon for the first time.
Just remember the golden rule that I bore everyone with on here – enjoy it.
With Christmas I suppose. Merry Christmas! Or Merry whatever it is you do or don’t celebrate at this time of year.
Anyway, it wouldn’t be the most ‘wonderful’ time of the year without the Notbuilttorun Christmas Special, delivered as always without fail on December 24th. Apart from that time I posted it in April. But we don’t talk about that.
So before we dive into watching the greatest Christmas film of all time (it’s Die Hard by the way, don’t @ me), let’s take a look back at 2025.
I was trying to think of a word to sum up my running year. If I was one of those influencer wankers, it would probably be something like ‘Epic’ or ‘Humbling.’ But I’m not. So the word is ‘Busy.’
I’ve literally put the miles in this year. As we stand, I’m going to finish up just shy of 2,000. I’m knackered.
It all started innocently enough back in January with the North Tyneside Trail Run – a 12km slog through the mud, snow, and ice of my local Dene.
Life is a Beach
I only did it as a last hurrah before knuckling down to Marathon training a week later. It was hard work, reminded me of why I don’t do cross country, and I vowed never to do it again. Anyway, I’m signed up to do it again.
As just mentioned, my main focus of the year was running the Belfast Marathon in May. 16 weeks of training started in January and, bizarrely, I really enjoyed it.
The Marathon itself could not have gone better. Perfect running conditions, I felt fantastic on the day, finishing just under my target time in 4:06.
It was definitely the high point of my year. Hell, it’s probably the high point of my running ever. I was buzzing. I’m still buzzing. I’m a Marathoner now, and I TELL EVERYONE.
Did I mention the Marathon?
After the epic feat of completing that Marathon, it would have been easy to stick the feet up for the last 6 months of the year, stuffing my face with carbs and getting podgy.
Instead, within weeks I attacked three 10k races – Cookson 10k, The Blaydon Race and the Tynedale Pie and Peas 10k. On all three occasions I smashed my 10k PB, taking advantage of the superpowers acquired from 16 weeks of hard slog between January and May.
Levitating at the Cookson
I felt good all summer if I’m honest. To the point that I thought I had a great chance to also PB my Half Marathon time. In July, at the Newcastle Half Marathon, I went for it, hitting an amazing (for me) 1:44:50.
I like this photo because of its shitness
I follow this up in August with the Blyth 10k, where I’m robbed of another 10k PB – the new course being measured short by 0.02 of a KM. The swines.
Robbed at Bylth
Then in September it’s an old favourite and an ever present on the running calendar – The Great North Run. The M25 of organised races, I knew there was no way I would find the space to match my sub 1:45 from a couple of months before. However, I still manage to break my course PB, finishing in 1:46:20.
Bossing the GNR
Another race I do every single year is the North Tyneside 10k. Usually held on Easter Sunday, due to work going on down the sea front, it’s postponed till the end of September. And, yes, you’ve guessed it, my 10k PB falls again. This time it’s a 45:26.
NT10k PB
Having then said I never do anything that even vaguely resembles cross country, in October I somehow sign up and run the Coxhoe Trail Run. Thankfully, it’s rain, mud and cold free, but hard bastard work. I still do a credible 46:38 on quite a hilly course.
Nee Mud Mate
Then, finally, in November, it’s my favourite race of the year, the Brampton to Carlisle 10 Mile Road Race. A glorified club piss up with a pesky 10 mile race beforehand, I feel fantastic on the day and put in probably my best performance of the year. I knock nearly 4 minutes off my 10 mile PB, with a 1:15:56.
Brampton to Carlisle
Phew. What a year. Not even mentioning the running I managed to squeeze in during trips to London, Edinburgh, and France.
There we go. The Christmas Special is done. You can crack out Die Hard 2 now (actually more of a festive film than the first one), tuck into a cheeky Toblerone, and breathe.
And so we arrive at the final race of 2025. It’s been quite a year. I’ll be reflecting on it all in the Christmas Special. The perfect read for when you need to hide in the bog and avoid Uncle Flagshaggers’s 17th monologue about ‘the boats’.
It seems only fitting then that I finish the year with my favourite race on the calendar – Brampton to Carlisle. Not only is it a well organised 10 mile road race through rolling countryside, it’s also a club trip piss up.
So I’m treating this one as an end of season celebration. Enjoy the day and the run, with the only real aim being that I would like to match or better my time from last year.
First off though, a couple of days before, it’s the Club’s Presentation Night. I always get myself a ticket for this. Despite sitting firmly marooned in the mid pack when it comes to races, with zero chance of winning anything but plaudits, I do like to go to this for the buffet and the craic.
And the alcohol.
Ok, mostly the alcohol.
After several trips to the bar, and only a couple to the buffet (honest), it’s time for the business part of the night – 20 minutes of award giving with polite applause. Then I can get back to the drinking. And whatever hasn’t been eaten.
My daydream – making a chip butty from whats left- is broken by something quite odd.
My name being read out.
That’s right. I’ve won an award. A Coach’s Award. I can’t decide whether I’m delighted or mortified. It’s overwhelmingly delighted by the way.
I know I’ve had a good year. In fact, 2025 has been the year of records. Fastest everything, furthest everything. But still, I’m not in it for the glory, so this is a lovely surprise. It also gives my 5 seconds in the Crystal Maze.
Thing of Beauty
So, being an AWARD WINNER, I stay longer and drink more than I had planned. Eventually staggering home at around midnight, waking my wife, as I stumble into the bedroom wafting a crystal in the air whilst mumbling ‘iwonaaward’. Popular, I wasn’t.
The next day, I’m a tiny bit rough. It’s a rest day thankfully. Well, it is now.
36 hours or so after my night of glory, it’s race time. I mentioned at the start that I was going to approach this as a celebration. Well, now I’m an AWARD WINNER, let’s fucking celebrate.
It’s an early start on the Sunday. There are 40 odd of us from the club getting a coach to the start – Brampton is around 50 miles/just over an hour away.
It’s not a great start. Our coach doesn’t turn up on time. In fact, it’s 40 minutes late. ‘Technical Issues’ apparently. The way it splutters over the first roundabout we get to doesn’t bode well. However, it soon gets its shit together, and we’re at the start with about 35 minutes to spare.
Just enough time to dump my crap on the baggage bus, do a warm up, take a piss in a random field, and have the obligatory ‘why are we all up so early on a Sunday in November’ group photo.
We do this for ‘fun’
I feel great on the warm up and – WANKER WEATHER KLAXON – it’s text book running weather. No wind – about 7 degrees. Beautiful.
It’s a perfect storm to smash the shit out of this race – I feel great, the weather is spot on, it’s my last race of the year, and I’m an AWARD WINNER.
So fuck it. Let’s go for it.
Last year I did this in 1:19:35. It was my 10 mile PB, the first time I’d ever run a double figure distance at sub 8 min mile pace. After my sub 1:45 half marathon in July, I’m confident I can easily beat that.
I’m not a cocky twat though. I may be AWARD WINNING, but I’m not the kind of idiot to go out there gung ho.
Until the Starter Pistol goes and I fly out gung ho.
Last year, the non-AWARD WINNING and far less confident version of myself popped himself near the back at the start. This resulted in being caught in congestion – meaning the first mile was slow going.
Not this year. I get myself much nearer the front and find far more room from the off. So much so, that mile 1 is a 7:43.
The first 4 miles follow this pattern. Two 7:46s then another 7:43. I feel great. Really loose, full of energy, like I can handle this pace no problem for the last 10k.
I’m really enjoying this. I said in last year’s review that I like this course a lot. It’s pretty much flat, give or take a couple of climbs, nice countryside running without having to do anything daft like go across a field of mud. I don’t do that Cross Country nonsense. I might have mentioned it.
I’m at the half way point now, and rather than starting to tire, I’m feeling stronger. My mile 5 is a 7:38, my fastest so far.
I notice that I’m also passing quite a few runners. This spurs me on even more. Whether it’s psychology or adrenaline, it’s amazing the energy boost you get from moving up the field in the latter parts of a race.
I take a gel at the halfway point, and it may as well have been spinach to Popeye. Miles 6 and 7 (sIx sEvEn!) are both 7:35s. I’m getting faster and feeling stronger as the race goes on. AWARD WINNING.
I’m aware we have a couple of those gentle climbs coming up near the finish, but the way I’m feeling at this point I couldn’t give a toss. Only injury is going to stop me now. Spoiler: it doesn’t.
I attack the two climbs at miles 8 and 9 whilst hitting a 7:25 and a 7:24. Honestly, I feel like this race could go another 5 mile and I wouldn’t get tired (I have no doubt though that isn’t true, and I’d be blowing out my arse on mile 11).
Mile 10 involves one last climb into Carlisle, before we drop over the other side for a lovely downhill sprint finish.
There is someone in front of me heading into the finishing straight, so I decide to try and catch him. But the gap is too big and he also finishes like a beast, so I accept defeat. However, just the thought of me trying to ‘attack’ the line makes me chuckle. You’ve come a long way baby.
I do cross it in 1:15:56. Knocking a whopping 3 minutes 37 seconds off my 10 mile PB – set in this same race last year. Well, I did say I wanted to better last year..
Behold its glory
I’m absolutely delighted. And what better way to celebrate, than a trip to the Pub. Which is exactly what the 40 of us do. I find an All Day Breakfast washed down with several pints of Guinness is great for recovery.
Recovery Session
3 hours later, we zig zag back to the coach ready for our journey back home. It’s fair to say the bus is a lot more ‘excitable’ than on the way out. Music, more drink, and jelly shots help keep the mood high.
Three pee stops and a couple of hours later, we’re dropped off. At the Pub. Hey, one for the road and all that.
Eventually, I head off home. To wax lyrical to the family about my awesome run, before spending an hour stroking my Award. That is not a euphemism.
On reflection in the days after, I come to two conclusions. The first is, I can’t recover from day drinking as well as in my younger days. The second is this is now officially my favourite race of the year.
My racing in 2025 is officially done.
The blogging is not however. See you for the Christmas Special on December 24th.
I know, I know. Another race review. It’s not my fault. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me this year. I run one Marathon and suddenly think I’m Sifan Hussan.
I may have signed up for this one drunk. Or was at least coerced. I know what you’re thinking anyway. Where the hell is Coxhoe? Followed by, don’t you hate Trail Races?
I can explain. Firstly, let’s concentrate on Coxhoe, where this race is taking place. It’s a mining village in County Durham in the North East of England, around 30 miles south from where I live.
It’s one of those places you would never go to unless you lived there. That’s not me being disrespectful – I grew up in a village exactly like this.
Having said that, I’ve been to Coxhoe many times. We have friends who live there. Whilst visiting them earlier in the year, I spotted a local out and about wearing a ‘Coxhoe Trail Run’ top. Like the sad, sad, running wanker I’ve become, my interest was piqued.
As soon as I got home, I was on the Google machine finding out more. Turns out, this has been an annual event for over a decade now, usually held in either September or October.
It’s 10k (just less than) and starts on a hill (uh-oh) just above the Village. It’s a there-and-back, through old railways lines and quarry paths in the countryside. Sounds quite nice. It mentions nothing of mud, fields, or swamps. Good. I don’t do those.
This year it’s on Sunday October 12th. We’re free, and it’s a great excuse to visit our friends again. It’s rare that I sign up for a race with family approval. It’s usually eye rolling and mouthing of ‘whatever.’
So, all signed up months in advance, nothing can go wrong. Except, you know when you have ‘one of those weeks?’
Well, leading up to this race, I had one. It all started on the Wednesday before. Cue flashback..
I’d bought a new pair of Trail Shoes specially for this. Ron Hills, a brand I’ve never worn before. They were in the sale (plus Club discount!) so cheap as chips.
My past experiences of Trail Shoes aren’t great. I bought a pair of alleged decent Asics ones, that fell apart after half a dozen runs along fairly vanilla terrain. They were shit, basically.
Anyway, I take these Ron Hill ones for a whirl down my local Wagonway on the Wednesday before the race. And they rip the skin on both my big toes to pieces.
Shit.
Diagnosis? I have wide but not long feet. I’ve probably bought these in half a size bigger than I should have, leaving a gap above my big toes, causing some major rubbing, skin loss, blood, and ultimately pain.
That’s ok. We can work around these things. I come up with a cunning plan to tape up my feet and double sock. That’ll sort it. Easy.
Next up in the week of shit, on the Friday I break my expensive work headset. A headset I’ve had for years that I love. Somehow, I snap one of the ear pads off.
Not content with that, on the Saturday I make the ultimate fuck up, and slam the car door on my iPhone. That’s right, I slam my car door on my iPhone. Result – broken screen and a phone wonkier than a drunks walk home.
Onto Sunday then, and it’s an early start. We have to drive there, plus I have to pick my number up beforehand. Unsurprisingly, the family’s motivation towards this trip has waned slightly, as I drag them out the door at 8am on Gods rest day.
The number pick up is at the local Leisure Centre, and my bad luck continues. They have no record of my registration, therefore don’t have a number for me.
Thankfully, they are lovely and sort it. I sheepishly show them my confirmation email on my cracked and wonky phone, and they quickly register me and hand me a number. Possibly due to pity.
The start is around a 15 minute walk from our friend’s house. Up hill. I get a lift. Conserving energy. Probably.
The start itself is very random. It’s on a piece of grass (uh oh!) on the site of what used to be a grand Hall, long since demolished. As usual, there are a few club vests dotted around, tribally clustered together.
I’m ’out of area’ here, so there are only some I recognise. I wasn’t expecting this to be a big race and it’s not – when I check the results later, there are 233 finishers. It has a very local feel about it.
For instance, there are no timing chips for this one. Instead, the race director explains it’ll be Parkrun etiquette on the finish – funnel through in finishing order. Very civilised.
It’s Wanker Weather Watch time. Well, it’s perfect. 10 maybe 11 degrees at a push. No wind. Blue skies. Perfect autumnal morning. I’ve put a base layer under my vest, but probably don’t need it.
We’re walked into the woods for the start. I spent my teenage years watching a lot of horror films, so this makes me twitchy. When the gun goes, I’m not sure whether to run forward or into the trees screaming.
I choose forward.
We’re off anyway, massacre free. For now.
The start is through a tree line, with a slight downhill. Like all races, even one with only 200 odd in it, it’s congested at the start and I’m dodging bodies. The organisers catch me in a photo at the start. Note I’m not wearing a cap. I forgot the bastard. I feel naked.
Arguably my best side
We keep heading down – make a note of this for later – before we come out of the tree line and out onto open trail.
This in turn then heads down a very tight and steep downhill. I haven’t really paid much attention to the course if I’m honest, but I have an awful feeling that all the downhill we’ve done so far will need to be run back up for the finish.
It’s so tight down this bit, that it’s impossible to overtake. I’ve mentioned before that I don’t really have a competitive streak, whilst I’m also not one of those runners who gets frustrated by getting stuck behind slower runners.
However, I am frustrated. It’s slow going, but we’re finally sort of on the ‘flat’, onto a Wagonway. I say flat, we’re very much climbing a little bit. It’s become obvious now that none of this fucking god forsaken course is going to be flat.
I go through mile 1 in 7:39 and I can confirm that we’re definitely climbing. It’s subtle, but we’re certainly going in an uphill direction.
On the plus side, despite this still not being the widest of paths, the field has opened up. So I do get the chance to pass a few people. Lovely.
At mile 2 we pop out of the track and out onto a road – that we need to cross. Thankfully, it’s closed and marshalled, so no need to play chicken with the traffic. This is also mile 2, which turns out to be a rather spiffing 7:26.
That’s the end of the good news however.
We’re now climbing AGAIN – and this one ain’t subtle. This is a ‘proper’ hill. Not only steep, but a tight and uneven track. If I didn’t have runners in front of me, I’d swear I was lost.
When I Google Map this later (other mapping services are available), it turns out this pile of evil has no name. My guess though, being northern and used to seeing hills like this, is that it’s an old slag heap from the local pit.
Basically, for those of you not aware of a slag heap, it’s a huge pile of all the shite they dug out the ground when mining for coal. I mean, they have to put it somewhere.
We’re going to run round the whole circumference of it. Half way round the top of this soil monster we hit mile 3 – the half way point. And we’re STILL climbing. Apart from that drop at the very start, this whole race so far has been uphill. Look at this shit man:
Ugh
My mile 3 is a 7:43 and I’ll be honest – I’m not really enjoying this. I’m sick of the hills and, to make matters worse, it’s warmer than I predicted, so I’m feeling the heat of the base layer I put on.
I pass a Marshall and, as I do so, he shouts ‘43’. Now, I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but my deductions are he’s counting us through and that I’m currently sitting in 43rd position.
You know, that’s pretty good. Well, it is for me anyway.
Spurred on in the knowledge that I’m practically winning this thing, I get a second wind. Although, to be honest, a big help is the fact we’re now going back the way we came and it’s all downhill.
Suddenly, I’m back on the Wagonway and finally into my rhythm. I start picking off other runners and I post a mile 4 7:37 and then a 7:18 mile 5.
I might actually be enjoying this now.
Unfortunately, my happy place is going to be short lived and kicked out of me.
Remember that tight steep downhill at mile 1? Welcome to climbing back up the bastard for mile 6. It looks even worse from the bottom as well. Many things go through my head as I approach and look up at it – but mostly the words ‘fucking’ and ‘hell’.
I pull up alongside a fellow runner and we end up side by side attacking it together. Occasionally giving each other a ‘come on bud’ or a ‘we can do this’ or even a ‘this is fucking awful isn’t it?’
It works anyway. I’m absolutely spent at the top of it however. After catching my breath, I congratulate the guy I ran up with on a great bit of work and he reciprocates. It’s like we survived combat.
We’re on a bit of flat, but not for long. One final push uphill through the woods to the finish. My final mile, with that hill from hell and this one, is an 8:03. No surprise really.
My hill climbing buddy has recovered better than me and has moved a couple of seconds away. Me, I’m just happy to be still breathing at this point.
I leave the woods and it’s back onto the clearing where we started for the finish. Race photo time – and for once it’s not too bad.
Naked without my cap
I’m over the line in 46:38, with a mile average of 7:36. I said it wasn’t quite 10k, and it isn’t. 9.8k in the end. For someone who’s not used to trail running, I’m delighted.
I also managed to better the 43rd position I was in at the half way point – finishing in 37th. Put that on my gravestone.
The verdict? This was a well organised local run. Yes, there was an issue with my registration, but they sorted it quickly and with no fuss. Couldn’t have been nicer.
I’m not a big fan of trail runs, I might have mentioned that, but this one was canny. If I’m going to sign up for a trail run, I have to expect hills. So I can’t whinge about them when they appear.
Ultimately, this was something a bit different, and took me out of my usual comfort zone of road running.
Another month, another 10k race. I’m like Mo Farrah. If he’d been a lot slower and chunkier.
I’d actually forgotten about this one. Which is strange, as it’s the only one besides the Great North Run that I do every year. It wasn’t until my Race Bib dropped through the post the week before that I thought – ‘Shit. Oh yeah.’
However, this is not entirely my fault. The NT 10k always takes place on Easter Sunday. Which usually happens in the Spring. Or whenever Jesus feels like it. I know we get ‘late’ Easter some years, but even that would be taking the piss.
In this instance, it has nothing to do with God and everything to do with the local Council. Unless of course the Archangel Gabriel appeared to the Mayor in a vision, demanding she build a cycle lane on the sea front.
Because that’s what they’ve spent the last two years doing. Plopping down nearly 4 mile of shiny new cycle route. Personally, despite how long it has taken them, I approve.
Back during Covid, where we all needed a bit of space (2 metres to be exact), they built a makeshift one down there. They basically just coned a bit of the path off. And it was great for everyone. So they applied for some cash, got it, and now they’ve built a proper one.
Predictably, it created quite a lot of whinging online. Caps Lock obsessed boomers, the unemployable, and people who hang flags off lampposts mainly. Anyway, now it’s finished, and great, all of this has gone quiet. It’s like they didn’t even know what they were complaining about in the first place. Which they didn’t.
Aaaaanyway. They didn’t finish it till the Summer, so they delayed the race till the September. Sensible decision. Me and running in the vicinity of traffic cones is a dangerous combination.
Political and logistical issues now behind us, it’s finally race day. Let’s be completely predictable and start with the weather. Early in the week, it’s not looking good. Not only is it predicted to rain, there will also be the double whammy of a head wind.
The day before, on the Saturday, it absolutely pisses down. And I mean, pisses down. Torrential rain all day, shit loads of wind. Basically, proper awful running conditions.
Thankfully, the next morning the Weather Gods are smiling. The rain is gone and the sun is out. There is still going to be a head wind, but compared to yesterday it’s like the Med out there.
As usual, the start of the race is at the Parks Leisure Centre in North Shields. My original home town, where I was raised, where I’d probably still be living if I hadn’t have married well. I always do that joke. It’s true by the way.
It’s a 10am start, but I have to get down early to chuck my stuff on the baggage bus. Far too early in my opinion – the busses will leave by 9:15am.
I see someone I used to work with and we catch up on gossip, occasionally character assassinating some of the knackers we used to work with. It’s quite cathartic to be honest.
I’ve reviewed this race a lot, so went back to reread what sort of drivel I’ve posted in past years. The below, my description of the start area one year, especially tickled me..
“As per usual, there are a lot of Running Club vests kicking about. All tribally hanging out together like a shit West Side Story.”
Because can you guess what I’m doing at this point? That’s right, I’m wearing my Club vest, hanging out with my tribe, and singing I Want to Live in America. I’m such a fucking hypocrite.
Club mingling done, it’s time to head into the Pen. I say Pen, we all just squeeze onto the very tight Dock Road round the corner. I manage to get much nearer the front than usual – a sign of how I’m feeling about my running at the moment. I used to be a bit sheepish about going too far forward. Today, balls of steel.
My race plan is that I don’t really have much of a race plan. Besides run it as fast as possible. It must be said, this is traditionally not a great course for a 10k PB, due to a few factors at play.
Firstly, the start. I said we’re all squeezed in on this road. That can make the start line a little crowded and slow, meaning you’re already chasing your tail pace wise early doors.
Secondly, this is not a flat fast course. Not really. There is a big drop at the start, but what comes down, must go up. At 2 miles you have to climb up from the river to the Sea Front via the notorious Priory Road. It’s steep and it can slow you down – not only during, but once you’re up and over. What with it leaving you completely fucked.
Lastly, is the Weather. Once you do hit the Sea Front, it’s 4 miles straight North to the finish. Get a day with a northerly head wind and it’s a right bastard.
Today, we are predicted that head wind. How bad it will be we won’t know till we hit the coast. It’ll be a lovely surprise I’m sure.
Anyway, we’ll worry about that later, we’re off.
Antisocially elbowing my way nearer the front may not have won me many friends, but it’s definitely made a difference to my start. I don’t feel like I get held anywhere near as usual and I’m off to a flyer.
It’s downhill this first part – a quick check of my pace shows I’m doing about 6:50. Talk about getting carried away. Once we reach the bottom I level it off a bit, as any attempt to try and maintain this pace will see me laying in a pile of my own vomit by mile 4.
This first mile follows the river towards its mouth vis the Fish Quay. It’s always crowded this part of the race, but I do feel like I’m doing less ducking and weaving of runners – another sign I’m nearer the front.
Someone from the club takes a picture at this point, where for once, I don’t look completely shit/tired/weird/like I’m having a stroke.
The Fish Quay. Yes, it does smell how you’d think
Mile 1 down, 7:12. Fast for me. I blame the hill. Next up, we’re heading along the Prom. This bit always separates the men from the boys/women from the girls as we see who likes/trained for an uphill and who wishes they’d stayed in bed with the cover over their head.
It’s a double climb up from the river to the coast. We get one short climb (where we hit Mile 2 – a 7:20) before it mocks us by levelling off before the much worse climb up Priory Road.
I used to despise this climb. However, those of you who read my Marathon Training blogs (both of you) will know I used this road a few times for my Friday Hill repeats. So going up it once rather than ten times feels like redemption.
I ‘fly’ up it, the hard part done, and now we’re on the Coast. You do get a reward for that climb – a drop on the other side. Again, here’s another not completely shite photo of me on said drop. I must have had my photogenic head on today.
Catching my good side
We’ve levelled off again and I’m at the halfway mark. It’s a 7:23 mile – not bad when you consider we had two bastard hills in it. We’re now into Cullercoats and yet ANOTHER photo of me is taken. This one is very hi-res. Did I say I was looking photogenic earlier? I lied.
Smile you miserable bastard. This is fun.
To be fair, I feel far better than I look in this picture. I know I’m over the worst bit when it comes to climbs. It’s the weather that comes into play now.
Remember that head wind we talked about earlier? Well, it’s here, but it’s not bad. More of a tickle than a punch. For now.
More importantly, something else has quietly happened that I don’t realise till later – I’ve just broken my 5k PB. In the middle of a 10k. With a hill in it. Into a head wind. 22:24. Odd stuff.
And the hits keep on coming. I’m on familiar territory now, bombing along the coast on paths I must have run over 100s if not 1000s of times before. I feel great, and that’s reflected in a 7:11 mile 4.
Just before the Spanish City at mile 5, I feel my heels get clipped, and I nearly go flying. I instantly look behind me for the culprit – not to kick off by the way, but to reassure them I’m ok and that accidents happen. Because they do.
A very nice lady from another club instantly starts apologising and looks mortified, and I make sure she knows I’m really not upset and there’s no damage done. Later, when I relay this story to my club colleagues, they reckon she’s done it on purpose and was trying to kill me. Like some sort of Assassin. Cynical bastards.
Anyway, she slows me down by a huge 2 seconds as I clock a 7:13 mile 5, so there really wasn’t any harm done. We’re into the last mile, and that head wind is either starting to get stronger or I might just be tiring a bit. Here I am anyway, on the last incline that I’d completely forgotten about and am cursing under my breath.
Nearly there
One last push now, at a slightly slower 7:18, and I’m over the line in 45:26 – my 10k PB falling for a remarkable third time this year. It really isn’t my plan to do this when I set off – I really am just going out there to run as fast as I can whilst still ‘enjoying’ it.
PB Tastic
The goody bag is as always exactly what I’m after – a t-shirt and some socks. Who doesn’t need more running socks?
The other bonus of this race is the finish. Mainly, its proximity to my house. Within 30 minutes, I’ve walked home. No recovery jog. I can’t be arsed.
Next up, it’s the Coxhoe 10k Trail run where I can guaranfuckingtee you that my PB won’t tumble again. That’s nothing to do with being humble, and everything to do with the 3 mile hill you have to climb.
Well, lot’s of people actually. I’ve mentioned before in my previous reviews that it’s a proper Marmite of a race. Some people love it, some people hate it with a passion.
I’ve also talked in past posts about my relationship with it. I fall in and out of love with it. Like a girlfriend who one minute tells you you’re the one, and the next minute has left you for their Strictly dance partner. Or was that a dream I once had.
At this point in our relationship, we’re currently loved up. I’ve enjoyed the previous two years, I’m running well at the moment, and getting my sub 1:45 in July means there is no pressure to run this fast.
I think part of the problem in the past is that I used to take this race far too seriously. Nowadays I approach it far differently. I always do this for a local charity rather than in Club colours, and that is my main motivation.
Having said that, I do have a Race Plan. This is the fifteenth time I’ve run the GNR, and I’m yet to sub 1:50 it. In July, I posted a 1:44 Half. I’m therefore fairly confident I can finally duck under 1:50 – whilst still having ‘fun.’
Wanker Weather Watch Moment (I need a sponsor for this) – it looks like it’s going to be warm and windy. Warm as in 21 degrees, windy as in a slight noticeable head wind at points.
So to the day. I’m up early, get the usual runner wankers breakfast into me (Porridge, Toast, and a Banana) before being picked up by my Mother in law, who is as the tradition now, going to dump me somewhere near the start.
Not before my wife makes me pose for a photo. Ffs.
Good God
That hostage photo aside, the day starts well. I manage to get dropped off quite near the Town Moor with no problems at all. It’s the next part I’m interested in – getting from Exhibition Park onto the Town Moor.
The last two times they’ve tried this at the start, they’ve royally fucked it up. Just go back and read my 2024 rant about it. This year though…they’ve listened. They’ve opened the gates. It’s a non-Christmas miracle.
I’m a fair man, so here goes…
Well done GNR organisers. Well done for listening to feedback. Well done for opening those gates. I apologise for calling you dip shit crayon eaters.
As a result, the atmosphere in the holding area is much better. In fact, it’s the most chilled I’ve ever known it. There are only Orange Wave runners in here at the moment – we’re the first four pens of the race – there’s loads of room and loads of toilets. Bliss.
I pop my baggage on a bus and…well…I’m sorted. Far earlier than usual. So I sit on the grass and relax for a bit. The sun is out and it’s a nice rather than too hot kind of warmth.
After a bit, I head for the Pen. This is also much better this year. They’ve made the gate onto the Central Motorway wider and it’s another minor but simple change that makes a huge difference.
In a weird bit of deja vu, I see my mate as I pass one of the front pens and chat to him through the fence. Exactly the same spot and time as last year. Spooky. We wish each other luck, and I get into my Pen.
Last year, Heart FM did the pre-run ‘atmosphere’ stuff and it was truly awful. This year, another big improvement. They only have one of the annoying DJs on duty, and he’s far less irritating on his own. Plus, he’s not on often.
Instead, they blast lots of 90s Dance, which I hugely approve of, and just go to him for short interviews with local ‘celebrities.’ Unfortunately, one of those ‘celebs’ is a guy I’ve had the misfortune to encounter in a race before.
I’m probably going to sound like a right miserable bastard here, but I can’t stand run influencers. Or runfluencers. Or bellends. Or whatever you call them. Basically, anyone running with a fucking selfie stick shouting into it. The sooner races start barring these things the better.
It wouldn’t be the GNR without at least one rant. So there you go.
Mass warm up done, gun fired, and we do the usual walk and stop to the start. I feel like this year we move towards the start a lot more, but it takes us longer to get there. Which makes no sense at all, I know.
It takes 32 minutes to get over the Start Line. And I’m classed as being at the front. See why some people hate this race? As is the tradition, I always try to high five the celebrity starter.
Being a long time Newcastle United season ticket holder, I’m blessed with having the choice of two players this year. Having already touched the magnificent Eddie Howe a couple of years back, this year I smash a huge high five on our keeper Nick Pope.
I understand that those of you who don’t know/like football are a bit lost right now, but it was a big deal for me.
Anyway, we’re off! As always, stick right and go over the Central Motorway. Some bloke was trying to persuade first timers in my pen to go left and under. Don’t listen to these people. They’re wrong. Right and over, every time. The Elite always go right, and they do this stuff full time, so who do you believe?
Mile 1 is an 8:05 anyway. Lovely, that’s what I want. Sub 8:10 miles and I’ll be happy as a pig in shit. Just before the Tyne Bridge I see my family and veer off to high five them. Not as exciting as slapping Nick Pope, but always grateful for their support.
Taking of support, because the weather is nice this year, it feels like there are shit loads of people out. For those of us who love this race, that’s what it’s all about.
Mile 2 sees me post an 8:08, whilst I hit the 3 mile mark at Gateshead Stadium with an 8:02. Beautiful. This is going well, despite the fact I don’t honestly feel like I’m 100% with it today. I think I was in the Pen too long and, as a result, don’t feel like I’ve really got going.
Miles 4 and 5 are always a bit of a slog anyway. This is the part of the course you climb a fair bit, despite lots of people claiming this is flat. It absolutely isn’t flat. Bet that left hand side choosing prick in the Pen reckons it’s flat.
I do an 8:10 and an 8:07 for Miles 4 and 5. Then, I suddenly wake up. The energy levels lift, the grogginess or whatever it was disappears. As such, my Mile 6 is a 7:56. I’m enjoying this now.
See, look, I’m loving it.
Shit Terminator
I take my only gel at 6.5 miles and instantly feel the benefits. It could be science, it could be the placebo effect, but it does its job.
After an 8 minute flat Mile 7 and an 8:04 Mile 8, the next tester arrives just after this point – the John Reid Road. I’ve spoken about this part of the course many times before, but it’s always my bench mark to whether the last 5 miles of this race are going to be sunshine and lollipops or a world of pain.
You take a hard right on the roundabout, then it’s climb time. It’s a steady but what feels like long climb here. I reckon it’s only about 0.4 of a mile, but it can feel like forever.
I attack it, as I did last year, and get up it no bother, despite there being a stinker of a head wind. I also see this as a real morale booster as well. Get over this swine, you can get round the rest of it no bother. At least, that’s what you need to tell yourself.
Mile 9, with this climb, is still a rather healthy 8:05, and I hit the golden 10 mile mark with an 8:06. It’s at this point the sponsors take your photo and let you have it for free afterwards. Should have run in a better place…
An even shitter Terminator
5k left now and one thing is for certain – this is going to be my fastest GNR ever. Barring alien invasions, hurricanes, or any other unforeseen interruptions.
An 8:09 Mile 11 – then a very surprising 8:02 on the notorious climb at Mile 12 – it’s time to drop onto the coast and enjoy the run along the sea front to the finish.
As soon as I plonk onto this part of the course, I can feel a decent tail wind. That’s what we like. I feel great on this last mile, and have the energy to put my foot down.
It’s a very enjoyable end to the race, the crowds are huge and noisy. This factor, plus that lovely tail wind, means I unsurprisingly post my quickest mile of the day – a 7:53.
I get those Tom Cruise arms going again as I cross the line, coming over in 1:46:20. Sub 1:50 mission accomplished. Not only my quickest GNR of all time, but also my second fastest Half Marathon ever. Canny.
I’m still not paying £30 for this
I’ve never been at the end this early before, and it’s like a whole different experience. I get my medal and swag bag quickly, get out to pick up my bag from the bus even quicker, and I’m at the Charity village before I know it.
The amazing St Oswald’s volunteers at the Charity Tent give me some fantastic home made sweet and savoury, which I demolish. I’m offered a massage, but I know this will only make me more stiff. Or send me to sleep.
They do insist I have my usual finishers photo taken. I always think I look a bit shit in these. I need a new ‘I’m finished but I’m trying not to look fucked’ pose.
Medal Wanker
The Red Arrows shoot over as I head off for the Ferry. I pass the Metro queue and notice, well, there isn’t a Metro queue at all. I really am much earlier than usual.
Even more proof of this is seen when I get to the Ferry. Again, no queue, I get straight on it, and I’m on the ‘proper’ North side within minutes.
Loads of time for a Pint before I go home then! Don’t mind if I do. I pop into the Low Lights Tavern and meet up with a couple of other club members for a well deserved and refreshing Guinness.
And there you go. Another Great North Run successfully completed – my best and fastest. Can’t sniff at that.
That’s not the end of the racing this year however. I’ve still got three Grand Prix races, the North Tyneside 10k, the Coxhoe 10k Trail Run (whoops) and the fantastic Brampton to Carlisle 10 miler all before the end of December.
And, breaking news – I’ve signed up for another Marathon in 2026. More on that one in the New Years special.
Barry the Baptist, Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels
London turns your snot black.
My granny used to say that to us when we were kids. She also made the worst dumplings on the face of the earth. Honestly, the Dambusters could have used them to take out half the Ruhr Valley.
I’ve never touched a dumpling since and never will again. So I didn’t give much credence to her snot statement. I don’t think she had any scientific data to back this up – this was pre internet. But this was a woman who couldn’t properly mix flour, water and salt.
Anyway, I’ve been to London many times since, and my snot stayed clean as a whistle. Time to test her shit theory once again though, as I’m off down to the Capital for a few days.
This is my second time in the city this year. In March, during the peak of Marathon training, I came here for a Cup Final, and spent three days in an alcoholic stupor.
This is a very different trip though. Business rather than pleasure. I’m here with work, visiting our London office with some quite important things to do while l’m here. So it’s professional head on time.
I haven’t been to the London office in a couple of years. Last time, I got a few runs in from Blackfriars to Westminster. It was great to take the chance to run along the Embankment (the bits that weren’t dug up) as this is the last section of the London Marathon.
Having said that, the A3211 road the Embankment runs alongside is busy as a bastard, even early in the morning, which made it quite noisey – not exactly a serene plod along the river. So this time round, I’m aiming for the other side of the Thames, the South Bank.
I arrive early Sunday evening, check into my hotel, then head out for a walk to stretch the legs and get in some recce for a route.
I’m right next to St Paul’s, so I cut through it on my way to the river. Quite nice innit.
Luftwaffe repellent. Kind of.
I walk along the Embankment side first to see if it’s any better than two years ago. Meh, not really. They still haven’t finished the work and, crucially, you can’t get under Blackfriars Bridge, which means crossing the busy bridge road instead.
I follow this all the way to Westminster Bridge and cross to the South side. It’s a Sunday evening, but it’s heaving with tourists. I’ve therefore made two easy decisions – I’m not running the Embankment this week, and I’m not running in the evenings.
Democracy. Allegedly.
South Bank is also rammed full of people. However, this side of the river is all pedestrianised. So there will be no traffic to negotiate or avoid getting hit by. Also, at 6am it won’t be teaming with people.
Right. Recce done, mind made up, time for an early night.
I’m up and out for 6am and, this being London, 6am here is very different from 6am anywhere else. It’s a nice morning, although we’re starting to feel that slight chill in the air now the days are getting shorter. Winter is coming.
There are two busy roads to cross over, one before St Paul’s and another after. However, both are quiet and I safely get over without stopping or getting hit by angry Black Cab driver or a Lime bike.
Dangerous part over, I’m on the Millennium Bridge. I look left and the view is iconic. I’m running over the Thames, with Tower Bridge just in the distance. Straight ahead of me, sits the Tate Modern.
The iconic view from the Bridge
I’m now on the South Bank and, as predicted, it’s quiet. There are still a few runners about though for 6am – I’ll pass quite a few between now and when I finish.
I’m heading West, towards Westminster Bridge. The plan is to turn when I get there and head back to where I started, making it 3.5 miles ish. I think.
I’m really enjoying this run. I feel great for a start. The lack of traffic and people makes this a far better experience than when I ran on the Embankment the last time. I mentally back slap myself for making this decision.
I pass under and through Blackfriars Bridge, the OXO building, Waterloo Bridge, the Jubilee Gardens, the London Eye, before I arrive at Westminster Bridge. I feel so good, I decide to carry on for a bit. Why not?
So rather than turning, I continue through the tunnel under Westminster Bridge. Out the other side, to my right, I have the Houses of Parliament.
Much more interesting and poignant however, is what is on my left. The Covid Wall. An at first unofficial memorial wall where relatives could leave hearts and tributes for their loved ones in plain sight of Parliament, it is now officially recognised and here to stay.
A poignant reminder
I’ve seen it on the news, but it’s far more powerful seeing it in the flesh. I decide to run to the end of it, just before Lambeth Bridge, before turning and going back the way I came.
My initial plan was to stop once I get over the Millennium Bridge and then walk back up the hill to my hotel, but I feel so good that I run back all the way. It’s a 5 miler in the end, further than initially planned, but a very enjoyable run.
Remembering that I’m actually here to work, I demolish a well earned Premier Inn breakfast, and have a very productive rest of the day in the Office.
I repeat this run over the next two mornings, cutting it slightly shorter on the Wednesday as it’s forecast to absolutely piss down, which it does a mere seconds after I finish.
It being London, I do see some odd sights over those three runs. One morning there is a very pretty and very nice dressed young lady sitting on a bench overlooking the Thames, doing some knitting whilst smoking a huge spliff.
Another morning I pass a guy dressed very boho and, for some unknown reason that I wish I had asked, carrying a Bugle. I’m not sure if he was off somewhere to announce the sunrise.
There is also the sad and bad of London. I do pass homeless people hunkered under the bridges, trying to keep dry and warm. Stuff like that keeps you humble.
Then there was the guy, and remember this is 6am, just sitting on a bench and very loudly watching porn on his phone. Just to clarify, he wasn’t doing anything lewd to himself or anyone else, just watching porn on full max volume. Amazing stuff.
All in all, a great work trip. 13 miles of iconic running along the South Bank to keep me ticking over for the Great North Run at the end of the week.
As you’ve probably noticed, the movies and quotes I pick for each blog post have absolutely fuck all to do with the content. Well, maybe apart from the War Games one.
I just pick them out from my favourite films. This one is from Dog Soldiers. If you haven’t seen it, it’s an underrated gem and I highly recommend you seek it out. Spoon, the character quoted here, is from my part of the world. So as an aside, if you want to know what I sound like in ‘real life’, I sound like Spoon.
Anyway, Dog Soldiers, it’s brilliant. Watch it and thank me later.
The reason this is ‘sort of’ the Blyth 10k, is that it isn’t the official one. That happens in May, starts and finishes somewhere else, and is mass participation. This one forms part of my clubs series of races, so is more of a closed shop.
The official title of this one is actually ‘The Blyth Links 10k.’ Add the word Links, avoid a legal case. There used to be a shop quite near me called ‘Singhsburys’. Which I thought was very clever. Sainsburys disagreed. So he changed it to ‘Morrisinghs’. Genius.
I digress.
This is Race 1 of 8 in our Winter Grand Prix. I’ve talked about the Grand Prix before, so I won’t bore you with it again, but in essence it’s a great way to keep everyone motivated during the dark shite weather months, by making us all race against one another for points.
I’ve also mentioned before that I’m hugely uncompetitive. So I just check the handicap they’ve given me, turn up, and try to run as fast as I can. I never look at what points I scored or where I am in the standings. Run against yourself, that’s always been my mantra.
Technical and philosophical bollocks aside, it’s time to kick off the Grand Prix season with this 10k. This first one is also an anomaly in itself. It’s the longest one we’ll do for a start – the next six are the same 3.4 mile course – whilst the final one is a 5 miler.
Also, this is the only one that’s a proper old Skool race. No handicaps, everyone lines up at the start at the same time and lets rip.
I also quite like this course. It’s about 5 miles up the coast from where I live, but a route I’m hugely familiar with. When I was training for my first half marathon, nearly 20 years ago now, I used to drive here to get a 10k in.
Since then, I’ve ran through here more times than I care to remember – as part of 10, 13, 16, and even 22 mile training runs. It’s a much quieter part of the coast compared to where I live – a few dog walkers here and there is about as busy as it gets.
Tonight though, it is busy. Around 230 have turned up to race. It’s a ‘balmy’ late August evening. Still don’t know what balmy means, but someone told me that’s how it felt. It’s been quite a warm day, with a slight westerly breeze. Seeing as we’ll only be running North or South, I don’t mind.
It’s down as a 6:45pm start. I’m getting a lift and we all agree that if we get there for 6:30pm, that’s plenty of time to pick up our numbers before the start. It really should be. If the car park wasn’t full.
Therefore, we have to park around a mile away and leg it to the start. Thankfully, we’re not the only ones with this problem. As a result, they delay the race by 10 minutes to 6:55pm. Sorry not sorry.
I had heard through the grapevine that this isn’t the usual course. I’ve not seen what the new course is and, as usual, it’s completely impossible to make out the race instructions at the start (megaphone or PA system or it’s just pointless tbh). So I still don’t know.
But you know, it’s not like I’m going to be winning or owt, so I’ll just follow the crowd and the instructions of the marshalls.
Even the start is different. I mean, we’re facing the wrong way just for starters. This new course is either going to be an adventure, or highly annoying. Let’s see.
We’re off. No gun or horn goes, but the fasties at the front start running, so we all do. We’re right on the prom with the sea to our right. We’re not here for long though. We take a hard left, then another left, and we’re into the Dunes.
Dunes? How do you run through Dunes? Well, you don’t really. A number of years ago, they very cleverly built a multipurpose path right through the middle of them. Perfect for cyclists, walking your dog, and running.
It’s a bit up and down. We are in Dunes, but nothing major. I really like running through here, it’s a bit different, although it may be a mixture of nostalgia and familiarity kicking in.
Now, on the usual route, we’d follow this Dune path all the way to its end, where it pops out at the Village of Seaton Sluice. Not tonight though. Around half way, we’re ushered off to the right by a Marshall.
This takes us on to the main road and heading back towards the start. Interesting. I smell laps. We’ve only run 2 of the 6 miles, and I’m actually quite happy with how it’s going so far. Both are 7:24 miles, which is in and around PB territory.
As predicted, it is laps. We’re directed right and back on to the Dune path. This time though, we’re going to stay on it longer. My mile 3 is a 7:20, and I’m feeling it a bit here.
The field has spread out a lot though and I’m practically running on my own. I have noticed however, that I’ve passed a few fellow club runners who are usually faster than me.
Now, before I get too excited, I did expect this to a certain extent. It is the end of August. I know quite a few in my club who wind down their running over the summer. In fact, I know some who stop all together.
People go on holiday at this time of year, many of whom aren’t sad fuckers like me, who takes his gear with him and runs up ridiculous French hills at 7am in 32 degrees..
The point is, these are great runners who are just out of form. Next race in a month’s time, they’ll be flying past me like I’m not even there. I may win this battle, but I won’t win the war.
Back in the trenches of the Dune path, we’ve gone past the point we were directed off before, and carry on for around another mile. Here, the Dunes flatten out for a little bit. They’ve built a children’s play park here, which is the point at which we hang a sharp right again, off the Dune path, and back on to the main road again.
We hit mile 4 here, which is a 7:26. Again, this is in or around 10k PB pace. We’ll now be heading back on the straight, flat main road all the way back to the finish now. With 2 miles left, I think I’ve worked out the remaining course in my head, and it won’t involve any more of the Dune path.
I now have no one around me, save from 2 runners 20 yards ahead. For the next mile, it feels like we match pace. I never lose nor gain ground on them, despite getting quicker and posting a 7:18 mile 5.
This is also the point of the race where the only photo of me is taken. Aaaand, it’s shit.
Absolute state of it
I now definitely know what the remaining mile is going to be. Keep going on this straight road, until we get to the Bandstand at the end of the beach, right onto the Prom, then straight onto the finish.
Knowing the end is nigh, I get a second wind. I’m now gaining on the two runners in front, passing them both just before the 6 mile mark. My mile 6 is 7:14, fastest one of the night, and I get the Tom Cruise arms out for a sprint finish over the line.
10km down in 45:30. It’s a PB.
Or is it.
Because it looks like we haven’t done 10k. That’s right, the course is short. Everyone coming over the line complains that their watches are saying 9.97km…or 9.98km..or 9.99km. One thing is for certain – no bugger ran 10km. Including me.
That’s right, I was a 9.99km. I’ve been robbed. You know what? I’m not arsed. No really. I’m not bothered. I’m delighted with the run. When the results come out the next day, I’ve finished 85th out of 229. For a race full of absolute club beasts, that’s a win.
6.21 for a true 10k. Allegedly.
I stick about at the finish to clap in all of my club colleagues. Also, let’s be honest here, I got a lift here so I’ll need a lift back.
It’s after 8pm before we head back to the car and it’s noticeable darker. A reminder that this is Race 1 of the Winter Grand Prix and, well, Winter is coming.
Notbuilttorun.com 