‘Tropical the island breeze’

Madonna, La Isla Bonita

Running on holiday? Are you off your tits? Possibly. Traditionally a holiday should be an opportunity to relax, spend time with the family, and drink quite heavily during the day time without fear of being escorted from your desk and out of the building. If you’re a regular runner like me though, it can also be a fitness shitness disaster.

Taking a week or two break from running on the face of it is not the end of the world. There are those that argue it’s good to give the muscles and body a rest, ease those aches and pains and be fresh and recharged to start again. It probably is to be honest. Unless you’re spending the week vegetated in the sun, eating and drinking your body weight in shite. That’s probably not good. Tried going for a run after a prolonged period of doing that? It’s like wading through treacle, whilst being repeatedly booted in the stomach.

Whenever I go ‘on holiday’ in this country I always take my running gear (more of that in Part 2), but abroad? It’s like hot and stuff. Could I actually join the sad sacks and run whilst on my family get away? Yes. Yes I could. In Menorca.

First off, an interesting fact about Menorca – they invented Mayonnaise. Already I’m a massive fan. Mayo goes with everything; chips, salad, pot noodles. For the record, this will complete my full set of Balearic Islands. When I was a young pup back in the 90s, we went on a couple of family holiday to Mallorca. That was until 1996 when, being the youngest sibling and having just completed my GCSEs, my parents informed me that it was ‘so long suckers’ and they would now be pissing off on holiday on their own. Tough love.

When I turned 18 in 1998, I went on a lads holiday to Ibiza. I’d love to now tell you some fantastically stories from that holiday but for legal reasons I’m unable to. All I’ll say is that my weeks memories are sketchy, other than the Weekend at Bernie’s type incident with an unconscious Norwegian girl we found in our apartment and a lass from Dundee who threw up all over me. I came back as pale as I went, that’s all you need to know.

Since then it’s been Greece all the way for me, and my return to these isles two decades later should be a far more chilled and relaxed one as I now have my own family in tow. Whilst in those heady days of 1998 I was just praying to wake up at some point during the day and not be covered in my own vomit or dead, this holiday I’m planning to be up every morning and out for a run. What a fucking hero.

Thanks to the genius of Google Earth, Maps, and Street View, I’m able to dive into my resort well in advance and see if I can figure out any potential routes. Now, just to get this straight, I’m no masochist. I’m not looking to smash out a 10k or meticulously plan this out military style. I am on friggin holiday. 3 or 4 nice 5ks, that’s the idea.

The resort itself looks compact, and also pretty flat (get the fuck in) and I find a loop which should cover the 3 miles. I discover what appears to be a viewing point and decide that’s where I’ll finish my run. Using my noggin here. There should be a nice cooling wind off the sea, or at least a breeze of some description at this point. It’s also a 5-10 minute gentle stroll back to the apartments – gives me ample time to cool off and look fresher ie not fucked when I get back there.

So with research done and Garmin packed off we pop to Cala Piques. I get a big 10 miler in the night before we go – an insurance run just in case I get to Menorca and simply can’t be arsed. Unfortunately, it pisses down and I have to chuck my rain sodden running shoes straight into my bag. By the time we arrive at the apartment and unpack, they are honking. I leave my trainers outside to dry out in the Med heat and decide to do the first run Monday morning.

This isn’t a travel blog, so all I’ll say about the resort and apartments were that they were fucking fantastic. There you go, stick that shit on Tripadvisor. The first couple of days are great and, as predicted, I eat and drink a fair amount of crap.

On the Monday morning I put operation ‘Sun Run’ into action. I set my alarm far too early for anyone who’s supposed to be abroad on a break and I’m out stretching by the pool at 7am. I say stretching. These are more like wake up slapping and trying to convince the bloke cleaning the pool that I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s hot. Already. You have to remember, I’m born and raised on the North East coast and spend most of my winter running through wind and hail – fighting off both tears and hypothermia.

I set off on the route and its quiet. Like, deathly quiet. There are literally no signs of life anywhere. Everything is shut and the streets are completely deserted. But then again, it’s 7am in a family holiday resort. What sort of idiot is up at this time?

The route turns out to be great. It’s both as flat and as safe as it looked on the maps, no climbing banks or falling down manholes. It isn’t very exciting however and there is little of note either landmark or view wise. Near the end of the route though I do pass the Hipódromo Torre Del Ram, which is basically a Horse Racing track. Turns out it’s the Ben Hur type of horse racing – horses pulling small chariots kinda stuff. Here I see the first sign of life, as a local is racing around on what I assume is a training run. Sadly, he doesn’t appear to be carrying any weaponry. If you’re going to race chariots Roman style, then you should be trying to hack your opponent up. Or to the death frankly.

Once I’ve passed the fun free but family friendly race track, it’s a quick cut through a few streets of villas and then I’m at the home straight on Avengunda des Pont D’en Gil. This is my scenic finish with sea breeze I was talking about earlier. The Pont D’en Gil itself is basically a naturally created hole in a cliff that small boats can pass through. Like an exotic Marsden Rock, but without the pollution and souped up Renault Clio’s overlooking it.

The path itself to the Pont D’en Gil is off road and looks like the kind of terrain that would sever my ankles in half. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Instead, I run along the Avengunda to the viewing point and stop. It’s boiling. I’m boiling. I stand on the cliff edge and take in the cool breeze. This route is either pure luck or pure genius. When I get home and upload my runs, it turns out this bit is a well covered Strava segment. I can see why. Great minds think alike.

I get up the next four mornings and repeat this run, tweaking it slightly as I get to know my way around the resort more and to keep it interesting. I deviate off to overlook one of the coves one day for example to give myself some more scenery. As the week goes on and I drink and eat lots of crap, getting up is becomes harder and harder and the runs more leggy. Still, I’ve got out, and it’s 15 miles of running I wouldn’t have done normally. I’m also running quite fast, averaging about 27 minutes for 3.2 miles give or take so I’m hardly taking it easy. What I’m trying to say is job well done.

The other big bonus from running on holiday is that when I get back I don’t have ‘Runners Dread’. That’s the mental anguish when you’ve not been able to run for a while due to injury, work, or drunkiness and just know it’s going to fucking hurt. And usually, it does. Not a drop of that on my return, straight out on the Sunday and feeling cracking.

The verdict? I’m really glad I finally bothered my arse to take my running gear with me. I should have been doing this years ago if I’m honest. It’s fairly ball ache free if you do it right. Prep a route, get out before it gets too warm (I would say get out at night when it gets cooler but you’re on holiday so don’t be a complete tit) and do nothing more than a 5k.

Or you could just eat your weight in Paella, drink till you fall over, and not give a shit. Personally, I approve of both.

Muchos Gracias Menorca, it’s been great.

‘One does not simply walk into Mordor’

Boromir – The Fellowship of the Ring

Now, for those of you unaware, I am from Newcastle upon Tyne. Well, I’m from Whitley Bay via North Shields for all the picky twats. I was born there, went to uni there, my wife is from there, my daughter was born there, I work there and – most importantly – I am a long standing NUFC season ticket holder. I am from Newcastle. Fact.

11 miles down the road, as the crow flies, sits Sunderland. This is definitely not my city. Relations between the two cities is problematic. I wouldn’t necessarily use the word hate. Actually, yes, hate is the word. The two cities historically don’t like each other. This mainly comes down to the old tribal ritual of football, although it goes a bit deeper than that. Two big cities, two big rivers, competing against each other in industry as well as on the football pitch.

Now when I was younger, I bought into this nonsense. The Mackems – as we call them – were all knuckle dragging inbreds who didn’t take baths and ate their young. When I got older and went to university, I had a revelation. People who looked different to me, might fancy the same sex, and worshiped other Deity’s were not actually the savages I’d been told they were. They were not going to sacrifice, eat or hump me without my expressed permission. They were different to me, but they were normal. Just like the people from Sunderland.

I’m not going to lie to you, I’m not holier than thou when it comes to this. When the Mackems get stuffed/relegated I’m the first one fist pumping and dancing the Macarena. So why am I telling you all this? Because on a mild Sunday in May, I crossed the divide and travelled the 11 miles to Mordor. Sorry, I mean Sunderland. In the interests of clarity, for the rest of this blog, anything negative/piss taking about Sunderland will have ‘Bantz’ attached to it. This is just so everyone is very clear that I’m being jokey and not a right nasty bastard. Well, maybe a little.

The Sunderland City Half Marathon is in its 9th year. The Jarrow Arrow Steve Cram appears to have something to do with it, although I can’t figure out whether this is his brain child or he just pushes it as a figurehead. He’s a proud mackem anyway, and a damn finer runner in his day so either way it works. See, I’m being lovely.

I’ve never been able to enter before due to logistic reasons. It always falls on the last day of the Premier League season and we (NUFC) are always at home. Basically, in order for the run to take place then Sunderland will need to be playing away. Kick off for our last game is always around noon, so there is not a snowballs chance in a sauna of me being able to do it. I also like to drink heavily at the last home game of the season. It’s a thing. Not this year though. Due to the mackems pretty much playing non-league now or something (Bantz!), their season has finished meaning the toon have been given an away trip to Fulham. Game fucking on.

Training for the run has gone well. Perhaps too well. I’ve even managed to fit in a couple of 13 milers in the run up which is unheard of. Usually I’ll complete regular 10-11 milers with the half arsed assumption that I’ll find the extra two mile from somewhere. It’s not very scientific, but I get away with it.

The biggest challenge of the day therefore is not if I can complete the run, nor if I get a great time. It’s whether I can get there in the first place. Ladies and gents, I present to you the Tyne and Wear Metro. Or as it’s called in my house, the Fucking Metro. For those who aren’t aware of this shit show, the Fucking Metro is a light railway system that covers 60 stations around the North East. Badly. I know the Fucking Metro really well. I use it to commute every day and due to it’s general wankyness I’ve probably spent more time in it than my house.

Today, it’s the only way I’m getting to the run and home again. My whole run relies on it. And that’s usually when it’s epic shitness comes out dressed in drag and doing the hula.

I arrive at the Fucking Metro station to find a couple of other hardy local souls suited and booted for running. Being a right anti-social twat, I give them the ‘Yes. Yes I am’ nod before strutting off to the other end of the platform in an attempt to look like I know what the actual fuck I’m doing.

Unlike many Fucking Metro journeys this one is painless and uneventful and, in exactly the time it promised, it’s delivered me to the Norths answer to Mos Eisley (Bantz!). The station isn’t far from the start, about a 5 minute walk and it looks like the weather is going to be kind. Yes it’s a clear and sunny, but there is a welcoming light cool breeze in the air which should prevent me from cooking.

The start is situated on the road right next to Keel Square, as per my fucking boss of a map below.

The Square itself has a few stalls and info points, including the customary pom-pom woolly hat one. I’ve never understood how this is a thing with runners, even in the winter I couldn’t run in one without having to take it off 10 minutes in as, pumped full of my unfit sweat, it expands to three times the size and weight and nearly breaks my neck.

I put my bag in the pub. Yes, that’s right, the pub. It’s a bit left field granted, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t a tad worried when I first was relayed this info. I envisaged some small mackem radge, jogging pants tucked into huge socks, extending his hand and telling me it would be ‘cushty for a quid like.’(Bantz!) Instead, it was upstairs in The Peacock in a decent function room. You were just dumping it somewhere and expected to remember where you’d put it, but I’m led to believe this was a late change of venue for baggage so I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt. It seemed secure, and my bag was there when I got back. Although if anyone wanted to nick a travel pass and a Mars Bar multipack then knock yourself out.

There are two runs today. The 10k is starting at 10am, and the Half Marathon 25 minutes later. There seems to be a lot of people doing the 10k, and from the spiel I’m sure this is the actual banner event of the day. The local ‘dee-jay’ is trying to whip the crowd up by constantly mentioning that the mackems won their 1st Leg Play Off game last night, so it’s a real ‘feel good’ day. I’m writing this after May 26th. If you don’t like football, Google that date plus Sunderland AFC. Chortle. (Bantz!)

The 10k-ers are off and after a quick piss stop I get into the pen. I say pen, there isn’t really a pen. They have some sort of markers by the side of the road indicating where you should stand if you run certain paces. I position myself somewhere between 1:50 and 2 hours, but in fairness there’s only about 20 yards between the two of them. If I had OCD this would proper annoy the shit out of me and I’d be moving forward and backwards till I figured out exactly where the fuck 1:54 was.

It seems like there’s loads of space in the pen and, as the race starts, it becomes evident that there will also be plenty of room out on the course. As soon as we get going it feels like I’m thrown into some sort of Hunger Games/Running Man scenario, we’re into the city centre streets and hanging quick left and rights. We’ll repeat some of these streets later on as well, a snip of my Strava below hopefully illustrates it.

It’s feels a bit like when I go for a run and have only done 3.80 miles, so I go circling round my neighbouring streets and alleyways till I’ve made that extra 0.20 up. You’ve all done it, admit it. I don’t mind this though to be honest, I’m getting to see the city centre and it adds a bit of Zombie Apocalypse experience to the proceedings.

This pretty much sums up the first 3 miles, before we then head South out onto longer sections of straight roads and into what many would call Suburbia ie the places what people live. We’re starting to get some climbs now as well, nothing to wet your kegs about or plant a flag, but enough to make your work a bit harder and curse a bit louder. This seems to stretch the field about a bit further – I could swing a giraffe around my head and still fail to hit anyone.

We’ve come south into Grangetown which, according to its Wikipedia page, is famous for traffic congestion. That’s literally its claim to fame. Even then, they opened some sort of new diversion route in 2018 which cleared most of it up. I could find nothing more of interest about the area other than two facts that appear at odds with each other. It has a Chinese take away called Buddha Belly (chortle) and a highly successful Slimming World. Accidental Partridge this bit.

Anyway, we’re back into the city centre now and repeating some of the streets from the start. However, I think I now see the method in this madness. We’ve done 8 miles and so far we’ve seen nothing of real interest, save from the fact I now know where the Poundland is. That’s all about to change, cue the scenic bit.

So, at mile 8 I’m now heading out of the centre and over Wearmouth Bridge. Ever seen the Tyne Bridge? Well, this is like the smaller shitter Meccano version (Bantz). Once over, it’s a sharp right and a steep long drop that’s going to take us down to the riverside. Now, when people ask me what I’ve learnt from running, one of them is thus; What goes down, must come up. You gan down a hill, you’re going to have to gan up a hill. Other runners are flying down this bank like gazelles. Not this clever shite. I slip on the brakes. There’s a big bastard hill coming soon. I can feel it.

The run along the River Wear is pretty nice. I wave to Charon the Ferryman (Bantz!) and admire the University Campus and Marina which I’ve never seen before. Then what do we meet…a big bastard hill of course. I won’t lie to you, I feel smug as fuck as I pass panting runners who flew down the bank and are now dying on their arses.

Suddenly I pop out of the Marina like a new born, birthed onto the sea front. Again, I’ve never been to the sea front at Sunderland so it’s a nice surprise. I enjoy the refreshing sea coastal breeze and admire the view of the half sunken Statue of Liberty on the beach (Bantz!).

I’m on Mile 10 now and dare I say it but I’ve never felt so comfortable at this stage of a Half Marathon before. The extra training and 13 mile runs leading up to the race appear to have really helped. I’m not going to PB I’m certain of that, but at least I don’t feel like I want to stop/cry/hurl/die.

We run out of prom and I take a sharp left with a short climb into a park. No ordinary park, this is Roker Park. This used to be the site of Sunderland’s home ground until they demolished it and moved out to the Stade de Plop (Bantz!). It’s a nice park, although my what should of been tranquil run through it is spoilt by the sound of my dad spinning violently in his grave.

Out of the park and we’re back on to a Prom for the last mile. I’ve hardly got anyone around me now, apart from a really annoying woman who’s obviously fucked but keeps sprinting past me before stopping, then doing it again. I hear this is called Jeffing in the technical running world. I know what I call it; Absolute Bollocks. Stop it.

The end is nigh. Simply back over Wearmouth Bridge and then finish where we started. As I turn on to the road leading to the bridge, a fresh and athletic looking lady is sprinting down the road and shouting encouragement. I later find out this is Aly Dixon, local girl and elite Marathon runner, drafted in to motivate us for the last few hundred yards. Her cheery not looking at all knackered machine like demeaner is one part beautiful and one part piss take.

The end is funnelled with large crowds shouting friends and relatives home. I go for the sprint finish and the legs feel belter. I cross the line in 1:54:38, my second fastest Half Marathon time. I’ll take that all day and then some. It’s then a smooth funnel through to pick up bags and medal and I’m back where I stood 2 hour earlier. Seamless.

All in all it’s been a satisfying day. The Fucking Metro worked (and also on the way back like a friggin Utopian dream), the race was well organised, the weather was canny, there was loads of room to run, and I ran a comfortable and canny near perfect race. Would I do it again? Absolutely. As of writing, they haven’t yet confirmed the date for 2020. Fingers crossed for the 10th May – the mackems don’t have a game as their season has finished (it’ll hopefully be over by Christmas tbh – BANTZ!) and NUFC are away that weekend. If it’s the week after, then I’m fucked basically.

Cheap bantz digs aside, well done Sunderland. A well organised and nice course with just the right amount of runners. See, I told you I could be a right soft bastard.

PS Enjoy League One. (Bantz!)

‘I’m not sure what to say, except it’s Christmas and we’re all in misery’

Ellen Griswold – National Lampoons Christmas Vacation

A big hello to all my subscribers. I’m sure the both of you are overjoyed to see me back spouting shite. Last November I promised a Christmas special. I also promised to cut down my drinking on a match day and paint the front door. In short, here is the Christmas special. Four months late. In April. Enjoy. 

2018 in Review 

I will never have a better year of running than 2018. That’s either a great achievement or a depressing fact, dependent on how wank my last run has been. Personal records what I broke in 2018 were…drum roll… 

• Most miles in a year – 1,142.7 
• 5k PB – 24.00 
• 10k PB – 50:55 
• Half Marathon PB – 1:54:52 
• Most Times Undercarriage Chaffed – 17 

The Half Marathon one is especially worth being a two shits about. Ten bastard years I’ve spent trying to break 2 hours. I was always so close yet so far – the closest I’d ever got was a flying 2:03 at Blackpool in 2016, where I died a thousand deaths on the last 5k as I hit the Lower Prom and the mother fucker of all head winds. Two years later I returned, attacked the shite out of it, and finished 9 mins quicker. One day they’ll make a film about it.  Daniel Craig will play me.

Like any Christmas special, you need a flashback/montage filler. With that it mind, click below to view my race reports from 2018. You’re welcome. 

Blackpool Half Marathon

North Tyneside 10k

Quayside 5k

Great North Run 

Red  

Every January friends, acquaintances, people from work, randoms, all ask me the same question: 

‘I’m going to start running in January, what advice have you got?’ 

My answer is always the same. Don’t start running in January. The weather is shite, it’s dark pretty much most of the day and you’ve had an obscene amount to eat and drink over Christmas. You will hate it and give up. I’m a runner (ahahahahahaha) and I really struggle to motivate myself in January due to all of the above. Which is where RED comes in. 

I won’t go into the big speal about RED, but you can read all about it here https://redtogether.co.uk/ and importantly sign up in the process. Basically, every January you’re encouraged to Run Every Day in support of Mental Health. Whether that be your own, or to raise awareness or money for the cause. Very important, very worthwhile. You get some lovely red laces. You can also join the Facebook group for support although, to be honest, I found it to be full of people complaining that they didn’t want to run every day and it was too hard. So how supportive you’ll find that crowd, I’m not sure. The clue was in the friggin title to be fair. The point is though (as there is one) I did complete the challenge and ended up posting 115 miles. 

2019  

So, what does 2019 have in store? Well, not this years North Tyneside 10k thats for sure. Having had no problems in the past getting into this race pre-xmas, this year it was sold out well in advance. I could have kicked/flicked/death stared the cat. I am really annoyed/pissed off about not getting in to be honest. It’s my local race and I’ve been getting faster year on year. It’s also a race with a capacity for 2,200 that only 1,700 turn up for. I can’t get in, yet I guarantee 500 knackers won’t even bother getting their arses out for it. Piss take. 

Instead, like Frodo’s dangerous journey into Mordor, I will be running the Sunderland City Half Marathon on the 12th of May. Usually I can’t run this. Newcastle are always at home on the last Sunday of the season with a wanky 12pm kick off making it logistically impossible. However, due to the mackems basically playing non-league football these days the fixtures have been kinder and it’s on. Review will follow, where I’ll be really kind. Honest. This year also sees me do Great North Run numero 9. Can I finally break 2 hours there? Can I shite, unless they remove at least 30,000 runners from the pens or put me at the front. Still, I do love that run…

‘I’ll see you on the Beach’

Captain Miller – Saving Private Ryan

The Great North Run (Or GNR as I will refer to it from now on as my fingers are tired already). The biggest and probably most famous Half Marathon in the world/solar system/galaxy. On my doorstep. In the city of my birth. The city of my conception. Possibly. I don’t like to ask. The subject has never come up in conversation to be honest. I might ask at Christmas. I probably won’t like the answer. 

Anyway. It’s September the 8th 2018 and I’m in the pen for what will be GNR number 8. All the 8s. Possibly a sign, although 888 are a betting site so I’m not sure what that sign would be. This morning’s prep has been slightly different than the previous 7. I’m sure Farah won’t be shiteing himself at this change of tact. Usually I stay over at my mother in laws who lives around the corner from the start. It’s the main reason I married my wife to be honest. Today though I’ve stopped at home, got up early and hammered a large scrambled egg on toast breakfast, literally thrown clothes onto my 6-year-old child, and driven over to the start in a time that would qualify me either on the front grid at Monza or get me 6 points at Court. 

First off, it’s time to go to Church. Devout Christians everywhere are currently hyperventilating into paper bags at the thought of this potty mouth shitehawk being allowed to worship in any house of God. Don’t panic, I’m attending in a non-Jesus-chatting capacity this morning. The local Church are missing a Vicar (careless, although not surprising after Operation Yewtree) so they’ve cancelled the service. You can almost hear the air punching and whooping of the local repressed teenagers destined for a future of crack dens and bad choices.  

My, mother in law – who is also the Church Warden – has therefore very kindly decided to open the Church up to sell Breakfast sarnies, teas and coffees to help me raise money for my running charity, St. Oswald’s Hospice. This is a fantastic gesture and, even though I usually recoil like Damien when approaching any kind of religious building, I pop in to help. By help I mean stand outside and guilt trip runners and their families into buying a breakfast they don’t need or want. My daughter Beth even offers to dance for them in exchange for cash, which I laugh about openly but panic about privately in case it’s a career choice. 

Soon it’s time to leave the church and my stripper daughter and head for the start. It’s overcast and there’s a slight chill in the air. It’s about time as well. The last 4 GNRs have been unseasonably warm and therefore, frankly, a right pain in the arse. This year though that trip to the Church has paid off, and Jesus has taken time off from his busy schedule to bless me with a perfect running conditions and a sub 2 hour. Cheers JC. 

As always, it’s busy at the start of the GNR. Not only do you have 10s of thousands of runners there, you’ve also got their families and supporters. I have to say though, I never feel like its chaos at the start. Hipster knacker runners (you know the ones) like to flood social media in the weeks leading up to the run to declare it overpriced and overcrowded. Lets face it, they don’t like it because it’s popular. Half the fuckers whinging probably haven’t even run it. They’d much rather run a race with only 25 entries that involves running up Snowdonia, backwards, with a large slab of cheese attached to them which has been dowsed in arsenic, set alight and forced to chant. Why? Because it’s not popular. Arseholes. The GNR has its faults (which I’m going to happily point out later) but one thing it does well is that it’s really, really, well organised. Did I say Arseholes? Arseholes. 

Diazepam taken, let’s get back to the race. I’m in the White pen, about middle and par, those looking for 2 hours and sub. Basically the cool kids. I like people watching in the pen. It’s full of different types of runners with different motivations. A group of women in front of me are properly geared up. Lots of layers of pro running gear, each armed with what looks like Batman’s Utility belt full of gels and other magical potions. They’re only missing cramp ons and a sleeping bag. Hilariously, they all then start to vape. 

The warm up follows which I always find a bit pointless. There’s no room in the pen to swing a cat never mind stretch your arms out. The irony of doing this to avoid injury is not lost as the lass next to me accidentally smashes her forearm into my face whilst attempting to star jump. 

The wheelchair and the Women’s race set off and then it’s time for the Mens and the Plebs. The starter gun goes and we’re off. But not really. 25 minutes of walking and stopping follow before I finally cross the line. I once took 45 minutes to get over. I think whoever won that year had already finished by then. It is annoying, but would you want 40,000 people all charging for the line at the same time? Nee chance. 

Local radio DJ and ‘celebrity’ Alan Robson is once again our motivational man on the mic. I once met Alan as he came and compered an event I helped organise. He arrived in the tightest leather trousers you’ll ever see on a human. I don’t know or want to visualise how he got them on and off. Lube and a shoehorn I imagine. Hobbling towards me whilst making a strange creaking noise like something was about to pop, he flicked the keys of his Ford Mondeo in my direction, ordering me to empty the boot and make sure ‘none of these local knuckle draggers touch it son’. He was with his 3rd wife at the time, a small gob stopper sucking sour blonde lady who was in charge of his dance troupe The Blade-etts, the job spec of which seem to involve spending 3 hours shouting at scantily clad 14 year old girls and Alan. Honestly, I’m not making this shit up. 

Alans job, as every year, is to give a motivational ‘shout out’ to runners and their charities as they cross the start line. However, the reality is he just ends up shouting a huge list of Diseases. ‘MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY!’ screeches Alan. ‘FELINE AIDS CENTRE!’  ‘ANAL CANCER RESEARCH!’ ‘THE PLAGUE!’ 

Passing Alan and feeling a little bit more depressed about life, I’m finally on the run. This is where I notice something. The clouds have cleared. The sun is out. It’s quite warm. For fucks sake. 

First top tip GNR virgins. At the very start you’re presented with two options; over the Central Motorway or under it. I always go over. Firstly because you’ll notice all the Elites do. But more importantly, is that under will completely balls up your GPS app and you’ll find yourself all over the shop. You’ll either be flying along at 4 min mile pace or get no signal at all. If you’re anal like me, this will fuck with your equilibrium. Over. Every time. 

Central motorway dealt with, it’s time for the icon that is the Tyne Bridge. As always, rain or shine, the bridge is packed with spectators looking for family or friends – or simply there to shout out motivational slogans at you. It’s a great moment if you’ve never done the run before, so soak it up. However, if you’re one of those runners who bombed out looking for a PB, GNR reality is about to slam you square in the mush. 

The pace on the bridge slows dramatically, just one of several bottlenecks throughout the course. I said earlier on that the GNR isn’t perfect and has its issues, so here’s the biggie; there are just too many runners. If you’re after a fast time, you’ve come to the wrong race, it’s not going to happen. Remember when you’ve been shit at something in the past and someone says ‘it’s not about the winning, it’s about the taking part.’ That’s the GNR. Deal with it, like it or lump it, just don’t be an aforementioned hipster dick about it. 

Bridge survived, the next landmark is Gateshead Stadium at mile 3. I’ve set off at a decent pace, but it’s bastard warm already. No clouds, no breeze. I make a bottling but sensible dad decision. Slow the pace down. This is GNR number 8, finally doing a sub 2 hour would be great but it’s also got disaster written all over it in this heat. Double for fucks sake. 

Ever read a professional footballers autobiography? Well, you’ll know what mile 3 to 12 of the GNR is like. Nothing of interest, drab, grey, dual carriageway (Tony Adams), borefest. Not even the crowds, who are cracking by the way (although I am biased) can tart this section up. The GNR course is a shit sandwich, and this is chunky mess in the middle. 

It’s getting warmer. I’ve run in much warmer than this, but there’s something different about this heat. Like its humid, stifling almost. I decide it’s probably just me, that my body and head don’t really fancy it, and a Sunday stroll is the way forward. Then another bottleneck, in a part of the course that’s usually free flowing. I almost slow down to walking pace. Then I spot the Ambulance. This happens another 8 times before I even get to the coast. I’ve never seen anything like it before, people are dropping like flies. 

Miles 10 – 12 are carnage. Both John Reid and Prince Edward Roads are like the start of Saving Private Ryan. Casualties everywhere. In the days that follow, everyone I know who ran it or was a spectator has a war story. People having to give up. Runners collapsing. Runners hoying their hoop up. The heat has taken everyone by surprise. I can’t tell you how happy/relieved/cocky I am that I’ve taken it easy. 

Then I spot it. A sight more wonderful that Faye Tozer dressed in Burlesque theme during Rumba week. The roundabout at the top of Prince Edward Road. You’ll never be more aroused by a roundabout anywhere else. Once you spot it, it means two things. Number one – there’s only a mile left. Number two – you’ve reached the coast, and over the brow of that hill is flat sea breeze all the way to the finish. Orgasmic. 

Sir Mo Farrah apparently HATES this roundabout, as the drop on the other side is quite steep and he worries about injuring himself. Of course, Sir Mo is like shit of a stick. He’ll be flying down it. The rest of us would happily roll down it by this point to be honest. First world problems Mo. 

At the bottom of that bank though we’re on the golden mile, the squelch in the shit sarnie. Get to this point, and you’ve made it. The last mile will give you a much wanted and needed sea breeze. The uphill gradients are over, the crowds are plentiful and vocally shouting you home. Plus it’s flatter than a hedgehog strolling across the A1. Get the cigars out. 

I always get a second wind at this point, regardless of how good, bad or indifferent the run has been. I’ve only ever had one shitter at the GNR, in 2015. A summer injury meant I wasn’t as well prepared for the distance as usual. Even though I still managed the whole thing in a respectable time, the entire run was one big unenjoyable sloggy ball ache. Apart from the last mile. 

The last mile is also where you’ll see the many faces of just how much (or not) preparation people did. Those who really have got plenty in the tank and are pretty much sprinting to the finish. Those who are struggling, gritted teeth, pushing themselves one last time to the finish. Those that have realised that wearing fancy dress was hilarious last year when they first thought of it but now want to die. And those that lied about their time, got in a pen at the front, did fuck all training, and have been walking pretty much since mile 3. You know who you are. Stop it. Clowns. 

As I approach the finish it’s still warmer than lucifer’s kegs and I pass a guy dressed in one of those full latex suits. I ask him how the frig he’s managed to get round in that with this heat. ‘Lots of illegal drugs’ he answers. I hope this is true. 

I head for the line and from the timer can tell it’s over 2 hours but not far over. Stop the watch and it’s 2:02:52. I’ve not broken 2 hours, but it’s still a GNR PB and I feel pretty good. It’s busy as usual at the finish, and if John Reid Rd was like Omaha Beach for casualties, then the Finishers Village at the end feels like the Field Hospital. Lots of sirens and ambulances flying about, people on stretchers, laying in the back of golf buggies. I feel like I’ve been to battle and returned to camp. I said it before; never known a GNR like it.  

I collect my gear from the baggage bus and head straight for the St. Oswald’s Hospice tent. Am I glad to see those guys. I’m given a hero’s welcome and a hug before having my photo taken.

After depositing my sweat upon the wonderful volunteers, I head into the tent looking for anything cold and wet. I’d lick a North Sea Cod at this point I’m so desperate. I chat to other ‘veteran’ runners and we all agree on one word to describe it: ‘Brutal.’ We can’t put our finger on why, but it just feels like the right adjective. I take my swag of cold drinks, ice pops, and sweets and bid my farewell. 

20 minutes later I’m on the Shields Ferry and heading back to the correct side of the Tyne. I take in the refreshing Tyne breeze, legs starting the first signs of ache and cramp, body and mind starting to tire, and tell myself that is the last one, time to retire. You’ve done it 8 times, you’ve already said that 8 miles of it is canny depressing, you won’t miss it. Retire now, before you become one of those runners that the crowds go ‘aaaah’ at out of sympathy.  

Then I think; Na, fuck that. Sub 2 hours next year.

‘Never forget your roots son….you‘ll always be a Geordie no matter where you go’

Leonard “Oz” Osborne – Auf Wiedersehen, Pet

5ks. I hate them. When I first started to run they were my goal; get up and run a 5k everyday. Then I discovered the sexy world of distance running, 10ks and Half Marathons. The 5k found itself dumped. So, I don’t run them. Not even in training, not as races, not even for fun.

So. Here we are at the Quayside 5k. I was invited by work and they’re paying for it. Plus, my wife and child are away visiting family and I have nothing better to do. Hypocritical tosser. Sell out. Sad twat. All of these are true and the reason I’m spending my Wednesday evening hanging around the Quayside to run a distance I dislike with the local weather forecast currently reporting ‘Mate, it’s going to absolutely piss it down.’

This particular race is organised by local running club the Gateshead Harriers, they of Brendan Forster fame. Despite this, 99% of the race takes place in Newcastle – its only the final few yards that are Gateshead side. Clever.

The course itself is Geordie mafia tastic. It’s like every Newcastle advert has literally thrown up all over you. It would make many a Tyneside ex-pat bubble Pease Pudding tears whilst stroking a Pastie. Starting at the Pitcher and Piano bar on the North side of the Millennium Bridge (and obviously, the River Tyne), you run straight and flat along the Quayside for about 1.5m till you literally just turn round and come back. When you get back to the Start, you cross the Millennium Bridge onto the South (Gateshead side) and finish in the Square in front of the Baltic.

I’ve actually run this course once before, under the guise of the Sunshine Run. Again, this was through work and was for chariteee mate. It was a fairly low turnout of local businesses and nobody really cared about times or positions. Case in point, I ran the whole thing clutching a large inflatable banana. This run is way, way different.

I manage to cadge a lift from work and there are a group of 7 of us brave souls representing the company. We’ve all been giving official firm apparel to run in. Get us. More on that later. I’ve strapped my dodgy calf up, more as an insurance policy rather than a must need, but it just emphasises how much older and broken I am than the rest of the squad.

It’s a 7:15pm start but we get down there much earlier. One because we need to pick up numbers and two because we just can’t bear to sit at work any longer than needs be. We park further up the river and walk to the start (again, more on this later).

As we get nearer to the Pitcher and Piano it looks like there is a large police presence and we notice crime scene tape everywhere. Now, I don’t want to be grim, but this part of the Tyne is notorious for dead bodies washing up. I’m surprised the Pitcher and Piano haven’t tried to cash in on this infamy with some sort of shot named after it. But behold, as we get to the tape it’s non other than Brenda Blethyn filming a scene from Vera pet.

Those unaware of Vera, think of a Geordie version of Morse except Brenda says pet at the end of every sentence pet. I watch Vera religiously. Not because I particular enjoy it, I just like playing the ‘eeh where is that?’ game at every outside scene. We also give out the ‘Whey Mr Partridge’ award in our house to the actor with the shittest Geordie accent that week.

Getting over the star struckness (is that a word?) we head over to collect the numbers and it’s a fairly easy process – good old pick up by your surname. Just like the NT10k, this race has brought out the machines who are already warming up and pulling the kind of stretches that would snap my tendons.

Sadly, a few of them have decided to warm up by running over the Millennium Bridge, nudging anyone out the way who dares to be walking over the thing at the same time. I’ll be honest, this is where I dislike some of the so called ‘local elite’ runners at events. Most are great, but you always get the impression there is a certain minority who view the rest of us as plebs who just get in the way.

The race itself is in two parts. Anyone who can run a sub 20 min 5k can join the elite race at 6:45pm, with the rest of us setting off at 7:15pm. This seems like a sensible approach, and I watch in awe the machines come over the bridge at breakneck speed.

With the proper race over, the rest of us mere mortals get into position at the start. It’s a bit of a bottleneck, and I nearly shite myself when the gun goes off as it’s louder than my child. Surprised it hasn’t spurred Vera pet into sprinting along to investigate the shooting and look for the corpse.

Anyway, we’re off. Last time I ran this it was hotter than the surface of the sun with no breeze and I was a horrible red, sweaty mess pretty much after the first 400 yards. Today the conditions are far more favourable, overcast and cool with a slight headwind for the first half and I feel pretty good as we set off.

Much to my surprise, the field spreads quite early on and despite that bottleneck at the very start I feel like I have loads of space. Not everyone feels this way however. One knacker comes shooting through from the back, mumbling and grumbling under his breath like a whining toddler as he struggles to get past a couple of ladies just in front of me.

I pass the Quayside pub and there are a few people in the Beer Garden enjoying a nice cool pint, probably pissed off that their chilled-by-the-river ambience has been shattered by 500 sweaty people hurtling past. Still, last time I ran past here I was carrying that aforementioned inflatable banana, which a drunken group of blokes advised I should stick up my arse. I do get some stick, my work apparel is spotted by some genius who shouts ‘hope you’re on the clock’ – a witty retort to the fact its a law firm. Oh how I laughed.

Eventually the leaders come past me going the other way. Depending where you currently are in the pack, and how you feel, this can be either a fantastic morale boosting moment or a viciously delivered kick in nether regions. I check my Garmin and see I’m at 1.3 miles, meaning the turn point is only 0.2 miles away and therefore I’m practically winning man.

Three of my much younger and fitter colleagues pass me and we offer each other words of encouragement. I don’t catch what they say, but it was probably something like ‘don’t die Grandad.’

The turn and last 1.5 miles is a breeze. The wind is behind me, the field really opens up and there are pretty much no runners coming the other way so there’s room to get a bus through. I get on the Millennium Bridge for the final burst and have a second wind, carrying myself over the line in a nice respectable 25.51.

I pick up my goodie bag, no medal but another running shirt which always helps when you’re shit at putting the washing on, and I head to the bridge to shout my final 3 colleagues in, all of whom also post respectable times they’re happy with. Then it rains.

When I say rain I don’t mean the odd annoying drop. I mean torrential. The kind of stuff they built boats in the bible for. Guess who hasn’t brought a coat? That’s right, this dickhead. The walk back to the car with my colleague seems far longer than on the way in and we get drenched. Even Vera pet has packed up, probably enjoying a nice G&T somewhere swish like Malmasion, smugly thinking it’s karma for setting off the gun and putting the shits up her.

I get kindly dropped off at the Metro, looking and smelling like a dead rat. Did I mention I don’t like 5ks?

‘I can play’

Corporal Luis Fernandez – Escape to Victory

It’s a very important day today. The World Cup starts, Newcastle’s Premier League fixtures are out, and it’s Mrs V’s birthday. Remembering 2 out of 3 of those isn’t bad odds.

For the next few weeks, I’m going back to running early mornings every day. It’s all part of a great masterplan. This really can’t go wrong. For a start, the weather is great, with a heatwave the Daily Express would cream over predicted for weeks to come. Secondly and more importantly, the early morning running will free up my evenings, therefore allowing me to watch International humdingers such as Costa Rica V Switzerland and Morocco V Iran.

Get in the miles, watch the football, jobs a good un. Everyone’s a winner.

I get up at 5:30am and the weather isn’t as per the plan. It’s unseasonably windy. It’s tropical wind apparently. Flying Pineapples and Mangos, that sort of thing. I’ve been getting a slight niggle in my right calf. Doesn’t really bother me, it’s just one of those annoying creaks to remind you you’re homing in on 40.

I’m 3 mile in to my 4 mile run and the niggle is starting to become pain. Not an ouchy pain, more like an pressure pain that’s just gone beyond a creak. Half a mile later and that pressure suddenly and quickly gets more painful and then ow you absolute bastard. It feels like someone has knifed me in the calf and I scream in pain, probably waking up half the town.

This is not good. I’m half a mile from home and I’m not going to be able to jog back. Walking back is even a problem, the whole of my lower right leg is howling in pain every time I try. So I limp pathetically back home, thinking that this is looking a bit grim. The rest of the day at work consists of hobbling and piss taking.

The next week is spent resting. It’s friggin awful. All I want to do is run. My whole routine is out the window and with every day I can’t run my head is being a right bastard pointing out how hard it will be to come back. I’ve been flying over the last couple of months, PBs at pretty much every distance from 5k to Half Marathon and now I’m reduced to doing nowt. Violins out.

I make the mistake of Googling what this could be and what to do about it. The results come up with everything ranging from resting a week, to having to have surgery, to potential amputation (the internet is weird). By the following Thursday I can take no more. I strap my leg up in enough tubing and taping to stop a toilet leaking and attempt a 3 miler.

Tight. Irritating. Sore. This is the general mood of Scottish football fans during England’s surprise route to the Semis – but it’s also my calf during the comeback run. I follow this up in the next few days with more gentle runs and eventually get back into my stride. The weeks see the pain disappear but I’m leaving on the strapping for the time being – it’s my comfort blanket till further notice.

It’s a been a pretty interesting half term running report 6 months in. I started the year determined to try and run everyday, an attempt to raise the fitness levels. This progressed to running faster and better than ever before, ending with my body finally going pop and being back to square one. As long as it survives till September, that’s all I need.

Next stop the Gateshead 5k on August 15th. I hate 5ks.

‘If you want the rainbow, you’ve got to put up with the rain. Do you know which ‘philosopher’ said that? Dolly Parton. And people say she’s just a pair of tits.’

David Brent – The Office

May 28th 2018

Bank Holiday Monday. The 20 years ago Dave would be having a nice long lie in, stumbling out of bed around lunchtime, hungover and in need of something fried and in a stottie. He would then chuck on the worst checky Ben Sherman shirt he could find, splash on the Tommy Hilfiger, and head off down the Bay (Whitley) to drink heavily for 9 hours whilst avoiding being punched by strangers. Ah, glory days. 2018 Dave is up at 6:30am, as his ageing bladder doesn’t allow any longer, and off out for an 8 mile run. He doesn’t drink for 9 hours, but he does avoid being punched by strangers.

May 29th 2018

Back at work after the long weekend and, regardless of whether you love your job or not, it’s all a bit meh. After yesterday’s bonus Weekday longish Run I’m already ahead for the week so jump on the treadmill for 2 miles.

May 30th 2018

Reminded that I’ve agreed to take part in the Office Quiz tomorrow. This is an annual gathering that involves being piled with free alcohol and being asked lots of questions, much like a usual Monday in the House of Commons. You can witness some unexpected rabid competitiveness from usual shrinking violets, which always has a great entertainment value attached to it. Therefore decide to jump on treadmill for a short 2 miler and get up early in the morning for a longer outside one.

May 31st 2018

Its Office Quiz day. As I’m going to be drinking later on whilst trying to remember who finished second in this years Eurovision, I get out for an early run. Dragging my arse out of bed for 5:30am, I complete a fairly regular 4.3 mile loop that takes in the sea front. It’s pretty quick for someone half asleep, averaging 8:06 minute miles. Go me. At work decide to carb up at lunch time in the local bar. Have you ever asked a 20 year old buxom waitress old enough to be your daughter for a double fisted burger? It’s awkward. To the Office Quiz and I’m on a decent team. When I say decent, I mean people who are also there to drink heavily and have no interest in winning. Despite putting ‘One of the Kardashians’ on any answer we were stuck on, we manage to finish second and only lose out by a point. I pop to The Strawberry ‘for one’ afterwards but end up staying till last orders. There won’t be an early run tomorrow.

June 2nd 2018

I don’t run on the Friday due to being ‘tired’ from the Office Quiz. Saturday is my wedding anniversary and I celebrate by getting up for a 5.3 mile circular which again takes in the sea front. There’s even a cheeky fast 24:32 5k in there. I take the family back to Blackpool for the weekend, this time not to run but to visit the Zoo. We see lots of great things, including a Gorilla picking at his todger. Who says romance is dead.

Total miles run: 21.7

‘And girl, it look so pretty to me. Like it always did’

Tunnel of Love – Dire Straits

Like buses these Blog posts. You wait (snigger) months for one and loads come along at once. For this one, let me take you back further than the Blackpool Half Marathon. Back to Easter Sunday, to April 1st, the day of the Fools, to the North Tyneside 10k. 

I must declare an interest at this point. The North Tyneside 10k is my local race, it starts in my home town and ends in my current one. It’s very much a lercal race for lercal people. Outsiders are more than welcome to run it of course (and many do) but it’s one of those runs you’ll spot the bloke from No 6 at, or that lass who works on the Morrisons Deli. It’s also one of those races pissed up people sign up to on New Years Eve as April is miles away and, anyway, they’ll be running machines by then. Ahem. 

The course itself is a beaut. Starting at The Parks Leisure Centre in North Shields, it drops down on to the Fish Quay, along the bottom prom towards the mouth of the Tyne, before climbing and following the coast towards the finish at St. Mary’s Lighthouse in Whitley Bay. So pretty scenic, with the only real obstacle the potential of a sea breeze. The term ‘sea breeze’ sounds refreshing, except if it happens to be coming off the North Sea. Which it is. 

The start at The Parks is an easy few stops away on the Metro from where I live, but my mam offers me a lift and being both lazy and mollycoddled I except. It’s not the warmest, this years NT10k is earlier than other years due to an early Easter, meaning we’re only a few weeks since The Beast from the East and nowhere near the late teens tropical sun fest the North East coast usually gets in the height of summer. 

Slightly off topic here, but a lot of people when hearing I’m a Geordie always joke about us not wearing coats on nights out, even when it’s freezing cold etc. Shall I tell you why? It may be freezing cold enough outside to send your nads back up into your stomach, but inside the pubs and clubs of the North East it’s roasting like the depths of hell and it’s chocker full of bodies. Basically, we’ve evolved to withstand the cold in order to get smashed. True story. 

I get dropped a fair few blocks from the start as my mam is worried they’ll close the roads and she’ll be trapped. I want to point out that this is a short local run and not a protest in Tiananmen Square, but a lift is a lift so I refrain in the piss taking and thank her. The walk to the start of this particular run can be intimidating for any newbies. It is after all a race, and there are lots of very serious looking and very fit running-looking runners, many of whom are doing warm up jogs at the pace I’m usually flat out. 

The Parks is rammed full of cars and bodies. Running clubs huddle sporadically together, almost tribally. I like to think that they are all bad mouthing each other, frequently flicking the vs and shouting ‘Splitters’, but sadly and quite rightly this never seems to happen. Which explains why I’ve never joined one. 

The start is literally just the road outside the centre. There are no pens or pacers, so I kind of just position myself half way down ish. I see the lady from the Deli at Morrisons. Told you. Local MP Mary Glindon is the starter and it’s super Alan Partridge awkward. She starts the race with, and I quote ‘Are you ready? Are you steady? Go!’, delivered as if we’re 5 year olds at Sports Day. I don’t think Mary will be back next year. 

We’re off, and I’m in two minds about how to run this. On one hand, training has gone well and my numbers are good. On the other, Newcastle were at home yesterday so I’m feeling a slight self inflicted pub related groggyness. Past NT10k runs have seen me set off too slow and record so-so times, therefore I go for it. 

The first part of the race is busy, lots of bodies and various levels of pace scattered around. You find yourself flying past someone in front yet having some machine fly past you at the same time. The steep drop into the Fish Quay sounds idyllic for a runner but the steep incline always has me papping myself. Plus, what comes down must go up. Along the Fish Quay it’s still busy and I’m feeling good and setting a canny pace. By the time I get to the mouth of the Tyne the field has scattered a bit and I realise I’m probably much nearer the front that in previous years, but still miles from it of course. It’s a bit like me visiting Russia and saying I’m now a bit closer to Australia. 

Now to the hardest part of the course, the climb from the River to Tynemouth Priory. It’s not a long climb, but it’s an energy sapping gradient that sees a few people fall away. I don’t have any problems with it. This is not a ‘yeah, look at me bitches’ boast, I’m finding this as much a killer as everyone else. However, I’ve run up here more times than I care to remember and the muscle memory is helping me attack it. Bit of technical jargon there for you readers. 

After getting to the top, having finished cursing a 2000 year old monument and regaining your faculties, the last 4ish miles are an enjoyable breeze. This long section, from Pissing Tynemouth Priory to St. Marys Lighthouse is a route I run a lot. Tissues out, it’s where I first started my running journey a decade ago. 

I probably don’t appreciate this section as much as I should. It’s the selling point of the race and is well worth a run along, regardless of whether it’s the NT10k or just a jolly. We pass along Short Sands and Long Sands and the field really has spread since the killer hill. It’s pretty much level from here on in as well, apart from a slight climb to High Point (obviously) which isn’t that high to be honest. 

As we drop down from High Point we’re on the new, shiny rebuilt upper Prom. This heads towards the even newer, even shiner, but not open, Spanish City. Still slightly in building site form at this point, but it’ll be shining like shit off a barn door for the 2019 NT10k and I expect will be photo opportunity central for those wanting a great background to distract from your slack jawed boss eyed race face. 

Now it’s simply following the Links for 2 miles to the finish at the Lighthose. Not actually at the Lighthouse, just on the road heading into it, but it’s there as your finish marker pretty much all the way along the coast. I feel great and put my foot down. It’s a 52:53 and a PB, both for the race and a 10k. Happy days. 

Final act is picking up my race pack, and the NT10k has always been a fav. There is no medal, but you always get a nice top and running socks. I slip on this years top, a large, and it’s feeling a tad snug. Like boy band snug. A quick glance around it appears everyone is looking snug. In the days that follow I’m happy to see that lots of local runners are complaining about the tightness of the tops on various social media forums.  

Not fat. Much relieve.  

‘Cow. Another Cow.’

Dr. Jo Harding – Twister

Monday 21^st May

Due to a combination of Deadly Man Flu and Hayfever, I didn’t get out for my ‘big’ run at the weekend. Still not feeling great on the Monday, I was struggling a bit for motivation. This was on the basis that the run had the potential to be rubbish and/or painful. I decide to run a completely new route, with the mindset that if it is rubbish then at least Strava won’t tell me I’m trending slower. Pathetic. I end up going for a run through local housing estates and follow the Metro line home to complete a 4.74m circuit. Amazingly, the Garmin kicks in with ‘New Record’ and I’ve posted a 24 min dead 5k PB. Go figure.

Tuesday 22nd May

It’s raining, which is great for my hayfever, but not so great for running. I’m not adverse to a bit of rain, but it’s also windy and I don’t do both at the same time. So instead I decide to get on the Treadmill. I feel quite good early doors so stay on for 3m instead of the usual 2. The extra mile is also a piss poor attempt to make up for missing a long one at the weekend, what with me being soft as shite.

Wednesday 23^rd May

The weather has improved, unlike myself who is still not feeling 100%. It’s go hard or go home, so set off on a regular 10k that takes me to Holywell Dene and back home through the Wagonway. I feel great once I get going and for extra dramatic effect finish with a lap around the running track in Churchill Playing Fields. Again, amazingly, ‘New Record’ pops up on my Garmin and announces a 50:55 10k PB. This is getting weird now.

Friday 25^th May

Bored of breaking records, I opt for an easy 2 mile/17 minute run on the treadmill. I’m now a full treadmill convert having hated the contraptions for years, the one I bought on 24 easy instalments from Argos a few years back acting as the world’s most expensive clothes horse till 5 months ago.

Saturday 26^th May

It’s an early start for the long run of the week. Have settled on a standard 10 miler during the Spring and Summer months that takes me through Hollywell to Seaton Deleval, dropping down into Seaton Sluice and the coast, before heading back along to Whitley Bay and then home. It’s scenic, fairly flat, and mostly clear of people and traffic. The weather is overcast but mild to warm and it’s a good and enjoyable work out. When I upload to Strava it pings up to tell me that I’ve ran my fastest 10 mile, at 1:24:21. I appear to have hit my peak at 38.

Miles Run 26.3

‘Don’t rush me sonny, you rush a miracle man, you get rotten miracles.’

Miracle Max – The Princess Bride

Blackpool. Home of the Illuminations, donkeys, 3 piers, a midget version of that there Eiffel Tower, and a Golden Mile of stag and hen pavement pizza. Before you reach for the comments section and the #offended hashtag, I actually love the place. During my 38 fun packed years on this planet I’ve probably been to Blackpool 50+ times. It gives me that warm, fuzzy, nostalgic bollocks feeling you get when you smell something burning and it reminds you of tea at your Nana’s house.

I’ve run the Blackpool Half Marathon once before, in 2015, and it remains the fastest Half Marathon I’ve ever done. At mile 8 of that one I was flying and on for the mythical gold paved unicorn populated land of sub 2 hours, before the weather and my general shitness saw the wheels fall off and I rolled in at 2:03. Still, I was delighted, really enjoyed the race and course, and promised I’d be back for another crack.

Fast forward to April 23rd 2018 and I’d made good on that promise. As per the last time, the sign up and everything else that follows can’t be faltered. Big shout out at this point to the organisers Fylde Coast Runners, who put together a cracking event without any of the ridiculous razzmatazz and corporate bollocks you sometimes get at other events (I’m looking at you Great North Run).

What I really love about Blackpool though is the course. It starts at the North end, quite close to the B&B I used to stay at as a kid and therefore an area I know like an old friend. After that it’s basically a flat as a fart road run South past the Pleasure Beach (boo friggin hiss at having to pay to get in there now by the way) before heading back to Bispham then finally turning once again and returning to where you started. Basically, you pass all 3 Piers, the Tower, and the aforementioned PAY TO GET IN FASCIST Pleasure Beach twice. So every Blackpool icon you can think of. What’s not to love?

The morning of the run I picked up my number early doors from the start (again, easy) before returning to the B&B where Jim the owner, mistakenly thinking he was in the presence of some sort of athlete, kindly offered me an early breakfast. It’s fun to point out at this juncture that the weather was shite. And I mean shite. Wind and rain from the Irish Sea was lashing in, and the temptation to order the Full English while pointing and laughing at those heading to the start was growing. The London Marathon is happening the same day, and the tele is reporting soaring temperatures from the capital. Well whoop de do for them, I’d currently kill to nick a couple of degrees from them. I decide to make my way to the start. The couple from Room 6 give me a sarcastic thumbs up good luck, while my wife declines the invitation to stand in the rain for 15 minutes to watch me stand in the rain for 15 minutes. Fair enough.

The start is divided into two. The Marathoners (the brilliant/brave/mad runners depending on your views) facing one direction while the rest of us mere mortals would head in the other. I make a bee line for the sane pen and instantly eye the 2 hour pacer. I take up a position quite close to him, casually of course, I don’t want to look desperate, and make a conscious decision there and then that my race goal should be to pass him early doors and keep him behind me. A youngish trendy couple in front of me start pointing at every ones running shoes, including my own, and whispering to each other. I therefore make my secondary race goal to also pass these two shitehawks and keep them behind me.

Then we’re off. Training has gone well, and I set my Garmin to pace at 9 min miles. Half a mile in I pass the 2 hour pacer. He’s surrounded by what I can only describe as groupies, determined to cling to him like flies to shit to attain that magic sub 2 hours. A little further on I pass arrogant bastard trainer staring couple, who I give stink eye. That’ll learn them.

Miles 1 to 5 are great. The rain has stopped but it’s still dull and wet. Slight head wind, not enough to whinge about though, with the added bonus it will be behind me when we turn. We’ve merged in with the Marathoners, or should I say they’ve merged in with us, but this causes some confusion with the mile markers. We hit 4 miles yet the lamppost has a huge 5 stuck to it, prompting a young lad running alongside me to let out a loud ‘What the fuck is wrong with the signage?’ Runners Tourette’s.

As I turn at the tram terminus it’s so far so good. I’m averaging around 8:50 min miles and I feel fine. The weather is starting to improve and now the wind is behind me. Piece of piss this Half Marathon malarkey. I pass the Tower for the second time and feel the first signs of tiredness. I’m worried I’ve gone too fast too soon and have one of those self doubt conversation in my head that most runners experience from time to time. Thankfully this seems to pass quickly and I find my pace increasing mile on mile till we get to Bispham.

Past mile 10 I’m starting to believe not only in a PB, but a sub 2 hour one at that. The 2 hour pacer is nowhere to be seen and hasn’t passed me. Or has he? I’d have noticed surely. Paranoia time. Then we drop onto the lower prom and I’m hit with an almighty head wind. Back in 2015, this was the part of the race where I died on my arse and lost a lot of time. I decide to take the shit or bust approach and put my foot down. This 3 mile feels longer than the previous 10. We’ve all been there.

Then I see it. The ramp to the middle prom and on it the Finish line. I go for a sprint finish and check the official clock on my approach. It looks like it’s saying 1:55. Shut the front door. I cross the line and stop my Garmin. 1:55:16. Holy shit. My wife shouts over to me but I’m a bit spaced out. I actually can’t believe it. I’ve destroyed my PB by a huge 8 minutes and after 9 years of trying have finally cracked 2 hours. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead, I collect my complimentary banana, mars bar, t-shirt and medal whilst trying to comprehend what just happened.

Veni, Vidi, Vici. I celebrate by taking the wife for a slap up Harry Ramsdens and downing a couple of cold pints in the Beach House Bar overlooking the sea. We ring our 6 year old and tell her my result. ‘Did you run really fast?’ she says. ‘Yes. Yes I did.’

Thanks Blackpool. See you next year.