The Cookson 10k 2026

June 5, 2026 notbuilttorunCookson 10k, RunningLeave a comment

“When you grow up, your heart dies”

Allison Reynolds, The Breakfast Club

What do Dolly Parton and running have in common? This is not a boob joke, by the way. The answer is – absolutely nowt.

Until now.

It’s Cookson 10k time again. The most local race to me, organised by my running club. First run waaaay back in 1921, it’s had a chequered history, including a few years off and a complete change of course. But the current incarnation is flying. Every year, the feedback is the same – it’s everyone’s favourite race. People love it. I love it.

It’s also famous for having a music-themed finisher’s T-shirt that’s kept secret until the very last minute. I think you’ve guessed where the Dolly Parton connection comes in. In the past we’ve had Joy Division, The Happy Mondays, RUN DMC, The Velvet Underground, to name a few.

While nobody knew exactly what this year’s T-shirt would look like until the race was over, we did get a hint the week before. Race numbers were posted out and, unless you were born and still living on the moon, it wasn’t difficult to guess this year’s artist.

When I say this race is local, it really is. The start and finish are less than a mile from my front door.

You could probably catapult me there. Sadly, I’m not currently in possession of that particular piece of medieval weaponry, so I settle for a nice walk instead.

It’s a lovely evening for it. It’s late May, so we’re finally getting an increase in temperature. It’s going to be a balmy 17°C when we set off, which I’m not too bothered about. The biggest issue tonight is going to be the wind. There’s a fairly decent headwind when we hit the hill. Twice. Have I mentioned we do the hill twice? Well, I have now.

On the plus side, it’s a warm wind. And it doesn’t have rain in it. Or sleet.

As this is a race organised by my club, there are a lot of us running it. Red vests scattered everywhere, lots of faces I recognise. I’ve been at the club long enough now to have reached peak wanker status. As in, I seem to know who loads of people are now. Although there are still quite a few I’ve never seen before in my life.

These are the people you never see at any of the training sessions but who are quite obviously club members. They also tend to be the really fast people. I imagine this is because they’re off doing far more hardcore stuff – kicking trees, hanging upside down for six hours, that sort of thing.

I’ve got two slight equipment changes being tested this evening for the very first time.

Firstly, I’ve moved down to a medium-sized running vest. I know – skinny queen. It feels a tiny bit weird, as I’ve always gone for big and baggy, but it’s definitely not too tight. It’s right tight, if that makes sense. Although I do have a feeling it may emphasise my moob bounce, giving off very much a Baywatch vibe when I run full pelt.

Secondly, I’ve recently purchased some running shades. I got these primarily for my summer marathon training. I’m going to be out on long runs through June, July and August, so they’ll be a must. I also look cool as fuck in them, which is all that matters.

It’s time to head to the starting pen. I say “pen” – it’s really just a path outside a school. It’s always a bit of a squeeze at the start. There are around 500 people running this (I’m bib 502, as I’m apparently being alphabetically discriminated against), and that’s a lot of people to squish together on a pavement.

***Off to the Start, like a shit Reservoir Dogs***

A brief safety message from the Run Director about potentially having to give way to cars on one section of the course (fuck that – I’m commando rolling over the bonnet if it means a PB), followed by the usual “good luck and enjoy” to my fellow club runners, and away we go!

Talking of PBs, I’m unashamedly after one tonight, which is quite rare for me. Normally, I’m not really bothered about them and then end up getting one by accident. Not tonight though. Tonight, I’m after my first ever official sub-45 minutes.

I’m running quick and feeling good at the moment. I also start marathon training in three weeks, so this will probably be my final shot at one for a while.

However, I’ve already mentioned a couple of factors that might royally screw that goal up: those hills and that wind.

Now, the hill I can handle. I grew up at the top of it. My mother still lives at the top of it. I’ve walked, cycled, run, and staggered legless up this hill probably a thousand times. Okay, maybe not a thousand, but you get the wildly exaggerated gist here. So I’ve got no fear of it.

But I hate wind. It’s a motherfucker.

We’re about to find out anyway, because you pretty much start right at the bottom of the hill and then spend the next mile running up it. I’ve done some ducking and weaving through the ‘masses’ at the start line, but it still feels a bit more crowded than usual.

Just because I said I was used to getting up this hill doesn’t mean it isn’t tough. That headwind is also pretty strong, but I proved recently at the Grand Prix and the NT10K that I’ve found a way to battle through it and still hit a decent pace.

On the final stretch, I actually get boxed in a bit and feel like I’m being slowed down. Mile 1 is down though, and it’s an on-target 7:20.

As soon as we hit the flat, I feel a sudden burst of energy and put my foot down. I’m now heading along the street I grew up on and past my old house. I give my old gatepost an acknowledging slap as I pass it and get a sharp ping of nostalgia. Always better than a sharp ping from a hamstring.

I’m feeling really good now, even though there’s still a headwind. We soon get some respite though, as we take a right turn into the Lonnen. I mentioned the Lonnen during my review of this race last year, but it’s basically an old road that’s still unspoilt by development and surrounded by fields.

As I also mentioned last year though, not for long. It’s being slowly encroached upon by “progress” in the shape of 5,000 houses. My nostalgia bubble pops. Or was that my kneecap?

Anyway, at least we’re going downhill now, with the wind on our arses. As predicted, the field has opened up and the old “I got boxed in” excuse is now down the kazi.

Part way down, my watch flashes up for 2 miles and informs me I’ve just done a 6:50. That’s obviously excellent, but also quite frightening on the second mile of a 10K.

I… er… might have gone off a tad too fast here.

We’re now out of the fields and back into civilisation. As in, we’re in a housing estate. We’ll cut through here and then be back to where we started.

I’m back on the flat and still feeling quite good as I complete Lap 1. Our club coaches are stationed at this point, so I compose myself and try to look as unfucked as possible as I pass them. I think I got away with it.

***Feigning beast mode for the coaches***

Lap 1 done, Mile 3 completed – it’s a 6:58.

Piece of piss this isn’t it?

Well, not necessarily, because it’s time to do all that again. Lap 2 of the Cookson is always sink-or-swim time.

I’m back on the hill and back into the headwind. This time round, I’m definitely feeling both. I’m not boxed in either, which, now I think about it, might actually have helped me the first time round as I got a bit of protection from the wind. Now I’m completely exposed to it.

It’s hard graft, but I’m battling through it. Later, I find out from someone I know who was marshalling at this point that they had a few spewers. I’m definitely not going to be hurling chunks, anyway.

As this is Lap 2, the top of the hill is also where we hit Mile 4. This time round, I clock a 7:28, which, if you’re keeping up, is 8 seconds slower than the first time round.

This doesn’t worry me though. I’m not struggling, and these are by far the two fastest times I’ve ever done going up here. I’m also not regurgitating my lunch, so it’s all positives.

However, this time when I hit the flat at the top, I don’t have that previous spring in my step. Who knew a second sprint up a hill would start to tire you out a bit?

I’ve been running pretty much side by side with one of my club colleagues for the last mile or so, and we had a bit of mutual motivational chat on the way up, which helped ease the pain for both of us.

Well, he might not agree.

I know he’s faster than me, so the plan for the final two miles is simply to try and stay with him.

We’re back on the Lonnen now, hitting the downhill and enjoying that arsewind again. I feel like I’m in a good place and realise that, unless something catastrophic happens in the universe right now, I can get my PB without absolutely caning it.

Mile 5 is a 7:09 – 19 seconds slower than the first time round – but I’ve got plenty in the bank. Plus, I need to remind myself of this: that’s massively quick for me in a 10K.

I’m now firmly locked in behind my club colleague and just making sure I stay with him. I let him know I’m using him to pace, but not to worry – his young son could outkick me in a sprint finish, so he’s guaranteed to finish ahead of me.

Self-deprecating bantz. Always a winner.

Mile 6 is a decent 7:05, and I know I could probably limp the last 0.20 and still get a PB. I do not want to test this theory.

As we hit the final straight towards the finish line, my colleague, as predicted, sprints away from me.

Hey, he’s done his job – paced me in exactly as agreed. I do manage to catch a straggler from another club on the way in though, which is always a good feeling, I won’t lie.

I stop the watch and it’s a 44:36, so 7:07 pace. Yup. That’s a PB.

Later, my chip time comes in as 44:32. Even better. Success.

I can now officially call myself a sub-45 10Ker.

Get me.

Now comes the coup de grâce, the crème de la crème, the pièce de résistance, and any other sexy-sounding pigeon French you can think of: the finisher’s T-shirt.

Look at it. It’s a beautiful thing.

I share it around Instagram and Bluesky that night and people rave about it. Quite right too – it’s superb. Dolly would approve. And if she doesn’t, there’s a lawsuit coming.

I think we can call this a good night’s work. Race plan executed perfectly, a new PB, a beautiful T-shirt, and I can roll myself home in 15 minutes.

Not before I’ve bought some cake though.

I’ve earned that cake.

Next up, the Blaydon Race. Oh, and 16 weeks of Marathon training.

The Fairbairn Cup

May 30, 2026 notbuilttorunGrand Prix, Race ReviewLeave a comment

“Our mutual friend has a flair for the dramatic”

Dr. King Schultz, Django Unchained

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

What kind of absolute doylum would do that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No problem.

But it’s going on over a base layer.

I’ve gone proper soft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But bollocks to that. I finished 8th.

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

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

Test

Fame

April 23, 2026 notbuilttorunPodcast, RunningLeave a comment

“I’m about as flamboyant as a bagel”

Doris Finsecker, Fame

It’s time for another non-race review quick one from me.

Hot off the heels of my debut in the podcasting world, the fantastic guys from the Snot Rocket Podcast asked me to come back for another episode.

They mustn’t have listened back to the first one.

I’m not sure if they’ll ask my back for a third time, but it’s been a really great experience whatever happens and I’ve enjoyed my probable short lived brush with fame.

I was asked by a family member to describe what the podcast is about. I would say, think of it as the Running version of Drunk History.

Anyway, Episode 130 was about Coe, Ovett and Cram’s dominance of middle distance running in the 80s. Listen here: (or wherever you find your podcasts)

Apple Podcasts – https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/the-snot-rocket-podcast/id1692259218?i=1000762640247

Spotify – https://open.spotify.com/episode/7bbnyVGaDOpsx3RVDHcgS5?si=qlyyOyYASk-bJxQIM-hNig

North Tyneside 10k 2026

April 23, 2026 notbuilttorun2026, NorthTyneside10k, Race ReviewLeave a comment

“Make a move and the bunny gets it”

Cyrus Grissom, Con Air

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

And Jesus. Shit. I always forget Jesus.

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

But usually, it’s always Easter Sunday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So, off I fuck.

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

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

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

***‘Yeah, it’s at least 12 foot wide’***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Strange fucking day.

North Tyneside Trail Run 2026

March 21, 2026 notbuilttorunNorth Tyneside, Trail RunningLeave a comment

“Don’t bother to buckle up – you may not want to survive this.”

Eric Qualin, Cliffhanger

A running joke (no pun intended) I have, when talking about races I’ve signed up for, is this;

“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

It’s a very British self-deprecating humour way of dealing with things. A touch of justification, with a smidge of coping mechanism. You’ve signed up for something you know you’ll need to train for, and that is also potentially going to be hard. But ultimately (and importantly) you want to do it.

So you ‘joke’ about it.

Except when it comes to the North Tyneside Trail Run. In this instance, I really mean it. Why? Why have I singed up to do this again? I have no excuse. I have first hand experience of this 7 miles of pain. It’s Cross Country on Crack. And I fucking hate Cross Country.

Having said all that, there is a sort of method behind this absolute madness. The NT Trail Run usually takes place on the first Sunday after the New Year.

So it’s always there over the Christmas period, winking at me suggestively like a pissed up cougar, as I reach into the Quality Street tin for one last Green Triangle.

It’s difficult enough finding motivation in January. Suddenly feeling and looking 4 months pregnant doesn’t help.

And then there’s the weather. January and February in the UK are generally the shittest months of the year. Last year, we had snow overnight and the course was a clusterfuck. That won’t happen again. We’d have to be really unlucky.

And then 24 hours before the race, I wake up to this:

Shite.

I’d only got up to go to Parkrun. I slump off back to bed, pull the duvet over my head, and try not to think about trudging through that white shite this time tomorrow.

Then, at 6pm, a glorious email. The race is off. Large parts of it are an absolute shit show. Unlike last year, the snow is much heavier and the temperature much colder. This stuff is not only going nowhere, it’s only going to get worse. Quite rightly, the sensible decision is to cancel. It will be rearranged, date tbc.

Phew.

Now, close your eyes, tap your heels, and let’s time travel to March 8th..

That snow ended up hanging around all week, like a relative at Christmas you just can’t get rid of. Just like that relative though, by March it’s just a distant memory that will hopefully be dead by next year. I’m joking of course. It depends on if it’s a close relative or not.

After the snow went, it then pretty much pissed down non stop for two months. I’m not even joking. The majority of the UK was hit by a weather block, which in this instance was just shit loads upon shit loads of rain. Really depressing stuff.

By race day, the worst of it is well behind us, and it’s almost been ‘spring’ like. However, the sheer amount we’ve had will see a large section of the route caked in mud.

Oh fucking goody.

That’s actually going to be the least of my problems. Today is a classic case of ‘fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’ Three dickhead decisions in the build up are going to haunt me.

On the Tuesday at the Grand Prix, I break my 5k PB (21:46)
I do Parkrun the day before this race, where the voices in my head tell me running slow is for pussies and I do a 22:31, a second off my course PB.
The biggest fuck up of the week. I’m at the match on the Saturday night, where I swear blind I’ll just have a ‘couple of pints before’ then head off straight after. Unfortunately, I accidentally down 8.

Sunday morning I wake up as expected. The tired legs of a man who’s hammered out two fast 5ks, the groggy head of an idiot who drank too much and got in after midnight.

This is not going to go end well.

I force coffee, porridge, toast and a protein bar down me. Then it’s off to the Club House to pick up my number and dump a change of clothes. Well, some socks and trainers. I’m expecting the ones I finish in to be an absolute state, and Mrs Notbuilttorun has threatened to stick them up my arse if they come within 5 foot of the front door.

Just on the bibs, they are always great for this race. In fact, I think this years is the best yet.

One positive for today, I can’t complain about logistics. I live round the corner from the Club House, so once I’ve picked up my number, I can nip back home. Possible to call the whole thing off and crawl back under the duvet.

The Club House is also where we’ll finish. Therefore that duvet option will be quickly available once I stagger over the line. Going back to bed as quickly as possible is my motivation today, I’m not going to lie.

Wanker Weather Watch time (I need a sponsor for this) it’s sunny with a slight chill in the air. I spend far too much time arguing with myself about whether to wear a base layer or not. In the end I do. Welcome to mistake number 4.

I leave the house for a ‘gentle’ warm up jog down to the start on the beach. This is about a mile and it’s the point I know I’m in trouble. I feel like shite.

This should be fun then. On to the beach for the start. Here, I realise it’s really not as cold as I thought. In fact, in my base layer, I’m feeling warm already. Too warm. And we haven’t started yet.

Anyway. Pre-race instructions delivered, we’re off. Like a wanky version of Chariots of Fire. Talking of fires, I really am hot now. It’s not like I can lose this base layer either. It’s on underneath my club vest. The logistics of taking it off in my delicate post pintage state make my head hurt even more.

I’ve started at a fair pace and notice my heart rate is in Zone 5. I’ve probably only run about 400 metres. I decide this will be the last time I look at my watch today. I couldn’t give a shite. Between the raised heart rate, the over-layering, and the hangover, I just don’t want to die this morning.

I finally get off the beach, which felt like 3 miles but was actually less than 1, and onto the upper prom towards the Lighthouse. Here, it’s first photo time. I like this photo because it looks like I’m winning.

Just before the causeway to the Lighthouse we turn to get onto the cliffs and…well…I may be hotter than the surface of the sun and have the hear rate of someone who’s popped an E, but I somehow smash out one of the greatest running photos of all time. I mean, look at that.

That’s as good as it’s going to get. I’m on the cliff path now, not even on mile 2 of 7, and I hate this run. I’m suffering. I feel like I’m hitting a decent ish pace, but as I refuse to look at my watch, I have no idea. Or care.

After the cliff path we get a short downhill on the road, but this does nothing to help cheer me up. Because we haven’t even got to the part of course I really hate yet. That’s next.

That’s right, time to hit the Dene. Tight trail paths that go up and down. Up and down. Up and fucking down. Every up is just an absolute effort. I dread to think what my heart rate is doing now. I still can’t look.

Have I mentioned I’m hot? Christ I’m overheating. It’s not going to get any easier either. At mile 4 we hit ‘the hill’. A short, sharp climb in the Dene that is an infamous/notorious/fucking awful part of the course.

Let’s just get this over with. I attack it and it’s a shit show. At the top, I have a real fear that this mornings porridge is about to make a guest appearance. I manage to suppress this, but I am now officially absolutely fucked.

We drop down onto the Wagonway, which will take us on a 2 mile flat path to home. I’m running on fumes now. I have nothing left. I haven’t felt like this in a race for a long time. Years even. A club member takes this photo of me with around a mile left and the camera does indeed lie. I am dying here.

I can safely say I pass no one on this last stretch. At least, not that I remember. I am pretty positive that everyone on the photo below finished ahead of me though.

We come off the Wagonway, across the Cricket pitch, and onto the track for a 300m sprint finish. I come on to the track side by side with a bloke who shouts across ‘come on, me and you, one last push, sprint to the finish.’

To which I reply ‘mate, I have fuck all left, you crack on.’ He does, I follow him in, and finish the 7.4 mile course with a 58:59. 3 minutes faster than last year. I have no idea how.

I see some of my fellow club runners at the finish and they ask me if I enjoyed that. No, I reply, I hated every fucking single second of it. That’s a conversation stopper, I can tell you.

I’m hot, somehow more hungover than I started, and have taken no pleasure from this run at all.

Look, it’s a great course, superbly organised, but take this review as a cautionary tale. It’s not big or clever to drink heavily the night before a run.

Want some proof of that? My heart rate was in Zone 5 the entire 7.4 miles. I’m just happy to be alive.

I grab some cake and head straight for home, where, after a quick shower, I get under the duvet.

I told you I would.

Almost Famous

March 5, 2026March 5, 2026 notbuilttorunPodcast, RunningLeave a comment

“I don’t see anyone asking for autographs, do you? Huh?”

Apollo Creed, Rocky IV

Something slightly different (and mercifully brief) for this post.

Andrew and Tommy of the Snot Rocket Podcast invited me on to their show as a guest, to chat primarily about Parkrun.

I’ve been a regular listener for a couple of years now, so was more than happy to accept.

I wasn’t sure how it would go. I’ve never been on a podcast before. I thought there might be a large possibility that I was utter shite.

However, after downing two quick Brown Ales, my nerves were soon settled. Although, it also helped that the guys were so welcoming and put me at ease.

It ‘dropped’, as I believe the kids would say, a couple of days ago and, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if I was going to listen to it. Like in that way that actors say they don’t like watching themselves on the tele. I’ve gone full diva already. Please, no photos.

I’m glad I did listen though. Because I wasn’t as shit as I thought. Plus, the hour itself went over in a blur, and I had forgotten just how much fun I had with the guys.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I give to you my Podcast debut..

Apple Podcasts – https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/the-snot-rocket-podcast/id1692259218?i=1000752862266

Spotify – https://open.spotify.com/episode/0y8RYivOSR5rMO2mXNdG2r?si=WS-SJ8yDT4GI1Yi4hRMohw

Club Grand Prix Race #6

February 27, 2026February 27, 2026 notbuilttorunGrand Prix, Race ReviewLeave a comment

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

Fenderbaum, The Cannonball Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Got it? No? It doesn’t matter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Warsaw Pact

January 27, 2026 notbuilttorunmarathon, Warsaw1 Comment

“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.

Training starts 8th June. Let’s do this.

Running in France

January 18, 2026 notbuilttorunFrance, HolidayLeave a comment

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Bien à vous.

Smalltown Boy

January 1, 2026 notbuilttorun2026, RunningLeave a comment

“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.

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.

Because if it was easy, everyone would do it.

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