A long, long time ago - January 2019 - I bought an entry to run the Worthing Half Marathon. I'd run it before, two years previously, only this time it was a means to an end instead of being an end of itself. The early February race date meant it slotted nicely into my training plan for Brighton Marathon that year. Unfortunately the training plan sharply increased my weekly mileage, which brought a sharp pain in my knee, and I rolled over my entry to the following year as I rested most of February.
February 2020 rolls around, my knee is a lot stronger, and this was part one of my marathon plan. I intended to run two half marathons that year, one in the spring and one in the autumn, and if my knee passed them without complaint I'd register and train for the Brighton Marathon in 2021 - volunteering at the 2020 event. A man, a plan, a goal, no problem! Well, apart from the weather. Storm Ciara saw the postponement of the Worthing Half until the autumn, so I ran Eastbourne Half instead, on the first day of March 2020. If you've not clicked the link to that write-up, it finishes with the following:
I can very probably beat that at the rescheduled Worthing Half this autumn. It's a flatter course, I'll have an extra half a year to get fitter, and I'm confident of shaving 74 seconds off my time to get below two hours.
That was written on 2nd March 2020.
For some reason, there weren't an awful lot of organised races after that, for a while. The Worthing Half can kept being kicked down the road, eventually being taken over by the organisers of some races in south-west London, and the new date being announced earlier this year. Instead of being a February run it would be the weekend before the May bank holiday, but the weather won't be that hot, right?
Like Eastbourne two years prior, my journey was hindered by the common sight of a British weekend, the Rail Replacement Bus service. Unlike that one, the entire journey would be on a bus, but surely that was a good omen - I'd set a personal best time for a Half the last time I travelled to a race by one! Also taking place in Worthing that weekend - a craft beer tap takeover, with around a dozen breweries showcasing their wares in pubs and bottle shops around the town. My favourite local brewery had pledged to bring along their elusive, festival-only Old Fashioned Imperial Stout, so I had an extra incentive not to back out!
After a largely uneventful bus journey, enlivened only by showing Dana my usual running route to Lancing parkrun, and helping a drunk passenger after he collapsed, we got to the start around 45 minutes before kickoff. I managed to clip my race number to my top despite the wind's best efforts - I've made a mental note to do this before setting off for the next race, and will inevitably forget to do so - and tried to spot any of the Lancing parkrun lot. I had a goal in mind so squirreled myself away ahead of the 2 hour pacer.
Very long queue in this Subway restaurant
Bang on 8:30 and we were off! The route took us along a brief meander through town for the first mile, and I'd planned a podcast for the first half before switching to music for the second, to keep my speed up when I expected to be flagging. My planned km pace was 5 minutes 40, and the podcast might help from shooting off too quickly. It worked too well, and after two minutes I scrapped the podcast plan, jumping straight into my five and a half hour long running playlist. I was immediately justified when shuffle threw up Carly Rae Jepsen's aural performance enhancing drug, Cut To The Feeling. People streamed past me but I didn't mind - my watch was my pacer. Besides, I surmised, I'd go past them later on, when I've got energy to spare and they're crawling along!
Two kilometres down and we turned onto the seafront to head west. The wind was at our backs, the sun too, and a ray of sunshine shone ahead of me when I saw my wife taking photos. The route was more or less an out-and-back course covered twice, and we'd arranged for her to wait in a suitable position for a supply drop just after halfway - and, also, to grab content for social media. I sped on, settling in to my rhythm, my calves having finally warmed up. (Pre-race stretches are not a part of my routine - that's what the first mile is for!) I'd run part of this route two months prior, so had no surprises, and tucked in behind a few people going at the right sort of pace for me. The two hour pacers were somewhere behind me - I had no idea how far, but as long as I was ahead of them, it would be a good thing mentally.
Five k down. A quarter of the way through (more or less), and the equivalent of a parkrun. I was chuntering along past the inter-war bungalows, with the 10k runners intermingling, and I spotted a familiar face. Mark Brockenhurst, local parkrun legend and a strong reason why I kept up with my running during those difficult early years, was doing the shorter run as part of a recovery program. We had a brief chat before I pulled ahead, wanting to keep my pace.
The sun beat down on us, close enough to the sea but protected from a cooling breeze by a stubborn string of flood defences. With very little shade I made good use of suckling at the plastic teat of my water bottle, knowing that I could swap it for a fresh one at the halfway point. I was confident that I was staying hydrated, but the appearance of a parrot dressed as a pirate in the road ahead of me had me questioning this - especially when he started cheering me on by name! I put this down to having my name visible across my chest, but took a cup at the water station and doused my head with it anyway, just in case.
Amberley Drive was planned to be another part of the planned garden city of Goring-By-Sea, but World War 2 put paid to that, and it's now just a concrete road around a 900 square metre field. Not many trees, so no protection from the sun, but I motored along, around the field and heading back towards town. The next time I did this, I'd have less than a parkrun to go! What was concerning, though, was my left foot steadily going numb. This had happened once before on a run to Lancing two weeks prior - after slowing to walk on that run the feeling came back, and I did the same this time, taking 30 seconds longer on to traverse the 8th kilometre until the blood returned. At this point I made a deal with myself. If I knocked it on the head now I'd have to walk the next 3km back to Dana anyway. As I had to travel that far, I might as well get back up to my usual pace - slightly quicker, to make up for lost time - but if the numbness came back I'd quit straight away and get this checked out before I ran any further.
I carried on, back along the wide seafront road, back up to pace without any issues. By now the faster runners were passing back on their second lap, but I ran into the sun, glad I'd put my sunglasses on. My playlist churned out banger after banger, Ride of the Valkyries segueing into pop rock into dance remixes of dream pop songs. I spotted Dana and sped on, glad that I knew I'd see her again soon after for a fresh drink. The course split for the 10k runners to finish, while us Half-Marathoners took in the loading bays behind Worthing High Street as we turned round for the second lap. The soundtrack was Holding Out For A Hero, and I was holding on to the fact that I'd have the wind behind me again soon. I swapped out my empty bottle for a slightly cooler and significantly more full one and headed off. This was a psychological blow, running away from the finish, knowing that each step was one I'd need to make again on the run back. I consoled myself by looking at all the people streaming towards the end of their first lap, knowing that I was ahead of them, and told myself that I'd done this lap once before so I know I can do it.
Back past the bungalows and I could feel my legs getting heavier. This was nearing the longest run I'd done all year, and I still had more to go. The pounding sun was draining and it felt like I was running through treacle. The thrash-metal soundtrack was asking a pace of me that I couldn't keep - I skipped to the next track and not even pure pop pleasure could give me a boost. This was a severe cause for concern - not even Carly could help! I could hear a group behind me getting closer and closer and I knew it was the two hour pacer group. They sauntered past me, and this was a kick in the tits. I tried to tell myself that as long as I kept them in sight I could possibly reel them back in with a sprint finish near the end, but I knew this was it for a sub-2 hour time. I grimly kept with them as far as the water station, drenching myself again, but I was fighting a losing battle.
Footage from the official Twitter. I look shattered.
I chuntered around the field, telling myself that I had less than a parkrun to go, seeing the gap to the pacers increase with every step. With just over 4km to go I passed a copse of trees and decided that if I was going to finish this, I was going to do it with an empty bladder and watered the plants. Relieved and with a fresh spring in my step, I bounded back onto the route, with renewed optimism!
This lasted all of 500m before I realised how far ahead the pacers were and the rest that I'd given my body wore off. Seeing them disappearing in the distance, I slowed to walk a couple of times, catching my breath and finishing my cola bottles. Sub-2 was not an option. A Half-Marathon Personal Best time was out the window. But I was damned sure I was going to set a personal course best, and if the 2:15 pacers tried to overtake me, I'd trip them up! I wasn't going to trip them up. Probably.
Rihanna gave way to Chvrches, and I turned the corner onto the home straight. The long, final 2km. The end was in sight, I guess, I assumed that blur on the horizon was the finishing line. I told myself that if I slowed down to walk then I would not get a beer afterwards. I fixed my stare on the nearest person in front of me and slowly reeled them in, passing them and doing the same on the next person. My hips barely moved, it seemed that my knees and feet were doing all the work. More Carly on my soundtrack. I stopped looking at my watch, I didn't want it to demoralise me. The crowds deepened as I approached the final 100m. A few paces ahead of me was an older guy running for a local hospice. Just me and him. I could easily beat him to the finishing line, but he was running for charity, I was doing it for fun. I wasn't gonna take it away from him. I hung back, raising my arms to gee up the crowd and raise the noise level, then hung back even further to make sure he didn't block my finishing line photos.
Poser.
I stumbled through the finishing chute, grabbing as many goodies as I was offered, and found my wonderful wife. We retired to sit in the shade, and I dunked water over myself to cool down. I knew I'd lost a lot of fluids so rehydrated as quickly as I could. I felt good, slightly disappointed that I hadn't beaten my previous time, but proud that I'd done it. Eight years ago I struggled to complete a 4.5km run, averaging a pace of 7 minutes and 40 seconds. Even my slowest km during this was half a minute faster.
It's a cool picture, but not for £16!
