Date: Sunday, March 17, 2019
Distance: 13.1 miles/21 km – the Palace Half Marathon, Hampton Court
Listened to: About three songs of my prepared playlist, other people’s heavy breathing, cheers from my dear friends and daughters, and John’s encouraging words
Hi there, my name is Caroline Moore and I am a glutton for punishment! Having agonised over doing a 10k back in May last year and running up one hill, a half marathon was not really on the agenda…until Christmas Day.
Kind of a funny story. I decided I would aim for a half marathon in 2019, but having almost paralysed myself with nerves on the start line of the Bristol 10k, I bought a place for myself and for my husband John so he could help me through the dreaded pre-race build-up. It would be something we could at least start together and notch up as a shared experience. I bought us places for the Exeter Great West Run in October thinking that would give me 10 months to train and prepare. I printed out the vouchers, popped them in a card and placed it under the tree.
Another envelope appeared under the tree. This had yesterday’s half marathon vouchers in it. This one has my name on it.
I opened mine first and nearly choked on my bucks fizz. The original card actually said February as there are two half marathons in Hampton Court, but luckily for me it was the second one. BUT STILL…MARCH!!! Oh, the irony. There was I thinking I was all brave for booking one for October. I just had to get an awful lot braver and fitter!
Hilarity and mild panic aside, I applied myself to the task at hand. I kept running and tried to extend my distances, but aside from a select few, I kept the impending half to myself and swore my nearest and dearest to secrecy.
My thought-process behind the secrecy was not being sure I would make it to the start line. I’m a sucker for an inconvenient cold. In fact, I got one on the weekend of the other Hampton half, so good job we weren’t running that one. I also was not convinced I could do it. I did not want the pressure of sponsorship and good luck messages if all I was going to do was freeze at the start or collapse at the end.
The cat did get out the bag though and I was the one who let it out. I had a little calf injury at the start of the month and I went on a little running loop to test it out week before the half. This run was King Rubbish! I did not have any hills legs, I forgot how to breathe, I was panicking and I pulled up on the flat…I had not done that for more than a year. The calf was fine but my brain was imploding with self doubt. As I angrily walked home, I sent texts to some of friends who knew I was doing it, and one that didn’t, to give me a pep talk.
I had completed a running challenge with Cath (the friend who did not know) and I felt bad for not telling her. I also knew that she specialised in brutal honesty and would not dress anything up. She called me a “secretive minx” and then said: “You will not fail – that’s not in your vocabulary.” Not sure if that’s entirely true, but her comments and those of my other friends convinced me I could get to the start line.
I think the start line starts two weeks before a race for me. I think/worry about running a lot of the time. I dream about it. I wake up thinking about it. I do not sleep so well. Ideal preparation!
I did do some sensible things. Hydrated like a trooper in the two weeks beforehand, tried to eat well and backed off training a bit in a bid to have fresh legs on the day. I also started telling people I was doing it. If I told people I was scared and stopped bottling it all up, then maybe the fear fibres in my legs would disappear. Everyone was so encouraging and seemed to have belief in me; I just needed to prove that belief was well placed.
The one grain of hope was that the Palace Half is a flat course. No Devon hills to try to conquer. I also knew I had trained for it, I would be well fed the night before by my lovely friend Mel, and John would be my side for the excruciating shaky and lonely bit before a race starts.
Getting to the start line on a cold but sunny day was a big deal. Better though, was beginning to run and realising my legs were going to behave themselves. When I started the Bristol race, my legs were leaden. They felt so heavy and I just wanted to stop. This time, the legs behaved for nine miles! With John by my side, I did not panic.
I still do not think I am cut out for races. I do not like running with anyone let alone 3,500 others! I do not really like hearing the heavy breathing of others or the jostling for places. I also get distracted by the sad signs on people’s backs. However, the range of shapes and sizes that runners come in never ceases to amaze me. I am truly in awe of the people who just have the determination to get round and it makes me feel humble for even thinking about being scared.
It was also so lovely to see Mel, her daughter and puppy, and my girls at the two and nine-mile points. My friend Emma also popped up as a surprise at the eight-mile point and ran with us for a while.
After mile nine though (I stopped smiling and waving), I hit a wall. I was done….which was unfortunate as I had four miles to go! Poor John. I was snappy and wobbly. I walked a bit, then I ran, then I put my headphones in, then I pulled them out. I had lost my head. Then as we headed into the last two miles, we entered Home Park. It was muddy underfoot and made my aching left quad and sore right knee protest. I was really done. The walk-cum-run scenario continued,.Again…poor John.
Even with the finish almost in sight and my chief cheerers running at my side, I could barely run anymore. I just held John’s hand and walked a few more metres before we ran over the line together. It makes me feel emotional thinking about it a day after the event, but at the time I had no energy or spare liquid left in my body to muster a tear. I was, however, ecstatic to have made it over the line. I had done it. I was beaming from ear to ear. The pains and mental torment of just a few minutes before were gone in a nanosecond as I collected my medal and hugged my crew.
As soon as we finished, we both said we did not want to do the Exeter race in October…but even less than 24 hours later, I am not convinced, despite the awful stomach ache I endured in the aftermath and evening. I would still like to run a good half and not hit the wall. I also think John should be allowed to run at his pace, rather than snailing around with me!
I think I need to be fitter and experience more long runs. I need to consider what water I drink and if I need to take on gels. There is so much science that goes into running, but my brain isn’t ready for all that. It will be just something else I will have to obsess over and worry about!
For those of you who have read my early blogs, you will know I began running regularly in 2018 to honour my Dad who was very unwell with vascular dementia. He could barely walk at the time so I started running and training for a race. The reason for carrying on with this blog despite running the 10k I was aiming for and Dad now no longer with us, is that I think it is important for the average runners to tell their story.
I have read a few running books and very few of them are about being slow runners that are full of self doubt. Yet, I know there are plenty of slow runners out there who just keep putting one foot in front of the one and still achieve great things. To me, facing a race knowing you are are going to finish two to two-and-a-half hours behind the winner takes more mental fortitude that being a champion. That takes epic strength from within.
Cath may have been right. I knew I would finish even if I had to limp in. I recorded a time of 02:24:04 (my chip time) and came 126th out of 238 women runners aged between 45 and 50. I enjoyed the first nine miles. I have a memory that I can share forever with John (thank you my love). I made my girls proud of me. I am proud of myself for doing something I never thought I would do.
#runningfordad #slowrunningisstillrunning #slowchick
PS. Thanks for all the well done message I have received on social media and in person. You are all lovely.
Running for Dad 