Fear of Malcs in a Dress: Asics 26.2

Vote Malcolm Barbour! 

I am so excited!! One of my running friends has been selected by Runners World and Asics to be trained for the Paris Marathon!

Only there’s a catch ... he has to beat off some competition first ... 

Now the lovely Malcs, in an effort to win your vote has been entirely selfless. He is entered into the Thunder Run 24 #allin24 next year and has offered to help us all speed up our laps by doing his laps in a dress.

Now how is Malcs in a dress going to help us? I hear you ask.

Well there is no way I want to see Malc’s sweaty arse running along in front of me in a dress. I am going to MAKE SURE that I am in front of him at all times. 

Ta-da! Instant lap time improvement. Speed through fear-of-arse. 

Will YOU vote for Malcs-In-A-Dress? You don’t have to sign up, just click a button here.

Undeserved Praise & Warm Fuzzy Feeling: Dashing Divas

Wow! Over at Dashing Divas I have been described as an inspirational runner. Now  while I am honoured by such undeserved praise, I am actually convinced she really meant  irrational runner.

Irrational I can understand. If I’m not obsessing over exactly how much loo roll it’s wise to bring on long runs (as many squares as you can fit in your running belt while leaving room for gels, phone and keys), I’m choosing running socks by basing the decision solely on the number of neon dots I can get on each leg.  (38)

When I think of someone inspirational I think of a paragon of virtue and a dedication to the cause.

Certainly not someone whose current injury was brought about by falling off a revolving dancefloor on Saturday night (cough) and while my dedication to my cause cannot be brought into question, the cause is in fact a lifetime hunt to find and devour crème eggs and snaffle as much mulled wine as possible before the Christmas season is over. 

However, Siany has written a lovely post that makes me all fuzzy inside and she is also the driving force behind the #sub50project 10k. You’ve probably all seen the hashtag on twitter and if you’d like to join in to smash those 10k PBs then you can follow Siany here.

http://dashing-divas.com

My First. My Love. The End. I'm Leaving You ...

It was time. But it didn’t stop me feeling guilty, traitorous or sneaky. I was getting nothing out of the relationship any more, there was no connection, I felt like you only wanted me for my money.  

Plus we never got together any more. It was always the wrong time or the wrong place.

I had lots of happy memories with you, remembering laughing and running with the wind in my face. Although there were not-so-happy memories too, of me shivering and cold. There was a lot of fun, but also times that felt like hell. I remember feeling so nervous that I wanted to throw up.

My track record isn’t great, but you were there to welcome me in. To make me feel like I belonged.

You showed me new places, new paths to follow, new tracks.

We were a team, you and I.

However, after a while a few cracks started showing. I tried to ignore them but soon I realised that we weren’t such a great match.

You started to choose what I wore. Tops in certain colours, that made me visible, so you could see me, keep track of me.  Particular shoes or I wasn’t good enough.

Making me pay such for time with you. Don’t you love me? Do you really need me to pay £100 just to be with you? It’s not as if you even give me cake any more. I don’t even get a strawberry shoelace.

You make me feel old. When I turn up to be with you, I’m surrounded by 15 year olds. And they’re all younger and better heeled than me. They talk and move at the speed of sound while I tag along. And I sulk.

I miss the social side.  I want to talk to you, share my news and make you proud of me. But I never see you any more. Our schedules are different.

But you’ll always be my First. And I’ll never forget you.

My running club.

Twitter Buddies & Knowing Where the Good Cake Is

Isn’t it brilliant when twitter buddies turn into real-life friends? Especially when they know where the best cake shops are. There are good friends ... then there are good friends with cake. If she ALSO knows where the good pubs are I will be adopting @TheLozzatron as new best friend.   

Bad pic: blame me for stashing cash in strange place and an old lady with a shaky hand.

I’d arranged to run with Lozza around Newbold Comyn in Leamington Spa and she had agreed – in exchange for a Cadburys crème egg – to take me to a cake shop after the run. So a run in the park AND baked goods! Is there a downside to this?

Indeed there was. Lozza had ‘forgotten’ to tell me beforehand that she had planned to make me earn my treats by running up The Hill. Not just any hill. This was Hill of Death. With a beacon on top like a taunting spiky ice cream cone. And due to a sore ankle, she had planned to take the role of ‘Shouty Coach’ while I ran up and down the hill.

Luckily she’d forgotten her whistle and shouty voice.

But I STILL wasn’t convinced. This hill looked steep. And cliff-like. And there didn’t seem to be anything at the top that was worth running up for. E.g. A cake shop.  

I’d like to say I manned up and did a blistering workout, sprinting up and down hills like a Duracell bunny in lycra. In actual fact I ran up the hill once and used a poorly calf (lower leg not suffering small cow) as an excuse to head straight to the cake shop. Sorry Lozza. But in my defence it WAS a steep hill and it’s rude to keep cake waiting.

Caaaake!! Go visit them here

Head Banging & Hill Running

Had a head/wall moment this week.

Went to the gym and forgot my KIT. I remembered my gym bag, it just didn’t contain any kit. This was sitting on the end of my bed 30 miles away waiting for me to pick it up and put into my gym bag .

Bugger.

So went for a walk instead. This was fine and got me out into the fresh air which is apparently good and healthy. And cold. However it didn’t have the same element of fun as the gym. So upon finding an AWESOME hill I decided it needed running down.

So I did.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!

Office blouse plastered against me, handbag flying out behind and knee high boots firmly on feet, I FLEW down the hill.

BIG grin.

Fed by Broom & Whipped Cream Thief: Winter Wolf Race Report

We park in a field. It’s cold. 

Jo turns to me accusingly. “No one else is wearing vests. Look that man’s got a woolly hat on. And gloves. We’re going to freeze.” What can I say? Vests had seemed a good idea at the time. A time before I’d remembered it was November. And cold. I hadn’t even brought a bin bag to wear at the start line. “Sorry.”

I looked around.  No one else is wearing vests. Except for that very hairy man. And he looks like he’s wearing it over a brown curly jumper.

There were a lot of people wearing fairy outfits though. It seemed to be almost a Wolf Run theme. Going to get covered in mud and crap? Swim some streams? Why not do it in a fairy outfit! You think you’ll look stupid doing it in normal gear? Well, why not look EXTRA stupid?! A tutu seem to be the domain of super-fast chaps and middle-aged woman. I guess that’s when I know it’s crisis point for me. An urge to wear a tutu, Sarah? You’re either gender-confused or about to hit middle age. 

Registration was simple. A signed disclaimer form was exchanged for an envelope with our names, our bib number and a coloured wristband which we assumed denoted our start time. Nice and simple. As an added touch we got our numbers written on our foreheads with a magic marker. We were hoping the marker would be magic enough to withstand bogs, mud and open water swimming, but still wash off in the shower. 

The warm up was run by a military fitness chap and involved getting shouted at, lying on the ground to do exercises and jumping around giving each other high 5s. I’m always a bit suspicious of people who shout at us to do things but don’t do them themselves. I bet I’d be good standing around shouting at people while wearing a nice thick jacket as well. Rather than in a tiny vest. Bloody hell it’s cold. 

The horn blew and the very first obstacle was immediate. A splashy jump-into-and-wade across a lake. Cold water, but at least I wasn’t wearing heavy layers which would weigh me down. Off and out the other side and onto a bit of nice muddy trail running, tree-trunk-jumping and dodging through the woods. This is the bit of these challenges I enjoy the most; running on an interesting path knowing there are people to chase down ahead. Jo and I were first women in our wave but we knew the next wave was only 10 minutes ahead. We just had to make sure we stayed in front of anyone else wearing pink wristbands. Competitive? Us? Of course not. (Cough) We just want to make sure it’s safe for everyone else. By um ... checking it out first. 

A decision. A choice of two paths through some thick bushes. I took the right, Jo took the left and we converged at the start of a windy, muddy fun-to-run trail. This is trail running at its best. Fast, fun and muddy. The path went over a series of high hills and deep ditches. No flat parts and had to keep the momentum going to get up the other side. It was strength sapping. But fun.

Notable points of the challenge:

Taking Up Permanent Residence in the Bog. 
I got myself stuck in the bog. Properly stuck. In mud about waist height. A nice chap tried to help me out but had to give up as I was securely embedded in thick black muck. I had a moment where I thought I’d have to stay there, surviving by being passed food and drink on the end of a broom lowered out over the mud. Ended up pulling self out using handy tree. Suspect may have had to have help getting out without tree. Such as tractor, length of rope and extreme embarrassment.  

Really smelly bogs. 
I don’t know whether several runners had soiled themselves in fear of never extricating themselves from the mud or whether the bogs were made with the help of manure but they stank. As a result, I stank. But on the plus side if I took a wrong turn on the course the marshals – supposing their sense of smell hadn’t already been completely destroyed – should be able to sniff me out and rescue me. Rescue possibly after a hose down. 

Am a Foamy Sliding Machine!
A massive slide down the side of the hillside made out of polythene sheets with water and washing-up liquid. I managed to get a good speed up and took 2 people down with me. Luckily they’ll never be able to identify me as the marshals got overenthusiastic with the washing up liquid and I look as though I’ve been hit in the face with the most unfunny custard clown pie ever. 

Trail Running Vs Obstacles.
Overtaking people on the trail running bits and GETTING overtaken on the muddy bits. It was obvious where my strengths and weaknesses were. Strengths: Running in mud and on trails – yes please! Weaknesses: pulling self out of bogs, climbing up cargo nets, swimming in lakes. Basically ... the obstacles.

Pyramid Cargo Net ... of DEATH
The pyramid cargo net is my nemesis. I just don’t like climbing to a height on what is basically plaited hair, swinging my leg over the top and trusting my life to the mud encrusted, slimy strands at the top and then climbing back down the other side with the possibility of being hit by a hurtling body as another climber misjudges their grip. The ropes at school in PE? No problem. Abseiling? No problem. Cargo net? No thanks. Although there is apparently a trick to it. Jo showed me quickest way to climb cargo nets: keep one of the vertical rope parts in front of you and climb like a rope at school at PE. Doing it this way means it’ll stay taut and not move around. Still didn’t solve the ‘hurtling body’ body dilemma. 

Have Discovered Amazing New Swimming Style
The Winter Wolf had a lot of water obstacles and included were several wades up a stream, swim/wades across lakes and a ditch swim. For the taller runners this wasn’t a problem, waist-high water – no problem. For someone of my shorter stature this was nipple-height freezing cold water and was as fast to swim as to attempt to wade. I tried several different techniques with varying success. Front crawl involved putting face into brown murky water which had the muck coming off the several hundred runners in front of us in; spit, mud and urine. Backstroke was slow and had the big disadvantage of not being able to see where I was going. Wading was just splashy and slow. I ended up using a less-than-graceful stroke I like to call the Breast Paddle. Rather than an S&M device it sounds like, it was a cross between Breast Stroke and Doggy Paddle.

We had to cross the first obstacle again – a splashy-wade-run through a lake to get to the finish and we posed for our pictures by the poster and made the obligatory ’grin and ‘arms raised’ pose as is demanded at the end of races. Our beautiful smiles and triumphant poses which are somehow transformed by the sneaky photographers into ‘gurn and zombie poses’. 

We collected a goodie bag containing Clif Bar (which was very welcome – like a chocolate hug!), technical t-shirt and water and space blanket.  It was at this point Jo realised that the wristbands showed T-shirt size NOT wave time. That made sense. Despite running like crazy ladies we had been wondering how so many people in our wave got such a good head start on us ...

We stood there dripping in front of the Wolf Run sign and looked at the amounts of mud we had collected. Jo turned to me. “I think we were right to wear vests.” We looked around and saw the groups of spectators wearing thick winter coats, scarves and woolly hats. “Maybe it’s time to put something dry on now though.”

We stopped only to collect a thick hot chocolate with whipped cream AND a flake in. The proper way to enjoy hot chocolate. I paid the poor chocolate van man with quite possibly the soggiest tenner ever which I held ever so gently in case it disintegrated before I palmed it off on him. The beautiful hot chocolate moment was only spoiled by a sudden gust of wind decorating a nearby bloke with my whipped cream. Cream thief. He was also covered in mud so couldn’t even attempt to siphon it off with a straw in an attempt to retrieve it. At least he didn’t get my flake. 

It was less than a 10 minute walk to the car, but we were shivering and covered in mud, manure and straw although a significant proportion of this had been washed off by our last splashy wade through the lake. 

We had been organised enough to remember a towel each and a change of clothes thankfully as it was very, very cold and we needed to get changed into warm, dry clothes as soon as possible. Not having the room in the car, I stood outside and whipped off my vest and tied my silver space blanket around my waist like a girlie space man. 

I got my damp gear off by degrees although the gusty wind threatened to lift the space blanket and flash my arse. It wouldn’t have been a good sight with the mud and straw - the sort of thing only the strange, strange people turned on by Worzel Gummidge would have found attractive. I pulled a top on and tried to get my jeans on. Skinny jeans are NOT the best idea when hands are cold and legs are damp. I got the jeans halfway up my legs and they stuck fast. Great. I was going to have to get in the car, apologise profusely to Jo and explain that she was going to have to drive me home while I was wearing a space blanket skirt, a pair of jeans ‘penguin style’ and a pair of damp knickers with straw and mud stuck around. 

Worzel Gummidge Picture Source

Crap. How was I going to explain that? Tugged harder on jeans and my frozen fingers responded and I finally got my jeans over my arse. Phew. New t-shirt on and a warm top over it and I was starting to feel less Mud Monster and more Slightly Grubby Runner. 

Top run! Although I did take a few things away from it:  

Learning points: 

• Don’t wear skinny jeans to change into. Unless you want to scare friends or flash arse at strangers.
• Practise swimming in full running kit. After next cross country run should attempt to hurl self into nearest body of water. 
• Get yourself Wolf Run Slide-ready by inhaling washing up bubbles while cleaning plates in sink.
• Don’t drink hot chocolate when it’s windy. Unless you’re prepared to lick muddy strangers.

Bleeding Eyeballs & Strawberry Shoelaces: English National Cross Country Relays Race Report

I wasn’t sure I was doing this right. It would be a 2 hour drive to Mansfield, for a run that would last 15 minutes. Not sure that’s the right way round. However, I’d been told there was cake so I was in.

I’d run this race before and I had vague remembrances of mud, elbows and swearing that I would never do it again. I dismissed it. My memory is unreliable. I LIKE running. Besides it’s only 3km and that’ll take me a few minutes then I can go and find this cake that I’ve been promised.

I was a bit concerned that I was in the wrong team. I liked my team mates but I was definitely the weak link in this relay. Emily was the club’s cross country star and one of their top ladies and was more than capable of a brilliant sub 18 time on a hilly 5k course. And Angela Copson who held multiple running WORLD RECORDS!. And me. Me who falls into ditches, is unreliable on any distance less than about 5 miles (and even then I stop to take pictures of alpacas) and who has done precisely 3 cross country races in her life. Including the one where I was 13 and gave up after ½ a mile. Although in my defence I started running again once I’d scored a sweetie off the marshal.   

We arrived in a field full of young people in running shorts and craggy old men with white hair and thick coats. The clatter of spikes, the queues for the portaloos and the sound of a horn signalling the start of a race. There was mud, wind, rain and enthusiasm. We moved through the field, a colourful mess of team tents, club colours and flags and finally found the team tent in the usual chaos of bags, unattended trainers and under 17s. And 2 giant boxes of strawberry shoelace sweeties. Brilliant.

Strawberry shoelaces Source

The weather was undecided so I wasn’t sure which shoes to go for so had brought my Salomon Crossfire 3 and New Balance spikes although it was the first time I’d raced in these. I asked the more experienced runners what they’d recommend and the result was unanimous – spikes.  

My nervous energy was keeping me warm as I jittered from one foot to the other. Emily was on the first leg of the relay and was running the first 3km. We ran a warm-up together and decided to run the lower half of the circuit. We got just to the open part by the lake when the skies opened. It was the throw-a-bucket type rain which meant you were drenched within 30 seconds. Oh well. At least if I fell in one of the bogs I’d already be wet.

Walked up to the starting pens with Angela and we caught sight of Emily waiting to go. We waved and bellowed to wish her luck. They called them all through onto the field, the gun fired and they were off in a jostle of elbows, spikes and flying mud.

Ladies at English National Cross Country Relays Source

The marshal, weathered and ancient called the 2^nd leg through and told us we’d hear our team mate’s number being called over the tannoy as they came up the field. There was no baton or anything like that. Your teammate finished on one side of a barrier and you set off on the other. No cross over at all. And what the marshal meant when he said you’d hear it on the tannoy was “The tannoy doesn’t work but if you’re lucky you might hear it muttered.”

I had 2 seconds warning of Emily coming in. Checked it was her then dashed through the hordes of girls in front of the line and pegged it across the line.

Run as fast as I can while trying to keep pace maintainable. Overtaken by the first person. Crap. Don’t try to catch them now, pick them up near the end when they tire. Just keep running. Check Garmin – am running at 5:56 min/miles. Crap, can’t run at 5:56 min/miles. Passed by second girl. Crap crap. Splosh through a boggy muddy bit. Wet feet. Just keep running. Ooh into the woods. More mud. Round the duck pond. Where are the ducks? Mud! Argh! More people coming!! Just run Sarah! Don’t let Emily and Angela down! Argh! More mud. Stupid wrong spikes don’t have much grip and feet are doing spinning roadrunner impression. Up the hill. Puff, pant. Ooh downhill. Argh slippy leaves. Uphill. More woods. Eyesight is actually going blurry. Am running as hard as I can in these conditions and with roadrunner spinning feet. Just keep running (to tune of Just Keep Swimming in Finding Nemo) just keep running. Ok, mustn’t kill self by going too hard now and fading at end but have to keep pushing. Out of the woods. Hooray!! Someone with a tannoy shouts “Go on Rugby & Northampton”. Feels as though I am running in slow motion but going fast as I can. Stupid uphills. Stupid running. Push push. Just keep running. Stupid grass. More woods. Stupid woods. And downhill!! Stupid downhill. Legs hurt and it feels as though eyeballs are bleeding. Just keep running and final uphill. Girl just in front. Must overtake her. Stupid slippy hill. Push push and there’s the finish!! Phew! Can sit down.

Sit down. Check eyeballs. Relieved to find not in actual fact bleeding. Legs appear intact despite what senses are telling me. Stupid short distances. Stupid cross country. And it was raining.        

Cheered in Angela and got back to Rugby & Northampton tent. Which wasn’t there. It had been taken down in my absence and some git had eaten all the strawberry shoelaces.

Walked back to the car and stopped at the stall to buy a ‘English National Cross Country Relays’ hooded sweatshirt ... which was now only available in 14 – 15 years. Sigh.

Got to the car and finally started getting feeling back in my hands. My face returned to a normal colour and my vision started coming back. 

Emily turned to me in the car: “How did you find that?”

“Brilliant.” I said. “When can I do that again?”

RESULTS: 51^st club

0:37:53.80 Rugby & Northampton AC

0:11:03.10 Emily

0:13:27.45  Sarah

0:13:23.25  Angela

Apologies and Bogies

An apology … I'm so sorry for the lack of posts recently. Don't blame me! Blame the stinking cold and the prodigious amount of bogies produced!! (Points finger of blame at cold)

The Skeleton Run - Massive Cow Fear & Night Hill Running

Running through the darkness, my breath was ragged in my throat and it seemed like the hill would never end. I was running hard, but in the small white circle from my headtorch, all I could see was the trail stretching upwards, steeper and steeper. Then all of a sudden a huge, shaggy monster rose in front of me. In the light of my headtorch, a rolling eye and huge, wide horns tipped with a devilishly sharp point were suddenly visible. 

“Bugger me” said the skeleton who was running next to me. 

I didn’t have the breath to respond but I understood the sentiment. When I signed up for The Skeleton Run, I was expecting darkness, massive hills and awesome fancy dress, but hadn’t expected Highland Cattle to be among the scary beasts on the trails. I had expected zombies, corpse brides, skeletons, superheroes and Grim Reapers but hadn’t thought I’d need to worry about becoming kebabed on the horns of a huge cow. Or burying my feet up to the knees in a (monster) cow pat.

Edging around the cows who were standing in the middle of the trail, it gave us an extra incentive to find some more speed up the first hill. I’d started off far too fast and as the hill became steeper and steeper I was beginning to regret some of my earlier enthusiasm. I knew that the first mile was all uphill, becoming more sheer towards the top ... but surely I must have run at least 2 miles by now? I was panting like a dirty caller and even with the Massive Cow Fear I knew I was slowing down.

I could see orange lights sparkling on my right, far below and knew them to be Loughborough and realised that coming up on my left would be the Old Man, the rock formation shaped like the profile of an old man. It was far too dark to see anything, but I was sure that a patch of black was slightly less black than the darkness around it. Around me skeletons, corpse brides and ghosts were grinding to a halt and starting to walk. I knew there couldn’t be much further to go of this hill ... pride and Cow Fear kept me running. 

Suddenly there was a feeling of space then the path cut through a narrow gate and then – gloriously – a steep hill below. The next mile was all downhill and it was a chance to try and regain some of the time lost on the first steep uphill. The path was corroded and bumpy but my feet flew over it. I tried consciously to relax my shoulders and to persuade my body that this was it’s recovery. Despite doing a sub-7 minute mile.

I flew down the hill, stones rolling under my feet, chasing the small white circle of light my headtorch cast on the ground. Occasionally there was a glow stick hanging from a tree to mark the route and sometimes you could see the headlights of other runners through the trees, glowing like werlights. It was too dark to judge the how far away they were, you could just see the circles of light like an eerie procession through the gloom. 

There was a drinks station at the bottom of the hill at mile 2 but I didn’t stop and swerved sharply to the right following the path down a gentle hill ... then up. And up. And up. I’d started too fast on the first hill from enthusiasm and from not wanting to be trampled in the stampede of witches and skeletons and I could feel my legs wanting to slow now. The hill felt never ending, I’d raise my head and spot a landmark on the path ahead – a pale nettle, a stick on the path, a dark tree trunk and focus on that, then look for the next. I had company, someone running with me at my shoulder but neither of us had energy or breath to spare to speak, we just ran together on and on ... and on. If there was a runner’s limbo, this was it.

The hill just wound up and up and it felt like a horrible déjà vu. Every section looked the same, the hill reaching up as far as the headtorch could reach. My companion slowed and said “I can’t run any more”. I told him “It opens up ahead, we’re nearly there.” He started running again, my invisible companion at my shoulder. I had been persuading myself as much as I was persuading him, but I knew the hill had to be nearly finished. Please. No more ... We turned another corner and there was more uphill and the path just looked the same. Dark, treelined and stretching upwards. The path was blocked by a fallen tree. We jumped it and suddenly - like a spell had been lifted - the trees disappeared and we crossed an area of darkness which had no trees that despite the pressing dark, felt like a wide open space. We passed through a gate and finally, finally the path sloped ... downwards. 

I tried to consciously ease my breath and relaxed my shoulders and took advantage of the downhill to push the speed and try and regain some of the time spent plodding up the hill. The next mile was undulating - which as any runner knows means it’s hilly, horribly hilly but it was a change from the never ending uphill and I tried to keep pushing the speed and take advantage of the downhills. I knew I wasn’t going to be breaking any PBs on this course, but I wanted to push myself. And I was damned if I was going to be beaten by some bloke dressed as a pumpkin. 

The path curved round a corner and into a sharp uphill. My quads groaned, but I remembered this hill! This was the last uphill! The LAST one!! I coerced my legs into as much of a fast run as they’d allow and pushed on. I spotted a marshall lurking suspiciously behind a tree and remembered that last year one had leapt out at me with a bloodcurdling howl. At the time I’d been extremely impressed with not wetting myself at the apparition. That was the REAL win of 2012. I kept my headtorch focused on the lurker, determined not to be caught by surprise this year. I was wearing a cop outfit and felt that the effect may be ruined by a pervasive smell of urine. 

I rounded the corner, through the gate and onto the final mile. From here on it was ALL downhill to the finish line! I tugged my police officers hat straight, straightened my handcuffs and kept a firm grip on the truncheon ... right. Time to test the legs. I flew down the hill, following the winding path in between the trees, trying to keep going, to eep the speed up. As I ran I was conscious of a light behind me, another runner closing the gap. I pushed harder, increased the speed, tried to widen the gap. I didn’t know whether it was a man or a woman, but I didn’t want to be overtaken by anyone this late in the race if I could help it. I hadn’t checked my pace at  any point in the run but I’d kept pushing and had hoped it would be enough to stop anyone catching me up. It wasn’t. The light behind me came closer. I dug deeper and pushed harder. The light receded slightly. I saw lights in the trees and knew the finish line must be close. A sharp corner and deep mud took me by surprise and I nearly lost my footing. I regained and saw the bright lights of the finish and a row of people watching. Not now! I can’t lose my place now. I sprinted for the line. Push! The final stretch should be the easiest bit but it felt hard and I was conscious that I could be overtaken by the other runner at any moment. And THROUGH. Across the line. 

Me and Superwoman ... also known as @Vickyemmamurphy

I collapsed on the cold grass with my arms full of goodies: a lovely medal shaped like a skull, a tshirt and a toffee apple. I heard a “Hello” and the runner who had chased me down the last hill introduced himself (Waves at Andy). I was thankful to meet the person who had kept me pushing the speed although not as relieved as having the opportunity to finally stop running up hills. Mustering the energy, I dragged myself up off the grass and went to cheer on the other runners. There’s nothing quite like watching Dracula and the Grim Reaper battle it out in a sprint finish. Except possibly trying not to look to closely as a group of blokes in ‘Sexy Santa’ dresses try to reach the finish line without flashing their Halloween Horrors at the crowd. 

Buff, water bottle, t shirt, skull medal, helmet/hand/ bike torch - my awesome haul for being 2nd lady!

RESULTS

Hope Skeleton run

2nd woman/121
23rd / 245
38:23

Full Garmin info here

You can get further information on the Skeleton Run or view further pictures by James Kirby on their Facebook page here here

I'm All Spiky!!

Look what I got!! Swanky, right? 

However, I told a work friend about my new running spikes only to be met with a raised eyebrow and a sarcastic comment: “Really? With the amount you fall over?” Charming. Anyone would think I’m completely unable to stand upright.

He then followed this up with “You’ll do yourself a serious injury.” I wouldn’t mind but this is a friend I’ve run with before. And while there may have been a small amount of falling over. Ok. A LOT of falling over but this was due ENTIRELY to the fact I was wearing inappropriate footwear (road trainers during a particularly muddy cross country run). Something I’d hope to rectify with the purchase of the spikes.

For his peace of mind, I advised that I was planning on driving to a remote location and running around a field in circles until I was fairly sure I wasn’t going to be deemed a hazard. To others. I was still pretty confident I’d still be able to damage myself with the old tried-and-tested favourites: ‘stand on own feet and puncture toes’ and ‘get legs tangled while navigating tricky section and take chunk out of own calf.’ And not forgetting the good old ‘stand on own fingers while trying to tie laces’. 

I was also slightly confused as to the difference between track spikes and cross country spikes. I had a quick look online. Actually ... there didn’t seem to be a lot of difference. I used to have to run cross country at school in my hockey boots. It was muddy, miserable and cold. When I was about 13 I ended up in one of the school cross country runs once because I wasn’t paying attention and didn’t realise what I’d been signed up for. 

We turned up to a posh school with all of these other girls in their special running shoes while I stood there in my hockey boots wondering what on earth was going on. The gun went off and I sprinted about ¼ mile up a road with the all the other girls in a rush and then worn out, I went and stood next to a marshal who gave me one of his sweets. I then got bored watching everyone else so went back out and started overtaking as many people as I could finally finishing off 15^th out of 60^th. Very average. But I got a sweetie out of it so it wasn’t a complete loss. 

It must have put me off running though as I didn’t do any again until I was 29 when I started running on a treadmill ... but that is a whole other story ... 

My 7 (Running) Dwarves

I saw this tweet from @UKRunChat and it made me wonder what my 7 running dwarves would be. I like to think I’m a happy, bouncy runner who bounds across the fields full of unlimited joy. But I’m not. I like running. In fact I REALLY like running. But I’m under no illusions. It’s not glamorous – well not for me anyway (Have you SEEN my race pics? I look like a bulldog eating wasps in the throes of a glorious sprint finish) so I came up with this list:

My seven Running Dwarves:

Grumpy, Farty, (with alter ego of 'imminent bowel movement'), Manic, Smiley, Sweary, Sweaty, Tiredy.

The Wicked Witch would probably be named Forgotten-Loo Roll-on-Long-Run. Or possibly Running-Too-Fast-in-First-Few-Miles-of-Marathon.

Things I learned from Bournemouth Marathon

It’s REALLY stupid to run in worn out shoes.

It’s REALLY stupid to go too fast in the early miles.

IT’s REALLY stupid to assume that the sharp steep points on the course gradient map are ‘blips’.

I am stupid.

Getting into the sea in your running clothes feels a bit strange but it numbs marathon-weary feet. Bliss.

If you take off your trainers to get into the sea in your running clothes, you may not be able to get these back on over your lumpy, blistered, sore feet.

Having an ice cream as the first food you eat when you’ve finished a marathon means you’ve spoiled ice cream for yourself. Never again will it taste as good as this.

Toenails are for wimps.

 And finally:

It doesn’t matter how much it hurt, you will be looking at other marathons to enter within a week. Pain fades, but you’ve still got the medal. And the monster inside you screaming for a new PB.

Bournemouth Marathon Race Report: Stupidity, Hills and Trainer Dating

Usually when you’re packing for a race the usual dilemma is which PAIR of trainers to choose. It isn’t usually working out which trainers go together ...

... And I was stumped. I was well aware that I should have treated myself to a new pair of trainers before now, but with the training and general faffing around there hadn’t been a chance for some shoe shopping. So I was trying to match up sole-wear and identify the corresponding mud splats in a colour-chart style manner on 4 separate trainers, all of which looked almost identical. In a muddy, worn out way. I wasn’t brave enough for the smell test. 

They may be MY trainers, but I’m not under any illusions as to their fragrance. If a very wet dog got frisky with some hot-day roadkill and someone covered the result with 3-week old cat litter then we’d probably be about there. I wasn’t putting my nose anywhere near these.

I gave up. I’d spent about an hour on the equivalent of trainer dating. I’d checked their tongues, had a sole-to-sole with each pair, and checked that materially they were compatible ... but couldn’t work out which were the original pairs.  So I gave up. They were to be a foursome. So long as I didn’t end up with two left feet, I’m sure things would work out. 

Up at 6am the next morning. I was only staying 40 miles from Bournemouth but as there is no motorway in the entire county of Dorset (yes ... you read that right), I was to be using A-roads and lanes to get to the race start. Nothing could go wrong, right?

However, despite my worries and having to test my reflexes (and the brakes and power steering) avoiding the occasional kamikaze bunny and Highway-Code-Challenged pheasant, all was going well and there were benefits to being up early and traversing the country lanes. In 2nd gear and driving up the aptly named Zig-Zag Hill and all of a sudden, the hedges disappeared and the most amazing views opened up ....

Once in Bournemouth, the expected traffic queues and confusing diversions didn’t materialise and there was hardly any traffic around. Even more surprisingly there was plenty of parking. That was unexpected. Isn’t it a race law that you’re supposed to be stressed, late and completely unable to find a space or the correct change for the ticket machine?

One Running Law I wasn’t going to break though was Thou Shalt Drink Coffee Before You Race. I went off in search of the scalding black water that usually passed as coffee at running events. 

On the way I found the best running sign ever. It combined advice with threat and concerned about being disqualified before I’d had a chance to start running, I decided I should do as I was told. I’d wee-ed from fear before, from desperation and from too much beer. But never before had I wee-ed from fear of disqualification. It did beg the question though ... how was the Race Director going to check? Instead of a drugs test, were they going to check our wee levels with a quick tummy squeeze before we set off? 

Wow... proper loos ... and toilet paper! Why Race Director, you ARE spoiling us. 

I was concerned. Things were going far TOO well ... Any minute now the Running Gods were going to realise and something was going to go horribly wrong. I was going to get mugged for my (admittedly rather ‘fragrant’) trainers by a passing tramp who had decided they were de rigeur for the vagrants of Bournemouth or I was going to overdose on gels and spend the entire race behaving like a meerkat, sprinting for he nearest hole and occasionally popping my head up to check the marshals hadn’t spotted me. Any ... minute ... now ... Nothing though. All was going ... well. 

The cafe was indoors, warm and smelled of Deep Heat and coffee. Perfect. I obtained my cup of black, scalding water and found a seat. Out of the window I could see the pink well-maintained track of Bournemouth Athletics Club. I looked at the track and thought ‘only 105 laps and I’d have done a marathon’. It sounded a lot less than 26 miles. 

I watched the runners queuing up for their coffees and cakes. Everyone looked different. There were a few racing snakes, lean and obviously runners, but there were bigger people too. People you wouldn’t think were runners but who were wearing their numbers and their well-worn trainers with pride and getting ready for the race just the same. 

I’d already learned from parkrun that you can’t assume. Not about runners. The skinny girl might look like a fast runner but she might also be content with her 12 minute miles and be ecstatic when one day she managed a sub-30 parkrun. I have also been soundly thrashed in several sprints for the line by 15-stone Rugby players. We all looked different. However, our eyes were the same. It doesn’t matter how much you’ve trained, 26 miles is a long way. We were all looking inward, trying to confirm to ourselves that our training, our long runs in the rain, our miles logged were enough. It’s not quite a ‘Gallows’ look. But it’s close enough. 

I had a chat to the lady sitting next to me. She was hoping for sub-4 and had decided to cut time on water stops by using a Camelbak. However, she’d hit a slight snag in that she needed to pin her race number on and had found that safety pins and water bladders weren’t particularly compatible. Unless you wanted to go for the  ‘I may as well water the flowers on the way’ approach to running. She finally managed a devil-may-care lopsided look for her race number and I wasn’t drenched by a holed water bladder. Win. 

It was a gorgeous morning for a run. Sunshine and no wind at all. Apart from the nervous runners around me. I made a mental note not to get into the portaloo queues behind these people. 

I got into my pen, my swanky Bin Bag jacket being the must-have running item of the moment, judging by the number of runners also wearing them. Windproof, waterproof and covers those lumpy bits that lycra just doesn’t hide. I didn’t make the mistake I made last time though. I’d brought a wheelie bin refuse sack with me to a race by mistake and hadn’t cut holes in it for my head and arms to go through. I’d put it over my head and was completely unable to make holes in it from the inside. I must have looked as though I was fighting myself inside a bin bag. Basically trying to get out of the bag was my warmup for the race.  DON’T do this.   

I started getting a bit worried though. I could see the start line for the race only about 25 metres in front of me. Seemed far too close. No pressure, Sarah but you’re going to have to run like you stole something otherwise you’re going to be trampled by the masses behind as they make a sprint for the start line. 

The race started at 10:02 after a 1 minute countdown and I was over the line in under a minute which seemed very impressive for a new race. But did worry me slightly ... This was the second Running Law flouted ... new races are supposed to start at least half an hour late ... 

One of my biggest faults in races is setting off too quickly. I’m aware of this. But still I do nothing about it. It’s completely stupid. I can mess up a race in the first mile and make the later miles really hurt ... and STILL I do nothing. 

I knew my race pace was 7:45 min/miles and I was aiming to maintain this until 20 miles and then to quicken up. So why was I doing 7:30, 7:35? Because I’m bloody stupid. Who wants to run a race properly anyway? You’re supposed to crash and burn at mile 18 in a marathon, right? Slaps forehead. 

Running through the streets and I hear a “Hello! I think we follow each other on Twitter”. Looked around and there was Neil @njr234. Had a bit of a catch up and we discussed paces. We were pelting on, chatting. We discussed what times we were going for, then I looked at my watch. “So if we’re going for those times, then why are we running at 3:15 pace?” Ah. We slowed down. 

Running through the streets of Bournemouth, I realised I was running in a space on my own. And I wasn’t entirely sure why. I’m fairly sure I’m not stinky and I wasn’t trumpeting farts or attempting a snot-rocket frequency record. Plus I was only in mile 3 - not even time to get the Suffering Marathon Runner’s 1000 yard stare and zombie lurch going. I decided it was probably it was just the neon pink socks scaring people away.

A few people were holding signs. There was the standard “Run Daddy Run”, but there were a couple that cheered me up: "Your legs are Kenyan" and Your legs won't thank you today or tomorrow but ..." I didn’t read the rest of the sign before I went past but I reckoned that it was probably pretty accurate. My legs weren’t going to thank me tomorrow. But pride lasts longer than soreness.

We came along to a wide expanse of sky. I couldn’t see the sea but knew it must be just past the grass and below the wall. It was my first landmark. Invisible landmark. Once I saw the seafront I knew I was almost 1/4 of way through. 

The roads were smooth and flat so far but as we got towards the cliffs my lovely flat roads gradually started sloping. They were very slow hills which weren’t a problem and it meant I could maintain the pace and then let go a little on the downhills. Hills are a nice distraction sometimes, a reason to dig a little bit deeper. My idea of hell would be running a marathon on a treadmill. Well maybe not hell .... but purgatory anyway. An ongoing, never ending grey slog.  

I didn’t mind a few gentle and gradual hills but I had a nasty shock at mile 12 as the horizontal very quickly turned into the vertical. 

This wouldn’t be a welcome sight on a running route at ANY time, but at mile 12 of a marathon such a steep hill was not appreciated. People who had trained for a marathon at 7:45 min/mile pace looked at it and started walking around me. I wasn’t going to walk up it - pride wouldn’t let me but there was no way I could maintain my pace up it. It was soul destroying seeing the pace drop so dramatically ... and so early on in the race. 

I ran up slowly trying to maintain effort rather than pace. The problem with hills are that the uphills slow you down faster than the downhills speed you up. I decided not to worry too much. The worst thing I could do here would be to try to maintain pace up this thing, tire legs out and be unable to come back to normal pace at the top of the hill on the flat. 

This was a new course and they’d put the majority of the route along the promenade and the seafront which meant lots of double backs. The turnarounds were tough as you knew that you’d have to retrace your steps the other way and it didn't feel like I was ‘running for home’ like it does on a looped run. It was nice to see the other runners coming the other way  and see the elites battling it out. Although the looks of pain on their faces were a stark reminder of what was to come.

The route takes you onto the pier about mile 12.5. It was lovely running over the boards and seeing the sea sparkling under your feet. I promised myself a dip in the sea as a treat when I’d finished running. Something to look focus on as a treat. The sun was getting hotter and the runners were all trying to stick to the shaded areas. 

At the end of the pier was a bar and a group of men were leaning against the bar doorway watching the runners with bemusement and holding their pints of beer. Running past, I gestured at their cold pints and said “Yeah yeah, rub it in.” And gave them a big grin. One of them ran after me with his pint, holding it out. “There you are, love. It’s yours. It’s just orange juice.” He made my day. He may have been about 70 and dentally challenged but he was brilliant.  

The hills were tough, the sun was hot but the support was great. At about mile 14 I spotted a sock twin - a girl who must have run the half marathon also in eye blisteringly pink socks. I bellowed “Sock twin!!” as I ran past and got a cheer. On the double-backs I saw Bat Girl going the other way, I was overtaken - and later overtook - Fred Flintstone complete with club, Sid in a morph suit and running strongly. A man in a pink tutu came flying past going the other way, maybe he had spotted his Christmas tree. 

The marshals were also brilliant, really enthusiastic. They were cheering and shouting every runner’s name out and being really positive and happy. Just brilliant. They really made it easier and every single one had a big grin. Apart from the one at mile 22 who wouldn’t let go of the gel he offered me. I wanted that gel but didn’t want to break pace and turn around and go back for it. Wanted to hug HIM. In a stabby way.

At mile 18 there was the hill to dwarf all other hills. I ran up it. I had no choice. Pride wouldn’t let me walk during a marathon. Well ... I say I ran up it. I’d been running for almost 2 and a half hours and some sadistic git had added a mountain into the route. I didn’t crawl up it but I wasn’t bounding up it full of the joy of Spring either. However, if the Race Director had been standing at the top of it bellowing “Call yourself a marathon runner?! I put the hill here ON PURPOSE!” I probably could have mustered a sprint to fuel my murderous rage and strangle the bastard. But without the incentive of murder, my run was so slow, I could have been overtaken by a narcoleptic snail. 

There were a few clues that the Race Director was a sadist. We ran under the finish gantry at 17 miles which seemed a little bit wrong. Had a momentary blip when I thought, “Cool! I’ve finished already!” Then I realised that I still had 9 miles to go ... gutted.  I didn’t twig at the time but maybe this was the first sign the heat had affected me ... 

At around mile 18 I realised that I wasn’t maintaining pace properly. This doesn’t always matter - so long as you realise and speed up to the right pace. It’s when you stop caring about pace that you realise you’re tiring. It took me a long time to recover from the steep hill and I just kept plodding. I realised that the over-enthusiastic first few miles had come back to haunt me ... Just hang on, Sarah!  

My feet were feeling very sore from about mile 19. Although I had a slight twinge at the back of my right thigh, it wasn’t my legs hurting but my feet. It was another stupid, stupid mistake – running in worn out trainers and running too much on trail rather than roads. I had thought that the trainers were nearing the end of their life but hadn’t realised they were quite as bad as they were. 

A sign that all wasn’t well came when I didn't fancy the gels. Usually it’s another way of counting down the miles – it breaks the run into 5km segments, but today I dreaded the next one and I was finding them too sweet and syrupy. I’ve tested these gels a lot of times. Half marathons, previous marathons and on long training runs for this marathon, but today I was dreading the next. However I could feel when one was late as my speed slowed and after I’d taken one the running was easier. This might have been mental but I don’t think so.  

There were people cheering from their beach huts and leaning over their balconies shouting us home. Children were holding out jelly babies. It was a nice thought ... but no chance. I wasn’t eating one of those jellybabies. I have a 4 year old. I know where they put their hands. I want any toilet trips to be my own fault.

I slipped into mind games at around mile 21 on the final double-back. I kept thinking that if the person in front of me walks, I'll walk as well. I focused in on my chosen person, although realised that my competitive nature kept me running after person after person in front of me started walking. Stupid competitive brain went “Ooh an overtake” and kept me running. I was also keeping myself going by telling my feet that if I kept running it would all be over a LOT quicker.

About mile 21 the marshal shouted to me “You’re about 22^nd or 23^rd woman”. Nothing like a bit of gender competitiveness to keep me running, however runners can be a pretty androgynous lot. And from the back it’s not always reliable. What looks like a sports bra strap from the back could be a heart rate monitor strap. I decided it would be rude to ask and I was at the point of the race where I couldn’t run away very fast if one of them got angry by the “Are you a man or just-looks-like-a-man” question so I just kept clocking up the overtakes. 

A man running beside me turned to me and said “How are you?” I replied that I was “Ok” despite feeling like I was most of the way to perfecting the ultimate zombie lurch. I asked him if he was alright “And he said “Yes ... no. Not really.” I told him we were nearly back. That we’d practically nailed it already. Just need to finish it. He didn’t look convinced. In fact he looked as though he’d already beaten me to the perfect zombie gait. 

I had realised that the bottom of my feet were sore but I hadn’t realised that the soles of my feet were massive blisters. One of which popped at mile 22. It was a grotesque feeling but I can only be grateful as it distracted me from the thought of 4.2 miles still left to run. Instead I could concentrate on the feel of damp sock and whether my toenails - having detached - were now rattling around in the ends of my socks. 

By this point, the heat had got to all of the runners and almost everyone was walking – except me. Stupid pride. I was overtaken by 1 man but I must have overtaken 20 other people. I was on my way to the mile 22 turnaround but it seemed to take forever. Runners were coming the other way – their faces etched with pain and their shirts with sweat – and I couldn’t see where the end of this loop was. Finally at a roundabout I turned round and was finally on the home stretch. I saw the ‘Yes ... no. Not really’ man going the other direction, still heading towards the turnaround. Walking.    

About mile 23 I overtook the only convincing woman in front of me. It was luck. I was no longer racing. I was just moving towards the finish. Running very, very slowly. 

I was counting down the distance to my speed up for a good finish. As I passed the 26 mile sign I thought “This is it.” And went for my sprint finish. There were crowds on either side cheering and the marshal was encouraging me, shouting me on to overtake the bloke in front. I gave it all I could in an eyeballs out, gut bursting glorious sprint finish.

Well ... that’s what it felt like. I’ve since reviewed the video footage and would like to confirm that while it FELT like a sprint finish what it ACTUALLY looks like is snail racing. It’s almost excruciating in its slowness. It’s like 2 pensioners with zimmer frames going for the Bakewell Tarts 2-for-1 deal in Tesco. 

However I did manage to overtake someone. So the best pensioner won. 

Collect the medal, collect the family .... And into the sea with running gear on. Cold, so cold ... despite the sunshine it still felt like a British sea but bliss on the toes. Up to my knees in the sea, I just needed a hanky on y head and a sandy jam sandwich in my hand to be a properly English. And possibly a crab hanging from a toe if I wanted to turn it into a good old English seaside postcard. 

RESULTS

3:32:27
232/3001
16th woman 
9^th in category 

The Bournemouth Marathon have confirmed that they’re not releasing the full results. The top 1500 finishers can be seen on the Run Britain website but no other information is being released such as number of women running or numbers in each category.