OK, so I already felt I was going to survive this because fate had given me a sign. Synchronicity smiled and it was with a shriek of delight that I discovered my name on the excel spreadsheet of race registrations next to the number 444. My favourite number! 4. Four. 4444 would have been perfect. But there were only 600 runners. 444 is grand.
4 is the number leftover from my adolescent OCD angst, it still comforts me in times of need.
This was a time of need. I was battered and bruised. Had nervously, barely slept. Was suffering from that third portion of Lemon Meringue pie the night before, and was about to run 13.1 miles of hilly terrain with hundreds of Runners. They qualify for the capital letter because they were all sporting vests with club names professionally printed on to them, and had belts with water bottles around their waists. And mainly long legs that looked almost good in their tights. It was Serious. Serious Running.
The exception to this was a chap dressed as Buzz Lightyear. I kept up with him for the first circuit of the venue grounds, for the photo opportunity, then he overtook me before the 2nd mile marker.
Actually everyone was overtaking me! Swarms of sweatbands glided past. I had nervously wriggled to the front for the start so that I could hear instructions about the water stations, and see the Mayor. This backfired on my ego, 4 or no 4, what if I came last? What if I had to walk? I haven't trained on hills. What if I get an attack of low blood pressure and collapse like I did in the last event I took part in, the MoonWALK marathon? ( I was casualty number 17 and got a lift back to East London in an ambulance via QEH to check that I didn't have internal bleeding.)
I comforted myself with the titbits of advice I had gleaned from Runner's World magazine. Pace yourself, run a Negative Split, listen to your body, lean forward positively. Relax!
When people stopped overtaking and a quick glance behind told me I was not bringing up the rear, I almost relaxed. I started to take in the scenery, breath deeply, smile back at the clapping marshalls who directed me consistently downhill (reversing the proverb brought concern, 'what goes down...' ). I enjoyed being the priority for a change, being given right of way over cars, and I forgave these 4x4s anyway as they had a smear of genuine mud on them and had not been purchased from Landrover Mayfair. Although one car radio selfishly dumped On The Wings Of Love in my head for a few musically agonising miles.
I found myself filling my head with numbers:
8 minute miles x 26.2 = something like 210 minutes, that's 3 hrs 30 mins.
Half that is 1 hr 45 mins.
My fastest 13(.5) miles was 1h 55m I think, that works out at...etc etc.
And:
Calories burnt ≈100/mile, that's 1310, plus a bit for the hills, lets say 1500.
Will that get me a full fat vegetarian roast dinner?
And 2 pints of refreshing lager (400 cals)?
And a Cadbury's cream egg from that packet in the car, or even a second, guilt-free? (180 cals/egg)
This felt nice.
This distracted from my niggles: the inside balls of my feet were rubbing, maybe my socks are too big. And the skin on my back around by sports bra was very itchy, like I am allergic to my own sweat. And no-one else was suffering from snot! There was the occasional spit, yes. But no tissues dangling from anyone else's sleeve. What is wrong with me that is causing this industrial mucus production?
I also noticed some interesting running techniques- one man ran with his elbows at right angles, like his armpits were just too full of sweat. Another had one arm held tense in front, and the other hand just flopped about like it was hanging off. And a woman's left knee looked like it popped out with every stride. No-one spoke to me. I guess you don't. I don't think I could have responded. Especially on the hills now coming into action at the less desirable positive gradient. A guy heavy breathed at my shoulder for a while, but that was as close to communicating as it got.
Going uphill was surprisingly fun, an interesting diversion, 'digging in' and working those gluts. I tried to fill up on water handed out by keen kids (Gatorade gave me heart burn) and felt like Paula Radcliffe when I extravagantly tossed the sloshing cup into the hedge. Drinking while running is hard, sucking from a bottle is much easier. Still it washed the sweat off my face.
Then it happened. At about 10 miles I started overtaking! People were actually WALKING up the hills! I wasn't doing 8 minute miles anymore but there was no way I was about to give in and walk! Now I felt like the clever expert, the seasoned pro, the Runners World subscriber. And when I saw the familiar robot silhouette of Buzz ahead of me I knew I had to get my revenge. To Infinity and Beyond! I really wanted to do the fist in the air action too but as I ran passed a character more like Puff Lightyear I knew that it would be mean.
I was smiling! And I smiled to the end, even when the marshall at the gates cruelly fibbed that there was 'just 0.1 to go now'. I sprinted for glory, desperately searching out the finishing line, and felt faint when I saw the last flourescent 13 mile marker still a good 500 metres ahead.
Finally over the tannoy, "And here's 444. Kate Rawson. Smiling away! It's nice to see someone smiling, we don't see enough of that!"
After running 13.1 miles, I stopped and smiled some more. Then I felt sick. Then cold. Then ELATED! 1 hour 52 minutes 53 seconds. I was 243rd, and 30th woman!
Now where's that cream egg?
Brilliant.
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