I indulged somewhat, as you do, but with the Ribble Valley 10k creeping over the horizon, I didn't overdo it.
Sunday duly arrived and we were off sharpish, making our way down past Skipton and Gisburn to Clitheroe. I had planned to try and crack 40 mins for 10 kilometres before the end of the year and I identified this race as the likely vehicle for my attempt at this lung busting, misguided feat of endurance. The course had a reputation for fast times and a stellar field, so surely I could do something there. Anyway, as it was, I ran sub40 last month at Heaton, so the trip to Lancashire's best known 10k was a no-pressure event. Supposedly. Fifty quid in diesel and a 6am start said otherwise.
Speedy and Ant were in attendance and arriving in good time, we parked up around half a mile up the road from the race HQ. The toilets were clean when I paid a visit which was nice. The field of around 1200 were soon in evidence, the closed roads and abundance of weaving athletes warming up causing some mild road rage among the locals. As the field assembled at the start I began making may way toward the front of the crowd. However, I met clubmate Rob coming back from the front and we chatted before the off. I thought there were about 100 or so ahead of me, but as the gun went bang, it took me around half a minute to get over the line; we were still jogging/shuffling after a minute or so. There was no room to get round, the pavement was busy with punters and I realised I had made a fundamental mistake. As we descended into a dip and over the bridge, I caught sight of the field ahead, a mass of humanity in running vests climbing the drag in front. There must have been around five or six hundred in front. It took well over a mile to find some space to settle into my pace. The first mile over the snaking country roads was in excess of 7 minutes, the second a shade below that. There was a breeze ahead, but plenty of groups of runners to skip between as I worked away and I certainly had my work cut out.
I caught sight of Rob around 20 seconds ahead and thought he must have had a similarly baulked start.
After halfway, I was waiting for the long slow downhill, but it never materialised. It was like running in Cumbria - short descents and short rises. I missed the 9k marker and was pleased to find myself on the finishing straight. I crossed the line, glancing at the digital clock at the side. 41minutes. Pants. My last 4 miles had averaged 6.26's/mile, But I had paid for the poor start. As I lay on a low wall by the side of the road wiping the slaver off my face and trying to recover, I mused that I had lost perhaps 40 seconds or so fannying about early doors. No matter. It was a decent 10k that, perhaps next time, should have an A and B race. My turquoise socks hadn't done it for me this time around. Even though I thought I'd worked them off.
Speedy delivered a 37 minuter, so not a disaster, but it was evident that we hadn't perhaps responded well to the course, our expectations had been a little high and the wind wasn't kind to us.
We repaired to the car and made a quick getaway, stopping at the Gisburn Cafe and Deli for coffee and tasty warmed buttered scones.
Meanwhile, back home, there's plenty of washing to do and I've just hung a load of washing out on the line. But a bit of bad news. Only one turquoise sock made it out of the washing machine. I suspect there is a hub of borrower sized sock freedom fighters around here and the close knit highly trained network spirits away socks to who-knows-where at any opportunity. Its either that, or its the old urban myth; that socks in a washing machine induced swirl can create their own black hole. What an enigma.
On the Book Report: Carl Hiaasens 'Skin Tight' was very good. Its my first foray into the world of Inspector McAdam in Last Man Standing by Dalgleish. Wonder if his socks disappear
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