At Thropton, there were the usual suspects. No McCall, but I did see the Murray of Teviotdale. He got the better of me at Eildon, and I thought, what with this being my local training hill-range, I fancied my chances.
I skulked away at the back of the pack as the organiser said whatever they say, and we were piped out by the wee band. For some odd reason, I ended up in front of Teviot man as we left the show field and my presence was no longer a surprise. More skulking practice required. I shouldn't have been too concerned, however, as the bridge and road began to rise after a mile, I pulled away and latched onto 2 leggy types who, being larger, were making comparatively slow work of the hill. At the top of the crag I got away from one, the other took a better line through the heather and it took me a mile to catch him. As we came out of the forest, a NFR runner appeared from nowhere 80 yards ahead - he had clearly taken a short-cut. Somewhat irked, I encouraged my running buddy to speed up, but he mumbled that he was tired. 'So is the guy in front', I yelled, and tried to appeal to his sense of justice. He had ran out of juice tho.
I cracked on, weaving through the gorse and got the farmhouse road turning at Tosson where suddenly there were 4 in front. It turned out that 3 had taken a wrong turn and had only just got back on the course. The last mile is across a field and along the river, then across another field, down the road and back into the showfield, and with no-one around me, I could have jogged in, but I still beat myself up like a dolt. It was a good run and I'd enjoyed it.
Speedy did well and was 3rd behind Mens winner Nick Swinburn. Teviot man came back a few minutes later after I'd finished - he said he'd lost his mojo recently and couldn't find top gear. We've all been there. No prize other than a shared tray of 4 quid chips - its not a good show unless you're getting mercilessly fleeced for hot food.
Anyway, I digress. Last Saturday. Blyth. All I needed was a pacer and low and behold, there was a 20 minute pacer present with a 20 in big numerals on his bib. Around 400 lined up.
After the start around 6 were close to Pacer Chris, including me and a leggy 14 year old. He cranked out a good first 2km, then apologised for going a little fast and slowed, at which point I felt better. After 3km, there was only the youngster and me clinging to him like flailing limpets. At 4km he started talking again but my brain was in neutral and the frothy slaaver was coming out of the mouth as the lung department struggled. I wanted to slow, but my head said no. My headphones made me look like some hate figure out of Doctor Who.
With 400m to go he peeled off and the young lady launched herself. This was fine as the final bit is flat and it gave me a new target and I crossed the line in 19.29 - Wowza; chicken dinner. With that in the back pocket, I've put my name down for the Ribble Valley 10k in December - supposed to be a flat course.
In the meantime, its back to normal with a run out this weekend at Manor Water. It'll be boggy, given the blidy weather over the last 2 days, but that's showbiz.
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