I am Not a Runner - Parkrun

Some months ago, Santababy introduced me to the world of Fetch, where there are a lot of ultra runners ... and also a lot of runners who think in much more "normal" distances.

There is a little group of Fetch beginners and we've sort of clubbed together to say nice things to one another / nag when appropriate. Two of us agreed we would both do Parkrun today - despite living 400 miles apart.  What I didn't realise at the time was that it would be a year to the day since I bought my first pair of running shoes - that's one way to celebrate an anniversary...

Having grizzled on a thread about not wanting to be 10 minutes behind everyone else (last I can handle, but not last by that much), a fellow Edinburgh Fetchie - who I've never met or had any dealings with before - offered to run it with me. How does this happen - that there is an online forum where people are quite happy to put themselves out for the benefit of a stranger they've never met?

Friday night was spent at a "Meet the Designer" event at one of my new favourite shops, drinking kir royale and buying presents (well, at least one of my purchases won't be going in my stocking...) which is possibly not the best preparation. Lack of food and a late night all contributed to being pretty late out of bed. That's okay, I know where I'm going.

I do but can I find it?? I've been to Cramond more times than I can count but today I absolutely cannot find the turn down to the river. Eventually I spot a car being driven by someone in a fluorescent top and make a u-turn to follow, gambling that they must be a runner. Phew, moments to spare..

Lyns and I have exchanged vague descriptions but I'm now convinced I won't be able to find her. She is in fact convinced that I've stood her up solely to make her run it when she's having a cba.com period with running .... But it seems there is only one shortish blonde with a Fetch buff as a head scarf, and only one overweight 40-something redhead...

No sooner have we met than the announcer is talking through the loudhailer. I don't hear what he says, other than a warning about somewhere being slippy and that there is a runner getting married this afternoon, who has brought his wedding party with him for the run. Cue all round cheers.

Then the whistle goes and I've barely got my fleece off. My arm pouch (car keys, ipod, money, barcode etc) is in my hand which is where it's going to have to stay for the duration. The Garmin isn't even turned on, never mind started and when I try and get it going, I obviously press the wrong button and the screen fills with garbage. Off!

It's a beautiful day - cold, sunlit and clear with not a breath of wind. The Forth looks like a millpond which must be unheard of.

Without the Garmin I have no idea of pace. However we're exactly where I expect to be - at the back - and I can see the whole field of runners spread out in front of us, with the front runners sprinting into the distance with every second. At the western end of Marine Drive, a runner comes the opposite way at speed and I jokingly ask Lyns to tell me he's not the leader.

"No, but we'll start seeing them by that building, at about the 1k mark".

What??? We haven't even got to1k yet and my legs hurt and I'm panting. Crap. I don't want to do this. I want to stop and go home.

It's actually past the cafe, and past the 1k point before they start coming back. My brain is trying to do the maths and failing. One of the first of the runners is someone I recognise - last seen delivering a cracking time at the Glen Ogle 33. Now this really isn't fair - how can people be fast sprinters AND fast ultra runners!!

Just before the left turn, an oncoming runner calls out to me - it's a colleague from work looking far too happy.

So that's 2k down. I run twice this distance several times a week, how can it be so hard? I can't even see the nearest runners and I'm seriously thinking about walking for a stretch. I've been counting my steps and breaths for what feels like hours and I'm not even half-way. I swear this isn't as far when I walk it.

Then again ... half-way. One of the marshals catches up with us as he's clearing the signs. "Home stretch now" he says, or something similar. I like that way of thinking and it reminds me of Fiona Rennie. However I'm also trying to ignore the fact that he seems to be walking at nearly the same pace I'm jogging at...

I should know better than to try and "run" and talk at the same time, but I do manage to contribute something to the conversation between the three of us. Like everyone in Edinburgh he has worked at RBS, like every runner in Edinburgh we have some mutual acquaintances ... and we're past 3k. "Are you enjoying it" he asks. Right now? No. But ask me later and you may just get a different answer.

The only other runners I see now are the ones who've long finished and are now running back along the front to Edinburgh. I still want to stop and walk but I'm ... blowed ... if I'm going to! Walk/run might possibly be faster but I absolutely want to run every step of this 5k, no matter how slowly. Pride will get you a long way...

I can see the finish line and it looks miles away. I can see a sign saying 4k and I don't believe it. How the hell do I know people who do this - at twice the speed or more - and keep it up for 40, 50 or 95 miles?

As we get to the trees, the marshall jokingly suggests a sprint finish. What do you mean? I am sprinting! I think he got the irony...

Amazingly the finish hasn't been packed away and we still get clapped home. How can an orange spray-painted line be such a welcome sight? Oh bliss - I can stop now.

Or maybe I shouldn't. My legs are hurting badly and I'm quite convinced that if I stop suddenly, there is going to be an awful lot of pain later and tomorrow. Keep walking, and anyway I have to collect a finish chip and then go and get my barcode scanned. Not that my brain or hands are functioning at all.

Lyns remembers to stop her Garmin. I don't want to ask - the only 5k I did before was Race for Life, it was 44 .19 and this has felt horribly slower - but I may as well get it over with and deal with the bad news now.

It might be about 41-42 minutes, she says. I want to hug her. That is amazing. My "pacer" is amazing.

My workmate is at the finish still and comes over to say hello. As do a couple who look familiar although for a moment I can't place them. Then I realise that they are the retired couple in the ground floor flat of my building. I never even realised that they were runners but apparently today was her 91st Parkrun!

Everyone disperses and I find myself talking to one of the wedding party, the father of the groom. He cheers me up by telling me that we weren't last as his cousin has just finished. However his cousin isn't on the official results so probably isn't registered (the only reason Lyns shows as last is because she deliberately stepped back at the finish to let me cross first - did I tell you she's amazing?).

The cafe is open and I sit for ten minutes in the winter sunshine with a much appreciated coffee. I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be, or how I'd rather feel.

Later the official results are published.

#239 - First Timer! - has an official time of 41.08

That'll do me.

Until the next time, that is...

I'm Not a Runner

Those are the words I started this blog with.  And it's perfectly true. But....

This stuff is contagious.  I did find myself thinking "Gosh, I wish I coud run".  In the same way that I might think "I wish I could sing like Adele" or "I wish I could earn money like Alan Sugar" or "I wish I had Posh Spice's legs".  But it's never going to happen; I can't run and I will never be able to.

Then last November I was standing at Victora Bridge on the Way - watching runners - when the little voice in the back of my head shouted quite distinctly "bugger this, I'm sick of saying I can't".  A week later, I am in Run and Become, explaining that I would like to learn how to run and buying a pair of shoes that will allow me to do this without my shins breaking.

I can't wait to try them out that evening.  I get about 100 yards before my lungs go on strike.  Okay, this isn't as easy as it looks...

But I'm stubborn and I keep trying: run a little bit, walk a long bit, run a little bit, etc etc.

A week later it snows for the first time.  After this there is no more running, only careful steps in hiking boots and walking poles.

At New Year the snow clears and I manage one more session before the flu strikes and knocks me sideways for a few weeks.

I sign up for Race for Life on the day it opens to give myself an unavoidable target.

In February I go to Australia on holiday and, although I take the running shoes, it's far too hot to run.  Or walk. Or be outdoors full stop.

When I get back I realise my unavoidable deadline is now ten weeks away and I'm still struggling to run more than seven minutes out of a thirty minute session.  I need an alternative training strategy and discover C25K (Couch to 5k), a structured run walk program that promises to turn a couch potato into a semi-competent runner.  That would be me then....

I struggle with every single session, but complete them nevertheless.  I make the mistake of looking forward a few weeks and see a solid 20 minute run at the end of week 5 when I am barely completing the 3 minute sessions in week 3.  I give up smoking after 25 years.  My waist shrinks but I don't lose weight.

I'm slow and ungainly.  My fastest (and only) pace is about 4mph and I almost come to a complete halt on anything resembling an upwards slope.  I only run at dawn when there are no other people around.

Two weeks before the race, I break with the programme and try to complete a 5k route.  I don't succeed the first time but on the second attempt, I make it.  I text Keith who replies with the words "Well done ... now do it again on Thursday".

Race day arrives cool and cloudy.  I'm incredibly grateful as I can't even contemplate running in the heat of the Fling the previous weekend.  Bad enough that I will be running in public for the first time...

I arrive at Hopetoun House far too early and sit in the car, reading the paper and eating jelly babies (I have clearly spent too much time reading ultra runners' blogs and consider jelly babies to be appropriate food.....).  And the heavens open.  Proper torrents of water ... hmmm I wanted cool and damp but this is possibly going too far.  But it stops and I get out of the car and join the pink flood of women heading towards the House.  I'm trying not to read their back signs because I know they will make me cry, but I do anyway.

I have no intention of joining in communal aerobics or singing but it's impossible to not get caught up in the moment.  But I do find myself thinking that I will be worn out before the race even starts!  I really start to see the attraction of the one line briefing of the Fling.

Eventually we line up - runners, joggers and walkers in separate groups.  I'm somewhere near the middle of the joggers as I know my pace isn't going to be enough to keep up with the runners.  My final text from Keith arrives: "ttfu".  I am immensely amused that it has taken him this long to say it.  We shuffle forward and forward until eventually we're through the gate and onto the course proper.

I have no idea where the route is but there are 1600 women on the course, about 500 of them in front of me and zero chance of geting lost.  Within a few hundred yards, I come across a group of women walking holding hands and become very cross that they are blocking almost the entire path.  If you want to walk, join the walkers group!  Oh dear, this is not at all charitable....

A curve and a down slope, and then there is clearly a hill in front of me.  Possibly a little carried away I try to run it but come to my senses part way up and start walking.  Every runner I know walks up hills!

I'm utterly shocked when I see a "1k" sign as I think I've been going much further than that.  I suddenly find myself thinking that 5k is actually a very long way and this is going to hurt.  The fact that I've done it once before is no longer enough.

When I run I find myself going past numbers of women who are now walking, and become quite adept at picking my way through gaps or up onto the verge to get past.  A few women come sprinting past who clearly placed themselves in the wrong groups to begin with.  I catch my ankle on a small tussock of grass and it stings sharply but I can't even swear as there are both children and grey haired women around me.  Six months ago, this would have been an excuse to stop but that ttfu is now engrained....

I walk all the up bits from here on, saving my energy for the flats and downhills.  I'm not a quick walker and some of the women I run past are retaking me on these sections.

The route moves off the path onto grass and it suddenly strikes me that I've never run off-road before.  It's a strange sensation and very odd how different each step feels.  Then back into the woodland, a sharp turn and we're running on trail.  Oh I like this, it actually feels comfortable although I'm past 3k and my lungs are burning and my left ankle grizzling loudly.  The earlier rain has left some significant puddles and mud on the path that many of the women are picking their way around.  I just charge through them, giggling as the mud and water splash up my calves.  This is something akin to being a toddler jumping in puddles.

We are obviously delicate flowers as even the tree roots have been sprayed pink where they cross the path and might possibly cause a tripping hazard.  I find myself wondering just how "technical" the trail past Loch Lomond is but remind myself sharply that this is a completely different event for a completely different group of people.

We round a corner and there, over a low wall, is the most amazing vista of the Forth, looking west to Grangemouth and the refineries, north to the hills of Fife and east to the bridges.  I would love to stop and take photos but I have a race to run and no time to stop.  I'll come back another day.

Onwards I go, more puddles and mud, past a few more walkers and suddenly out of the woods into open ground and brilliant sunshine and, oh help, it's roasting hot.  Almost instantly it feels as though my face must be as pink as the vest I'm wearing.  Then relief when the trail passes back into the woods and the temperature drops again.

I catch glimpses of the house through the wood and eventually we're out into the open again; it's nearly over.  But my legs stage a final protest and refuse to continue at anything above a walk.  But as I come past the house, the roadway is lined with people clapping and waving, it doesn't matter that none of them are there for me, suddenly I'm grinning again and sod my legs, I am going to finish this as I started - not walking but running.  So this is where my runners get that last burst of energy from to sprint for the line...

Then I'm through and the boy scouts are handing me a medal, a pink bag and a bottle of water.   I don't care that the grass is wet, I am sitting down and drinking the best water I've ever tasted.

I check the stopwatch on my ipod.  44.19.  In running terms, pretty abysmal.  In my terms, pretty damn good.  Three minutes better than my only previous 5k run and that didn't have any hills!  Oh god, I'm already thinking of it as a PB....

Never again, I think and instantly burst out laughing.  How many blogs have I read that start with those words and finish with "next year I'm going to...."?

I now crave caffeine - I always want coffee after a run - and haul myself up and over to the stalls.  As I'm buying, the heavens open again and it's pouring with rain.  I stand by the finish line cheering on the walkers; I don't mind that I'm getting wet, but I do mind that my coffee is getting watered down!

As I drive back to Edinburgh, the weather changes again and the sun comes out.  I can't understand why fellow drivers are looking strangely at me.  Until I get home and look in the mirror.  I had my hair dyed last Monday and the rain has washed it out in great red streams down my face and neck.  I look like an extra from Casualty. 

Much later, my legs finally take their revenge for what I've put them through and reduce me to an agonised hobble.  C'mon guys it was 5k ... I saw people run 53miles last weekend and they weren't this bad!

I sleep badly and shuffle into work, cursing the people who inspired me to think I could run.  My right leg in particular takes great exception to coming down stairs.  But by the time I get home, I'm already debating whether I can go for a gentle jog tomorrow morning... and should I work on increasing my pace or my distance....?

I'm not a runner.

But I ran my first race yesterday.