Bupa Great South Run - 9th October 2005
BEING a big-time skinflint, I tell myself every year not to enter the BUPA Great South Run.
After all, it's 25 quid for a lung-bursting, sweat-ridden ten-miler around the windy streets of Portsmouth. An hour's pain rewarded with a goodie bag of a medal, T-shirt, pasta, money-off tokens, odds and sods of food - and this year, a pedometer! But you know what? I wouldn't miss it for the world.
The Great South Run is an awesome event. To miss it would be like having a big party on your doorstep, only to ignore the invitation while everyone else was having fun. Sunday morning at 8.30am, two hours before the start, and the atmosphere on Southsea seafront is crackling.
A costumed group of Superheroes - Spiderman, Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman and Captain America - were chatting in Castle Field, mingling with runners of all shapes and sizes. Nearby, a couple of the chicken-legged elite African athletes pass on their way to hospitality; not a spare ounce of fat on them.
That's the great thing about the Great South. You can compete in the same race as Olympic athletes, people for whom running a sub-five-minute mile is a breeze. Behind them lies a huge mass of jogging humanity, some struggling to run for five minutes without stopping! For me, simply getting to the start line on Sunday was a struggle.
In the week leading up to the race, I'd iced ligaments and popped various coloured pills in an effort to stave off a string of injuries. At the start line on Sunday, fellow runners watched with envy as two female friends rubbed pain-killing cream on my tight hamstring - the lengths some people will go to get a bit of attention! Maybe it was psychosomatic, and a load of mental hogwash - an escape route of excuses.
There are three types of runners in the Great South. The elite athletes up front and the fun runners who make up the bulk of the field; some recreational runners, many ten-mile virgins putting their bodies on the line for charity. And then there are the boring bunch like myself near the front - club runners who can't be bothered to raise money for charity, aren't good enough to enjoy the pampered hospitality, but quick enough to try to hang on to the coat-tails of the fast guys.
You can spot them a mile off. They've got the gear; the snazzy shoes, the club vests, the mini-computer watches on their wrists - occasionally the sharp designer sunglasses. An hour beforehand they're woofing down energy drinks and bars, stretching like Morph, and taking an Immodium tablet to prevent the number twos on the run!
The key to a fast run in the Great South is a clean start. I managed to line up a dozen rows behind the hares and got away well. Six minutes 27 for mile one, 6:30 for mile two - looking good, feeling fine. You don't get much conversation with this revered company. A few grunts or a slight mutter if someone cuts across you.
My mate Tim suddenly appeared alongside as we eased past HMS Victory, breaking the silence. "I'm bursting! Just been to toilets in the Dockyard for a pee, but couldn't go," he complained as we passed a squatting TV cameraman. I wonder if Channel 5 broadcast that clip?! Tim didn't seem too perturbed at being caught short and pressed on.
At this level, you're continually keeping an eye on your watch, taking in the split times at the mile markers. In your head, you're doing mental maths, telling yourself where you want to be at five miles, eight miles etc. It is about pacing the race, running tactically, knowing your body's limits and leaving enough in reserve for the two-mile run-in from Eastney to Southsea.
The field is spread out, so you work between the groups. If someone passes you, you draft them, sitting close behind them. If you feel too comfortable in a group, make the break and see who goes with you. Liquid is taken from the water stations. Each runner has his or her own routine - you cannot afford to break your stride.
What makes the Great South so great are the crowds. Even though you are so intently focused on your own race, they make a huge difference. It is a cauldron of noise. Bands lining the route lift your step with their rhythmic, musical beat. Everyone sets out with their own aims and goals. For the elite runners it was victory or a place on the medal rostrum. For me it was running a personal best in 66 minutes. For others it was to complete the course while raising money for charity.
Tomorrow, the club vests, snazzy shoes and designer sunglasses will be out in force for the Hardley Half-marathon. It's cheaper than the Great South. There certainly won't be the huge crowds or the fast Africans. However, I hope this time Tim finds a loo before the start!
Article and pic courtesy of the Southern Daily Echo.