The Fat Bloke Diaries

Episode Forty-Eight – I’ve Seen All Good People

I had planned a sprint finish over the last forty yards or so. Even though the Great Yorkshire Run route featured an uphill final section, it wasn't in the same league as the Hill of Doom, the steep, long incline that I include in my training runs. Over the last few weeks I'd pictured myself doing a little leap of triumph or maybe pumping my fist in the air as I crossed the finishing line. I had dreamed of writing about these things afterwards.

Of course it was nothing at all like that in the end. I simply passed under the arch with the big clock on it (the one that bore no resemblance whatsoever to my actual running time) and just managed to crack an exhausted smile.

And then I began to wonder just how on Earth was I ever to find the Beloved in such a crowd.

Another thing that I was going to do was start this week's FBD with a motivational quote, something that had helped me through the run's difficult times. Something like John Bingham's, "The miracle isn't that I finished; the miracle is that I had the courage to start". But then I realised just how little that sounds like something I’d say. I'm much more likely to cite the words of American comedienne Wendy Liebman, who quipped, "I go running when I have to; when the ice cream truck is doing sixty".

So what can I tell you about my first (and quite possibly only) 10k run? Well overall it was everything I'd hoped it would be, and more. The course was flat as expected, apart from the aforementioned incline towards the finishing gate. It surprised many non-locals into a gasping walk. Not knowing what to expect they'd not left anything in reserve. Being Sheffield-born, I had plenty left in the tank; it was just that by then my engine was only firing on one cylinder. But even this nasty final incline was made more bearable by the excellent idea of having loudspeakers playing music from the 'Rocky' movies as we runners approached it. It was cheesy but it raised a smile, raised our spirits and raised our knees just that little higher. Who could resist putting in that little extra effort when someone's gone to the trouble of playing 'Eye of the Tiger' for you?

It was little details like this that made the steep entry fee worthwhile. I'm told it was expensive (I have nothing to compare it against) but the Great Run guys have got years of experience, and seem to have got most things right. Between their excellent planning and the much-appreciated time management and organisational skills of my Beloved, all I had to do was turn up, go to the toilet seventeen times, and run.

And even here I couldn't fault the event organisers. They had provided lots of lovely blue portaloos. But it seems that there are never enough facilities for some people. I couldn't help but notice a lady with just her head sticking out of a big privet at around the 8k marker. The middle of a road race seemed a strange time to be pruning a bush...

And after a truly horrible week, even the weather gods smiled on us and provided a cool, overcast morning, just perfect running conditions. And it would have been pretty good performing weather for the bands of musicians, singers and drummers that were stationed along the route too. They did a sterling job of entertain us and keeping our minds' off the business of relentlessly putting one foot in front of the other.

I'd seen the numbers, I knew roughly how many runners to expect, but it didn't really make sense until I saw the huge snake of people lining the starting road stretching back and back into the distance. Leaving my Beloved to join them felt strangely like the first day of Big School. And as we were lined up in ability groups I was the snake's tail.

I've only ever run alone or with my Beloved before and (though she won't thank me for telling you this) she's quite a small person. To find myself in a crowd of thousands of real runners – some of them much bigger than me - was quite daunting. They must be all so much fitter than I am surely? And their tops all fit so much better. And they were all much thinner - apart from the guy in the panda costume who managed to clear a space for himself by loudly declaring, "You know, I can hardly see a thing in this..."

I'd actually hoped that I could use the fact that the crowds were so heavy as an excuse if I wasn't able to run. It would make a change from my previous excuse of it being me that was so heavy that I couldn't run. As it turned out, I didn’t need it. I was able to run my own race pretty much from start to finish.

I had awoken to one of life's little coincidences as my radio burst into life with a timely piece of advice from Simon and Garfunkel. "Slow down, you move too fast...". I repeated this mantra to myself as I stood by the starting gate, along with that other old chestnut, "It's a marathon and not a sprint". Well technically it was less than a quarter of a marathon but you get the idea. It certainly helped, as I made a real effort to jog easily and well within myself for at least the first kilometre, just to see how things panned out. As it was I started off slowly and gently, taking in the events of the day, and pretty much stayed at that rate right to the end. My split times (another nice touch, provided on the Great Run website) showed that I kept a fairly constant speed throughout. People streamed past me, going full speed right from the off, weaving in and out of the crowd. Good luck to them. I couldn't have done that if I'd wanted to. Which I didn't.

As this was an out-and-back route, it wasn't very long at all before I saw the eventual winner come towards me like a speeding cheetah. I could only waddle in awe as he flew past in the other direction, on his way to a winner’s medal, which he can proudly display beside his Olympic silver. I'd expected the sight of the first runner coming the other way to be a depressing one, to fill me with thoughts of despair that they were almost done while I had almost all the course still stretching out in front of me. In fact it was an inspiration. I reserved my feelings of despair for when I saw the sweep up bus coming out of the city centre while I was running back in. it was already half full of poor souls who wouldn’t be completing the run under their own steam. Being caught by the sweep up bus is every runner’s nightmare. I did my pathetic impression of a 'kick' to try and get me a little further ahead of it.

It was an honour to run the same course as the Kenyan superstar and the other elite runners of both sexes. They were fleet of foot and had the wind at their heels. I was heavy of leg with wind elsewhere (as is my usual running style), but it didn't matter on the day. Despite what my left knee might be telling me today, I made it round the entire course in one piece and thoroughly enjoyed the experience. I was officially placed 4,734th (out of a field of over 7,500) with a time of 1 hour, 13 minutes and 54 seconds. I didn't quite make gold, silver or bronze positions, but I did get a lovely medal of some random grey base-metal, and that's good enough for me. I wonder what the guy who came in 4,735th received?

I even managed to overtake some people including - to my great delight! - the panda. I never did catch up to the trio of Thunderbird puppets, which was a shame, and I was disappointed when a guy in a Dalmatian suit flew past me like a speeding... well like a Dalmatian, actually. Mind you, that's not as bad as the story a friend tells of being passed by two guys in a pantomime camel costume.

My own personal nemeses (or should that be nemesissies?) were just behind me at the start, and they were just behind me at the end. I've never really been too keen on Morris dancers. I appreciate that the dance should be preserved as part of our English heritage like the Changing of the Guard or Stonehenge, but watching it as an art-form leaves me cold. So I was dismayed to hear the unmistakable jingle-jangle of their tiny bells and the clack-clack of their wooden staves as we set off. Three times I thought I'd rid myself of them as they stopped to put on a display of dancing along the route. But three times they proved that as well as being annoying historical relics they were actually pretty decent runners. So three times they caught up with me. There are very few things now that can fill me with terror more than the approaching tinkling of dancing men in ribbons and bells as they try to sneak up behind me. Morris-ninjas they were not.

The thing that I remember most about the other entrants was the sheer number of charity running tops on display. Playing 'I-Spy Charity Shirt' kept my head both active and focussed on the job in hand. Alzheimer’s. Breast cancer. Children's hospitals. War veterans. Many, many others, too many to mention, some with photos of lost loved ones attached. All these runners had great causes and touching stories to go with them, just like me. That's when I realised that I belonged among these people. That's what made the struggle over the final couple of kilometres worthwhile. These thousands of people were running, walking, struggling through the distance to make real differences to real lives, just like I was. And we were all better people for it.

Will I do it again? I can't honestly say. Right now I'm just so pleased that I did it and I raised a considerable amount of cash for (and hopefully a little awareness of) the British Heart Foundation. Maybe I'll run this same event again next year, maybe not. I know that I have no burning desire to enter a load of other 10k events or - heaven forbid! - even longer ones. But I guess deep down I know that I'll have to keep some form of exercise going. It would be a shame to let all that hard work on my waist go to waste. It's been a great journey, and I can't let this be the end, just the beginning of my new life as a thinner bloke.

Like recovering alcoholics though, I guess some of us never really give up being fat blokes; we just learn to control (some of) our urges. The slippery slope from fitness to fatness is only ever one letter change away. And one large pepperoni pizza. But right now, as I'm typing this, I'm no longer a fat bloke.

I'm a runner. And I have the medal - and the t-shirt - to prove it.

© Shaun Finnie 2009
 

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