In spite of slight preparation, to wit no running in the previous week and a failure to observe my usual pre-race abstemiousness, I finished the Brighton 10k in under an hour, gun time of 58:26, chip time of 56:41, and placed 1700th. This time is 11 minutes slower than my personal best for the distance, 45:25, achieved over the same course, but I was fitter and better-trained then.
Though I drove to Brighton through heavy rain, Saturday's winds had abated, and it was dry by the time I and the others were herded into the starting pens, like so many downland sheep. I passed the minutes before the start in silent speculation about the private lives of those crammed next to me. Once the gun had sounded, it took two minutes to cross the line. I headed east at a reasonable pace, nine-minute miles or thereabouts, but after the Blackrock turn, into the wind, I began to find it hard work and my pace slackened. I knew that many runners were passing me, but concentrated on keeping going, reasoning that I could speed up once we had turned again and had the wind behind us once more. I took offence when a spectator shouted out, 'come on, granddad' at me, until I realised he was with a small boy and was encouraging his son to cheer on another runner, the shouters' father.
The trip back to the finish was easier, the distance passing quickly. By the time we reached the ruins of the West Pier, I was ready to speed up and was running strongly for the last couple of kilometres. The redoubtable Sweder, taking time off life on tour with Motorhead and others, stood near the finish with his camera. After the finish I met him, and Seafront Plodder and RunningCommentary, who had fought a fiercely disputed contest.
Sweder, RunningComm and I took ourselves for restorative pasta, salads, wine and beer, and a discussion of literary and cinematic presentations of the roadie, the modern equivalent of the wandering journeyman of the medieval guilds, and other topics. It was an agreeable and successful day.
The next race will either be the Mince Pie Ten Mile or, if I am required to marshal that one, then some other December event over a similar distance.
