I glance at my watch: ‘6.70min/mile’; top 40 with 2K down – a storming start. A start that is, predictably, thoroughly unsustainable. For someone who’s only been running semi-seriously for a few months, I’ve already developed a costly habit. No matter how hard I try – how much importance I place on proper pacing – I always, without fail, go off too quick.
Although, in half-hearted defence of this particular start, my inability to run with any sort of discipline in training was never going to be rectified when surrounded by hundreds of steely-eyed, lycra-clad competitors.
Beginning just past the iconic Bandstand, the first couple of overly ambitious kilometres take myself and 356 others out onto the Parade Ground, before looping back towards the reservoir and down onto the bank of the Serpentine.
I’m feeling good, but am painfully conscious that I can’t keep this up, so I drop it back to 6.90min/miling and grimace as a few more experienced campaigners breeze past. As the course loops round the Serpentine’s eastern shore, passing the Queen Caroline Memorial, a long stretch up towards the Tennis Centre gives me the one thing I didn’t want: time to think.
As the 4K marker comes and goes, I’m trying desperately to block out the shooting pains in my shins. When I first started running, shin-splints were my biggest enemy. I curse myself for not predicting that they would be lying in wait just past the putting green in one of London’s Royal Parks.
On the bright side, the pain keeps me occupied for a short while and, as the route loops back on itself past the Barracks and Albert Gate, before I can say “thank **** I’m half way,” I am indeed half way. “53!” The race marshal bellows as I cross the line. Top 60 in a field of over 350 – I’ll take that. And then I remember, I’ve got to do it all over again.
As kilometres six and seven are conquered, I actually begin to feel OK. OK, of course, is a relative term. I would be considerably more OK if I was still in bed, sipping a cup of PG Tips, but for the latter part of a race first thing Sunday morning, I’m doing alright. Why then, can’t I pick up the pace? Despite my best efforts, I just can’t get my legs to move any quicker.
The stretch past the Serpentine approaches once more and, once again, I struggle on the long, flat section. But then a runner ahead pulls up, which – I’m alarmed to find – gives me a slight boost. With just 2K to go, it’s now a case of holding my position; I’ve been battling with another bloke for the last few kilometres, but he’s pulled away, perhaps spurred on by desire to escape my thoroughly unstable breathing.
But then something strange happens. In a moment of madness, I convince myself that I’m some kind of running god. With over 1K to go, I begin what is as close to a sprint finish as I can muster. I coast past the man who had just overtaken me. “Haha!” I think. “You thought I was finished?!”
I was, as it turned out. After sprinting 400m, I blow up completely and he regains his lead, giving me a look of searing contempt on his way past. And then, before I know it, it’s all over. Somehow, despite dropping several positions since halfway, I cross the line in 57th. A time of 44mins 9secs is slower than I had hoped, but the loss of basic leg function convinces me that I gave it close to my all.
The Hyde Park 10K is a brilliant race, befitting of a brilliant venue. Registration was painless, the goody bag was well-stocked with sweet things and, after all is said and run (see what I did there?) I won’t hesitate to sign up again in the near future.
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