achieve a finishing time of 2:56:53, a PB at that time by 10 minutes and my first sub-3 hour marathon. As usual I had set off too fast because I never, ever learn and because the start was a mixed marathon/half marathon start so I was pulled along by the pace of the half-marathoners, running the first mile in 6.23. ‘Calm down,’ I told myself. I ran the second mile in 6.40. ‘Easy tiger,’ I told myself. I ran the third mile in 6.45. ‘You IDIOT,’ I told myself. Anyway I was feeling good so I pushed on and managed to hold a 6.50 pace for miles 4, 5, 6 etc. The course cruelly took us within yards of the half marathon finish before peeling off for lap two, and I reached the halfway point in 1.26 thinking, ‘Hmmmm – this is probably all going to go wrong soon.’ The crowds thinned out dramatically for the second half of the run but I kept up the 6.50s and I was somewhat pleased to reach the 20 mile mark in 2.11, which was a PB for that distance and had me thinking ‘Hmmmm – this is probably all going to go wrong soon.’ By the point we reached the giant rowing lake at Holme Pierrepoint I was trying (and failing) to work out the maths in my head of whether I could beat 3 hours if the wheels didn’t come off. This continued for miles 22, 23 and 24 and it wasn’t until mile 25 that even I was able to work out that I had a bit of time in hand. This also coincided with the first signs of trouble as my time slowed to 7.19 for the mile.
With 200 yards to go not even a bunch of rampaging Forest fans would have stopped me and I crossed the line in a happy and somewhat surprised frame of mind. So far, so good and no sign of any of the trouble I’ve promised to tell you about. My distracted elation may account for what I did next, which may even yet see me end up on some sort of register. In the morning before the race I’d left my car in the designated parking area, which happened to be right next to a children’s playground. On returning to my car I began the usual ritual of getting my sweaty kit off and getting my compression tights and dry clothes on. This was complicated by performing this feat inside the car so as to avoid public nudity, and also involved me picking congealed jelly babies from my shorts pocket and lobbing them out the window. In a moment of awful clarity it suddenly occurred to me that I was sitting in a car, naked from the waist down, throwing sweets out of my window at a children’s play area … I quickly fought a pitched battle with my Skins to get them on my legs as fast as possible, which made the car rock violently from one side to the other, which made things look even worse. I then screeched out of the car park like a getaway driver, all the while muttering ‘It’s not what it looks like, officer’ and wondering whether I should stop and rip the registration plates off the car in a bid to avoid having to stand before m’learned colleagues in Melton Mowbray again.
Trouble number three
Years ago, when my dad got sent to jail, he didn’t take it well at all. He refused all offers of food and drink, spat and swore at anyone who came near him and smeared his ‘business’ all over the walls. That was the last time we ever played Monopoly. Joking aside, there has always been a competitive streak in the Brunts and despite my early sporting failures at school I’ve clearly inherited this gene, although the outlet for my competitiveness is, bizarrely, cross-country running, the running discipline at which I am least talented. For those of you unfamiliar with this pastime, it involves men and women congregating in a wet field, donning vests with the word ‘Harriers’ on the back and then running over a series of hills and bogs before crossing a finish line made of two canes and a bit of tape where an old bloke gives you a metal disc and a withering look. Some of the more sadistic courses include a stream to jump across where the vicious crowds gather to watch some poor sod go headfirst
With 200 yards to go not even a bunch of rampaging Forest fans would have stopped me and I crossed the line in a happy and somewhat surprised frame of mind. So far, so good and no sign of any of the trouble I’ve promised to tell you about. My distracted elation may account for what I did next, which may even yet see me end up on some sort of register. In the morning before the race I’d left my car in the designated parking area, which happened to be right next to a children’s playground. On returning to my car I began the usual ritual of getting my sweaty kit off and getting my compression tights and dry clothes on. This was complicated by performing this feat inside the car so as to avoid public nudity, and also involved me picking congealed jelly babies from my shorts pocket and lobbing them out the window. In a moment of awful clarity it suddenly occurred to me that I was sitting in a car, naked from the waist down, throwing sweets out of my window at a children’s play area … I quickly fought a pitched battle with my Skins to get them on my legs as fast as possible, which made the car rock violently from one side to the other, which made things look even worse. I then screeched out of the car park like a getaway driver, all the while muttering ‘It’s not what it looks like, officer’ and wondering whether I should stop and rip the registration plates off the car in a bid to avoid having to stand before m’learned colleagues in Melton Mowbray again.
Trouble number three
Years ago, when my dad got sent to jail, he didn’t take it well at all. He refused all offers of food and drink, spat and swore at anyone who came near him and smeared his ‘business’ all over the walls. That was the last time we ever played Monopoly. Joking aside, there has always been a competitive streak in the Brunts and despite my early sporting failures at school I’ve clearly inherited this gene, although the outlet for my competitiveness is, bizarrely, cross-country running, the running discipline at which I am least talented. For those of you unfamiliar with this pastime, it involves men and women congregating in a wet field, donning vests with the word ‘Harriers’ on the back and then running over a series of hills and bogs before crossing a finish line made of two canes and a bit of tape where an old bloke gives you a metal disc and a withering look. Some of the more sadistic courses include a stream to jump across where the vicious crowds gather to watch some poor sod go headfirst
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