The Story of My Big PB

I'd been training for 12 weeks. The Loughborough Half Marathon was the goal and was going to be perfect. It was local - my home town race - and it fell in the calendar on a date that allowed a 12-week training plan to start immediately after Christmas and New Year. Better still, my brother was going to race with me.

Ben has always been a much better runner than me, naturally fit and fast, representing the county at one stage as a school boy. More recently however I've been the family runner. Where Ben has slipped into grown-up life, kids, demanding work, exercise based around tennis at the gym, I've been out pounding the streets. I'm running better than ever and Ben hasn't really been running at all. So this race was ideal. We'd both start training at the same time, we'd text each other every time we completed a run, we'd use sibling rivalry and brotherly encouragement as a double-edged sword to get us both to the start line in top shape. 12 weeks should be about enough for Ben's natural talent to re-emerge without quite trumping my several years of gradual improvement.

But things like this never quite go to plan. A few weeks before race day I heard that Ben was suffering from pain in his ankle. A trip to the physio quickly confirmed that rest was in order, and his race was in doubt. I cracked on with my training, buoyed by a couple of league races where I'd knocked big chunks off Pbs, quietly transforming what had begun as a mission to run sub-1:30 to the outside chance of a 1:25. The races had confirmed I had the speed in my legs, and I'd been putting in the training, plenty of long runs. So that 1:25 shouldn't be impossibly. But I would have to push, hard, and a running partner in the shape of my older brother was exactly what I would need to carry me round the tricky middle miles. Sadly, Ben's injury got the better of him. In the week before the race he went for one last run and the persistent pain told him it wasn't going to happen. This left me with a dilemma. Go for 1:25, or play it safe and settle for a very achievable 1:30? The answer would most likely come from my rather weak running psyche.

I've always considered it a fairly good thing that I wasn't blessed with exceptional sporting ability - I don't have the character to pull it off. It would have been wasted. Before and during races my thoughts are so often negative. I spend most of the race having an internal debate as to how and when I'm going to pull out. I make creative plans to stop by the side of the road and jog back, citing various excuses. I hit a steep hill and psychologically give up as it appears to tower over me. Or someone edges past me and I mentally let them go, preferring do see them disappear into the distance rather than stay tantalisingly close, because to remain so close is unkind to my weak spirit. When I don't have a partner run with I'm not at all confident about maintaining the effort throughout a race. Certainly not through the best part of an hour and a half.

In the end, such quandaries became immaterial. The weather had better ideas, and a thick blanket of snow the day before the race put paid to whatever moderate ambitions may have remained. I probably shouldn't have been surprised. I don't have a great record with 'focus' races like this. Last year my big aim was the Stratford Marathon which was scuppered by an injury half way through training. Though I did manage to recover enough fitness sufficiently quickly to switch down to the half-marathon, it was little comfort because race day itself saw record rainfall across the UK and 50mph winds. I did it complete the race, unfit and bedraggled as I was, but it was a terror. I insisted on getting my medal at the end.

So, with the half marathon postponed, with no rearranged date in sight, I had 12 weeks of 5-6 days a week training in the bank and needed somewhere to spend it. With a few weeks to go until the next league race, and that race being a very hilly 10k it seemed wise to look elsewhere. And so to ParkRun I turned. Conkers ParkRun, to be precise. I'd not run it before, but I did know that my other local ParkRun - in Braunstone - was a two lapper with a big hill. So Conkers it would have to be if I were to come out of it with a time that made the hours of training worthwhile.

My PB over 5k had been set a year earlier, after only six months running with the club. At 19:30 it wasn't bad, very respectable even, but I was sure I could run faster. I must be able to go under 19 minutes for a start. I was very sure, because two recent league races over 5 and 6 miles had been run at an average pace that would comfortably take me under that threshold. With this knowledge, and as I so often do, I engaged in a little goal-slippage.

When I settled on running the ParkRun I had in mind to get that sub-19 I'd been looking for. Then, after a good run on a club night I started to revise that. 18:30 should be within my capabilities. I could certainly run that fast. And as I approached the morning itself I allowed the possibility of running my first race at sub-6-minute-miles to creep into my consciousness. I almost always do this. I have about three goals in mind for a race. One, conservative. One, progressive. One audacious. And I don't quite admit to myself which one I'm really going for. I tell myself that I'll be satisfied with the first, will aim for the second and be delighted with the third. Secretly, though I never even admit it to myself, it's the last one I'm really hoping for.

With my threefold ambitions in hand, I arrived at Conkers on the Saturday morning at about 8:30am, 30 minutes before the start. Having risen two hours earlier - that's my minimum, always a least two hours before the race- and fuelled by porridge, banana, espresso and Lucozade Sport – not in one glass - I pulled into the car park. And I found one other car, fewer than expected, which I parked beside. As I opened my door the driver of the other car wound down his window to ask if I knew whether this was the right place for the ParkRun. I had planned to ask the same question, and the empty car park didn't look promising, so I was little help. I told him I would jog off down the nearby path and, should I not return, it probably was. Which I did, and it was. I found another car park full of steaming bonnets, jogging bipeds and day-glo lycra. All the right signs for a race.

My warm up involved running a loop around a small lake several times. I read recently that for shorter races the warm up is particularly important. You need at least 4 minutes (or was it 8 minutes?) of decent intensity to get your heart-beat up and the correct juices flowing. You can do this any time within 40 minutes of the start of the race and the effect would still last, allowing you set off at full pace. So I chose the path around the lake which had a small hill, adding to the intensity, and felt it did the job adequately. I was aware of being a newcomer to this ParkRun, knowing that many people turn out every week generating something of a team atmosphere. I was not one of the usual faces, so I wanted to appear fit, and fast, to anyone watching. I'd seen the winning times for the previous few weeks and knew there was an outside chance of actually winning. I found myself developing an over-serious strut, doing a few more strides and lunges than I really needed to, just to establish my right to stand with the other faster runners on the start-line.

The weather couldn't have been better. Cool, around 3 degrees C. Almost completely still. And a blue sky with a low, warming sun lighting up the lake, the trees, and the brightly clad runners. If ever I was going run fast it was surely today. Then came the countdown, and we were off. I had a plan: stick with the front one or two for the first mile or so, to establish my pace and give me a good chance of staying up there towards the end. It was quite a shock, then, when within 600 metres the first few had already opened up a sizeable gap.

The doubts kicked in. Maybe I'd been too ambitious? Maybe couldn't run quickly without my clubmates around me? Maybe I couldn't run this early in the morning? I glanced at my watch. Maybe it was because these idiots where running at 5:40 mile pace and I was being sensible. First crisis dealt with. So I let them go, and settled on sticking with my own race plan.

Before I'd had time to really get my bearings, the watch beeped to tell me we'd completed a mile. I was in around 8th place at the back of a drawn out bunch. A little worrying - I'd hoped to be placed higher at this point, having expected only one or two others to aiming for low 18s. Seven others seemed too many, but I was going about as quickly as I thought I could comfortably sustain, so I had little choice but to accept the positions as they were, and see if a few slowed down towards the end having exerted too much in the early stages.

A sharp left and a sudden, short, steep hill brought me back up to two runners. I've always hated hills, they usually seem to be my undoing, and I dread them when I know they're coming. But they're also quite easy places to catch someone who has pulled away if you're willing to just put in a little extra effort. This time, for reasons unknown, I found that little extra. I'd moved up to seventh and we were heading back towards the finish.

The leaders were well clear now, so I'd given up any hope of a remarkable victory. It was all about the finish-time. And here's where more of my psychological subtleties come into play. I've already noted that I came into the race with my options open, allowing myself three alternative objectives, refusing to choose one. It was very clear by this stage that I was going to manage the first, going under 19 minutes. I could judge fairly easily from the effort I was putting in, the shortness of breath, the length of my stride, etc, that I was running quickly, and that I was comfortably under the first threshold. The easiest way to check this, of course, would be to look at my Garmin. But I couldn't.

When I'm deep into a run I become obsessed with ignorance. If I checked the watch I would know too much. If I was going quicker than expected I would likely panic, knowing how difficult it would be to sustain my current pace to the end. My fears of tying up would make me back off, even if in reality I was running well. Conversely, if I was going slower than expected I'd also give up, internally, and coast in. It's hard work running a 5k as fast as you can; I wouldn't need much of an excuse to abandon the effort. So I have this obsession with ignorance. It's an urgent sense that I am in a precarious zone of perfect balance which would be upset by knowing anything about my performance. I even get slightly upset by seeing the distance markers. If I don't know how I'm doing, I can keep going. If I find out, I might stop. It seems a very real danger at the time.

We were onto the home straight (I knew this because the race was essentially an out and back and I recognised the path). This meant there was not far to go, maybe 1.5k, and I was feeling confident. I usually find on club nights, when I'm running with the slightly-too-fast-for-me group, that in the final mile or two I find a second wind, an extra surge of energy. This has given me confidence for the latter stages of a race, ao I was ready to ride the crest of that wave to the finish. That's when he came past. The slightly-older-runner, the grey-haired bustler who eased up alongside me and gently pulled clear. Everything about his build and his gait said he shouldn't be beating me, but he was. And, just like that, the plug was pulled on the bathtub of my confidence and the water began to spiral away.

It's like this every time. When I'm passed in the latter stages of a race, I find my fighting spirit is completely absent. That red mist that sees athletes through to great things – I don't have one. Not even a pink one. Mine's more a mildly yellow mist that concedes defeat and hopes my opponent will pull away quickly so that I don't have to entertain any thoughts of chasing him. At least, it is at first. Until the oscillation comes. That begins when, after 20 seconds or so, I realise he's not getting away or he's still within reach. I get a sudden surge of fighting spirit and start to claw back the metres. But then I realise the extra effort I'm expending, highly doubt I can sustain it, and retreat again. I almost deliberately slow down to let him get away, just so that I won't have to entertain those cruel hopes again. And as I stop worrying and come to terms with my position, I relax, run more smoothly, and start to catch up again. The hope returns, and the oscillation goes on: Hope, defeat, hope, defeat...

On this occasion, I oscillated until we had rounded the final corner and the finish was in sight, about 200m down the track. My silver haired nemesis was a good 30 metres in front of me by now. And I was fairly sure there was no-one behind me (I didn't check of course, being so obsessed with ignorance as I was) so the places were secure. All I needed to do now was pick my pace up as I ran to the line for a strong finish and to shave a couple more seconds off my time.

As I did so, I entered another piece of oh-so-familiar territory. The dawning realisation as I gradually increase my speed that I am closing on the runner in front. What seemed impossible only moments before – making up a 30 metre deficit with now only 150 metres to go – became a maybe. It's at this point in races, and only then, that I remember I actually have a surprisingly good sprint finish.

It's surprising because I'm a terrible sprinter. I don't have any power in my legs. I honestly think I might lose to a 9-year old over a hundred metre dash. But I do seem to have something at the end of races. It's as if a switch flicks in my head, my yellow mist becomes saturated with scarlet, and I'm suddenly flying, extending my stride with every pace, working my arms, straining my sinews, and eating up the ground. My heavy steps rapidly approaching the runner in front must sound mildly terrifying; it has happened more than once that my fellow competitor on hearing my approach has turned his head with a look of mild panic and almost jumped off the track one seeing my flailing limbs and contorted face become large in his vision.

But this time I'd left it too late. Or had I? Or had I? Yes, I had. It was very close. I so nearly caught him on the line (I say 'line' but the crowd around the finish meant all I could see was a blurred mass of people coalescing with a flourescently-clad marshall, each of whom I hoped wouldn't mind me crashing into them when I failed to decelerate in time). But it wasn't to be. So all that remained was the time. Had I done it?

In the heat of my desperate lunge of the tape I had of course still managed to stop my Garmin. This is definitely a runner thing. A symptom of a sport that, save for the fastest few, is not concerned with winning anything, just with personal statistics. Runners have an extraordinary ability to stop their Garmins. It becomes an instinct that overides other primal survival mechanisms. Rather than use my arms to brace myself against the fast approaching mass of bodies, I had reached down and stopped the watch. I suspect I might do the same should I run out into a road and see a perilously close vehicle in my peripheral vision. Where, once, my life might have flashed before my eyes, hopes and regrets all combined in one final vision of my existence, it's quite possible that I might simply reach down and squeeze that button, listening out for comforting beep that tells me my stats are secure.

So I turned the watched face upwards and stared through sweat-blinkered eyes at the multiple fields of information, as my brain processed the image and brought the appropriate digits into focus. There it was. 18 minutes 17 seconds. I had done it. Objective 1: go under 19 minutes. Objective 2: go under 18:30. Objective 3: run under 6-minute-mile pace. All three firmly tucked under my belt. I'd knocked a massive 73 seconds off my previous 5k PB. 73 whole seconds!

I basked in that glory for a full 15 minutes. Enough time to return to the registration desk and hand in my barcode for my result to be recorded. Enough time to announce my achievement to the few fellow runners who had finished before me, most of whom made manly noises and gave me an upside down handshake, the kind that's compulsory in the sporting fraternity. Enough time to inform the man behind the desk that I'd never gone sub-six in a race before and be told, “It's not a race, it's a run.” He had a twinkle in his eye as he said it, but I'd happily have poked that twinkle out. That was a race, my friend, that was a race.

And it was enough time to get thinking. 18:17, that's very close to 18 minutes. What if I'd stuck with that guy who came past and still put in the sprint finish? What if I'd hung on a bit with the front runners earlier on? What if I trained for another month? What if? And thus I'd moved on. I'd been satisfied for 15 minutes, but no longer, because sub-18 was my new goal. I'd just knocked 73 seconds off my PB, surely I could find another 17? I was incomplete again. Such is the life of a runner.