History- often said to repeat if unobserved. Mmm, a tired old trope, I prefer “If history and science have taught us anything, it is that passion and desire are not the same as truth.” – hold that thought while we mine the repetition meme that Karl Marx pretty much nailed with “History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.”

Five kilometres in sees me desperately swinging between the way the world is versus how I’d like it to be. Ian – proper runner – has my back, and more importantly my front declaring all is well while tapping his wrist based chronometer.

I’m not so sure. But before we can move forward*, we must first navigate hinterlands’ misty fog.  This “race”** first hit my calendar back in 2018. I made some desultory readiness efforts as a proxy for being properly prepared. The same Ian dragged me round various hateful loops – my abiding memory is his tiny dog out pacing me on every trail – before my natural athletic ability smashed up against head-torch difficult geography resulting in an ankle about the size of my head and a “Do Not Start”

Which nearly finished me. Six weeks of grumpy sloth left me with a hard to shift belly medicated heavily on beer, and a strong supposition that running was for other people. This wasn’t just an ankle-jerk reaction to injury, more a recognition that riding a bike intersects the Venn of “things i want to do” and “things I don’t totally suck at” while running feels pretty much a skill learned only to outrun an angry bear.

We don’t get many of those in Ross. Unless the Ursus genome includes hedgehogs. Even I could out pace one of those given a decent start. Anyway here we are on the cusp of my first ever “official” 10km run. Not sure what the second Venn of “nervous” and “crap” is but I’m 100% inhabiting it. But at least history hasn’t repeated itself, I’ve made the start line but will I get to the end?

Ian is talking me down. A man who can run 10km in less than 45 minutes has every reason to be relaxed. Me, not so much searching the field for fat blokes, old women, crafty fag chancers or limping desperadoes.  Sadly wish fulfilment is not on the agenda today, and it’s all 4D stretching and barely concealed bravado.

Left of me are hundreds of proper runners ready to do battle with the course. Right well fuck that let’s grab a an ankle, pretend that’s a proper stretch and pen ourselves in the sub hour tribe disappointingly peppered with a few wannabes failing to observe rule 1: don’t be a dick.

Klaxon trills. We’re off navigating a thousand runners, most of whom are setting off way too fast. That’d be me except Ian is mainlining his inner Yoda and advising a slower pace properly couched in a “plan your race, race your plan” mantra. I want to go a bit harder, as runners stream pass, but we’re barely half a kilometre into the race, and I know I’ll suffer later***

Want to know how I suffer? Let me share that with you. But first, while the event was brilliantly organised,  I was disappointed with the lack of fancy dress. Sure being passed by a eight foot Rubik’s’ Cube at 9km is a proper dent to your self esteem, but I’ve always loved watching those nutters livestreamed on the London Marathon.

Some of that is because I could definitely rock a chicken suit,  Anyway watching me run in fancy dress would surely comment “wow, he’s gone full poultry there, got the gait and everything” – this is not a drill, it is how I run, Seeing Ian and I mirrored in shop windows, he looks like a proper runner whereas I appear to be not quite falling over with a gaze suggesting an opportune worm is within my purview.

So we’re at 5km and I’m briefly uplifted by the hard left signifying easy street for the non half marathon runners. It still feels way too hard tho and for the first time Ian is chivvying me along, not pushing me back. I’m starting to tire, but in my defence conditions are perfect 😉 Blue skies pierced by a warm sun making those wearing multi layers to regret their choices,

I’m also regretting my choices even as Ian tells me we’re right on pace, and up front is the 55 min pace setter who started three minutes up the road. I want to chase and pass, but pace is pace and we’re not going to blow it up now. We fly by with a km to go, and still the pavements are full of volunteers/spouses/those with nothing better to do clapping us on. And those who burnt all their matches and are now walking. Yeah Smug mode on.

But I’m properly hurting now. I’ve trained pretty well for this event, since the start of the year, but the last 2km represent a mental battle I’m keen to avoid. Ian keeps me honest tho with the finish line black-holing me into a rubbish sprint to get it done. And I’m done. Properly, hands on knees, most body parts shut down, sucking in all the available oxygen.

Fist pump feels so wrong, so I give Ian a sweaty hug instead. He looks delighted 😉 He’s done a fantastic job pacing me to a 52min, 35 sec.  My goal was under an hour so I’ll not only take this, I’ll forge it in iron and bury it for future generations.  I’m not  a runner so this feels like something I should be proud of.

Ian and I pick up our medals and freebies and head back to the car. 1030am and we’re done. I was properly nervous at 830am assuming I’d spectacularly  fuck this up, but no apparently if you put in the work, you’ll get the results.  I think I’ll do another one, maybe a bit further, maybe not.

The lesson, if there is one, must be just get out there and do stuff you’ve never done before. Even if it’s not your “thing“. Create good memories. Now let’s go and make some more.

*quite slowly in the case of some desperate middle aged jogging.

**I just can’t. Racing suggests speed. I’ll grudgingly accept “event”. But race is happening to other people.

***this absolutely came to pass.