Scottish Gas 10k 3/08/08
Lately, I’ve been producing a litany of excuses as to why I shouldn’t enter races: “I’m not ready for it”; “My shin’s still dodgy”; “The weather might be too hot”; “It’ll be too sore”. But, having conquered my race aversion by entering the Musselburgh 10k the week before, I thought it might be a good idea to keep the momentum going, otherwise fear and paranoia might set in again (racing, for me, is about as bad as having a spider phobia – so I see actually doing a race as the equivalent of handling a huge tarantula protractedly).
The Scottish Gas 10k was actually the first race I ever ran (six years ago, before my catalogue of long injuries began) so, with my 38th birthday approaching (hence more fear and paranoia), I thought it would be a good test to see if I was in better shape than my 32-year-old self, then at least I could take some small comfort from the unavoidable pain.
I wouldn’t say I was exactly cheered when I opened the curtains to pounding rain, but I couldn’t really complain, having whined for days about the hot weather like a grumpy old woman (as well as the state of Edinburgh’s roads, the influx of Festival-goers etc etc). So, it was on with the running shoes, despite the nest of pythons doing a spinning class in my guts.
When I arrived at the salubrious setting of Scottish Gas HQ, there were already hoards of serious-looking people warming up furiously, as well as the obligatory pounding music and expansive queues for the portaloos. I met Michael Nowicki, who looked fairly relaxed and said he’d just had a free massage (on closer inspection, people with bare torsos were lined up ready to be therapeutically pummeled by the on-site masseur). By this time, my anxiety levels were through the roof and anyone attempting a massage on me would have declared rigor mortis.
I met some of the other Porty runners and we watched the mass warm-up while we all stood still, preferring not to display our collective lack of co-ordination. The rain went off for the start and, lo and behold, blazing sunshine and temperatures of about 25. I was gutted. Bring back cold, barren, rain-soaked Scotland please.
This is a well-organised race, but the start seemed more than a bit shambolic. It wasn’t clear where the front of the field actually was and, although I never like to start too far up, I ended up having to resort to gladiatorial combat to get to where I thought I should be (much elbowing and being elbowed in the sides, basically). Finally, I could see some more Porty vests and began to settle down into some sort of regular pace.
I just about caught up with Scott Jarvie, who was going really strongly, and settled in somewhere behind him. I think he was aware I was behind him, given my tortured gasps, but I was in no shape at all to pass him and just tried not to let the gap open too much.
As the race leaders came round the turn, there was a lot of friendly bantering between those ahead and those behind: “Aye, great John, on you go now” and so on. I have absolutely no idea how anyone could speak to anyone else as I was, by 5k, near respiratory failure and had a sudden thought that I really should have filled in the emergency medical information on the back of my race number. I spotted Gerry and Willie among the leading pack, making it look effortless as I started to fall apart. Having done the Silverknowes 5k earlier in the year, I knew the course wasn’t exactly varied, but I had forgotten just how long that stretch along the seafront can actually be.
By 8k I was slowing badly, practically having convulsions and feeling sick. This was bad. It was, however, the hill at the end that finished me off. I felt I was taking baby steps up it – anyway, movements very far removed from “running”. There were the usual helpful marshals offering motivating soundbites. At this point in a race I always feel like hitting people who tell me to just keep going, so it’s as well I never have an ounce of energy left. I stumbled through the finish in 40.18 – a PB (not counting last week’s run at Musselburgh, which I don’t think is legitimate), but I was still gutted since I’d so wanted to crack that 40-minute barrier.
Gerry and Scott were at the finish and were managing the Olympian feat of actually chatting, whereas I was bent double and unable to utter anything but dying-animal whimpers for five minutes. Gerry had run a brilliant time (36.38) and Scott had gone sub-40 (39.51). Willie also had a great race, coming in at 37.21, and there were some other fine performances from the clubI wouldn’t say I came away happy and I certainly haven’t cured my terrible race nerves – but at least I was 2 minutes 40 faster than my 32-year-old self. Having had a look at the photos of the day, I can only aspire to smile the next time.
Report Melanie Henderson
Photos Jim Scott
More photos at roadrunpics
Full results here
317 is Shelagh's husband Andrew
