Rigg Race 25/05/09
I have what you might call “unresolved race issues”. The main issue is actually doing them (as Bert puts it, racing can just interrupt your training). I was certainly downright terrified of this one. Since returning from last year’s disastrous injury, which put me out for over six months, I’ve been nursing my race phobia in a way that has become pathological, so to say that the idea of a “rigg race” struck horror right down into my neoprene insoles would be underplaying the situation somewhat. The only other “rigg” I’m remotely familiar with is Redstone Rigg, an almost vertical pathway into the clouds that I have sworn my way up a couple of times on my road bike. Knowing that the very word has connotations of severe and prolonged suffering, I thought I should do some research.
This is Scott H and Mel heading for the line - lack of light made for poor photos.Logging on to the Harmeny Athletic website, my fears were confirmed: “From Balerno village, the race goes up…and we mean up!” the pre-race “advertising” proclaimed in a jaunty, if not totally sadistic way. They knew their market, these people. They weren’t selling it to anyone bar those with a predilection for beating themselves up. Just to make doubly sure, I drove up to Balerno on the Sunday before the race, reaching the foot of what I thought was the “rigg” in my due-for-retirement Honda Civic. Half way up, the car was grunting and spluttering like a stubborn horse refusing the first fence. What hope did my nervous, under-raced legs have, then? Still, as forms of self-torture go, the whole thing retained its appeal.
There was some comfort in the amount of navy hoodies and blue and yellow striped vests I spotted as I heaved myself out of the car at around 6.45pm, still struggling to digest the remainder of a particularly leaden scone I’d wolfed three hours earlier (I’ve recently been trying a new athletes’ diet of Costa Coffee, scones and shortbread). I met Mary in the changing rooms and we compared the state of our stomachs. She said she didn’t much like racing at this time of day either and she was still recovering from her successful run at the Stornoway Half. Still, stomachs braced, we all decided to go for a warm-up jog. I spent most of it acting like a whining child: “I’ve got a stitch! I don’t want to do this! I feel sick! I hate racing!”. Shelagh tried reassurance – a strict, motherly kind of reassurance: “Shut up, Mel, and stop complaining!”. “I don’t want to do this!” I whined again. “Well, you don’t have to – go home then,” said Richard. This was rather like a slap from a wet tea towel, but it did the trick and I began to settle down. Well, a bit.
Douglas going in for the kill
7.30 pm and off we went. I took a deep breath, looked skywards and hoped for positive vibes from the running Gods. The forecast thunder and lightning had at least failed to materialise and there was virtually no wind. I would say I was determined to enjoy this, but I never understand how anyone can actually enjoy a race until it’s over and the pain-relieving hormones are well round the bloodstream. So I guess retrospective enjoyment was what I was hoping for.
Alex Jackson times himself.
The best advice for this course would be “go easy on the hill”. And it really is some hill: the first couple of miles do go up and up (“and we mean up…”). But the hill was really the least of my worries. I climbed it steadily enough and felt as fine as you’d expect to feel having run up a big hill. It was only at the top that the wobble began. You know you’re on the rivet when your brain-to-legs function breaks down irreversibly and you feel as if you’ve been whacked in the stomach with something large and blunt. Unfortunately, the 3pm scone had failed to provide much power and was now a stodge boulder beneath my rib cage. Death by pre-race scone was definitely pending. I then heard the thunder behind me…which actually proved to be Scott Jarvie, Graham Henry and Scott Hutchison making a post-hill charge. “Come on Mel, keep it solid” shouted Graham as he hammered past. To the teenagers I teach, “solid” can mean a number of things, including unfair, difficult or impossible. The race had already become all of these.
I was going through a bad patch, (that good old euphemism for blinding, crippling pain). At around three miles, someone shouted “First woman!” and I think I responded by grunting and slavering in a most unwomanly fashion. Scott Hutchison then took it upon himself to escort me to the finish, shouting at regular intervals: “Come on Mel, keep it going, dig in, dig in, hang in there, hang in….”. Meanwhile, Graeme barked course updates and further orders from a few hundred yards in front: “Two and a quarter miles now, next bit’s downhill! Come on now!”. By now, I felt like sitting down and sobbing at the side of the trees: “Just go ahead, Scott,” I croaked, almost tearful. “I’m not leaving you! Come on!” he yelled. And so it went until we were back at the roundabout before the entrance to Malleny Park and the finish. Somehow, I found the energy for a last dash, again egged on by Scott, who turned and hi-fived me on the other side of the line, quickly backing off from a hug when he realised what a slavery, sweaty mess I was (think most unsightly zombie from Shaun of the Dead and double it). How some of my clubmates (Jacqui!) manage to look glamorous in race photos I will never know. Tips welcome.
A stream of Porties came in – all great performances, particularly from Johnny, who had run a blinder even after the Kircudbright half. Richard had also excelled himself, as had Peter, who had done countless races in a matter of days. Shelagh managed to look almost unruffled and said it “wasn’t as bad as she thought”. It had begun to rain by this time, but we hung about for the prize-giving, having a moan about our rumbling stomachs and the lack of available cakes. In the event, there was no silverware to collect since the trophies hadn’t been returned in time, so I went home with a handshake and an invisible prize. Still, that was plenty. All things considered, I was relieved to get round in one piece. Heartfelt thanks to Scott and Graham for their unremitting support (though Graham was spot on when he said “I bet you didnae like us very much at the time”).
As forms of self-torture go, it was brilliant. And, retrospectively speaking, it was sort of ok.
Report Mel Henderson
Results
Photos pb and John Pringle, who took the team shot.Here are some photos taken by Jim Buick who was out supporting and taking photos of the race,
cheers Jim.
