Runner's Words

There’s been a few blogs over the years where I’ve used the phrase “what a difference twelve months makes”. Sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. It’s a natural yardstick, especially when in cases like these it can show the contrasts between the very highest of the highs, and the very lowest of the lows.

2022 was my annus horribilis as a runner. After a glorious 2020-21 culminating in that sub-three marathon, the months that followed a vicious cycle of illness, injury and for the first time in over a decade a feeling that I was actually falling out of love with running a bit. Covid kicked me in the swingers for weeks, everything suffered, injuries popped up left right and centre, and then just when I thought I was getting back on track with a strong effort round Standalone, my achilles flared up out of nowhere and for a while there was even doubt if I’d be able to fulfil my dream of running The Boston Marathon.

We all know that that Boston happened in the end, but that injury really did cap off a pretty crap year in some style. If I’m being honest, 2023 didn’t start off too amazingly either as my marathon training was hit with a couple of doses of illness and the race was itself was affected by the after-effects of something which didn’t seem to be covid, never gave me a positive test for covid, but really did feel quite a lot like covid. But what an adventure it was, one of the greatest experiences of my entire life.

Once the dust had settled on that one I started to plot out the rest of my year. Standalone would pretty much be a given, maybe I’d have a go at the Manchester Half a week after that for the first time since nearly shitting my pants at the 2019 edition. Other than that though it was all a bit of an unknown quantity. It was hard to plan too far ahead as I’d got back from America still suffering a bit with whatever the hell illness it was I’d picked up two weeks before we flew over there. I had a bit of a medical issue on top of that, I was having to skip runs here and there, I couldn’t really push things as hard as I’d like and naturally started to drift back into “running when I want” mode. Which for a while wasn’t very much. It began to feel like 2022 all over again.

A cheap, last minute entry to the Alderley Edge Bypass 10k snapped things back into focus after being targeted with a Facebook advert the previous day. A race I’d never done before allied to the prospect of a fast course I thought why the hell not. Let’s see where I’m at. I’d gone all in for a 10k at Standalone just a few months previous and came out with a more than decent time so I thought it’d be interesting to go again, this time with the benefit of hundreds of miles of marathon training in the legs. The last time I did exactly that, I hit a PB. And anyway, the pre-race blurb said there’d be a pub at the finish line so that was enough for me. I slung on my trusty Vaporfly and headed over, raring to go.

It’s always exciting doing a new race for the first time, even if for this one I’d basically just be running up and down a bypass down the road from my in laws’ house. And it was a good morning for it, Alderley Park looking more than decent in the early morning sunshine as we milled about waiting for kick off. I was a little earlier than I probably needed to be as I’d needed to pick up my number and finishers’ T-shirt (the latter proving unsuccessful) but it was all good. There was no pressure on this one so I just chilled in the sun for a bit then headed up to the startline to see how having not-covid had affected my 10k pace.

It turns out, not too badly. The nature of the course meant there were hardly any corners to break the rhythm once you hit the bypass, just one hairpin around half distance, and I watched the miles drop off one by one, well on target for a fast time right from the very off. I was actually sticking with the 37:30 pacer for most of the first half of the race, feeling pretty pleased with myself until the other runners in our little group pointed out to him he was running too slowly and they all sped off into the distance, never to be seen again. Nevertheless, I still somehow ended up striding over the line for my second fastest ever 10k in 38:39, just 21 seconds off my PB. Not a bad morning’s work, although the promise of a pub at the finish line proved to be nothing more than a DOWNRIGHT LIE. My post-race beer would have to wait on this occasion.

As is often the way after a bit of a mad result it got me thinking. I couldn’t understand how I’d run it so fast, coming off the back of whatever it was that derailed Boston so badly. Where was my performance currently at? Was I actually in much better shape than I’d realised and it had just been a (long) bout of illness that had been holding me back this whole time? I’d almost hit a 10k PB three weeks after logging my second-slowest marathon ever. It just didn’t make sense, but it was incredibly promising for whatever the rest of the year might have in store.

Summer came and went, although you could barely call it that. The good runs were coming thick and fast though as the leaves began to turn and Standalone loomed into view, back in its customary slot on the first weekend of October, and as with last year I’d arrived in decent shape and decided to go all out again on yet another beautiful sunny morning on the farm. Despite feeling a little dehydrated in the early stages I pushed through and crossed the brand-new finish line 18 seconds up on last year to hit my fastest-ever Standalone (at the ninth attempt) and my fourth-fastest 10k overall, just 11 seconds off the bypass effort. Approaching my 42nd birthday the feeling was that I might just be running better than ever.

What happened next actually defied belief, and validated that yes, maybe I was, my only regret is that I didn’t prove it in a race situation. I’d stupidly let the Manchester Half Marathon sell out despite it being amongst my favourite races on the calendar, 2019’s portaloo / no-T-shirt debacle notwithstanding. Race weekend slipped by with a hint of sadness and so the following weekend I decided to make up for it. I didn’t have a race to run, but my Garmin was telling me I was at a similar level to what I considered my absolute peak in late 2021 and I figured it’d be a shame to let this golden opportunity slide. Thoughts flew back to April 2020 and my pandemic-cancelled marathon and the virtual half that came out the back of it as very nearly a PB. Could I hit that kind of level in a non-race situation again? I guess there was only one way to find out.

I set off into the bright, autumnal sunshine loosely aiming for a sub-90 – but hoping for a little more – and it wasn’t long before I noticed the miles were being ticked off at a ridiculous pace, flying down the Fallowfield Loop not far off my 10k pace. Was this all too much, too early? It all just felt so effortless, and at the halfway point my brain started to realise something really special could be on the cards here. My expectations started to shift from “sub 90 would be nice” to “this would be one of my fastest ever races, if it were a race” to “holy shit this might actually be a PB”. Assuming I didn’t melt on the return leg, we were firmly approaching the latter camp.

With the gentle incline on the way home and an occasional light headwind I did slip back a little from that incredible first half, but nowhere near enough to lose all the time gained. I stopped outside Aldi at the 13.11 mark, took a few seconds to catch my breath, then looked down at the final time. Five years on from wondering if I could ever get under 1:28, I had somehow hit a 1:25:38, obliterating my actual race PB by a minute and thirteen seconds, the biggest margin since I took a minute and a half off over a decade ago over in Liverpool. What the actual hell had happened here.

As with that surprising result on the bypass in May, my brain started whirring with all the possibilities this might open up. How much quicker could I have gone in a race situation, with all the extra adrenaline that comes with that? How about if I’d not been on the piss the day before, or stupidly late to bed watching post-season baseball? How about if I’d realised I was going to be shooting for a PB and had laced up my Vaporfly to maybe gain a few extra seconds? Is there still more to come, despite being firmly in my early 40s? Somehow, after 15 years of running and with a few of those being supposedly past my peak, I was running better than ever.

I haven’t quite processed what this all means yet or where I’m headed for 2024 as a result. This time last year, I already had my place at Boston so all eyes were on that. I knew the next year was going to be a marathon year, injury permitting. My very loose marathon pattern of year on / year off suggests next year might be one of those where I just concentrate on a few short, fast races, but then with my fitness apparently as good as it’s ever been, maybe it would be a shame to waste it when there’s that fast, flat marathon on my doorstep in April. We’ll see, I guess.

Overall 2023’s been pretty good on the running front, which is genuinely really nice to say after that pretty shit 2022, and especially how I felt this time exactly twelve months ago. Boston was all I could have hoped for and more, a weird fever dream, a hazy blur of hills, illness, Bud Light and torrential rain. I even made the 127th Boston Marathon Racers’ Record Book off the back of it, an incredible source of pride with my stupid big face grinning like an idiot despite feeling like my legs were about to crumble beneath me. And then after that a pair of 10ks sitting second and fourth on my all time list, and then after that, my fastest-ever half marathon, by miles. And then after that, just to round things off, barring illness or injury I should hit the 2000 mile mark for the year in the next few days, mostly thanks to a massive 221.9 mile October (my biggest month since September 2021). I never thought I’d be saying that after the dreadful May/June, but here we are. Assuming I do it, it’ll only my third 2000 mile year ever and a full 700 miles more than last year. I’m pretty pleased with that. I’d have been more than happy with any of that at the start of the year. What a difference twelve months makes, after all.