From the North…

There are two races I run most years for reasons entirely detached from the race itself; Blaydon and the Great North Run. I don’t run them because the courses are good, or because I might get a personal best, or even because it’s convenient. I run them because I’m northern and it’s what we do. It’s road running, it’s fast, the stupid shoes make my stupid quads hurt. But it’s what we do.

Blaydon was three weeks before Lavaredo and went surprisingly well. As is often the case with Blaydon, it would’ve comfortably been a 10km personal best if only the race wasn’t a 9.6km race, plenty of positives and a lovely little confidence boost ahead of the year’s first a-race.

The Great North Run was four weeks out from my other a-race, Ultra Pirineu, and the build up had been turbulent to say the least. At the start of the year one of my goals was to run a sub-85 minute half but no plan survives contact with the enemy. In this case the enemy was a bout of covid followed two weeks later by a sucker punch of another chest infection.

There followed weeks of wondering where my lungs had gone. Of launching back into training then watching as post viral fatigue came in like a wrecking ball. I have been running, but not getting the consistent quality or quantity needed and was only able to do one speed session in the lead up.

It’s also been the year that I moved away from Newcastle and a tough year for my family, so going back home to run from where I used to live to where I grew up felt important, regardless of my fitness or fatigue right now.

There are similarities with this time last year, when I chose not to run and took a break altogether. If I’m honest, if Pirineu wasn’t so close I’d be giving my body a full rest at the moment. Instead I find myself desperately trying to walk a line: not going too hard to try to make up for what I’ve lost (spoiler: that doesn’t work) but also not giving up on another a-race after a tough few years of missing out on my main races and goals.

The starting area seemed more chaotic this year. They’d put in place more order in terms of crowd control but it actually meant that, although I arrived earlier than normal, it took longer to get into a start pen and we couldn’t choose which side of the motorway to start on. For the first time in seven outings at the event, I’d have to go over the flyover not under.

At 10:50am the gun goes and the strains of Local Hero by Mark Knopfler come through the PA systems. I love the atmosphere in that moment, as we start to shuffle forward knowing that in a few minutes time it’s go time.

The start felt incredible. It was as though all of my doubts and fears fell away and I could move freely again. Long strides, steady heart rate, quick pace. I wasn’t ragging myself, everything felt controlled but quicker than I’d hoped.

The building work on the Tyne Bridge has diminished the atmosphere early on a little, with spectators no longer able to line both sides of the road, but Geordies are still a noisy bunch and the support was great. I noticed on the hill up to Felling Bypass that my pace changed dramatically with the incline. This has been symptomatic of my present situation while recovering, hills are harder when your lungs don’t want to play, but I wasn’t too worried as I figured I’d make up pace on the flats and downs.

I was right, as soon as I came round the roundabout that smooth controlled pace came back. I always cross to the far carriageway at this point as it’s less busy as you head towards the stadium. I saw a large group of kids on the right with outstretched arms and ran by, high fiving as many as possible and enjoying the momentary buzz. And then suddenly my pace dropped dramatically and I started to struggle.

For three kilometres my pace was slower than I’d usually expect it to be even in a training run. I urged my legs on but they wouldn’t respond. I gulped down a Maurten and started to do some maths. The strong start had got me to half way around about my pre-race expectation but I’d need to find an injection of pace if I was going to avoid a blow up. I worked out the pace I needed, counted the seconds, and started to keep a float in my head of whether I was over or under target. It gave me just enough to keep pushing.

I always find the middle section, between Gateshead Stadium and the bottom of John Reid Road in South Shields a bit of a drag. It’s non-descript motorway running and feels like you spend far more time on gradual climbs than you do their equivalent descents. But things pick up as I turn onto John Reid Road, my parents live close by and come to watch.

I grabbed my phone and readied the camera. Much as I wanted to work towards a time target, I wanted to get a camera and thank them for the ongoing support. It was a good day for my parents, with my sister running too.

Selfie snapped, I knuckled down for the long straight. It’s over 5km to the coast but the road is lined with people and familiar things happen: I pass the people giving out free beer, the choir singing ‘Is this the way to Amarillo’, the spot where I used to watch Paula Radcliffe come by when I was young. Elvis wasn’t there this year, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’s ill. I missed his high fives.

Don’t think, however, that because I was noticing all of these things I wasn’t grafting. In spite of what felt like a gargantuan effort it was still touch and go if I could get in on my expected time. My pace most of the way up John Reid Road was just a few seconds too slow and then, coming past the shops at the Nook, I dropped my slowest kilometre. Surely that was it. I now needed to make up a big chunk of time in the last three if I was to do it.

It was now or never. I swore at myself profusely and upped my work rate as much as I could. I squeezed slightly under target but as I lengthened my strides down to the coast I knew that the last two kilometres would need to empty the tank completely.

Somehow, from somewhere, my legs responded. I was going as fast as I was at the very start, only this time my heart was straining at the work rate. I passed people being supported on the shoulders of other runners, a man not far ahead collapsed and medics rushed across the road. I kept glancing at my watch waiting for the inevitable slow down but it didn’t come.

Last kilometre and every fibre of my being is trying to ignore the fatigue and the struggle. Must. Go. Faster. This is where I used to wander when I was a kid, I can see the sea, the stadium where I timed my own 1500m, the football fields where we used to play – and once got chased home by a gang. A few people see the effort written on my exertion disfigured face and give me a cheer by name.

That last kilometre was the fastest of the day. I raised my arm and sprinted under the finishers arch gasping for breath. I’d made it fifteen seconds inside my target for the day. It wasn’t my fastest Great North Run, not even in the top three, but it’s probably the one that means the most because it was so hard for so long and I wouldn’t relent or give myself permission to give up on my goals.

And that’s important because two weeks tomorrow, at 5:30 am, I’ll leave the central square of the Catalan town of Bagà for Ultra Pirineu. It’s 102km with 6,700m of elevation gain. The summer has been hard. I’ve adjusted my expectations, I know that having been unable to train properly it may prove beyond my fitness level.

But it’s always a privilege to toe the line in the mountains..

See you on the other side.