Silverstone half marathon: done!

It's been a very long and emotional day, and I would probably be better served to be sitting with my feet upright now rather than updating my blog, but to be honest it's lonely at home right now with the children in bed and Larry out at work, and my head feels jumbled so blogging is the best option.


So today I ran my first half marathon at Silverstone, the home of British Formula One. I've always had a special place in my heart for SS, back to 1996 when Damon Hill became World Champion. Completely bed bound due to M.E. at that point, I watched a fair bit of TV, and started to watch F1 more and more avidly. By the end of the season I was hooked, and decided that I'd really like to go to Silverstone one day to see what it was like in real life and not through a screen. Today I had that opportunity, and although I wasn't watching F1 cars zooming round, I had something better: I got to run around the track and through the pits.

Queues!

This morning started in usual race style with me up at the break of dawn, trying (and today failing) to get some porridge down me, then putting on my carefully laid out kit, attaching the timing chip to my shoe and getting ready to hit the road. The journey down the M1 was unremarkable, until we popped into services to grab a banana which I had forgotten to bring in my nerves. Everywhere you looked there were runners, and it was really nice because we were all there for the same reason, all with a scared look on our faces, but all friendly to each other. I do love the camaraderie and immediate friendship between runners, it's like belonging to a universal club. On leaving the motorway we hit traffic. There were queues for miles full of cars containing nervous runners, and all we could do was to sit and wait and patiently inch bit by bit forwards until we arrived.

Mark, me and Nicole

On stepping out of the car I was certain of one thing: I'd made the right call to wear a long sleeved top under my vest. It was bitterly cold, not quite "Siberian" as the Daily Express had forecast, but cold enough to make me long for the warmth of the car! The wind had a bite to it too, and it all added to the "what am I doing?" feeling I was getting. The first thing to do was walk a good 30 minutes from the car park to the start line. This both warmed my legs up and chilled me to the core at the same time. Race photographers were milling around trying to take pictures of people as they were waiting around. I was papped in the queue for the toilets; very glamorous! I met up with a few Mind people, and did my usual pre race rituals. Having gone for a pee 3 times in 10 minutes, it was time to get on with the job at hand and make our way to the start line. I was glad to have Mark with me, he promised he wouldn't leave me and I welcomed his chirpy presence next to me to keep me grounded and stop me disappearing into myself and my memories of GSR.

I quite like the start of a race. You're standing around, heart racing with the flood of adrenaline, then suddenly the people in front start moving forwards and you're walking slowly, then walking turns into jogging, then suddenly you're through the start and the race is on. All around you people are jostling for space and cutting you up as they try to fight their way ahead of everyone, only to be overtaken a mile or so up the road as they've burnt themselves out early. The first few miles were easy, and I didn't need to slow down or walk at all. When we hit 4 miles I was beginning to fatigue, and I had that horrible wave of nausea that I seem to get whenever I race (mental note: get some anti-emetics on board next weekend). But lungs were good, legs were holding up, so we pressed on. The only issue I had was that I needed a poo, but I kept trying to forcefully ignore that telling myself I'd taken loperamide before the race so it couldn't be an issue. At mile 5 I wanted to stop and walk, my legs felt a bit jelly-like and I'd already run non-stop way more than I ever had before. But Mark refused to let me break down to a walk so we slowed the pace right down and I kept going. By mile 6 I wasn't having much fun, physically I was holding up but mentally I was a bundle of worry about whether I would make a "decent" time or not. By mile 7 I was tired and all my demons, the PTSD stuff that's been haunting me recently, all of it started to play through my mind and still I trudged through, gratefully hanging on to Mark's support like a lifeline, but my legs threatened to buckle so I knew I needed to slow it right down to a walk so I could refuel and get some fluid on board, and suddenly Mark was gone.

I wanted to chase after him but my legs insisted I walked for a bit longer, and suddenly I realised I was crying. I was so tired, I was alone, I was giving myself a really hard time, and suddenly all I could see were the negatives. I couldn't appreciate the fact that I had run for 8 miles solidly, when only 10 days ago I was thrilled at running 2 miles without a break.I couldn't appreciate the fact that I'd done over half of it and had surpassed myself in every way. The bastard gremlins started harassing me and I was trying - and failing - not to cry. A lovely lovely lady with funky sunglasses and a Mind vest came up behind me and was so kind to me. She gave me some dextrose energy tablets and a big lot of love, then stopped off to use the toilet saying she'd catch me up. She never did, as by that point I'd decided to try and catch up Mark so was back up to 9:30 minute miles. I can't really remember a lot of the next bit to 10 miles, I know I mostly ran, and tried to adopt a Paula Radcliffe strategy and count every step up to 100 then start over again. At some point I called TT very quickly because I needed to hear his calm instructions as to how to keep going and not give up (which was seeming far more attractive by the minute). At 10 miles I saw Larry and ran over for a big hug and a pep talk, then got my head down to do the last 3 miles.

Those 3 miles were a bit start stop, they lacked the consistency of the first chunk of running, but I didn't allow myself to walk for long. At 12 miles I put my iPod in (although scarily my hands lacked the strength to clip it to my bra strap, whether it was because they were massively swollen or cold or what, I couldn't actually use them) and sped up to 9 minute miles. Then finally, in the distance I saw the finish line. 200m from the end I picked up the pace until I was full on sprinting to the end. I was amazed my legs had it in them but I'm guessing those fast twitch fibres wanted a piece of the action. It felt really good to lengthen my stride out as I sped to the end, then suddenly I'd crossed the line and that was it, I was done. I forgot to turn my Garmin off immediately, I just stood for a bit, then as I walked through the finisher's enclosure my legs buckled and a doctor came up on my left and a St John's person on my right. I was dizzy and thought I was going down, but I held my hands up to them and managed to keep walking through to get my bag of goodies and the beautiful medal.

So my first official half marathon, and I did it in 2:30. I should be happy with that, I want to be happy with that. Am I happy? No, not really. And this I why my head is so jumbled tonight. I am such a tough cookie so much of the time. I'm stubborn and determined, I love a good challenge and like to attack it head on. But when it comes to situations which judge just how good I really am, I start to fall apart. I was ok with Mark there, I might've seemed like I was ignoring him a lot but I relished the company and it was nice to listen to someone who didn't expect a huge amount of conversation in return. I am such a loner when I run, so worried about being judged so I run alone, until race day where it kind of confronts me head on. What was weird about Silverstone was how eerily quiet it was in places. The spectators were limited to a couple of areas, and the rest of the time it was just us running, with the occasional guy with a microphone calling out to motivate us onwards and the sound of the wind as it whipped across the track.

What am I taking away from today? It goes back to what it always seems to go back to, and that is fuelling. Bloody food. And the faster and further I run, the more it catches me out. I struggled to eat breakfast this morning and I bonked at mile 8. I need to start increasing my carb intake 5 days before rather than 3 days, as my usual intake is so poor that I'm pretty much starting on zero glycogen each time. Next weekend is Ashby 20, and although I was exhausted after doing 13.1 miles today, I know what I'm doing a bit better now. I know how my body needs me to fuel, I know that I can't cope with any form of fuelling that requires effort to chew, such as sweets or shot bloks, so will rely on gels alone. I know I can run at least 8 miles non stop, which is something I never dreamed I'd be able to do. And most importantly, I know that even if I can't be proud of myself, I have a heck of a lot of people out there rooting for me, and for that I'm very grateful.

I will finish this entry with something my 5 year old son, Ben, said to me before he went to bed tonight. He brought my medal in and told me that he was very proud of me for running my race because I tried ever so hard and brought home a lovely medal. My darling boy has hit the nail straight on the head there: the mere fact that I tried hard in my race is something I should be proud of. I love that child.