A most unusual Friday this. The kids were all off school (not back until Wednesday for Victoria Day!), and I was on my annual work volunteering day. The plan was to head to Waverley Station to help promote St Columba's Hospice's Pentland Push event, but the guys from SCH weren't getting there until 11am, so I had a lovely long lie.
The volunteering wasn't really my sort of thing. Usually I like to get my hands (and everything else) dirty by helping the Water of Leith Conservation Society by donning waders and dragging shopping trolleys and assorted other detritus out of the river - a complete change from my own job, and (unlike my job) something that delivers a tangible/visible end product. However our boss decided he wanted to do something as a team this year, and then vetoed anything with a physical element on account of his bad back. Bah. So we ended up acting like those perky youths that you often see on Princes Street, asking if you "can spare a minute for [insert charity]?" A tough gig, and I am no kind of salesman. But at least we were doing it for a really good cause, and if I managed to persuade anyone to run/walk in the Pentlands then it can't have been a complete waste of time. I also got to blether to Roly for a while, although he didn't realise it was me at first, as he admitted he was doing his utmost to avoid making eye contact - ha!
Even more unusual was racing on a Friday evening though! I had tried and failed to sign up for the Black Rock 5 last year, arriving on the website only two and a half hours after it went live on Entry Central, but crucially half an hour after it had sold out. I took no chances this year (sitting refreshing my browser repeatedly until the appointed time) and was looking forward to another tick against an interesting/must-do event.
Leaving Edinburgh quite sharp, it dawned on me that I was going to get to Kinghorn ridiculously early, even for me. Stopping at Burntisland to take pictures of the Rock didn't waste that much time, and I found myself riding into town at only a few minutes after 5pm.
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| The titular Black Rock |
As you can tell from the windscreen wipers picture above, conditions were "fairly humid" when I arrived (but it turned dry for the start).
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| No queues at registration! |
I may have been the first to register. There was some upside in that I got an extremely favourable parking spot, free rein of the toilets, and only mild admonishment from the ladies on the "naughty table" for not bringing a note of my number. They called me a "numpty", but said it with a smile, and it is pretty difficult to disagree with their assessment.
After hellos and/or a chat with a good number of mates in the hall (there being an excellent turn out of 13 Dunbars for one thing), I went out for a warm up and chanced upon first Rhona and Megan, and then Stuart. Stuart and I took the road down to the beach, at which point the gate was still locked. We speculated on whether we might have to limbo or vault it, but one of the marshals said that there was a search on for the keys, so we might get lucky and find it open. I remarked to Stuart that , like at sea, it's always really difficult to judge distance on sand - the Rock looked really close - but, remembering the Dunbar leg of the Borders Cross Country, it probably wasn't (it definitely wasn't!).
We didn't go too far onto the sand, instead doubling back almost straight away and taking the harbour steps back up to the road. Having dumped our jackets at the car, we headed down to the start and met David. We had a couple of jogs up and down the hill to keep warm, before trying to join quite near the front of the pack. Despite feeling that I was a little too far forward, the field was so huge that I decided I daren't risk getting caught up. A chap next to me said that he remembered doing this "15 years ago and there were only 80 runners". Megan later questioned his memory (suggesting 25 years might have been closer to the mark), but the point was made that this really was a mammoth entry. Whisper it - maybe too large at circa 1,000?!
A nice quirky set of start instructions ("on your marks; you WILL go round the Rock; now let's roll") and we were off!
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| (photo: Adrian Stott) |
Having been guilty of approaching a number of races of late with a defeatist (or at least a "let myself off the hook and go easy") attitude, I had decided that I wanted to take this one by the scruff of the neck. Faint heart never won fair maiden, and so on. I took off like a (relatively) scalded cat up the start hill, and was only mildly disconcerted to find myself in touch with fast guys like Pete B and Ray the HBT from my work, with other fast guys like Stuart and David presumably behind, as we pounded the drag down to the beach. A glance at my watch revealed 5:30 pace, despite the initial incline. Hmm, faster than my targeted 6m/m average. Stuart came past me a little before the gate, which perversely reassured me, hoping that I maybe hadn't overcooked it as much as I feared - going out harder than Stuart is a pretty dangerous game for me to play. And simply trying to hang on to his coat tails for as long as I can, before gradually drifting back has produced more than a few PBs over the last couple of years.
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| (photo: David Woods' Dad) |
Hitting the beach brought the full force of the headwind, after the shelter of the town. We got our feet wet early in a little pond that was hung up behind a shallow bank of sand, and then had to contend with rippled ground.
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| (photo: David Woods' Dad) |
David drew alongside shortly after we passed his Dad on camera duty. He sensibly tried to implement a drafting routine, but I'm afraid he did much more work than I. Any time I tried to move to the front my pace dropped, and I was only holding him up. It was becoming abundantly clear that I may have spent my pocket money before getting to the good shops...
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| (photo: Allan Harley) |
Which was confirmed when the second mile buzzed on my wrist - 6:50 which, as the more observant of you may have worked out, was more than a minute slower than the first. The "go out hard" phase of the race appeared to have ended, and the "hanging on" part was ushered in like an early dinner guest who pitches up while you're still frantically rushing around trying to get the kids to bed or putting your make up on. The dull ache in my shoulders reminded me that I needed to stop clenching my fists and try to relax - the fight into the wind was not that literal.
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| (photo: Lesley McDonald) |
Lesley McDonald's excellent picture above (taken having climbed the cliffs above the beach) gives a fantastic perspective on the race - the "snake" has almost made it to the Rock, and yet there are still many more runners to come. It also reveals a fairly direct route, instead of an arc around the encroaching sea. And explaining why this race can never really have an exact distance.
Nearing the Rock I was passed by Porty's Nicola D. After what seems like a really long (and presumably soul-destroying) absence, it is really nice to see someone of her talent back racing again, although she must still be on the way back or she wouldn't be mucking around near "numpties" like me. I said "well done", and waved goodbye to my hopes of 1st lady.
The turn was surprisingly dry - old hands had warned me to expect knee deep water. But not the feckin' piper, which would have been more useful information. And then I set the mainsail and waited for the wind to propel me homewards.
Unfortunately, I must have been dragging anchor at the same time - the 3rd mile was a not significantly more rapid 6:40. To switch metaphors, it felt like my remote control was on rewind as a stream of runners moved on fast forward. In the picture below I can just be made out near the centre of the rightmost span of the Forth Bridge, whereas David and Nicola are now near the junction of the leftmost and middle spans. Losing distance at a rate of knots!
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| (photo: Allan Harley) |
After being passed by another lady (Rachel from HBT, who recently trounced me at the Hunters Bog Trot) on the return, we eventually got back to tarmac, the town, and much-appreciated vocal support. I do like these races where it feels like the whole town is either running or cheering - North Berwick Law Race is another, in case you've never done it.
The initial incline up the road from the beach was more or less manageable, and I didn't seem to be losing distance to the guy in front. I have to admit to having "settled" by this point. At the rate that I was puffing (Ivor the Engine's "wheesh te koof" was more dignified than the racket I was making by the time the photo below was taken), it seemed clear that I was fighting a rear-guard action.
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Puffing!
(photo: David Woods' Dad) |
It crossed my mind to make the most of the slope back down towards the start, but then I remembered the tales of the finish, and thought I ought to keep a little in reserve. Turning left under the viaduct unveiled a nasty little upslope. But do-able. And then I moved forward a further 50 yards and saw the full horror that was to come. A hill that became exponentially steeper to the finish. In a state of rising panic I looked back and saw a group of 4, hot on my heels. WARNING - objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are!
Any thoughts (and trust me, where hills are concerned, they are never far from front of mind) of walking were immediately banished and I managed to dig in to the finish. Although the fact that the announcer managed to say my name and number with relative calm suggests that I was not actually part of a 5-way scramble for the line.
The "after-party" was another really enjoyable part of the trip. I quickly found Stuart and David (both of whom had great runs), who had secured a nice terrace in good position to watch the finish line. Friends (who hadn't finished ahead) came in with regularity and it was great to soak in the celebratory atmosphere and cheer them before they funnelled back down and I was able to catch them for a handshake/kiss (sorry for the discrimination based on gender) and debrief on their race. Eventually, having collected the very tasty (but only established in retrospect given that I was driving) Williams Brothers beer, we headed back to the community centre, our cars and some warm kit. Most of us had written off the showers as there were only 2 for the men. Neal W braved the queue, only to suffer cold water. Possibly the only negative on the night. Unless Dr Neil didn't manage to find out the identity of the person who was holding the keys to his Jag...
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| Surveying the wreckage! ;) |
And then we moved to the chipper. In keeping with the "unusual Friday" theme, I wonder what the locals must have made of a bunch of giddy, light-headed, runners drinking their "carry-oot" on the street corner outside. We created our own form of mayhem by getting really confused and recycling our wrappers, bottles and cans in probably the wrong bins. Hard core.
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| Julie tries to avoid the shame of being pictured hanging on street corners with the Dunbar Posse |
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| The owner goes on holiday the week after his/her busiest night of the year... |
Writing this the day after, I am grateful that my previously sore hip has come through the experience more or less unscathed. I feel a little sore all over, especially my stomach and sides which feel like they've been through an intensive ab session. I initially came to the conclusion that I must have lost CV fitness after 3 weeks of little activity, explaining this and the fact that my lungs jumped ship so early in the race. But in hindsight it may be more to do with the fact that I have been prioritising distance and steady pace for so long. I simply may not have short race pace at the moment. Time to work on 5ks and 10ks again perhaps?!
A weird close to the day came in the form of what I thought was a varicose vein on my left shin. It felt a little like an "air-worm" to the touch so I massaged it away. I woke up today to find a large bruise where it had been. Here's hoping I've not dislodged a blood clot!!!!
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For those that may be interested (and have persevered this far), below is the link to the SCH Pentland Push website.
I have to be honest and admit that it seems a little over-priced to me, not least because it's a run that you could do on your own (admittedly without the atmosphere, support, food, entertainment, goodie bags, etc), but I guess people pay more for things like Tough Mudder, and this is undoubtedly going to a good cause rather than to corporate profit. Did you know that SCH needs £7m per year to pay for itself and is entirely self-funded?
Personally I can't do it, as we have already arranged a Dunbar club trip to the Karslruhe Marathon the same weekend, but please do consider it. Thanks.
