So what’s next?

My great big challenge, the Great North Run, is over (for this year at least). I’ve had a great week’s holiday full of sunshine, good food and relaxation. And now it’s time to think about the next thing.

It’s not just me. Lots of other people have been asking me “What’s next?” too. And I’m weighing up my options. I think the right thing will come along at the right time, and I’ll just go for it. Like I did that January day driving along the Central Motorway, when I thought, very clearly, ‘Is this the year to do the Great North Run?’ and as soon as I thought it, I knew it was right.

So much has changed for me in the past year. If this was a reality TV show, this is the segment where they’d show ‘my journey’ – no doubt with inspirational music by Westlife or Take That – ‘Today this could be the greatest day of your life…’.

Running’s been a big part of that change. It’s helped me physically and mentally. But there have been other things too, all connected. Like making new friends through this common interest, and astonishing old ones. Reinventing myself a little I guess.

Because this feels like something I’ve always done. And yet I know it’s not. I have only been running for just over a year, and only seriously building up the mileage since January 2009. I didn’t go to the gym so often, or lift weights, or do resistance training with kettlebells and medballs or go to a weekly boxercise class. And now those are all things I do, and miss when I don’t do them. So I hope to continue all that.

But I’m also a writer, a copywriter by trade, and I’ve made my living from writing in one form or another for a long time. So I’d like to reflect some of that on this blog too.

Right now, I’m not completely without plans. I’ll be running 10k as part of the Nike Human Race on 24 October and I’ve signed up for the Heaton Harriers 10k in November. And I’ll no doubt pick a couple of other events to keep me focused and give me an incentive to keep training as the days get shorter and colder through the winter months, but I plan to bring the distance down to 10k.

I’d also like to improve my swimming technique. I’m strong and confident in the water, but my breathing is pretty useless, and I don’t really like putting my face in. So that’s a challenge to overcome.

I’ve loved writing about running and about my journey. On good days, it’s been a reminder that it doesn’t always come easy, and on bad ones, it’s kept me going, remembering those moments of joy, when everything just clicks into place; the freedom of the road and that precious liminal space in my head.

The nicest compliments I’ve had about my running posts have been when other runners have said they were reminded of their experience. That gives me a nice warm fuzzy feeling as a writer, and I guess as a runner too. Both can be pretty solitary pursuits, but you always hope for that special moment of connection.

The Great North Run

Me with my Great North Run medal. I finished in 2 hours 4 minutes.

How to make sense of this overload of sensations? How to describe the sights, sounds and feelings? It’s a blur, a jumble, a carnival of noise and colour, swirled in with feelings of excitement, and pride, fears and doubt, joy and fellowship.

What a race! What a day!

Nervous excited in a good way as I walked through Exhibition Park back from the start. Spotting celebs at the front and making my way back to the white zone. How glad am I that I managed to get my start zone changed – it was a long way to the back of the field.

Runners meeting and greeting, relaxing by the sides of the road. Was it too early to head to the pen? Picking a spot and stretching, looking around. Here they’re all wearing serious running gear, charity vests and sports watches, well worn-in trainers. Not so many costumes or craziness apart from a couple of punky hairdos.

I chat to Nick from London – he’s on his sixth Great North Run and says it’s the only one he does because it’s so well organised and the atmosphere’s brilliant. I try to conserve my energy, eat my banana, nervously sip at my water and wait.

Watching the big screen it all seems to go so quickly. There’s a warm up and music to make me smile and sooner than I think we’re walking forward – edging to the start line. And there’s room, there’s space, hit the watch, start running and we’re off.

The welcome cool of the overpass and the resonant shouts of ‘Oggy oggy oggy’. Pumped up and excited we reply and wave to the crowds on the bridges. Up towards the Tyne Bridge – about to be part of an iconic moment. Remember this moment in the crowd in the sunshine – behind the girl wearing a brthday cake hat.

The red arrows roar over.

And there’s a hill, pulling on my calves. I’ve gone off fast, ease it down a bit, find my usual pace and just keep moving forwards, forwards.

All these people, it’s amazing, but I’m still running my own race. I smile and talk to myself in my head. Checking I’m okay. Checking the watch and the pace band – and I’m on.

Everything blurs. I can’t take in landmarks or signposts. I miss most of the mile markers. Where am I? I don’t know. I’m on a road runnning and it’s hot. The sun beats down and surges up from the tarmac. I need water. I never need water when I’m running – but today I do.

I stick to the left hand side, find my space and just keep going. Where the ground heads up there’s a sea of bobbing colours, but mostly my focus is just a few feet ahead.

Miles pass and I acknowledge the half way point. Feeling good, feeling strong. Enjoying the sunshine. A shower from a fire hose cools things down a little, dousing sticky sweat from my face.

It’s hot. It’s hot. I reach for water again and look in vain for shade. I stick to my plan and tear off a gel pack to keep me going.

There’s a roundabout, but by now I have no sense of the route. I’m just running, following, unable to do anything more. I pass 10 miles and I know I’m slowing. I try to hang on to a couple of runners in Cystic Fybrosis shirts for a while, but start to drop back and they’re gone. A couple of black fairies bat me with their wings. And I’m starting to struggle in my head.

Plug in my headphones for some focus and direction. Treat myself to another gel pack, barely even registering the taste. Just body craving the sugar.

And finally there’s shade. Trees line the road and families have gathered with picnic mats and chairs to watch the runners. They hold out cups of water, bananas, ice pops. I grab a slice of orange and it bursts in my mouth with welcome sweetness.

That’s what I needed, just to settle and gather my thoughts. Just a little further, just a little more. You can run for another 20 minutes, easy. But it’s not so easy as it has been in training.

And here’s the hill. The one everyone talks about. But it’s okay and suddenly I’m running down, down towards the sea and I’ve never seen such blue. Turn onto the sea front – remember there’s still a mile to go. The soft breeze revives me.

All I can see is faces. People crowded four deep by the barriers, clapping, shouting “Not far to go, keep going”. I pick up speed. I can do this. 800m and trying to decide when to sprint. And I see Gary – one face in the crowd that means something to me and I call out.

400m – it still seems a long way. I can see the elite finish now. But where’s the end? How much further? My legs don’t have enough for a real sprint, just a brief spurt and head in a blur I remember to stop my watch. It’s over. I did it!

Can I call myself an honorary Geordie now?

The great big thank you post

Running can be pretty solitary. Actually, that’s one of the things I like about it. The time it gives me to be alone in my own head. Lately, on my long runs I’ve been visualising the race. Thinking about the day, what could happen, what it’s going to sound like, look like, feel like. And all along my route I think of the people who’ve helped me go from struggling to reach a mile in ten minutes to running 12 in around an hour 45.

The first, as always, is Gary. He’s put up with me breezing in and breezing out again in my training gear, getting up early in the morning for training, and building my weekend and weekday plans around the next run. And he’ll be braving the crowds at South Shields trying to spot me at the finish next Sunday. I’m sure he still thinks I’m a bit crazy (what’s new?) but he’s supported me all the way.

Then there’s all my family. I must have bored you stupid sometimes with tales of my running and training. Thanks for putting up with my latest obsession and for always having faith in me. And, little sis, I’m sorry I dragged you out on the Navan run. I think I put you off running, but I hope you’ll keep dancing!

Thank you too to the other first-timers in the office – Mandy, Jo and Hayley. It’s been great to have people to share the experience with who understand what it takes to do this. You’re all amazing and we’re going to do something really memorable on 20 September.

Then there are all my friends – old and new. Everyone who’s left a message on facebook or sent me an encouraging email or tweet. I’ve met a great bunch of people at my boxercise class and the gym and had loads of great advice from fellow runners at work including Kathryn, Steve, Donna and Andy in the UK and Shawndell in the USA.

I have to give a special mention to my buddy Jay who has been twittering away to me since the start of training, always with a smile and a spot of encouragement. I know you’ll have a great race Jay, and you’ll really make a big difference with all the money you’ve raised for Tiny Lives. Well done on smashing your total. You still have to run though

Thinking back to the start of this, there are hundreds of little moments that make me smile. Lisa drew me running along the beach with the seagulls in the sky, before I even started thinking about myself as a runnner. Hayley stopped me getting bored and cold at the start of the Pier to Pier and my Blaydon Racer (I’ve deduced from the results that his name was Stephen Bell) kept me company on my favourite race so far.

Then there are all the nameless unknown runners who I’ve shared a hello, a nod, or a wave with as I’ve been training – from the Macmillan couple I met as I turned at the lighthouse, to the girls I’ve passed at Cullercoats two weekends on the trot now. There was another on Tuesday who spotted me as I was out with Ian on the Quayside for my last training run and shouted “See you Sunday!”

And that brings me to Ian who started it all really. Got me running for fitness and eventually fun. Who coached me and encouraged me and answered a million questions. I wouldn’t even have thought about doing this without your help. And I know thanks to you, I’m fit and prepared as I can be for a great race. Thank you.

I know you can’t all be there with me on Sunday, but I’ll be imagining you among the crowds cheering all 54,000 of us nutters on. And I’ll be smiling.

I’ve got a lot from taking on the Great North Run challenge, so if you’d like to help me give something back and raise money for a very special cause, please visit this page.

Thank you.

Run the time, never mind the distance

Ever since I got my 12 week training plan for the Great North Run there’s been a number that scared me. Basically the plan builds up my long run each weekend, increasing it by about ten minutes at a time for about three weeks, then eases back for a couple of weeks before building up again. There’s some clever science behind it to do with muscle building and recovery, but thankfully that’s something Ian worked out for me.

The number that scared me was 110. It lurked there in the final weekend before the Great North Run. Follow the plan and it would be my longest run before the big race – 110 minutes, that’s an hour and 50 minutes. That’s a long time to run, especially when I remember that 20 minutes was a challenge at the start. It was also scary because I know that, in theory, to prepare to run a distance, you should train above and below that distance. And I couldn’t run 13.1 miles in 1 hour 50 minutes could I?

In truth I had no idea how long it would take me to complete a half marathon. They ask you when you apply for the Great North Run, and they tell you the average time is about 2 hours 30 – so that’s what I put. Hence my pink race number which means I’m at the back of the pack.

But for a while now I know I’m a good bit faster than that. That’s one of the advantages of all the kit I have to help me keep track of the distance I’ve run. My Nike+ tells me that over all my runs I’m averaging just under 9 minutes a mile. And I know from analysing the stats over my longer weekend runs that I can do that consistently over a decent distance.

I’m lucky that I’ve been able to stick to my run plan without too many disruptions. My husband is very understanding about losing me as I head off down the coast for a couple of hours on a weekend or dash out to the gym of an evening. And I’ve made an effort to fit in runs around weekends away, weddings and other commitments.

So a few weeks ago, when we had a day out planned, I knew I’d have to run on Saturday or get up very early on Sunday morning to fit in the 95 min run on my schedule. With an untidy house to sort and clean before visitors arrived, I found myself setting the alarm for a bright and early Sunday morning.

It was a good day – clear and bright with just a hint of a breeze and early enough that it wasn’t too hot when I set out. I extended my usual route to allow for running a little extra time, and set off feeling good, getting into a nice pace and breathing pattern quite quickly. I ran on past the half way point, figuring a shorter return journey would mean I could avoid a hill at the end of my route.

Around an hour in, I slowed a bit and struggled through a rough patch where my legs felt heavy and my breathing patchy. But I pushed on, doing things that ran contrary to how I was feeling; making a conscious effort to pick up the pace and stretch out my stride. And I found a nice pace again, for once enjoying turning into the wind, welcoming the coolness in the morning sunshine.

It happened again as I approached the end of my planned run. With around ten minutes to go, I was struggling a bit. When I’m training I often say to myself in my head ‘Run the time, never mind the distance.’ So mind over matter, I wasn’t going to fail my goal for a matter of ten minutes. Even if that did mean I’d have to tackle that hill, having underestimated my original route.

And so I ran on. I got to the top of the hill and kept on going. And just like before, I found that little bit extra. A second wind. A boost of adrenaline. A reward for pushing on through the tough stuff. A reminder of what it feels like when it feels good. And I started thinking, what if I do another five minutes? I can do another five minutes… So I did.

And that meant I adapted my route a bit. I started thinking I might as well carry on until I got a bit closer to home. So five minutes turned into ten. Then I had a quick look at my watch to see how far I’d gone. It was close enough to a nice round number, so I kept on going until I reached it.

And that’s how I ran my first 20k. Double my first race distance. 12.5 miles in 1 hour 50 minutes or 110 mins and it wasn’t that scary after all. It was just a little bit more. That’s how I know I have the distance in me. So that’s what I’ll be doing two weeks on Sunday when I take on the Great North Run. Running just that little bit more.

Please support me on the run and help me raise money for Pear Tree Special School. Thanks.

Why I’m running the Great North Run

This running lark started as a way to get fit and feel better about myself. To be honest, I didn’t much like it at first, but knew it was ‘doing me good’. And then sometime, around Christmas 2008, someone replaced my brain and I found I was actually enjoying it.

Since then I’ve come a long way, clocking up hundreds of miles of training, three races and now there are just five weeks to go until I take on the 13.1 miles of the Great North Run. I’ve made new friends, and got a lot fitter and healthier. So it’s time to give something back.

All in a good cause
My cousin’s son Jack is 11 year’s old and has severe learning difficulties, including problems with movement and speech. He’ll never walk, never be able to communicate. Simply put, Jack will always need someone to look after him.

But it’s not all bad news. Jack’s a really special boy. He smiles and giggles a lot and has an incredible ability to make everyone around him smile too. He has a great mum and a terrific house, specially adapted, so everything he needs is on the ground floor.

He also goes to a very special school, Pear Tree Special School. And Jack’s school reports are full of all the things he can do, like taking part in sports day, and how much he enjoys things like playing with water, or music and colours.

So on September 20, I’ll be running the Great North Run to raise money for Pear Tree School. They would really like to buy some gesture operated computer equipment, that children can operate by eye pointing or blinking. I hope you’ll support me.

The school is a registered charity, but it would cost them quite a bit to register with an online donation site like JustGiving. But those of you who wish to make an online donation can do so through PayPal.

Donate online using PayPal

You don’t even have to sign up, just enter your credit or debit card details. Don’t worry, it’s secure, even I don’t get to see those details. I just get an email telling me that some kind and generous person has made a donation. And just so you know, I’ll cover any PayPal fees, so whatever you donate will go directly to the school.

If you’d prefer to donate offline, I can take cheques, bank transfers or just good old cash. Please email me: michelle.nicol@gmail.com to arrange.

And if you want to, add a comment to this post to show your support. I really appreciate it and it’ll keep my legs going until I get to South Shields!

The training plan

I’m now half way through the 12 week Great North Run training plan that Ian from Inspire Fitness has put together for me. He’s taken account of the fact that I like to mix things up a bit, enjoy a couple of classes at the gym and make sure I have the strength, stamina and speed to take on the 13.1 mile race.

A typical week goes something like this:
Monday – set of intervals + gym/aqua class
Tuesday – short run (50 mins)
Wednesday – boxercise class
Thursday – PT session / intervals + gym
Friday – pilates class
Sat/Sun – long run (75-95 mins)

The duration and intensity of the runs build up week by week, then eases back for a couple of weeks to allow my body to recover.

Not long ago, I would have looked at that plan and thought ‘impossible’. And when I started out it would have been way too much to take on. But with time and good advice, by building up slowly and focusing on improving my strength, fitness and cardio capacity, that’s where I’ve got to. Hard to believe it’s been less than a year.

My first goal of running 10k seemed impossibly distant at first. I remember getting back to the changing rooms at work, being totally elated that I’d managed to get to the roundabout and back without stopping. It’s about two miles.

And I remember that first 10k very clearly. I’ll never forget it. It was such an important achievement for me. So important to have something positive to focus on on that day. Something that I had control over. And it’s always a pleasure running with Ian.

Most of the time though, I run on my own. And I’ve got better at judging my pace, better at talking myself through a tough patch, better at bringing the odd spots of panicky breathing under control. That’s the benefit of experience I guess.

I’m really lucky to be able to have the time and opportunity to stick to my training plan. It fits around work as I’m naturally an early riser who can head out the door and straight for my favourite coastal run route before breakfast, or skip off to the gym when I’ve finished for the day.

But it’s important to have a balance, not to let the running completely take over everything. That’s why I was quite proud of myself this week when, after a tough Thursday morning training session I headed out early on Friday to do a 30 min set of intervals.

The first time I picked up speed, I ran myself to a standstill, fighting to catch my breath at the end of the two minute stint. I had to stop to get it together. I shook my head, told myself to take it a bit easier and had another go. Same thing happened.

It hasn’t happened for a long time, that scary inability to catch my breath. Running intervals has helped me get used to how it feels to increase my heart rate, but keep going at a sustainable pace. And pilates techniques help me control my breathing.

So when it happened this time, I just shrugged, stopped the stopwatch, took myself off the clock and returned home via a gentle jog along the sand. Not what was in the plan.

It’s good to have goals and targets to work towards, but sometimes, if you genuinely have been working really hard, you need to cut yourself some slack. In the past, I’d have slunk home thinking I failed. This time I just took it easy, and enjoyed a short run. No pressure, no expectations, just me stretching out over golden sands, drinking in the morning air.

I felt like a runner today

I’d watched the weather forecasts that warned of a heatwave and decided Saturday looked a better prospect than Sunday for cooler weather. I woke early, ready to beat the heat. I must have been the only person on the North East coast delighted by the sound of the fog horn.

Peering through the blinds, the dense grey mist hid the houses on the other side of the street. That gave me time. Time to get ready, to get some fuel on board and to stretch ahead of my longest run to date.

The damp air brought a welcome coolness to my arms and neck as I set off. Sounds muffled, the waves shush unseen. Familiar landmarks smudged into obscurity, my focus drawn in and onto the grey pavements.

Passing another runner on the way out, we share a mutual sign of recognition. A nod, a wry smile. The runners’ greeting says so much: “I saw you, so I kept on going”. “Yes, I’m daft enough to be out here too”. “Hope you have a good one”.

A brief shared moment. Passed before it’s begun. Because we’ve been there. When it’s been tough; when the sun’s beaten down; when we’ve been soaked to the skin. When we’ve felt the muscles tightening and the blisters creeping. When we’ve been red-faced, gasping for breath. And we’ve been there when it’s felt easy; when our bodies have been taken over by the flow. Everything reduced to the simple action of putting one foot in front of the other.

It’s not all smooth running this time. I need to remember that.

For the first few minutes my legs are tight. My pace heavy and laboured. I have to give myself a bit of a talking to as sharp bright thoughts of stopping, slowing down, taking it easy fire off in the centre of my brain. I find a way through, distracting my mind from thinking about what my body is doing.

And somewhere along the way, I get my reward. Hitting the sweet spot where the run and the breath and the mind work together. And I smile.

The same runner passes me as I turn at the half way point. This time we wave and grin. Running the same route from different directions.

The sweet explosion of euphoria at the finish. Realising, not only had I made the time, but the distance too. 75 mins and 13.3k. That feeling carries me through the rest of the day. My aches are honest ones, a reward for hard work, not symptoms of injury. And they give me confidence, absolute surety, that I can keep on training and reach my goal.

The Blaydon Race

Racing through the working day. Meetings, emails, phone calls. And all the time counting down the minutes until it’s time to shut down and tuck away the day-to-day. For tonight is race night.

Changing in the ladies loos. Squashed in, swapping smart for sporty. Hair gripped back. Watch set. Bus ticket and emergency pound coins tucked in the back pocket. Then off into town.

Sauntering self consciously through the city centre to the place where the runners gather. Young, old, tall, short – all shapes and sizes and ages wait on the cobbles.

My friend is quiet. This time, I’m the one with experience. Not this race, but others. There’s a chill in the overcast skies and we just want to be off and moving.

Spotting friendly faces in the crowd, we chat about nothing, glancing at watches, ready for the off. Wishing each other luck.

Gradually, casually, we begin to move. Shuffling forward in the narrow space between the pubs and nightclubs until we hit the main road and the sound of the bell. And we’re running.

Tight packed, slow to start, my legs yearn to be stretching. Dodging elbows and curbstones I find a route through, trying to keep pace with a runner in black. I soon lose him in the crowds as we turn onto the Scotswood Road – a welcoming wideness where I can run my own race.

One by one I spot them. Choose my next target and move forward. Past the man in the green top, past the tall guy in the black shirt; past the doctors discussing heart valve replacements and the girl in her pyjamas. I smile as I go through, feeling fast and strong.

Remember to check myself. How’m I doing? Feeling good? What’s the pace? That’s good, stick with that. And on my shoulder a running veteran smiles at the daft girl talking to herself in the middle of a race. “Just coaching myself” I tell him. And we’re ‘gannin’ alang the Scotswood Road’ to the sound of a band playing.

There’s a bridge and a slope. At the side people stop and walk, but I push on up and through, my veteran buddy still at my side. Over the top and down, the route narrows to a walking pace and I want to be through the gap and moving on.

Along the Derwent the runners flow upriver and down again. Friends wave and shout as they pass each other and I scan the crowds for a familiar face, knowing he’ll be long gone. How far, how far before we turn and head back along the same stretch? I cannot see the end.

Another bridge, another slope and my pace has dropped a little. But I spot my unknown running buddy and spur myself on. Over the top and you can see the runners below, heading for the finish. Use the downhill slope to stretch out, pick up some speed and push on.

The crowds at the bus station surprise me. Kids reach out over the barriers, hands held out for high fives. And, I’m smiling, grinning, beaming at the joy of running. At the simple pleasure of moving one foot in front of the other, feeling easy, totally in the flow.

We wind round and down and I can feel it’s close now, stretch out. No longer focused on the next one to pass, just running for the sheer joy of it. The final straight and my anonymous pace maker is still there at my shoulder. I look across and say “Go for it”. We sprint for the finish and he lets me go in front like the gentleman he is.

I stop my watch and show him the time – 51 minutes. Shake his hand and say “It’s been a pleasure running with you”. I still don’t know who he was, but we shared this race.

Not, my unknown race buddy, but the man responsible for getting me running - Ian Turrell

You know you’re hooked when…pt 2

You completely forget you bashed your hip going through a gate somewhere during your 7.5 mile race and only remember when you spot the bruise in the shower the next morning.

Pier to Pier race

After the brilliant buzz of my first race, I knew I wanted to do it again. I already had my place in the Blaydon, but 9 June felt like too long to wait. I spotted a couple of 10k runs locally, but then one of the other runners at work mentioned the Pier to Pier.

It sounded a bit barmy. For a start, the distance is approximately 7.5 miles. Approximate because there’s no set route. It runs from the pier at South Shields to Roker pier in Sunderland. Once you get to the cliff tops you can take your own route over paths and fields before heading back together for the beach finish.

Barmy too, because they say you might get your feet wet. The race starts and finishes on the beach. And this year they had to put the start time back to make sure there was enough sand to run on.

But it’s a nice spot, it’s a coastal route, and my friend in the changing rooms assured me it wasn’t that barmy. So that’s why I found myself shivering next to the fairground in South Shields this morning, set to take on my longest race to date.

Unfortunately, no matter how I may be feeling about a race, my bladder definitely gets nervous. I don’t think I need to worry about how to pass the time at the start of the Great North Run. I’ll be spending it queuing for the portaloos.

This time, I met a nice runner called Hayley, and we chatted away, passing the time quickly before the start of the race. Then we all lined up along the beach at South Shields. No gate, no megaphone, just a line in the sand and a whistle to start us.

And it was great! Quite a bit more challenging than the North Tyneside 10k, partly because of the longer distance and partly due to the changing terrain. Although it was mainly flat, with only one slope and one set of steps on the route I took, I ran over sand, gravel trails, grass and earth. That kept things interesting. It was actually quite nice to feel the difference, so the path came as a nice relief from the sand, then the grass was a softer surface than the paths.

It was confusing to see runners splitting off and heading over the grassy banks to take one route or another, but it was a good way to split the field. I’m sure regulars have their preferred route. I just decided on the spur of the moment which way to go, but it did leave me with the nagging feeling that I had picked the longer path.

At times the paths were narrow and I became very aware of the runners close to me. Sometimes we were in single file, following the line of flattened down grass. I was most comfortable when I was on my own following a group just a little way ahead. I like my own space when I’m running. That will be a challenge in larger races.

Once again I spotted runners I thought I could keep up with, to keep my focus just ahead. My competitive spirit kicked in a couple of times as I over took them. It’s just annoying when you recognise people you passed earlier overtaking you on the final straight.

I ran pretty much the whole race without listening to my music. It was just nice to enjoy the fresh air and seabirds. But after realising I hadn’t started my stop watch for the first 10 minutes, I spotted my pace was a bit slower than I wanted. So I plugged in the headphones to help me find the right pace. And I picked them up again when I felt I was flagging. A burst of music to get me smiling and enjoying myself again.

It also helped that I only used my watch to keep an eye on my pace and heart rate. I had no idea how long I’d been running for, I just knew that I felt okay. I kept reminding myself of the coaching points: breathe into the ribs, stretch out the stride, push off the back foot, keep the arms efficient and hips pointing forward.

No sprint finish this time, but I did have enough left in the tank to tackle the leg-sapping last hundred yards or so over soft sand. 12.28k or 7.6 miles in 64 mins – that’s a result!

Race results