It turns out I’m quite good at running. Not going to the Olympics good, or being a top local athlete good, you understand. I’m not great, but I’m above average and pretty good. Run a marathon in 3h 10m 58s good. Run a 5k in just under 19m 30s good.
Which I struggle with a bit, because I’m not really a showy off person, but I’m proud of my achievements – especially given I only took up running four years ago, when my unexpected athletic prowess was hidden by years of sloth and torpor, and an excess of body fat.
I mention all this because I find it a challenge to share my running success with people without it sounding like I’m, well, showing off. So I prefer to be modest about things, but then worry more that it comes across as a deliberately coy form of #humblebrag. Which is definitely not the intent.
And so, with that highlighted, I can tell you about the Historic Fort Worth Inc Rodeo Run, a 5k race I took part in six days after the Houston Marathon. And it’s of note because of, well, this…
— James Attwood (@Atters_J) January 20, 2018
Yup, I won. Like, won overall. I won a race.
Now, let me get the caveats in first. The Rodeo Run was ‘only’ a 5k race, and it only had a field of around 160 runners. And the standard wasn’t exactly world class. Or international level. Or even Texan level. In fact, I ran at a pace that wouldn’t put me in the top ten of my local Parkrun most weekends.
So I’m honestly not #humblebragging when I say there was an odd feeling of slight embarrassment celebrating winning a race when I know it was largely down to quicker people not turning up. Which is silly because, after all, you can only beat the field you race, etc, etc.
Which was kind of my strategy. When I entered, I had a look at the results from the 2017 race and figured I could do well – my regular 5k pace would have put me in a solid (but distant) second. So I had a sneaky thought I could do well, but I was pondering a podium, or perhaps another Texan race age group win. The catch, of course, was that I’d run a marathon six days previously, so my legs weren’t exactly welcoming a quick 5k.
The race was held in the Fairmont/Magnolia district of Fort Worth, starting from the Thistle Hill mansion house before a loop around the area’s main drag, Magnolia Avenue, lined with restaurants, bars and coffee shops. The course was sort of closed-road: a path had been coned off from the traffic, and police officers stopped the cars (which weren’t many on a quiet Saturday morning) when the course crossed open roads. Oh, and there was a police motorcycle outrider ahead of the runners to keep an eye on things.
I started near the front, and due to my fast start found myself leading exiting the mansion house grounds. I could feel the leg ache though, and wary of not pushing too hard early I tried to control my pace. Two runners went past me, one man and one woman, and I expected to watch them pull away. But they didn’t.
In fact, I held the gap to them, while running a consistent pace. And then, shortly before half-distance, I started to catch them. As the course turned off Magnolia Avenue onto a side road I went past the male runner. Second.
Just after the next turn, I caught the female runner. First. With half the race to go, I was leading. That was, indeed, a first. All I could see ahead of me was my own police motorcycle escort. That was cool. I felt like a Tour de France rider, or a VIP or something.
Of course, I could still feel me legs aching, and they were getting worse. And so, I began to control my pace a bit more. Instead of focusing on a time as I normally would, I was racing for position. But with just under 2km to go, I was worried I was pushing too hard.
After the Magnolia Avenue loop, the race went back up the road it came down to the finish. And as I turned onto that street I could hear another runner behind me. Convinced I was being caught, I decided not to look back, and just focused on my pace. I tried to put thoughts of winning out of my head: clearly, someone faster and more disciplined was catching me. Well, that’s how it seemed. But they didn’t actually catch me, which was confusing.
Also confusing: the distance left to run. As the race turned back onto the road with the mansion on, my Garmin reckoned I’d only done 4.5k or so. But, having run out that way, I knew the finish wasn’t half a km away. So was the route short, or was there a sneaky loop hidden away?
I wasn’t sure, making it even harder to work out what to ask of my weary legs. It was only when I was within sight of the house that I heard the commentator make mention of the first runners coming in – and the he said the leader was in the clear. In the clear?
He was right. I couldn’t hear he footsteps behind me, and I mustered as much of a sprint as I could to cross the line first. I’d won.
Turned out, according to my Garmin the course was about 180 metres short. Which almost made me feel a little cheated when I crossed the line – but also a bit relieved, since my efforts to save myself for another 180 metres or so of running where a struggle.
It also meant that my finish time of 19m 35s is massively flattering – by my reckoning I ran about a 4m 04s per km pace – about a 20m 20s 5k time. Again, not exactly slow, but certainly not challenging my PB as my official time suggests.
What followed was all very odd for someone who isn’t all that fond of attention. I got interviewed by a Texan race report writer – a bizarre role reversal for me – and had to pose for photos with the second overall/first-place female runner (who, in the end, finished about five seconds behind). I had to go up and collect my first-place medal, while a commentator made much fuss over my pace (and also seemed great amused I was from England…). It was… odd.
Especially because, deep down, I didn’t know how happy to be. Sure, i’d won, and my finish time was mighty quick. But the latter was largely because the course was the best part of 200 metres short. Truthfully, I’d run as quick as post-Marathon legs would slow, and my pace was, for me, solid but not spectacular.
But hey, I’d won, and that will be preserved on the Rodeo Run results website. And, hey, I now own a race winners medal. Dammit, I’m a winner. I should show off. Look at me, I’m a winner!
Thankfully Isabella, my nine-year-old niece, was on hand to keep my rampant ego in check. Later that day, she picked up my medal for a closer look, starting at it intently as it twirled on its red ribbon, the gold reflecting the lights. Admiring it in quiet awe, no doubt.
And then… “Uncle Jimbo, you do realise this medal isn’t real but plastic, don’t you?”
And then… “And you do know that where it says ‘first place’ is a sticker. And that it isn’t even stuck on straight?”
Humbled, I tucked my rampant ego back in its box…
Oh, and to answer the question you might not be wondering – the Rodeo Run is named because it takes place at the same time as the Fort Worth Stock Show and Rodeo. And so, fittingly, I celebrated my first win by going to watch my actual first rodeo.
True story: I’m a failure when it comes to running marathons. I’ve run three marathons, and completed them all in under three-and-a-half hours but, frankly, I’ve let myself down every time. Why? Simple: I’ve failed to meet my target in every single one of them. See? Ignoble failure.
Except, of course, I don’t view any of them as a failure. Heck, just completing a marathon was an achievement I long thought was beyond me. Completing a marathon in under three-and-a-half hours? Wouldn’t have dared dream. Completing one in 3h 10m 58s? Never.
When it comes to my three marathons, I’ve matched or exceeded my goal in all three.
Hang on, how does that work? Allow me to explain. What running marathons has taught me is that there’s a difference – a small, subtle yet crucial difference – between what I consider goals and targets. You can still fail to hit a target, yet still succeed in achieving a brilliant goal.
I’m not sure the dictionary agrees, but I’ve developed my own definitions for what I view as goals and targets. For me, a goal is some form of broad challenge – for example, completing a marathon. I consider a target a more specific aim – such as trying to complete a marathon in a certain time. So you can achieve a goal, and yet still miss a target. Make sense?
It’s a concept I’ve developed to keep pushing myself when I entered my first marathon, the 2016 London Marathon. The goal – the only outcome I’d talk about in public – was simply to finish one. And that was a big challenge in itself: I didn’t know for sure I could.
Thing is, I didn’t want to sell myself short by running a marathon well within my capabilities just to say I could. So, privately, I set myself a target time. Working it out was complicated: I didn’t want to settle for a slow time I could hit easily, and then regret not pushing harder. But I was wary of failing to achieve my goal because I’d pushed too hard for an unachievable target.
Going completely against the advice of strong pre-planning, I didn’t decide my target time until I was minutes from the start. I took two pace bands to Greenwich with me, and at the last moment decided to target the ambitious one: 3h 20m.
Of course, I failed. I went too fast early on, felt the pain late on, and just held on to finish 80 seconds or so below 3h 30m. I’d failed to hit my target by more than eight minutes.
At the time, utterly exhausted, with my legs hurting like never before, it felt like a bit of a failure. By the time I’d recovered enough to limp out of the finish area and find my family, I was flush with achievement – and the joy – that came in having completed my goal: I’d run a marathon.
For my second marathon, Houston in 2017, the goal changed: I wanted to run the marathon I tried to run in London. That meant following a pace plan better, being more disciplined and sticking to my target time.
The target changed as well: with experience, better preparation and a higher level of fitness, I decided to aim for 3h 15m, which meant knocking the best part of 15 minutes off my London finish time.
Of course, I failed. I stuck to my pace plan brilliantly for the vast chunk of the race, but had a very slight wobble with around five miles left, from which I recovered to cross the line in 3h 16m 40s. I’d failed to hit my target by 1m 40s.
And yes, at the time it felt like a mild failure. But the realisation of how much stronger I felt at the finish, and how much better I’d run than I had in London, quickly ensured I was simply left thrilled at having succeeded – even exceeded – my goal.
Which brings us to this year’s Houston Marathon. Now this was a tough one to set both goal and target for. Honestly, with my busy build-up I knew I was, at best, in no better form than I had been the previous year, and most likely I wasn’t as well prepared.
Reflecting on my form, I simply came to the conclusion that matching my time from 2017 would be an achievement. So that’s what the goal became: to match my 2017 pace of 3h 16m 40s. And, for once, I thought my goal and target would be aligned.
But as the race grew closer, I began to question if that was enough. Would I really be happy treading water? Probably not. So should I set a target to run faster? Possibly, but wasn’t that crazy when I didn’t think I was in a state to improve on my pace?
I was still pondering that question in my Houston hotel on the night before the marathon, while digesting my pre-race chicken pasta (courtesy of Houston’s excellent Star Pizza), scribbling down the pace I’d need to average to achieve certain finish times.
My instinct was to run at the same pace I’d tried to do the previous year, and aim for the 3h 15m I’d set as a target. But, if I did that, my best-case scenario was essentially to nibble away at my previous time.
It was time to set a (relatively) bold target. I couldn’t settle for shaving a minute or so off my previous time. I owed it to myself to target more, even if I didn’t think I could achieve it. 3h 10m it was, then. That would knock more than six minutes off my time, quite a chunk given my pace. Yup, 3h 10m. Let’s push it. It was time to gamble.
Of course, I failed. By 58 seconds. But you know what? There was really no disappointment this time. Because I knew I’d pushed myself. At times, particularly early on, I was running faster than I was truly comfortable with, chasing that time. And while I failed to hit my target, my time of 3h 10m 58s was still nearly six minutes quicker than I’d achieved in 2017 – and I honestly wasn’t sure I could match that time.
Yup, I was happy. I’d reached my goal. Except… well, here’s the frustratingly addictive thing about running. Given time to reflect, you don’t look back on a race and reflect on how well you’ve done enough. No, you look back and think of where you lost time, of how you can improve. 58 seconds? Yeah, I can find 58 seconds. Can I find more? Possibly? I mean, 3h 10m would be great, but would 3h 5m be possible? Should that be my next marathon target?
Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Perhaps I should find something else to do. After all, when it comes to running marathons I am, by the targets I set myself, a failure…
You certainly couldn’t describe my preparation for the 2018 Chevron Houston Marathon as textbook. There was the late commitment to the race, for one thing, and a busy work schedule that meant while I completed the long-distance runs I wanted to, the rest of my training schedule was haphazard.
Then there was the immediate build-up in the week of the race, which began with a flight from London to Las Vegas, followed by three days spent charging around a number of packed convention centres finding car news at the world’s biggest consumer electronics show (cunningly titled the Consumer Electronics Show).
Upon reaching Texas, there was also the four hour or so car journey from Fort Worth to Houston late on Friday night to contend with. I’d also signed up to do the ABB 5K race that forms part of the Houston Marathon weekend on Saturday morning.
All told, by the time I’d worked by way into the A corral at 6.40am or so last Sunday morning it was a bit surreal, and hard to contemplate I was actually at the start – and about to run my third marathon. It was all a bit sudden, especially when the race began. A revised layout for the start this year featured the A corral in a side street round the corner and out of sight of the start, and the runners were only allowed to round the corner – where they could see the start line – at about the same time the gun went off.
I automatically picked up the pace, but it was only a few minutes later, as the race wound out of downtown Houston to cheers from the crowd that it really began to hit that I was running another marathon.
As ever, running a marathon turns into a confusing mess of personal challenge, incredible experiences and all sorts of emotions, made particularly special by the sights and spectacle of both the runners around you and the crowd. Again, it will take some time to process and fillet out a lot of those experiences. Occasionally I’d see a brilliant sign – ‘run like United want your seat’ made me chuckle – and then struggle to recall it just minutes later.
Before the race, I was slightly worried about the mental challenge of running the same marathon for a second time – would I get bored with the course? I didn’t need to worry; the familiarity was more of a help than a hindrance, although it might have made the slightly lumpy final mile or two slightly tougher as my energy began to fade.
Still, by that point I’d already exceeded the expectations I’d set myself sometime during my crazy busy CES visit. I’d told myself that, in the circumstance, matching my 2017 time of 3h 16m 40s would be a fine achievement. Which, in a way, gave me a bit of freedom to attack. In the 2017 Houston Marathon I was trying to do the race I tried – and failed – to do in my first, London 2016. With that done, and my unusual build-up, the pressure was off.
So why not push harder than I knew I could manage? If I did, and it went wrong, what would it matter? And that’s what I did.
Again, I’ll write more about my pacing and strategy later. I didn’t quite reach the ambitious target of 3h 10m I set myself, but in the circumstances I was thrilled to clock a 3h 10m 58s – a new marathon PB by 5m 42s.
I’ll run through some more highlights and experiences later, but the best moment was obvious: this year my mum, brother, niece and nephew were not far from the finish line to cheer me on. Having spotted them at the barriers standing exactly where we discussed, I was able to reach them for a series of high fives as I went past. My five-year-old nephew reckoned his high five gave me his “super quick running energy.” I think he was right.
I needed that energy too. For whatever reason, a few people further down saw me dishing out high fives to my family and decided they wanted in on the act. Which was fun, except for one enthusiastic Texas who dished out his high five with such enthusiasm and force that it genuinely nearly floored a near-exhausted pasty-faced Brit. Yup, 20 metres from the finish line of a marathon, I was nearly felled by enthusiasm…
More Houston memories to follow.
— James Attwood (@Atters_J) January 14, 2018
Birdcage Walk runs along the south side of St James’s Park in the heart of central London, linking Buckingham Palace with Parliament Square. I’ve run along it twice, and both of those occasions have proven incredibly memorable.
The first was during the 2016 London Marathon – and it was not a pleasant experience. I arrived at Birdcage Walk roughly 25-and-a-half miles into my first marathon, utterly exhausted, emotionally drained and with my legs pleading with me to stop. Back in Greenwich, in the early stages of the race, I’d been averaging 7m 20s per mile or so. By the time I reached Birdcage Walk, I was trudging round in 9m 49s. I wasn’t enjoying myself. I just wanted it to be over.
It wasn’t the experience I’d expected. I’d always thought that Birdcage Walk would be a hugely enjoyable part of the marathon. After miles of meandering through south London suburbs and the cold skyscrapers of the Docklands, that was the stretch of the marathon course that really started ticking off the London landmarks. The Houses of Parliament. Parliament Square. Buckingham Palace. It was heavy landmark hit after heavy landmark hit.
Turns out sightseeing isn’t fun when you’ve pushed yourself far beyond the point of exhaustion.
The second time I ran down Birdcage Walk was a few weeks ago. And, once again, it was part of a big city race that in part wound its way through central London: the Royal Parks Foundation Half Marathon.
The difference when I reached Birdcage Walk is that I was just 1.5 miles into a 13.1-mile run, rather than 25.5 miles into a 26.2-mile race. Basically, I was fresh, and able to truly take in – and enjoy – my surroundings. And, on an early October Sunday with unseasonably bright weather, I could truly appreciate the majesty of London’s landmarks, and I could truly appreciate how lucky I was to get the chance to run through the streets of one of the world’s great cities.
And Birdcage Walk wasn’t the only scenic part of the Royal Parks Half course – the route was designed to offer a really effective trip round London’s sights. After starting on the edge of Hyde Park, the course passed through Wellington Arch, down Constitution Avenue, and past Buckingham Palace onto Birdcage Walk. It then skirts the edge of Parliament Square before turning up past Horseguards Parade, turning onto The Mall before passing through Admiralty Arch, turning right at Trafalgar Square before a quick loop down past Downing Street and the Cenotaph, then going back up through Trafalgar Square before winding down The Strand past Charing Cross, Somerset House and Fleet Street. After that, it returns to Trafalgar Square, with another quick detour before it goes back through Admiralty Arch, down the length of The Mall, past Buckingham Palace again and back up Constitution Avenue before turning into Hyde Park.
It’s an incredible assortment of London sights – they just keep on coming. It’s a major contrast to the London Marathon, which only reaches central London late in the race, and where one of my abiding memories was how much of the course I didn’t know. So, when it comes to London landmarks, there is no doubt: the Royal Parks Half is better than the London Marathon. There. I said it.
Oh, and here’s the thing about the Royal Parks Half: all those landmarks come in the first six miles.
Which is both a good and bad thing. It’s good, because it means the first half is an ultra-enjoyable jaunt through London’s streets. But it’s bad, because it means the second half of the race simply can’t compete.
That’s because the entire second half of the event takes place within the vast confines of Hyde Park. And while it’s an incredibly pleasant place to run, it simply can’t match the first half for interest, especially since the course is made up of lots of long straights punctuated by tight turns. It’s not helped by the fact Hyde Park is surprisingly hilly – nothing steep, obviously, but a series of long, gentle climbs does sap your power a bit late on.
Those long straights certainly hit me a bit, especially as temperatures rose and I paid the price for messing up my pacing early on – ironically, because my Garmin’s pacing seemed to get a bit messed up all the historic central London buildings I was admiring. And that probably cost me a change to set a new my half-marathon PB – I fell around three seconds short. Which was… annoying.
But still, the Royal Parks Half proved a great event. With 16,000 runners – many of them taking part for charity – and a great location, it had a proper big event feel. Plus, there were plenty of nice touches, such as the novel wooden medal (for environmental reasons – pictured below during inevitable post-race Wahaca meal), a vivid yellow event T-shirt, and a fine assortment of post-race treats.
In fact, I’d say this: if you want to do a big-city race in central London, for the sake of doing a big-city race in central London, the Royal Parks Half should be your first choice. It hits more of London’s central landmarks than the marathon and, by doing them earlier in the route, you can actually take them in. Plus, because it’s ‘only’ a half-marathon, chances are you’ll be able to enjoy an afternoon in London afterwards, rather than simply being in pain.
So, from that perspective, the Royal Parks Half is better than the London Marathon.
Except it’s not. Of course it’s not.
Because the London Marathon is greater than the sum of its parts. It’s a marathon, for one thing, and inherently the challenge of doing a full 26.2 miles makes it harder and more memorable than a half. And it’s the London Marathon, for another. It’s one of the world’s most famous races. Even if other races pass more landmarks, the London Marathon is just plain special.
Of course, it’s not really fair to compare the two events. They’re both runs, and they’re both based in the same city. But there’s room for both. If you want to a massive challenge, do the London Marathon (if you can succeed in the massive challenge that is getting a place). But if you want a really fun, big event to do that runs past the Queen’s house twice, I’d thoroughly recommend the Royal Parks Half.
Last weekend I tackled the Simplyhealth Great Bristol Half Marathon. I’m not a stranger to 13.1-mile runs now: it was my sixth half marathon. But there was an interesting twist: it was the first time I’ve run a half marathon for a second time.
I’m surprised it’s taken so long, to be honest. But, in some ways, it’s a product of the fact my first four half marathons were all preparation for my two marathons, so the choice of race was down to all sorts of factors. But, having done halves in Wokingham, Hampton Court, Bristol, Houston and Swansea, this year I decided to head back to visit my family in Somerset for a weekend and take on the Bristol half for the second time.
Being utterly honest, I wasn’t sure how much I was looking forward to it. Sure, I always enjoy the challenge of running, but the 2016 Bristol half wasn’t my favourite half marathon course by some way. It starts with a long run up and back a fairly wide straight road alongside the River Avon, and then finishes with several miles of fiddly twisting and turning through the city centre. Last year, I found the first bit a little quiet and dull, and the last bit quite painful – especially given heavy showers and wind that affected last year’s race.
So while I quite enjoyed the fun of running in the closest city to my hometown, I wasn’t sure how much I’d enjoy doing the course a second time. And I wasn’t quite sure what form I was in: my new job has been keeping me plenty busy, and lots of trips away meant I hadn’t done the sort of training I’d like to do. Not that I’m complaining: the weekend before the Bristol half, I was on a rather nice but busy work trip to Italy. It wasn’t exactly great for final preparation, although I did get to carb load on lots and lots of fantastically fresh Italian pasta (don’t mention the hefty amounts of cheese it was served with…).
Still, the good news was that the weather this year proved to be far more conducive to running than 2016’s wind and rain. It was a chilly day, but once I was up to speed it was almost perfect running conditions.
I also made sure I started a bit further forward this year: last year I got caught out by a pre-start surge to the front, and ended up spending the first half-mile or so stuck behind groups of people going slower than I wanted. Trying to get back on pace probably hurt me a bit later on.
And, you know what? I enjoyed it. A lot. More than last year, which I wasn’t expecting. Perhaps that was because my expectations weren’t so high, but I settled in, took in the sites and kept up a good pace. The out-and-back section didn’t seem quite so long, and the final twists and turns through the city hurt a lot less when the cobblestones weren’t sodden and the wind wasn’t funnelling through the buildings.
I was quicker too: crossing the finish in 1h 28m 10s meant I went 31 seconds faster than my 2016 time. Which was pretty gratifying, especially since I hadn’t done as much preparation as I’d intended. So I was happy then, right? Well…
It’s one of the annoyances of running that, no matter how well you do, you always start to wonder how you might have done better. And so it was with last weekend. If I was 31 seconds quicker than in 2016 when I arguably wasn’t as well prepared, how much faster could I have gone had I really trained for it?
Which then prompted me to go and look up my half marathon PB – a 1h 27m 52s, set on the Hampton Court Palace Half Marathon in 2016. So on a course that probably isn’t quite as conducive to a quick time due to those late wiggles, and without being in absolutely top shape, I set a time only 18s down on my half marathon PB…
Like I said: runners. Never happy.
Luckily, I’ve got another half marathon coming up in a few weeks to try and improve on my time. My seventh half will be a new race to me, although in a familiar location: I’ve got a spot on the Royal Parks Half Marathon in central London. The last time I ran the streets of London, of course, was the London Marathon in 2016…
Before I finish, I should mention two more elements of the Bristol Half that added to my enjoyment of it. One was a very definite change from last year: the finisher’s shirt. Last year’s design was a fairly anonymous ‘Great Run’ template effort. Pleasant, but not exactly memorable. This year, the organisers tasked a local artist with doing a local design – and the result was a much improved offering.
The second enjoyable element was something that remained the same: my choice of post-race dining. Keeping with a tradition that started with the London Marathon, I celebrated my success in Wahaca because, well, because tacos are good.
— James Attwood (@Atters_J) September 17, 2017
Ac occupational hazard of taking part in lots of races is that you’ll inevitably collect a lot of medals. While a handful of races offer the likes of T-shirts, mugs or glasses as prizes for finishers, most still hand out a pleasing lump of metal attached to a ribbon.
The trouble with collecting loads of medals is trying to work out what to do with them. I’ve got a handful on display – both my London and Houston Marathon medals are framed with my race numbers, and a handful of the more distinctive or memorable ones are on show around my desk – but the bulk of them are shoved somewhat unglamorously into a pot.
The vast majority of my medal collection are finisher’s medals – you get them, fairly obviously, for finishing a race. Now, that’s all very nice, but if I get the medal regardless of whether I set a PB or do my slowest race ever, the sense of accomplishment is separated from the lump of metal. It’s certainly not in keeping with how medals are dished out at top-level sporting events.
Now, of my not inconsiderable pile of bling (as I believe the kids call it), two of my medals were actually earned for performance reasons. And, curiously, I earned both of them in Texas.
The first came on New Year’s Day this year, when as part of my build-up to the Houston Marathon I competed in the Run Houston Race Series 10k event at Sam Houston Park – and promptly won the male 35-39 category.
The second came during my recent trip to Fort Worth. I was visiting in July, when the Texan weather is predictably hot – sorry, darn hot – and, as a result, not that many races take place. But after some web scouring I happened upon the Trinity 5000 Summer Series – a weekly series of 5k races held on 12 Thursday evenings during the summer.
It seemed perfect: the 7.30pm start time meant that, in theory, the intense heat should have subsided a bit, and the course was on the footpaths by the Trinity River – which meant it was pretty much flat. Having experienced Fort Worth’s surprisingly steep hills, this was a very good thing. So I signed up for one.
Now, the course was everything I’d hoped for: Fort Worth’s Trinity River trails system is utterly brilliant, creating a wonderful network of pleasant walking/running/cycling paths through the heart of the city. The section used by the Trinity 5000 events reminded me an awful lot of the paths that run alongside the River Thames near my house – albeit with a brilliant view of Fort Worth’s downtown.
The event was everything I’d hoped for too: it felt very much like a parkrun. Lots of the runners knew each other, and the organisers, and it was all very friendly and relaxed.
The weather, on the other hand, didn’t quite do what I expected. On the day of the race, the temperature in Fort Worth really built up – going some way past 100F (37.7C). And it kept on building, even into the late afternoon and early evening. According to my Garmin, which somehow keeps track of such things, it was 95F (35C) when the race started – although the heat index apparently took it over 100. At 7.30pm! It was ridiculous. Most of the Texans were struck by the evening heat – and if the locals reckon it was hot, imagine how it felt for the random British guy entered.
The organisers went out of their way to help though. There was water available before the start, and they laid out an extra water station. That meant there were two on the out-and-back course, which meant there were four opportunities to grab water in a 5k race. Now, I wouldn’t normally dream of taking a drink on a 5k race usually. On this occasion, I grabbed water on three occasions – partly to drink, and partly to throw over myself in a desperate bid to limit the heat build-up.
The problem with running in such heat is that there’s just no way to cool down. There was only the merest of breezes and even the air was just plain hot, so even aiming for shade to get out of the sun didn’t really help.
Normally, a 5k wouldn’t really faze me at all – thanks to parkrun, I do one pretty much every weekend, and it’s the minimum distance I’d class as a good training run. But in such heat, working out how best to run 5k was a really tough challenge.
For one thing, I was sweating standing around before the start, let alone when I started running. Then, once I’d started, the challenge was trying to keep up a decent pace without overheating. Because once you got too hot to function, there was basically no way back. That meant I had to apply a much greater discipline than usual, trying to control my pace to ensure I didn’t just collapse into a red-faced, sweat-covered, pasty-faced British heap in the second half of the run.
That said, the usual excitement of taking part in a race, and the desire to find a bit of clear space, meant that my first kilometre was a 3m 57s – not quite on my 5k best pace, but definitely not steady by my standards. I calmed down a bit in the second k, running a more controlled 4m 10s, and pretty much settled into that pace for the rest of the run.
The plan was to stay at that relatively steady pace (compared to my 5k PB of 19m 26s), and then try and pick up the pace in the final kilometre, if I could.
Spoiler alert: I couldn’t.
Really, I couldn’t. As the heat built up, the challenge was just to maintain my pace. I was actually surprised when, looking at my split times later, I realised I hadn’t actually slowed dramatically in the final stages.
My eventual time was 20m 51s. Not slow, but nearly 90s down on my fastest-ever 5k – and yet, it felt like a major achievement in the circumstances. Then came the bonus surprise. I hung around at the finish for a while, mostly because I was too busy sweating to do much else, and was still there when the provisional results were posted. I’d finished 12th, which was a solid effort. And I’d also finished third in the male 35-39 class. I was on the class podium.
There wasn’t actually a podium to stand on, but there were medals for the top three in each class. Which meant, for the second time, I earned a medal on merit (let’s not mention the class winner doing an incredible job to finish more than three minutes ahead of me…). And, for the second time, it came in Texas. What are the odds?
Well, actually, there’s likely a fairly simple reason – classes. Most British runs I’ve done have a very limited number of classes, and I’m usually grouped into the ‘senior’ category which spans everyone between the ages of 18 and 39. The two Texas races I’ve taken class podiums in divide the classes into five-year age groups, making my route to the podium substantially easier. Yes, I’m a sort-of Texan running pothunter.
But, well, it would be churlish to hang on that technicality too much, because, well, medals! Shiny medals!
Of course, that still doesn’t quite answer the question of where to stash the things…
When you’re trying to decide on a race to enter, you can spend ages comparing the various descriptions of them that organisers put up on their websites. Some are incredibly detailed, while some are unhelpfully brief. And often, they’re a little bit confusing.
You’ll often find that they’re peppered with odd phrases and bits of running shorthand that are, at times, a little ambiguous. One example of this is the term ‘undulating’, which crops up with unnatural frequency in race route descriptions. I explained the various meanings of undulating some time back, but there are plenty of other bits of jargon stuffed into race descriptions.
Here’s what some of them really mean…
Course profile descriptions
Flat: A bold statement, and reassurance that you can enjoy some hill-free running.
Pancake-flat: May actually be flatter than a flat course. Seriously, it’s likely to be flat.
PB friendly/PR friendly: Mostly flat, likely with a little bit of elevation change. You’ll find this phrase used quite a lot because, hey, who isn’t going to be tempted to enter a race on a course that’s easier to set a PB on. Because, let’s face it, finding a PB friendly course sounds a far easier of improving your time than training harder…
Undulating: a course that won’t be flat, but likely won’t be overly hilly. Or a somewhat hilly course that organisers don’t want to scare entrants off by describing as such. Read an expanded description of undulating here.
Challenging: There will be hills, and they will be steep.
Tough: There will be lots of hills, and they will be very steep.
‘You’ll enjoy the views’/‘Worth it for the views’: The ‘it’ mentioned here is, of course, a relentless grind up one or more ridiculously steep hills.
Brutal: Ye Gods.
Scenic: This sounds like it is a welcome description for a race, suggesting you’ll have nice things to look at. Usually it is, although beware: if this is the only descriptor used for a race, it might be because describing the course with any other terms would involve admitting it’s a grindingly difficult course that takes in hill after hill after hill.
Race course types
Out-and-back: This is a course that involves running somewhere, turning round and heading back. At it’s most extreme, the turning point is occasionally a traffic cone in the middle of the road.
Single lap: A course that starts and finishes in the same place, taking in one big loop. Always a good option if you like plentiful variety.
Multi-lap: A course that will take in two or more loops of a particular section of course. This is both good and bad. It’s good because you’ll know what you’re in for on the second lap, and can adjust your efforts to suit. It’s bad if the loop is particularly dull, or if it contains a tough hill – knowing you’ve got to run up a hill a second time can be a little demotivating…
Point-to-point: A course that stars somewhere, and finishes somewhere else. These offer maximum running variety pleasure, but can be a bit tough for logistics. Although when a point-to-point course is well organised – such as the London Marathon – you’d almost never know.
All-asphalt/all-Tarmac: Yes, this will be a course that takes place entirely on a sealed surface course. That doesn’t necessarily mean it will be as smooth as you’d think
Closed-road: The route will take place on roads closed to traffic so, in theory, only runners will be on them. This is good, as it removes the always unwelcome prospect of being squeezed to the side by over-aggressive drivers who don’t think they should have to account for people running on a road (because they’re far more important, obviously).
Open-road: This route will take place on roads which are open to traffic. Which raises the, erm, always unwelcome prospect of being squeezed to the side of the road by over-aggressive drivers who don’t think they should have to account for people running on a road (because they’re far more important, obviously). To be fair, most motorists are very decent people who won’t mind slowing down and giving you room. Sadly, there are always exceptions to the rule, etc…
Mostly smooth with some slippery bits: there’ll probably be grass or mud. Beware if it gets wet
Occasionally muddy in places: will almost certainly be muddy in places.
Muddy in places: Pack your wellies.
Mixed-surface: This means the race will take place on – shock! – a mixture of surfaces. Expect it to be mostly fairly smooth stuff, but be ready for a bit of on-grass action and the potential for some mud.
Trail course: An off-road course. Probably bumpy. Mud often involved.
Race village/race festival: A selection of stands selling running products, offering massages and that sort of time. Sometimes these will be massive. Often they’ll be two stalls in the middle of a big field.
Club/county championship round: runs that are rounds of club championships will often attract higher numbers of runners than other events. And when you get to the start you’ll find most of them are wearing various brightly colours club running tops. But you don’t usually have to be a member of a club to do them.
Accurately measured: Some races really seem to push the fact that they’ve accurately measured the course to make sure it’s the distance that they’re advertising. Which seems an odd thing to advertise, because when you’re entering a 10k race, you’d basically expect the organisers would have checked the course was, you know, 10k long. Although a surprising amount aren’t. And yes, that includes many described as being ‘accurately measured’.
Certified course: Usually followed by a bunch of initials that are the name of a national governing body. This means the course has been verified by some official types as being of the correct length, so any record times set on it can enter the history books. Which matters, because of course you’re going to be running at world record pace (alright, it has an impact on club points and the like too…)
Read more running jargon busting here.
Running is a non-contact sport. In theory, at least. In truth, an occasional occupational hazard of having lots of people running in a big crowd is that sometimes two or more runners will end up in exactly the same place at exactly the same time.
Now, from having witnessed a few, mid-race running pile-ups are never malicious. It isn’t like motor racing categories such as touring cars or NASCAR, where rubbin’ is, of course, racin’. Contact is usually caused by one runner being surprised by another one in close proximity to them doing something unexpected.
Case in point: the worst mid-race pile-ups I’ve seen have usually involved one runner stumbling, tripping or completely falling over, and in the process collecting one or more runners following close behind.
Hopefully, this happens at slow enough speed that what follows is a very British sequence of profuse apologies, checking on the health of other runners, and trying to keep a stiff upper lip and just get on with the race. Thankfully, the biggest injuries sustained in the worst mid-race accidents I’ve seen have been nothing more than scraped skin and chastened egos.
Now, I’ve been close to a few pile-ups in my time, and had a couple of narrow escapes. Perhaps the biggest calamity I dodged was on a parkrun a few months back, and involved someone running ahead of me with a dog on an extendable lead.
The runner with the dog had set out at a rapid pace, but at just after half-distance another runner and me began to catch him. But we did so on a narrow part of the out-and-back course where runners were passing in both directions, so there was little chance to pass, and we both ended up close behind.
And then… his dog suddenly decided something on the other side of the path was more interesting than running straight ahead. He veered sharply to the right, across the path of runners coming in the other direction. Eager to avoid mayhem, the man was forced to pull up suddenly and tug sharply to retract the rapidly extending dog lead. The combined forces of this led to him being spun around, and very nearly getting bumped by the runner just behind him.
I was next up, and very surprised to find a runner facing the wrong way with a dog lead now tangled around his body. I had to ease up sharply, dart right and just made it through. Amazingly, while several runners heading in both directions had to ease up, nobody actually made full contact or fell over. Phew!
But last weekend (and yes, this is actually the tale I promised in my last post…) I was finally involved in a mid-race pile-up. It was early in the Kingston parkrun, and I was already feeling a little put out after realising I’d left my Garmin GPS watch in mile pacing and splits, instead of kilometres. As I was running, I was desperately trying to work out what my 5k run pace worked out into in mile splits.
Around a kilometre in, the Kingston parkrun runs on a relatively narrow Tarmac path alongside the River Thames. At this stage there are trees and bushes on both sides, with the bushes on the left on a short, sharp slope that goes down to a mudpath alongside the Thames itself. It’s a little narrow, especially early in a parkrun before the field spreads out.
At this stage, I was catching the runner ahead of me, and beginning to think of pulling out to move past – except there was another runner overtaking me to my right. So I was closer behind the runner ahead of me than I’d usually be, and a bit preoccupied with both my watch and waiting for the runner beside me to go past.
And then… an object came flying out of the pocket of the runner right ahead of me. It flipped in the air, and clattered onto the road right in front of me. I realised it was his phone, and instinctively focused on trying not to tread on it. And then I heard the runner ahead of me swear, and looked up to see him slow dramatically as he realised what he’d dropped.
What happened next was pure instinct – on both our parts. Seeing him slow, and with another runner to my right, I had two choices: run straight toward him, or veer left and try to avoid him. My survival instinct kicked in, and I veered left, into the bushes and right onto the edge of that steep muddy slope.
The runner who’d dropped his phone had two choices: stop in the middle of the road and turn around, or pull up and move to the left while he did so, trying to ensure the runners behind him could get past safely. His survival instinct kicked in, and he veered left, into the bushes and right onto the edge of that steep muddy slope.
Yup, our survival instincts had put us both onto a collision course. The contact, when it came, wasn’t exactly major. In fact, it was largely comical: we bumped slowly, which toppled both of us down the slope a bit. And, in even more comical fashion, both of us seemed more concerned with trying to stop the other from falling over completely. It ended with a slightly awkward half man-hug with a stranger halfway down a muddy slope.
We briefly exchanged words of ‘sorry’ and ‘you ok?’ as we untangled, and went our separate ways: me onwards, and him to pick up his phone and rejoin the race. The whole thing lasted little more than ten seconds, but the adrenaline kicked in and fired me up for the next chunk of the run.
At first, I was a little annoyed that another runner failing to properly secure his phone had cost me time, but by the time I reached the finish I’d calmed down. It wasn’t like he meant to drop his phone, after all.
And, hey, despite all that my time wasn’t bad: a 19m 52s. Okay, it didn’t match my entirely unexpected 19m 39s course PB from a week earlier… but, if anything, the incident took away any pressure to follow up that time with another PB. Having lost time – maybe ten seconds, maybe a bit less – through an event that wasn’t my fault, it suddenly wasn’t my responsibility that I wouldn’t match that PB. That might well have freed me up to run faster in the second half, shorn of pressure.
Who knows? I was just grateful that the pile-up wasn’t any worse – and both me and the other runner could have a laugh about it at the finish (his phone was surprisingly intact as well, for those who might care about such things).
Not the world’s most dramatic running pile-up then, but a brief reminder that even in a supposedly non-contact sport, they can happen…
It’s confession time. Actually, before I start confession time, it’s time for, erm, a confession. Here’s the thing. I started writing this last week, but then work, life and all that stuff took over, and I didn’t actually get round to finishing. Hence the delay between the events described here taking place and this post. Don’t think it really makes any difference but… well, thought it best to explain for anyone who really studies dates, or that sort of thing.
Okay then, on with that confession: I nearly didn’t do the Kingston parkrun
last weekend the weekend before last (that’s Saturday March 11, for those of you keeping count). Really, I didn’t. Which is odd, since a Saturday morning 5k had become a cornerstone of my weekend – and it’s not often I seriously contemplate sitting it out. I’m now very glad I didn’t.
Why was I pondering not running? Well, I’d had a busy week: my job had taken me to the Geneva Motor Show for a few days of long, manic hours, terrible motor show eating (think strangely flavourless cheese and cold meat baguettes, plentiful Haribo and other sugary sweets, pizzas and far, far too many deliciously unhealthy pastries, cakes and churros), and not any running at all. Were there Swiss chocolates eaten as well? Yes, there were Swiss chocolates eaten as well.
That combination of unhealthy living left me feeling all very worn down. I managed one relatively slow run on the Thursday evening after I’d returned from Switzerland, and had originally planned another on the Friday evening. But, by the time I finished work that day, I just felt drained.
I had a little more energy come the Saturday morning, but it still felt like the parkrun was going to be a slog. Especially since I’d arranged to meet some friends in central London by mid-morning. Making it to meet them involved a quick post-parkrun turnaround. So… perhaps it would just make sense to skip it. You know, just this once. Would that really hurt?
Eventually, I silenced the inner voice in my head. It was a nice morning, far milder than it had been lately. And since I’d had a week of eating terribly and doing little exercise, well, I decided I had to go and do the parkrun.
That said, I still lacked some enthusiasm. I left my house a bit late, and only just made it to the start of the Kingston course on time. I made it to the finish a little quicker… in 19m 39s. I’d only gone and set a new Kingston parkrun course PB.
That was… a surprise. And not just because I’d set a course PB on a day when I nearly didn’t do the course. It was a surprise because my previous Kingston parkrun PB, a 19m 41s, was set back in June 2015. I’d come close since then – there was a 19m 45s in mid-2016, but on most weeks I was 10-20s back from that. In fact, I hadn’t done a sub-20m run on the course so far in 2017.
Now, some of that was down to my recovery from the Houston Marathon. And some of it was down to the course: the Kingston park run’s out-and-back course features a nice stretch of Tarmac for the first and last 1.5km or so, but the bit in the middle is on a river towpath and field that can get treacherously slippery and muddy when wet. Which happens a lot in the winter in Britain, making it really very hard to set a time close to your best.
That’s borne out by my efforts on other parkrun courses this year: I set a 19m 45s on the Burnham and Highbridge parkrun, and a 19m 48s on the Tooting Common parkrun. Both those courses are smoother and, all-round, quicker than the Kingston one when conditions aren’t optimal.
Those two parkrun outings proved I could run faster than I had been on Kingston so far this year – and certainly, with my post-marathon conditioning, there have been a few times I felt I could have set a really good time, only to encounter far too much mud. So perhaps the course was just in better condition when I set my new PB. It was certainly in a better state than it had been for a few weeks, but it was still slippery and muddy in places – definitely not optimum conditions.
So… well, I can’t really explain it. Perhaps the week of very little running meant my legs were rested, and that overcame the impact of how badly I’d eaten in Geneva. Perhaps the fact I was so certain it was going to be a slow run meant I removed any pressure to perform and weight of expectation.
Or perhaps, the moral of this story is that running is voodoo. Perhaps how much training and preparation you do, how rested you are, how hard you try to eat the right things and all that other stuff doesn’t actually matter quite as much as you think it does.
Well, it’s possible. But it’s more likely this was just one of those weird freak things where everything mysteriously aligns in defiance of all running convention. I’m not convinced the long-term key to future success is less running and more unhealthy eating.
Although, reflecting on all those long training runs in the cold and rain, it’s a tempting thought…
Oh, and as a post-script, the fact that running is utterly unpredictable voodoo was borne out by my Kingston parkrun outing seven days later. I clocked a 19m 52s – a strong time despite being 13s down on my new course PB. But that time hides plenty of amusing drama behind it. But, well, that’s for another post. Promise I won’t leave this one so long.
A short update this. Basically, just to say that it’s all over. Marathon number two: done. And the 2017 Chevron Houston Marathon went about as well as I could have hoped.
If you read any of my previous posts, you’ll know that the weather was my biggest concern in the lead-up to the race. And while it wasn’t out and out hot, Houston was shrouded under a murky fog that trapped in high levels of humidity. It was the sort of sticky, warm and humid weather that even had some Texans I talked to concerned about running – so as a Brit who’d done most of my long-distance training in somewhat colder conditions it was a major worry.
But I kept in control, stuck to my pace plan and took advantage of the plentiful drink stations, and the occasional wet towels and sponges being handed out. I did fade a bit towards the end, but that was as much to do with fatigue in my legs as it was the heat – and I didn’t fade anywhere near as dramatically as I did on last year’s London Marathon.
The end result was a finish time of 3h 16m 40s – enough for 265th out of 7109 finishers and, more importantly, a good chunk faster than my 3h 28m 17s time on last year’s London Marathon. Unfortunately, I failed to find the DICK’S Sporting Goods PR Bell in the post-race zone, so I was unable to ring it.
— James Attwood (@Atters_J) January 15, 2017
Perhaps more important than the time was the fact that, apart from a very slight wobble when the legs really began to ache with just under three miles to go, I enjoyed myself throughout. That was a different experience from London, when I spent much of the latter part of the event genuinely not really enjoying myself (until the glow of post-race satisfaction arrived).
The two events were very different events, of course but, as it was after the London Marathon, my mind is currently a blur of sights, sounds, smells and sensations from my 26.2-mile jaunt around the streets of Houston.
That’s why this is a short update: it’s going to take a bit of time for me to process the memories into coherent word-based form. But I will say this: it was a great event – slickly organised and well-run, with the course lined with enthusiastic spectators, volunteers, police and support staff. If you’ve ever had a hankering to do a marathon in Texas, I’d thoroughly recommend it.
And, coincidentally, early entries for 2018 have already opened. I’m tempted – and it’s scary to think that on the day of marathon number two I’m even contemplating the prospect of doing a third…