IT had to start somewhere, and for my 2011 half marathon challenge it was a cold RAF base in the depths of Lincolnshire.
Attempting to run 12 half marathons in just 10 months, I’d needed to squeeze a February run somewhere into the calendar, and Sleaford was chosen for one reason only – its proximity to my parents’ home in South Yorkshire.
So my Dad and I headed out into the cold on Sunday and headed for the flatlands.
Well, let’s put one rumour to bed right now; Lincolnshire, despite its reputation, is not flat. Having run up at least three hills I’m prepared to stand up and challenge anyone in court....
My only previous half marathon experience was Cardiff in October. And this couldn’t be more different. Instead of a field of 16,000, there were less than 1,000 runners limbering up.
Gone were the fun runners, the fancy dress costumes, the unfit runners who were clearly going to walk. Instead it was pretty much me and hundreds of club runners, who all seemed to head for the front when the starter asked for anyone who thought they could run sub 1 hour 30.
My immediate challenge – don’t finish last.
The race began, and I realised how right I’d been. Whereas Cardiff began with a wave of excitement, Sleaford began with a wave of determination. Most of the runners here were not worried about getting round, they were worried about their time. Conversation was at a premium.
Until we hit the two-mile mark that was; a muddy track, difficult to even stand up on, prompting varying degrees of outrage.
It would have been easy to get swept away at the beginning, tried to go too fast, tried to keep up with the field – but I resisted the temptation and held back, clocking 10-minute miles.
And, to my surprise, I soon realised that while many athletes were streaking ahead, there were also a significant number behind me.
A little bit of mystery and intrigue was offered half way round as we passed the Temple Bruer, one of the few remaining buildings in the United Kingdom built by the Knights Templar.
And it was an odd site, a clearly very old and historic temple just sat in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by ramshackle farmbuildings.
One of the starkest differences for me between Sleaford and Cardiff was the loneliness. In Cardiff people line the streets, and with 16,000 runners you were never on your own.
In Sleaford, there were moments where you were well and truly on your own, just a few arrows to guide you and a runner on the horizon.
Training for this run certainly hadn’t been easy. December and January were hardly conducive to getting out and running on the Mid Wales roads; if it wasn’t icy and snowy it was flooded.
I wasn’t surprised, therefore, when I really started to feel the pace around the 11-mile mark. And in such a run, with little support save for the brilliant marshalls, it would have been easy to slow right down – perhaps even walk home.
But I managed to find a reserve of energy from somewhere, stumbling home in 2:11:14 – a full three and a half minutes faster than Cardiff.
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