As I staggered past the finish line in Southwark Park last Sunday, one thought kept rattling around my brain, ‘I shall never ever drink again’, for without the demon drink I might never have volunteered to run this year’s Carlton London Run. My mind cast itself back a few months to that fateful evening when drowning my sorrows after the season’s ignominious finish, I foolhardily put my name down for the event.
A couple of months on and I found myself lining up with 8000 others in sweltering heat and nursing only a mild hangover (must be sensible). Alongside me were two fellow followers of the Pink and Blue, the father and son combination of Paul and Andy Tucker, all of us resplendent in our Dulwich shirts, although the material was probably inappropriate for the weather. As the race got underway, the Pink and Blue posse prompted disintegrated with the Tuckers swiftly becoming a blur on the horizon. Indeed I was not to catch another glimpse of Paul all morning!
Like Dulwich’s season my own race started promisingly at a composed pace, but all too soon things were going wrong. With the early part of race passing through along an almost deserted Salter Road, one could manage a walk without too much shame, but as Jamaica Road and The Rotherhithe Tunnel nearby crowds along the pavement began to swell. Buoyed up by their presence and continual encourage it seemed churlish to stroll and so a swift jog was broken into, for effect only let me add. Being passed by the usual gaggle of superheroes and furry animals did not help either. Even worse was to come when just I passed the halfway stage, I could hear finishers being announced from the Park.
At least wearing the Dulwich colours afforded me some recognition from my fellow runners, even if usually accompanied by a cry of ‘Shift your ****!’ However I can reveal that a slow pace has its advantages as it allows one to take in the scenery of passing runners. As Tower Bridge hove into sight, I caught my first glimpse of another Dulwich shirt with Andy haring back towards the park a matter of minutes away from finishing in 48:21. His dad had finished six minutes previous. I still had half an hour on the road!
Ahead of me lay the maze of hell with an intricate network of back streets and cobbles around Potters Fields conspiring together to inflict further torture. Pubs seemed to beckon me in but still my mind was fixed on the target ahead. Over Tower Bridge and back and the finish line grew closely, mentally if not visually.
With new found reserves, a final sprint back down Jamaica Road and into the park. Finally after an hour and a quarter, my nightmare had passed. At last I could relax and bask in the sun. Reflecting back on the day, the words Fun and Run sprang to mind but not as pair. That strange camaraderie of a race were total strangers strike up conversations, probably with someone they’d be trying to run away from in real life. The sadistic spectators who will insist on encouraging you no matter how knackered you feel, thus obliging you to break into another cardiac inducing jog. They are all part of the mix that makes this masochistic pursuit so addictive. Yes I will run next year. I might even do some training! Finally, as is customary on these occasions, I would like to thank all the hardworking volunteers who staffed the water stations and stewarded, except for one who refused to accept my bribe to take a short cut.
A couple of months on and I found myself lining up with 8000 others in sweltering heat and nursing only a mild hangover (must be sensible). Alongside me were two fellow followers of the Pink and Blue, the father and son combination of Paul and Andy Tucker, all of us resplendent in our Dulwich shirts, although the material was probably inappropriate for the weather. As the race got underway, the Pink and Blue posse prompted disintegrated with the Tuckers swiftly becoming a blur on the horizon. Indeed I was not to catch another glimpse of Paul all morning!
Like Dulwich’s season my own race started promisingly at a composed pace, but all too soon things were going wrong. With the early part of race passing through along an almost deserted Salter Road, one could manage a walk without too much shame, but as Jamaica Road and The Rotherhithe Tunnel nearby crowds along the pavement began to swell. Buoyed up by their presence and continual encourage it seemed churlish to stroll and so a swift jog was broken into, for effect only let me add. Being passed by the usual gaggle of superheroes and furry animals did not help either. Even worse was to come when just I passed the halfway stage, I could hear finishers being announced from the Park.
At least wearing the Dulwich colours afforded me some recognition from my fellow runners, even if usually accompanied by a cry of ‘Shift your ****!’ However I can reveal that a slow pace has its advantages as it allows one to take in the scenery of passing runners. As Tower Bridge hove into sight, I caught my first glimpse of another Dulwich shirt with Andy haring back towards the park a matter of minutes away from finishing in 48:21. His dad had finished six minutes previous. I still had half an hour on the road!
Ahead of me lay the maze of hell with an intricate network of back streets and cobbles around Potters Fields conspiring together to inflict further torture. Pubs seemed to beckon me in but still my mind was fixed on the target ahead. Over Tower Bridge and back and the finish line grew closely, mentally if not visually.
With new found reserves, a final sprint back down Jamaica Road and into the park. Finally after an hour and a quarter, my nightmare had passed. At last I could relax and bask in the sun. Reflecting back on the day, the words Fun and Run sprang to mind but not as pair. That strange camaraderie of a race were total strangers strike up conversations, probably with someone they’d be trying to run away from in real life. The sadistic spectators who will insist on encouraging you no matter how knackered you feel, thus obliging you to break into another cardiac inducing jog. They are all part of the mix that makes this masochistic pursuit so addictive. Yes I will run next year. I might even do some training! Finally, as is customary on these occasions, I would like to thank all the hardworking volunteers who staffed the water stations and stewarded, except for one who refused to accept my bribe to take a short cut.
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