From the Spurn 7 I realised races were fun, rough but fun. I wanted to do some more of them but knew I wasn't in the best place physically to be doing them and not feeling disappointed with my performance.
Over the next month or two I put in a conscious effort to run more and try and get into better shape. I was managing to get roughly 20 miles in a week and even managed to get some cool overseas runs in! All 3 of these I was struggling with some knee pain though.
A short 3 mile run in very chilly conditions in Oslo, Norway.
A very hot 4 mile run up and down the Las Vegas strip.
A 6 mile run around a lovely park in the centre of Munich, Germany.
By this time it was now May, I'd continued running 15-20 mile a week and I decided to sign up to the Hull 10KM which was on June 8th. I thought I'd go for a test PB 10KM run and see how I got on. I ended up running pretty solid, averaging 7:34/mi (4:42/km). The last 10KM I ran was in 2017 where I was much fitter, younger and managed to get 52:19.
The only problem now was Ben (my brother). He'd been training in the military for a couple of years at this point so he was beyond a beast and after seeing my new 10KM PB test run, he was certain I could get a 45 min PB.
Considering I was almost at one with god during this run, I really didn't see that being possible.
The morning came, breakfast was eaten and I headed on down to meet with Ben. We had a catch up and made our way to the start line looking for the 45 minute pacer for me and the 40 minute pacer for Ben. And we were off!
As always, I ran too fast the first few kilometres. A mixture of excitement, the crowd and other people running fast. I soon wound my neck in and decided to stay just behind the pacers so I wouldn't lose track of my goal, until for some reason I had a thought. I'm 3 or 4km in and I'm feeling great! I should push a bit and get a lead on the pacers so that when I tire I have some leeway ahead of them. Anyone who has ran a race will laugh at that last sentence. We've all done it.
I headed onto the Marina past the deep at about 6km in where there were ALOT of people crowded and remembering thinking "fucking hell I am going to fall over my legs are jelly, I can't fall in front of all of these people". I got through it from nothing but fear of being laughed by at going arse over tit and managed to get round past the banks of people and to the more quieter parts thank god.
But no, oh no, the pacers. One passed me as I was trying to hold my pace thinking "there is 2, as long as I'm between them I'm fine", then the second passed me. The last couple of KM through the course was quite windy and as this point I really was struggling to pick my feet up. I kept scraping and kicking the kerbs and cobbled roads. I only just managed to drag myself through the last few KM.
I turned onto the last straight, I could see the pacers maybe no more than 100m ahead. I HAD to catch them, I couldn't be this close and not get there, but my legs had absolutely nothing left to give. I was going to fail my 45 minute attempt. That was until I looked up at the finish line which now was probably 200m away and saw one of the pacers glancing back several times, he must've clocked that I was running with him for the majority of this race because in that moment he turned around, dropped back and shouted for me "cmon mate, last push, you are so close, cmon!".
Somehow, that man who didn't even know I existed over an hour ago had managed to persuade my body that I had just that little bit more to give and oh my did I give it. I pushed as hard as I could and mentally 'dropped a gear'. I felt my legs picking up, they were going and I was quite quickly catching up to him until I overtook and did not stop until I crossed over the line.
Was it enough?
It was, but only just. Ben on the other hand smashed it and got a 40:14 PB. Absolute machine.
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