Hartshill Heartbreaker (Sunday 20 November, 2005)

Race Report

I've always enjoyed the Hartshill 10. It's a really good, traditional cross-country course and there aren't many of those left these days. I've been well placed in the race a few times. I may even have won it once, but I can't remember! This year: well, it's a good job I'd sent off for my entry months in advance or I'd never have turned up. I woke up on the morning of the race and I really couldn't be bothered. In the end, three things got me to the start: (1) I'm a Yorkshireman and I couldn't face wasting the entry fee, (2) I'd arranged to meet Adrian Jones at the race for him to pay his subs and (3) the alternative was moping round the house all day! Never mind, I thought, I've felt a bit like this before: I'll sort myself out before the start.

The slow, noisy, wallowing Vauxhall Vectra 1.9 Diesel I'd been given while my car was in the garage denied me an enjoyable drive but at least, for the first time ever, I found the venue without incident, mostly because I ignored the official directions and came in via the A5. As I only arrived 25 minutes before the start, I was pleasantly surprised to find a parking space on the school field. I don't know if numbers were down on previous years, but if quantity was suffering, quality certainly wasn't. A quick glance revealed rather more fast runners than I was expecting. Paul Andrew, John Muddeman, Gary Payne and Colin Deasey were all there. It looked like being a quick race, and I really wasn't up for it. "Oh well." I thought, "I came for the race not the trophy. I'll just start running and see how it goes."

The Hartshill course has just enough tarmac to be unsuitable for spikes. I've never got on with my fell shoes, because they have a really solid heel counter that often rubs against my heel spurs, but in the past I've wrapped my ankles with crepe bandage to pad my heels and they've been alright. Sadly I lost access to that first aid kit when I moved out, but I figured I'd be OK with two layers of Elastoplast, a thick smearing of Vaseline and three pairs of socks. The warm-up jog didn't feel all that comfortable and, with hindsight, I should have changed into trainers, but I figured I was just being precious because I was down in the dumps and left them on for the race.

With very little ado, the whistle blew, the race started and the field eased over the start line at no great pace. Even so, within the first quarter mile there was a clear lead group of Paul Andrew, John Muddeman and me, with one of those annoying 'Look Mum, I'm on the telly' type runners 20 yards in front. John made an early break but didn't sustain it and Paul soon caught him up again. It took me rather longer to get back onto the pace and after less than a mile my legs were already telling me to stop. I don't think I've ever felt so bad so early in a race, especially not at such a steady pace. I'd not been sleeping much, and I'd probably missed a few meals during the week, but surely I could still manage one six-minute mile! If not, it was going to be a long day...

At the first noticeable hill, Paul started to raise the pace. John initially covered the break, but I was left in no man's land and my legs were feeling worse by the minute. A big part of me wanted to turn round and go back to the car, but I've never stopped in a race and I wasn't about to start. I slogged up the hill watching Paul and John ease into the distance, with Paul rapidly building a lead. John seemed to be struggling in places and for a while I'd have occasional bursts of energy, enthusiasm or both and nearly catch him, but then it passed and he'd get away again. Not only that, but my heels were already starting to hurt. I persuaded myself that, however badly I was doing I'd be letting people down even more if I stopped and kept going.

As we left the wooded Country Park and headed out over the farm fields, Paul was almost out of sight in front. When I could see him, he looked to be running really strongly and flowing well. There was no way John was going to catch him, so at least the winner would be from the right club. With John not going well the one-two should have been easy, but I could scarcely keep moving. I remember the next half hour as thousands upon thousands of internal battles: "Why bother?" I'd ask myself. "Because if you stop now you might as well never start another race." was the closest thing I had to an answer. In the middle of this, the twists and turns through the quarry section made my shoes really cut into my heels and the difficulty of seeing the course markers in the low sun and frosty glare just added to the growing sense of futility. I could have cried. If I'd stopped, I would have. At least while I kept going I could get annoyed rather than upset. Paul was clearly flying, but why on earth couldn't I get my head around racing John? Here I was doing something I claim to enjoy on a beautiful winter's day: why on earth was I being such a pathetic little cry-baby? When I asked a marshal, "How far to go?" and he replied, "You're just over half way." it was nearly the final straw.

As it was, I plodded disconsolately onwards. The gap to John wasn't big, or growing, but I could no more close it than flap my arms and fly to the moon! As we got back into the woods, the marshals urged me to give chase and I did try, but I could only manage a hundred yards or so before I lost the will to live and slowed down again. The mental pain was the worst, but my heels were really hurting now and every corner or downhill was making them worse.

After what seemed like an eternity, I crossed back over the road and onto the embankment. It was such a relief, because I knew there couldn't be much more than a mile to go. By the time I was halfway along the embankment I could already hear John Andrew cheering Paul into the final field, so I knew he was miles in front, but I still didn't know if I was going to finish and I certainly couldn't believe that no-one had caught me up. I imagined footsteps behind me and tried to speed up hold off my phantom challenger, but I'm sure if they'd been real they'd have beaten me. The last twisty section with about three-quarters of a mile to go was hell on my feet, but at least the end was in sight.

Out of the woods, alongside the football pitches, onto the school fields and home. Thank God! As soon as I crossed the line, I stopped in the funnel and took my shoes off. The relief was tremendous. "Bloody shoes!" Literally. (I didn't work up the courage to take my socks off until bedtime for fear of what I might find, and then I slept in [a different pair of] socks to avoid making a mess of the sheets!) I'm not sure what the marshals made of me paddling around in the frost in my stocking feet, but I was just glad the pain had stopped. I couldn't even feel the cold. I wandered off to congratulate Paul and stand on the final corner to cheer the rest of the Northbrook contingent home.

Tony Hoy finished well up the field, but then dozens of runners seemed to go past with no sign of our fourth scorer. After what seemed like an eternity Dave Clarke came in to complete the team, but I was sure we'd lost the team race to Sphinx. (The eventual result just shows just how much of an advantage first and third gives you in a four-to-count race!) Gareth, Steve Mason and Adrian Jones weren't too far behind Dave, but by then my feet were starting to feel the cold so I went inside and didn't get to see Barry, Charles or Tony finish. Apologies, gentlemen.

Sitting around waiting for the presentation it hit home just how badly the race had gone. I'd felt awful from gun to tape, I'd bottled out every time I should've got stuck in, and all I'd really proved to myself was what a screaming prima donna I can be when things are going badly and I don't want to play! At one point I was seriously considering giving up running altogether. Joan Andrew made a real effort to come and chat with me and cheer me up, but I'm sure I wasn't very good company. If I didn't seem grateful at the time, Joan, please accept my thanks and apologies now.

As for the prize-giving: Paul and I aren't sure if the cash prizes for the individual race mean we can't now run in the Olympics and Paul hasn't the least idea what to do with the glass, not-quite-an-ashtray winner's trophy, while my share of the team prize added yet another bottle of wine to my rapidly growing collection. Since I moved into my house at the end of May I've won 8 bottles of red wine, 4 bottles of white, 3 bottles of fizz (but no real Champagne) and a bottle of Scotch which, added to the 40 bottles of beer that didn't get drunk at my housewarming makes me look like quite the alcoholic. At least it decorates one wall of my dining room! I suppose what I really need is a good excuse to drink some of it, and some good company to drink it in...

On the bright side, by the time my cr*ppy Vectra had clanked and rattled its way back to Banbury, there was hardly any of the day left to mope around the house. Result! Anyway, Hartshill 2005: congratulations to Paul Andrew on a brilliant run, but otherwise a race I hope to purge from my memory forever. Here's hoping I can sort myself out in time for Coundon Park, and that Paul has a blinder there too!

Nathan Holmes.

Results

Northbrook AC won the team race with 66 points to Sphinx's 77.

Full results are available on the Sphinx AC website here.

Gallery

Many thanks to Joan Andrew for the photographs below. Click the thumbnails to see larger images.