Gimme Five
As featured in Issue 29 of LikeTheWind magazine
“Now, Jack, I’m gonna ask you to bend your head ever so slightly. A little more. That’s it. Now brace yourself, lad. Because this…... is really, really going to hurt.”
Dustin Hoffman’s depiction of the dastardly Captain James Hook in the 1991 swashbuckler adventure movie ‘Hook’ left me captivated as a child, the distinct fusion of erratic egotism and villainous wit was spellbinding. Though little was I aware that particular segment of dialogue from the pernicious pirate before piercing the ear of a young boy, namingly the son of his greatest nemphesis, Peter Pan, would become embedded in my subconscious thirty years later.
I’ve never ran further than the marathon distance, nor do I have any intention of ever doing so, the emotional strife of 26.2 miles being formidable enough. That said, I don’t find the perceivable apprehension of covering the marathon distance particularly worrisome, though maybe I should given the many farcical occasions I’ve blown up mid-Marathon due to poor pacing. I’m fortunate to enjoy an absence of anxiety with the short(er) distances too - Half Marathon, 10K, each presenting their own unique challenge - the simple act of running remains the same, the physiological and psychological obligation of each may differ in necessity, but none induce the level of unease that can only be boasted by one.
5K. 5K is the worst.
5K? The distance covered by children, the sedentary, the senile and everything inbetween? The very same. Yet it’s not the distance itself that stokes the flames of fear, but more so the occasions on which I’ll actually attempt to run, relative of course to my level of aptitude, fast.
From a personal perspective, 5K provokes consternation unlike any other, a storm in the deep depths of the stomach, and as one prepares an wholehearted assault over five thousand meters, the reality that “this is really going to hurt” is a dread difficult to relinquish. Shuffling at many a parkrun start line, I’ve almost felt Hoffman’s novelty horseshoe moustache tickling my earlobe, the chilling calmness of his croak reverberating through my skull whilst attempting not to puke for the sake of a glorified hobby.
From a personal ‘performance’ perspective, the upsides to the 5K are sparse - the greatest enticement of the distance perhaps being that it’s over relatively quickly, the burden simply lasting a shorter period of time than that of it’s longer counterparts, but this carries with it a caveat - the lesser margin for error. The slightest misfortune or misjudgement and it’s game over. I cannot even fathom the monumental pressures of the professional Athlete with a livelihood, organisation, sponsor and/or country to answer to. The Olympian - a lifetime of graft and sacrifice, the last four years spent with extraordinary specificity, all for an event that could last as little as nine seconds. One infinitely miniscule mistake could render the years preceding it completely futile. Thankfully these are athletic tensions I’ll never suffer the weight of, yet our goals, although incomparable in terms of standard or magnitude, are still of relevance when they relate to an endeavour in which a substantial quantity of time, emotion and sheer graft has been invested. For me, this is a Sub 17 minute 5K.
Five years ago I came agonisingly close on a rare morning where perfect conditions were met with my being in half decent shape. Paced to perfection, the last mile was spent in a tussle with a friend of similar ability, just the extra drive required to see me elateadly gasp over the line in, what I believed to be, 16:56. For years I’ve started my watch at the ‘3’ of the Announcers “3,2,1, Go”, and made sure I’m well over the Finish line before stopping the clock, providing me with a ‘worse case scenario’ time before official clarification arrives. However, the results processing algorithm obviously didn’t care for this ingenious wisdom as I received the automated text later that morning, congratulating me on a ‘New PB of 17:00”.
Frustrating yes, but just one of those things, and given the very nature of parkrun - a free, friendly, volunteer-led event, I have zero inclination to ever become ‘that person’ who emails in to rant about four seconds. I should have just ran faster.
Fast forward half a decade and, through injury, circumstance and well, life, I’d just not again quite reached the necessary level of physical conditioning to make a realistic assault on the target since. That was, until, the world stopped turning.
Having enjoyed months of fortunate consistency, I ran my first PB in years at the Barcelona Half Marathon in February 2020 - a spectacular morning in the Catalan capital, the sense of validation after years of injury woes and near misses was euphoric. With hindsight, I should have struck whilst the iron was hot, but chose instead to spend the succeeding weeks easing back, not rushing into another race. It was the sensible option and there were plenty of events coming up. Or so I thought. The pandemic tightened it’s grasp and I found myself in the shape of my life but without a platform to do anything with it.
All dressed up and nowhere to go.
I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in virtual races - I can understand the potential appeal but they’re just not for me. I find myself irritated by the facade that these experiences are perhaps as good as the real thing, but have to remind myself that people, groups, and businesses are just doing the best they can. Moreover, who am I to say the ‘virtual’ equivalent is inferior? If an online venture gets someone out of the door to better themselves when they’d otherwise not have bothered, then surely it can only be deemed a positive?
My disdain for virtual substitutes isn’t exclusive to running. At work, during the early days of Lockdown #1, we’d attempt our daily ‘Morning Briefing' on Zoom but the numerous obstacles soon became apparent. Previously a useful, slick and convenient process, the new format was decimated by sporadic WiFi connections, distorted discussion, and the general absence of the older contingent who simply couldn’t fathom the technology. I can’t for a second, however, fail to acknowledge the significant role technology has played in getting folk through the past year, proving a lifeline for some. Even before the pandemic, Facetime and Zoom have facilitated a relationship between my daughter and my brother-in-law (her Uncle), despite him being on the opposite side of the globe in New Zealand. They’ve only physically met once ‘in real life’ but through a screen they enjoy a loving rapport - she knows his face, his voice, and even his occasional nonsensical slurs when time zones mean our early morning calls coincide with an evening on the sherry.
One aspect of lockdown running I have willingly adopted is the yardstick ‘Time Trial’ - an all-out effort over a determined distance to gauge where you’re at. The prospect was there long before any global medical catastrophe but simply hadn’t previously featured on my training radar. Out of personal preference and practicality I run (very) early in the morning so the ability to ‘race’ at an hour specifically tailored to me is most desireable. ‘Control the controllables’ is an oft-cited fundamental - and the essence of a TT widens the spectrum of variables of which I am able to manipulate - if I’m fatigued we’ll postpone. Blizzard, heatwave, monsoon or mini typhoon? I’ll just do it tomorrow when it’s clear and crisp with a light tailwind please.
I’d had a bit of a purple patch of consistency stretching from the previous summer when the nation was first instructed to stay at home. Working in a Primary School, I found myself doing just two shifts a week - our doors open only to Key Worker and vulnerable pupils meant our usual abundant staff cohort was surplus to requirements. My role isn’t physically overstrenuos, but the luxury of having more time to train, and recover, was one I was determined to fully exploit, and during that prolonged spell of spectacular weather I finally found myself back to my best, perhaps even exceeding it.
Within a mile of our front door lies a six mile stretch of country road, lined with tall trees and hedgerow. Vehicles hare round the blind corners from around 7am but, at the time of year when sunlight hits the pancake-flat tarmac as early as 4.30am, it is every part my ideal course for an ‘effort’. On a resplendent morning, four years on from the ‘Seventeen Minute Shafting’ of 2016, I finally broke the barrier with an affirmatively executed 16:55. Delighted? Yes. Was it in a race and thus PB eligible? Absolutely not. Neither was the 16:54 I ran just a few weeks later.
The bitter-sweet cycle continued into the Summer before the familiar brutal bludgeon of injury struck, a ‘tear in the gluteal fold’, and the succession of good form came to an end, with absolutely nothing to show for it.
Eight weeks on the sidelines, restrictions forbidding my regular physio to operate, I desperately sought alternative avenues of advice - acupuncture and a ridiculous attempt at diagnosis via Google Meet (“Can you touch THERE, does THAT hurt?”) were two of the fruitless means explored before I did as I always should and just left it alone. I worried I’d never again recapture the level of conditioning I’d managed to reach when I’d had the time and means to do so.
The dismay however, was unfounded, and when the mercury dropped and the days grew shorter, the post-injury months of steady progression saw me once again able to do things in training that I’d previously only managed in an actual race. A new year began, and with it a third lockdown, again extinguishing any design to capitalize on the hard fought fitness. With the desolate absence of any racing, I decided to again embark on a Time Trial - at the least there’d be an indication of whether I was anywhere near the fettle of the previous Spring.
My favoured country road course wasn’t an option, I didn’t desire venturing down there in the dark, and cars would be on the road by the time it was light enough to do so. I opted instead for a route from the City Centre, a straight(ish) line with the benefit of streetlights, to our village outside the Ring Road - streets I’ve ran on literally thousands of times, and upon which I walked as an adolescent.
The gold and green tones of the Spring were a stark contrast to this early February morning - black and grey, -4c with a ‘feels like’ of -11c. As my warm-up concluded and I stood poised, the pirate prophecy again rang in my ears - this was “really, REALLY going to hurt”.
17:00 pace is 3:24min/km. I like this opening stretch - the pavements are wide and their close proximity to the City Centre sees the Council invest in their regular upkeep - we can’t risk the Tourists falling over now can we? For these reasons, fused with excessive enthusiasm, the opening Kilometer is covered 3:19 and I have blown the whole thing already, inevitable implosion imminent.
But this morning was different. Today was a ‘bollocks to it’. If I slow into a deathmarch, other than some narcisticial inner-humiliation, what does it matter?
I pass the road upon which I lived during my teenage years and already my breathing has become laboured. The mist hangs over the damp green to my right where my Sister danced around the Maypole in the late 80s. Concentration is lost as I ponder the fate of Maypole Dancing in the present day, only abruptly interrupted by the sound of my watch to signify the reaching of 2K - 3:29. At least I’ve averaged it up. I manage to stabilize the desired pace stamping across the entrance of a beautiful 14 acre garden we’ve frequented since forever. My parents took us there from such a young age I don’t recall ever not going, those halcyon days when the summers would last forever and we’d drink from the tap by the holly bush. An arctic blast rips across my torso as a timely reminder that those Summers are over, yet I find myself back on schedule, the third kilometer in 3:24. However, I’m beginning to pay for that opening overexertion, and serious questions arise as to the realistic sustainability of the current velocity.
At this stage any psychological tactic deemed vaguely useful is deployed to delay the onslaught of mass discomfort - a shift in measurement system to suit the agenda - there’s not 1.6 kilometers still to cover, but one mile. 1.0 is less than 1.6, that sounds better. This conveniently coincides with reaching my parents current house, just doors from the one I lived as a toddler, where I once fell and cracked open my skull to the delight of my Maypolling sister who took great delight, for years afterwards, at declaring to visitors the crimson stains upon the patio where “Alex hit his head”.
Fourth kilometer in 3:27. I attempt some quick (poor) mental maths before immediately tearing down the steep slope of the underpass beneath the ring road, my toilsome footsteps and strained heaves echoing from the walls of the neon-lit passage. Just five seconds elapse on the flat before the ascent begins out of the tunnel. The climb back into the darkness will surely see a decline in pace but miraculously, I’m back on level ground and the target is still, though dubious, in sight. My fickle allegiance to Imperial measures flitters once more and we’re back in metres, 800 of which remain.
By now I’m emitting sounds akin to an ocean liner, the fatigue is debilitating, the exertion inflicting conflicting senses - atrociousness and magnificence concurrent, a harmony of opposing emotions. The illuminated finish line, a ‘Give Way’ sign stands 300 just metres away, the upturned red triangle a beacon of hope in the distance. The digits on my wrist read 3:20min/km. My legs can’t physically turn over any faster.
The conclusion of the venture is within reach yet as the effort reaches its crescendo and oxygen is at a premium, my mind again begins to wander. Being healthy and in shape (again, relative), though often fleeting, is utterly phenomenal. I perhaps shouldn’t gamble the fragilities of confidence and to an extent, happiness, on a platform that could so easily be revoked (through injury), yet it would be neglectful to deny the imposing influence running well has upon my self-esteem.
The ‘beep’ to signal 5K pierces the thin air. My palms grasp at my knees to the soundtrack of light birdsong and heavy wheezing, the condensation of exhaled breath a stark contrast to the charcoal skies overhead. I reach to my left and push the button to illuminate my watch in the darkness.
16:52.
