Borders Race – Pensby As Hosts

Buds … little tiny buds reaching out through the cold winter earth.

I’m not talking daffodils or irises, but the beginnings of a flowering of my strength. The very beginnings mind, but in today’s race there were moments where I actually felt pretty good. So, it seems that consistency does pay off eventually.

The Borders League race today was put on by none other than my club Pensby Runners. It was our inaugural race hosting duties and the feedback from many of the runners who took part was really, really positive, especially if you consider comments like ‘I thought the Wirral was flat’ as positive.

From my own point of view, I had refrained from looking at the route beforehand because I do like to live in happy ignorance and just rock up to see what happens. When people were milling before the start, I stood very close to the back as is my recent usual habit and listened to their chatter. There was some talk of ‘a hill in the middle’, but I put that to the back of my mind as we waited for the off.

It’s a start area that’s been used in other local races. A nice wide straight path in Thurstaston, parallel to the Wirral Way. You can see the Welsh coastline up close across the Dee from this village that’s older than the Domesday Book. Thurstaston, according to Wikipedia, means ‘village of a man called Thorsteinn’ in old Norse. Rather prosaic but one of many reminders of Viking activity on the Wirral.

For the first hundred yards or so, despite starting near the back, I had the distinctive feeling that I was running backwards as everyone surged forward around me. I was determined to trust myself though, and kept going steadily. We doubled back soon on to the Wirral Way, a path used by cyclists, walkers, runners and horse riders that runs the length of West Wirral. It is long and it is straight and it is flat. Ideal for running you might say, though one guy, as I over took him, complained that it seemed to go on forever.

It wasn’t quite forever but I guess going straight ahead for around two continuous miles might seem monotonous. I considered asking him to look periodically to his right, when the trees made way to the lovely views over the water but I’m not sure that would have appeased him as he was already cross, with himself, for starting off in too many clothes.

If he was over-hot along that flat path, I don’t quite know how he felt when we did eventually turn the corner, and back on to normal roads. Someone called to the marshal,
 ‘Is this the hill?’
 ‘Yes … the start of it.’

That first bit wasn’t a hill really, but things started looking familiar to me when we turned into a road that hadn’t been tarmacked in decades, Oldfield Drive. Months ago, last year, when I was fitter, I did a hill session with the club, led by Julie. Five times up and down Oldfield Drive, with no rests. The rest of the group did more, but that was all I could manage without keeling over and dying on the spot. The knowledge that I had bested this gravelly beast five times in a row meant that today, I wasn’t going to walk any of it. Granted it was an uber slow run, but a run nonetheless, and powered by my memory of smiley Julie cheering me on, I got myself to the top.

There was a nice flat straight bit once I got there (who doesn’t love flat and straight?) and then, joy of joys, some lengthy downhill sections for the final stretch. All in all, for me, and perhaps I’m a little biased, it was a terrific race, with lots of marshals keeping us on track and safe  (mostly other runners from our club giving up their time). The weather was dry and a perfect temperature, assuming you didn’t over dress to begin with.

It was the first race of the year that I’ve really enjoyed. Aside from the excellent organisation and great route, I definitely found some moments where my breathing was good and my legs were turning over pretty well. That muscle memory might not be a real thing as far as I’m concerned, but that memory of getting up a hill and keeping going certainly brought a little strength out today.