We can see the pacer flags for a 2:30 half marathon and think to squeeze closer to them. It’s difficult because the throng of runners and civilians presses us in. Some of these non-runners look like shocked shoppers who have come out of the coffee shop and then nearly been pushed back in. Mostly they are spectators with their cardboard signs tucked under their arms or in the bottom tray of their pushchairs – they seem to have brought the whole family along to cheer for Emily or Rajiv or Bob.
Cardiff Half, just a week after Loch Ness Marathon. I didn’t plan it that way; I had just completely forgotten I’d booked one before paying for the other. John had warned me about the crowds. Just getting to the start funnel for the runners had been at a funereal shuffle. It all seemed good humoured at least, in the warmth of a very sunny October morning.
Now we can see the 2:20 flags.
‘Shall we start off with these guys and then drop back if we’re not feeling it?’ John asks.
But it’s impossible to get anywhere near them in the crush. The race has started somewhere in the distance, but I spot a cluster of portaloos and we still have plenty of time for one final visit. It means, however, that there are no sign of any flags as we rejoin the queue.
The starting gantry finally looms above us and there is space to run slowly. I am aiming for a nice easy first few miles which is good, as there are just so many people that any other pace would be out of the question. At least, by this time, the pedestrians have moved to the banks, and it is just a river of runners that flows through the streets of Cardiff.
There were just over 24,000 finishers today, which is more than any race I’ve done, other than London. For me, the London Marathon was eleven years ago, and I can’t quite remember if I was so heavily surrounded in a race for virtually the entire way.
Almost immediately on starting, John and I separate, and I try and get an easy rhythm going whilst weaving around the groups. According to my Garmin, easy is currently just under eleven-minute miles which seems quite good given how tired my legs had been.
We had met John the night before at a restaurant that was the ‘best Italian in the city’. It was very tasty and generous with its portions. He had sported one of his many Berlin Marathon tops that he’d acquired the week before (doing a marathon followed by a half a week later seems to be par for the course in my running club). John went to university in Cardiff and has done the Half here several times, so he was familiar with the route. It had one or two inclines but sounded pleasingly flatter than Loch Ness had been.
Despite the flattish nature, I have no expectations for the day. Partly because I was still crawling gingerly up and down the stairs on the Tuesday before, partly because the weather is looking unseasonably warm and partly because it is just so busy.
At around mile six I am beginning to feel a little tired. It is very warm and at this water station I have chugged back almost the whole bottle before the final litter drop zone. Some races have longer zones, and more bins but it doesn’t seem that way in Cardiff. I am dodging fallen bottles and half-used gel packets. There is nothing worse than a sticky undersole.
As we go along, I am aware that we’re going past various parts of the city, but I can barely see any of it for the people. It does seem like a nice place to visit but perhaps not today. Several times we go over water and I’m happily aware of a cooling breeze wafting over.
At around mile eight, I begin thinking about pushing. Not to go any faster, but to maintain my current pace. I could slow down and just relax, but there is a mental side of my running that needs working on. And I guess there is no better place to start working on it than when my legs are tired and I’m hot. I do admire those people who have that mental drive. My mind seems to think that the ‘Central Governor’ should be listened to and not overridden, so getting slower at halfs and marathons as the miles tick by is something that comes naturally to me.
The night before, John told me that his Manchester marathon place next April was going spare as he now had a charity place for London. I’ve done Manchester before, three years ago and I know how relatively flat it is, compared to Loch Ness. How on earth can I go from never wanting to do a marathon again to trying to work out what I will do differently the next time in the space of a week!
There is a little kicker of a hill at mile twelve that elicits an audible groan from the runners all around me. But hey, it’s mile twelve. We’re nearly at the end. Having paused to whack on my threshold playlist at around mile eleven I feel a bit pumped and I swing my arms dynamically, willing my legs to push up to the apex. As much as I had been moaning about the crowds first thing in the morning, they have really come into their own along this route. Only London has beaten it in terms of support, and for the final few hundred yards the sound is deafening as everyone seems to beat the funnel boards like the hammering of shields and I have no choice but to sprint along to the end.
I cross the line in three hours and something, but my chip time is 2:23:06. I’m pleased with that given the circumstances. Once I collect my medal, I am back to shuffling in the crowds trying to find my way to John’s Travelodge. It’s much closer to the start and finish than the apartment I’d booked and I had previously dumped my rucksack there. John turns up there about fifteen minutes after which gives me enough time for a nice sit down.
