
I KNOW parkrun is not officially a race, but indulge me.
Part of the reason I rarely run parkruns is because, like many others - I know you’re out there - I can’t help but race them, and, well, 9am on a Saturday morning is a bit early for a hard-run 5km race. I mean, they say it’s not a race, but they line you up on a start line, they say go, and the first one back gets the little number one ticket, and is listed as number one on the “results”. I mean, come on.
(Paul Sinton-Hewitt, the founder of parkrun, even once challenged me to a “race” where we both run a parkrun and whoever gets the best age-grading wins. We never did it, alas.)
Anyway, at some point earlier last week, it popped in to my head that I would run the local Sharpham Estate parkrun at the weekend. It’s a hilly one, so I wouldn’t have any pressure to get a fast time. But I could feel the growing anticipation all week as “race day” neared. Yep, I wasn’t going to pretend. I was going to go for it.
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