Visions of a fast parkrun

Was it worth skipping a night out to the pub for a shot at a fast parkrun? Surely not?

A few weeks ago, on one of my occasional trips to the Torbay running club Tuesday night interval sessions, I got talking to a guy I hadn’t ever chatted to before. Richard was in his early 60s, and was usually a bit behind me in the sessions. I asked him about his running and he said he mainly did parkruns. He had done 125 parkruns, he said, and had finished second and third multiple times, but had never actually won one.

“I think I might be running out of time,” he said, only half-joking. “But I’d love to win one.”

I knew what he meant. I’ve never won one either, despite also coming close a few times. It would be nice to win. One day, perhaps.

Then last weekend, I noticed on Strava that Richard had finished seventh at the Torbay parkrun in a time of 18:24, which was pretty darn fast for someone in his 60s. Seeing his time planted the seed of a thought in my mind: I was always ahead of him in training, so if he could run 18:24, I should be able to run quicker.

How much quicker, I wasn’t sure. 18:20? 18:10? Sub 18? The thoughts flickered away just out of full consciousness, somewhere at the back of my mind. But it was my birthday weekend coming up. I’d last run the fast and flat Torbay parkrun (apparently the 24th fastest parkrun in the UK, so I’m told) on my 50th birthday, exactly a year ago. This weekend, maybe I could do it again.

You may recall that I started the year by setting myself a goal to run a 5K quicker than 18:19, which was the fastest 5K I’d run in the last six years. Even as I wrote that, part of me was thinking: could you go under 18 minutes? Was that too much to hope for, age 50 (going on 51)?

I decided that they would be my A and B goals - A to run sub-18, and B to run sub-18:19.

Then I sort of parked the idea. Firstly I just had to get sharp again, a bit faster and fitter. I’d put on weight over Christmas, and I really wasn’t feeling that quick right now. I would go for the time over the summer, I decided. By then I’d be ready.

But then Richard ran his 18:24 parkrun, and that seed of a thought grew all week long. On Monday I felt slow and sluggish on my run, so much so that instead of running on Tuesday, I took the day off completely. Partly it was because I felt tired, but partly I was thinking: best to have an easy week ahead of the parkrun on Saturday.

However, on Wednesday, I still felt tired, despite the rest day. I thought about maybe doing the local, hilly Sharpham parkrun instead, where the times are much slower. That way I could forget about my A and B goals. But my legs felt heavy just thinking about racing hard up those hills.

When I visualised running the flat Torbay parkrun, however, I could see myself gliding, powering along. It’s hard to describe, because I wasn’t even thinking any of this consciously. I just kept getting these snatches of sensation all week, of running fast around the Torbay course. I had a strange premonition, a feeling in my body, that it would happen.

Then on Friday I was invited out to the pub with some friends. I’m trying to be a little more sociable in my life these days, for various reasons I won’t go into here. And they’re good friends. But I could sense a night of at least moderate drinking. And that would ruin any chance of a fast parkrun the next morning. Last year, I ran it the day after my birthday night out, hungover, and in a much slower time.

The thoughts in my head pinged around like a pinball: go to the pub, then you can forget the parkrun, which is only stressing you out … or do the Sharpham parkrun instead, then it doesn’t matter what time you run … but I can see myself running fast, I can feel it, like some sort of Spidy-sense … get a grip, you’re an amateur runner obsessing about a parkrun, it’s definitely not worth skipping the pub for … but think how good it will feel to fly around the parkrun …

You get the idea. In my conscious, spoken thoughts though, I was going to the pub. I told my friends I’d see them there. All this parkrun nonsense in my head was just silly. I could run a parkrun any week of the year. I had the whole summer to run a fast time. I was not even feeling good this week. I felt heavy and slow.

Then on Friday night, after dinner, I was sitting at home with my family, when Marietta asked if we were still going to the pub. I could tell she didn’t really want to go. We had the fire on. It was cosy. The kids were at home.

“I don’t really feel like it,” I said. I didn’t mention the parkrun. She was more than happy to have a night in. Later, as we went to bed, I said, casually: “I might run the parkrun in the morning. I’ll see how I feel when I get up.”

Hah. Trying to play it cool. I woke up alert at 7:15am, snuck out of bed and downstairs for some breakfast. Now, where were those fast racing shoes?

Despite my best efforts, I only made it to the Paignton sports centre where they hold the parkrun at 8:50am, and I needed the bathroom. By the time I got to the course, it was 8:58am. I did a couple of half sprints and then they called us to the line. A guy who knew me, spotted me and came over.

“I heard you interviewing Paula Radcliffe,” he said, smiling. Three, two … “Yes,” I said … one … I beeped my watched and sprinted off.

I don’t know if it was the hurried start, but as I crossed over to the inside of the course to take the first bend, there was only one person in front of me. He didn’t look that super-fast, at a glance, so I slipped in behind him.

Pap, pap, pap … I tried to find my rhythm as we ran, locking into his red T-shirt right in front of me. He had chunky supershoes on and seemed to be taking huge, powerful strides, like some sort of running cyborg. Pow, pow, pow. But I stuck behind him, feeling controlled. I glanced at my watch. “5:15,” it said. I work in miles. That was quick. Sub 16-minute pace. Yikes.

The course is on a velopark - a cycling track - that loops in and out, so you can see the other runners behind you quite easily. Two minutes in and we were already miles ahead of everyone else. What the hell was I doing? But dropping back, into that empty space, to try to run hard alone, felt less appealing than trying to stick it out. So I hung on to the red T-shirt.

We clicked off the first mile in 5:30, and I felt another mild panic. I can’t keep this up. I did a quick calculation in the heat of the moment and worked out it was still sub-16-minute pace, which was way too quick. (Of course, I got that wrong, and it’s more like 17-minute pace.) But I was cursing my rashness. I was going to blow up spectacularly here, I was sure. So, belatedly, I eased back a little and let Red T-shirt go.

By now we were lapping the back markers, which gave me energy, passing them, feeling fast, but also it meant I had to dodge and weave through people.

I felt myself grimacing and straining, and remembered instead to relax and try to feel smooth. That worked for a few minutes, and I felt myself maintaining my speed. In fact the leader wasn’t getting that much further ahead. And there was no one anywhere close behind. A thought flickered in my head: maybe I can catch him.

“Goddam it,” I thought. “Stop acting crazy!” And yet, my legs kept bouncing. I felt strong. The second mile was 5:50, still pretty decent. And now only a mile to go. Maybe I really could catch him?

But now oxygen debt, or whatever it was, was kicking in. I was definitely holding on now. He still wasn’t getting away though. He must be slowing too. How badly was he hurting?

The final section of the course goes off the smooth velopark track and on to a loose gravel path, and then does a 180-degree turn back to the finish. I glanced at my watch, thinking we only had a few hundred metres to go, and it read 16:23. I was going to smash it. But that last about-turn took forever to appear, and even longer to veer around, for some reason. It was like I was turning around in quicksand. I even yelled out, and the volunteer said comfortingly: “You doing very well.”

I tried to crank myself up to a sprint finish. The watch was at 17:40 … 17:50 … where was the bloody finish line!? I clicked my watch as I lunged over the line. I looked down. It said: 18:00. Wow. But also, damn.

For a moment I didn’t know how I felt. It was done. It was like all those thought bubbles that had been popping away in the back room of my mind had cleared, like someone had opened a window and silence had entered. A calm, happy silence. I’d done it. The time really didn’t matter. The vision I’d had all week, that I would run fast that morning, had been true. I realised now that it was 100% the reason I hadn’t gone to the pub. And that didn’t seem silly. Not now.

Something in me had had to do this. Somehow, it mattered. To me. The feeling of satisfaction as I jogged off on my warm-down along the beach was immense. I felt as though everything had been put back in its place, as though order had been restored in my world.

I logged on to Strava later - to see if I had any comments, of course - and I noticed that Richard had run the hilly Sharpham parkrun that morning. And he had won. Finally, after 125 parkruns, he had done it. Should I have done Sharpham instead, I wondered. Maybe I would have won my first parkrun? But then I looked at his time. It was 20 seconds faster than I’d run there a few weeks before. I don’t think I would have had a chance. Richard would have trounced me.

Afterwards, I told someone I’d run 18-minutes dead, and that my big goal for the year - I could finally admit to that A goal - was sub-18. “Hopefully the official time will be a second quicker,” he said. “It often is.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But in some ways I hope it isn’t.”

He laughed. But I didn’t have to explain. And when the official time came through, it was indeed the same: 18:00.

And so, we live to fight another day.