Just Me, the Road, and Two Races
“What time should we leave on Sunday?” My dad likes to be prepared. I was very laid back in my response. “The race starts at 10am, we’ve got to pick my number up, have a wee, and you’re looking after my bag, so 9.15am ok?” The start of this local race was only a 10-minute walk from my mum and dad’s house and I was looking forward to the gentle warm up walk.
I think there’s something exciting about passing the race day signage that warns the public of runners using the roads and paths. I like being someone who others need to be warned about, as though runners are unusual, bad-ass creatures that need to be treated with caution!
The race HQ was on the local football pitch, red and white tape flapping in the wind, marking the route, not a metal barrier in sight. It added a softness to the race that I hadn’t noticed before.
There was the usual hustle around the race number collection table, I collected my number and a corresponding chip tag. Wow, I hadn’t seen one of these for years. I’d almost forgotten what to do, in fact I had forgotten, because I only took one plastic tag, and I needed two. But I only realised that 400m in to the race, too late to do anything about the rhythmic, annoying tap tap tap with each foot strike. Oh well.
At 9.55am, with zero rush, we made our way to the start line. Just the 350 runners lined up and the unspoken hierarchy of who goes at the front was so clear, I was instantly pinged back to the start line of last week’s race. Two races in two weeks- Ripon 10 miles, organised by the local running club, and Southampton 10km, organised by an events company and sponsorship deals, with £25 difference in entry price.
There were the same nerves in the starting pen, I felt it amongst the 9,000 runners that I was part of last week, it took me three minutes to get over that start line, and not even 30 seconds to cross this one.
The blueprint of these two races was the same, the front runners soon pulled away from the crowds, isolated figures, locked in their own race. In Southampton, runners climb over the Itchen Bridge with views of the bustling port on the horizon, whilst in Ripon the route weaved through the undulating landscape of Nidderdale. Both beautiful in their own way.
Whether North or South, the water stations offered words of encouragement and glugs of water. And the buzz is the same. Yes, these races had different scaffolding, but I experienced something new, yet familiar.
In both races, it was just me, the road and the race.
No Strava, no logo vest, no measuring or watching, no coaching - neither race asked anything of me except to run.
Sometimes, as women, we hide behind others, choosing relatedness and comfort over ourselves and what we could achieve. Maybe it's a dash of people pleasing mixed with cultural stereotyping that competitiveness equals aggression. I'm not sure, but I do know I’ve been guilty of it.
It reminded me of when I first started running, racing for the pure joy of using the distance to benchmark what I was capable of. And now I’m excited again, curious to see where this new, older version of me could go.
And just like in those early days of running, my dad was waiting for me as I turned into the final lap of the football pitch. I think we underestimate the power of support. It can give you such a boost as you cross the finish line, whether it’s the crowds of strangers or a familiar face that recognises what running is all about. Whatever it is, it feels good.
The finish line was crossed, my chip tag removed by a lady who complimented me on just having the one loose tag for her to remove, if only she knew!
A couple of steps more for a cup of water and a goody bag complete with life’s essentials- chocolate and crisps. A coffee truck, a chat with strangers, a stroke of a dog and a walk home with my dad, reminiscing on how hard How Hill was; it just went on and on. But that's flat Yorkshire for you.
Simple.
