Eight Seconds From Retirement

Ah, it’s summer and for once the weather is cooperating. It’s also the first few days of Wimbledon and the traditional slaughter of the Brits is in full swing. It all makes riveting viewing over the internet at work, whilst hammering our broadband connection at the same time. We’re all hooked on the carnage and taking side bets on whom, if anyone, will make it through into the second round with Andy Murray, if indeed he does. We pin up a list of the ten candidates and then cross them off one by one as they are dispatched to meet their grisly end. There are some valiant efforts but by the time I leave work, no victories and only one name remains obliterated on the list and she hasn’t taken to the court yet.

L asks if I’m feeling fit for the race. Well, I feel about as fit as a collie who’s had a hell of a weekend. I'm referring to the fact that both of ours still looked well out of it this morning. L though, having walked them this morning, has a more recent update on the situation and it sounds like MD’s in hot water again. So hot in fact that L reckons she come to a definite decision. e.g. balls off. The poor mite. She says if I chase anything that moves, like MD did this morning, I'll be top 10. No problem. At least she promises not to take the knife to me.

So, Nottingham Grand Prix time. Race 1. Holme Pierrepont. And no supporters. L is stuck at work and it’s hot, seriously hot, so the dogs have to stay at home. Hang on; who’s that chap with the camera. Scrub that, I have support, my father is here. Now I must try not to puff and pant too much, just in case my Mum’s here too, I know it upsets her but thankfully it turns out she’s at home watching Andy Murray.

Whoever is out to get me, and trying to sabotage my running career, which being paranoid I assume is everybody, has obviously infiltrated the organising committee of this race because they’ve marked it in miles. You can’t do that, it’s a 10k! I hate races marked in miles. Last year it was marked in kilometres, so why change? Isn’t it obvious, it’s a plot.

I take it steady. These next two weeks of races are time to ease myself back into shape. The watch says 6.07 for the first mile, OMG, nowhere near steady enough. Take it steadier. Two miles gone, a lad in a ‘Survival Of The Fittest’ t-shirt, that Men’s Health assault course thing they held in Nottingham, passes me. Too steady. I speed up and retake him. He smells heavily of deodorant and I mean heavily, probably indicates he’s not washed that t-shirt yet, the event was only in October I suppose.

Three miles gone, a girl passes me. Enough of this messing around, time to kick on. I grab a drink from the drinks stop, which I never do, but I have not intention of drinking it, over the head and then let's go.

As I’m in ‘training’ anything in the 41’s would be great, fall into the 42’s and retirement becomes a real possibility, 43’s and I’d be forced to drown myself in the rowing strip. Let’s just say I was eight seconds from retirement but oddly pleased.

I take my supporter for a drink and L meets us there with the dogs. She’s on the gin, so MD must have been even more of a pain than I first thought.

Oh yes, nearly forgot. Late into the evening, in near darkness and whilst getting into trouble with the BBC for inappropriate 'language used in the heat of the match', basically a bellowed f-word four minutes before the 9pm watershed, so check your watch next time girl, we get a result.

Stand up Elena Baltacha, ok so there's a touch of Ukrainian in there but we didn’t give you an earthly, well done.