Looking at the ticking race clock after passing the finish line earlier today, I was chuffed with my time, but that only lasted a few seconds.
The start was pretty messy, many people funneling on a narrow road, I was more walking than running for the first few hundred meters before I could start overtaking. I had planned to find a doable pace and a group of runners to stick to at around 3k, that turned out to be the only part of said plan put to work.
The wind was not too bad but the sun coming out (the sun!) was an unpleasant surprise. And once again I wore too many layers (a tanktop would have done), but enough bickering. it was a great experience challenging the Ness Banks together with around 1700 others.
I made the main aim to have fun, that worked out brilliantly. Still, a consistent pace of around 4:15 drained every last bit I had with nothing left for a fast final couple of km. People clapping and shouting definitely helps keep it together, today so did hearing Bryan Burnett read out my name when on my last 100m, pronounced with roughly 90% accuracy, definitely a win.
After I had managed to pick myself up from the tartan track and was munching recovery stovies, sure I had made it in one and a half hours and them some, I got a text message with the official chip time. “1:29:59”, that put a lasting smile on my face, it’s a lot more than I thought I’d get to. I knew under 1:45 was doable and aimed for 1:35 or below, I’ll stop braging right here, but once more – 89mins, f*ck yeah!
Being relative new to all things running I’m routinely taken by surprise, when reading things like the first male over 50 finishing in 75mins. That in itself to me is pretty amazing.
When I was walking back to my car, fed and with dry clothes, a few runners were still batteling towards the finish. As much respect I have for the guys with the discipline, healthy bodies and fast legs who were done with the race after just a bit more than an hour, it’s beaten by the amount I have for every out of breath, out of shape, in for the win stuborn fighter who know they’ll struggle just to survive, but still keep going.
My dad never knew I would become a runner, or that he’d be double-Opa. Today would have been his 75th birthday, I dedicate this, my one-second-victory, to him.