Still slightly buzzing from the memory of the WR10k, I signed up immediately. Yes, I had a holiday and numerous birthday plans coming up, and yes the Mansfield race included lots of hills, but I'd really surprised myself with how much I enjoyed WR so I didn't give it a second thought as I filled in the form and booked my place.
To be honest, even before signing up for my new race, the post-race high from WR meant I was absolutely smashing the running thing, and (to my surprise) enjoying it as well! My first session back at the gym after it went like a dream, I hit my fastest mile time by far and felt like I could do anything. I whizzed round the following Parkrun like nobody's business. It was going great.
Then I made the mistake of going on holiday. Well, it wasn't a mistake at all, I loved it. But lots of alcohol and only some mad tearing up of the Benidorm dancefloors do not make for the best training regime.
By the time I made my return to the gym, nearly two weeks had passed since I'd last ran, and the vodka, wine, sangria cocktails and rubbish food had taken their toll. That was a hard two miles. Panic stricken and with the Mansfield race only 18 days away I knew I needed a plan.
It turns out, the really good plan I made for myself was about as useful as the revision timetables I used to spent hours making and colour co-ordinating when I had exams coming it. The plan did not go to... well... plan.
Due to my good friends Smirnoff and sauvignon, the 7.5km and 8.5km runs I had planned for the two Sundays leading up to the race did not happen. I managed to bang in a mid-week 7.5 at one point but other than that I never went above 5k in training.
Despite this, I still wasn't too worried. Until about 5pm yesterday. That's when it properly started to kick in. What was I thinking, why hadn't I been more strict etc etc. After a somewhat sleepless night, my alarm went of at 7am this morning and it was time to get ready.
Forcing down my pre-run breakfast, my stomach was in knots and I couldn't stop thinking about how the rising temperature outside. I'm a natural worrier, so give me something to actually worry about and I'm a snappy, stroppy nightmare (ask my parents how delightful I was this morning if you don't belive me!)
We parked up and made our way to the park and I got in the queue for registration. Not being a regular race runner, I didn't realise how unusual it is for numbers not to be posted. I got there really early (part of my worrying ritual) and got my number pinned on and ready and then sat and watched the queue grow and grow and grow. With the clock ticking it was starting to be obvious we wouldn't be crossing the start time until way past the advertised time of 9.30.
After what seemed like an age, we were off! You can clock my mug running through the start line about 22 seconds into this video. The first lap wasn't too bad, it was hot, I was sweaty but it was alright. Then I seemed to hit a bit of a wall. I was shattered, my legs hurt, my head felt a bit weird and my now-warm energy infused drink was not helping at all.
I was trying my hardest but I was struggling massively. I had one of the biggest arguments I've ever had, with myself, in my head. I had a little walk and told myself I wasn't going to hurl my guts up on the street and carried on running for a bit. Then I walked for a bit again. Then I ran again. I was almost certain I was going to collapse and probably die.
Then I looped back round to the market place for what was probably the last 2km of the course and I started to realise I was nearly there. People were clapping and cheering and the finish line was within reach.
After learning on my first journey via the water station that it's impossible to drink from a cup and run, I did my last power-walk striding break while I got some water on board and then this was it. I was going to do it.
I set about the final bit of the course with a new determination, who cared if my time was going to be terrible, I was going to cross that finish line whatever it took. Even the last hill didn't seem so bad.
Seeing the sign saying "200 meters to go" spurred me on no end, and as I ran through the crowd into the market place I forgot all about my aching legs and blistered feet. Running past Mum and Dad with a big wave and a smile on my face, I was on cloud nine. And then I saw it. The timer - telling me I was well on schedule for a comfortable PB. As I crossed the finish line I was such a mixture of happy, tired and relived that all I could do was burst in to tears when I found my parents.
It was an emotional rollercoaster of an hour to say the least, but I'd done it! And I've already spend a fair bit of time looking for what to sign up to next.
Unfortunately, since the race I've seen a few comments on social media saying people's Garmins (fancy tracking devices) have measured the race as short. Apparently this could be down to the hills or something. I'll be absolutely gutted if the organisers did balls it up and measure it wrong! Keep your fingers crossed and I'll keep you posted.
If you've got to the end, thank you very much for reading my massive waffle!
Kay :) xx
