Robin Hood Half Marathon 2017

After missing my normal Sunday evening post-race blog writing slot, the last few weeks have absolutely flown by and it's now over five weeks later and I'm only just getting around to it. And because of the time lapsed and the somewhat heavy post-race drinking session my memories of the race are a little hazier than normal which will mean a less long and waffley write up. 

Despite the now very familiar race morning routine, I set about my day on the 24^th September extremely nervous and tetchy. That’s not to say I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I was really struggling with the “what the hell are you doing?!” thoughts. This didn’t really melt away until I made my way thorough the crowds and waited for what seemed like forever to get over the starting line.

Once you get going, it’s virtually impossible not to get swept up in the atmosphere as you break into a job heading through the crowds and over the starting line. Listening to the cheering and clapping as I made my way out of the embankment and out onto London Road, I felt strong, positive and ready for miles which lay ahead of me.

For a late September’s day it was really warm, much more so than any of the recent training runs I’d done. The low autumn sun beating down wasn’t too much of a hindrance for the first couple of miles as I kept to a decent pace, passing the train station and making my way with the runners up towards The Park.

I’d purposely included some hills on my long runs leading up to the event with the distant memory of last year’s Park section at the back of my mind. However this distant memory was definitely fogged by rose tinted glasses – those Park hills were so much more brutal than I remembered! It took some serious pushing to get to the top and tip over onto the extremely welcomed Derby Road downhill. 

The next mile or two was fairly uneventful, the atmosphere was too good, my legs had just about forgiven me for the hills and – despite being passed by a juggling tiger – I was comfortable with my pace. 

For some reason, I seemed to slam into a wall at around mile five. I can’t remember it as vividly now as I did then but I bloody struggled for some reason. Try as I might, I couldn’t get a decent rhythm going – it was hot and hard and I was quickly going into full running-strop mode. It seemed like a complete battle shifting myself down over Crown Island and on through the wonderfully picturesque Wollaton Park. I was really having those “What the bloody hell made you think it would be a good idea” type runs. Awful!

Although this eased up slightly from mile eight onwards, I was still struggling a lot more than I’d have liked and wasn’t happy as the confirmation that there was no way I’d be hitting my target time dawned on me. I did a lot of watch-checking and even more “Come the fuck on, Knowles” chuntering under my breath. 

It was passing the 10 mile marker that I had a good word with myself. I was going to do this, and being mardy about it wasn’t going to make it easier so I may as well get on with it. Skipping though my MP3 player for some of my best motivational music, I sorted my head out and off I went.

Before I knew it I was turning back into the Embankment which seemed even more heavily spectated than when I’d left it a couple of hours previously. I felt my pace picking up as I dashed nearer to the finishing line – waving at my Mum and Nana on the way – and at long last over the finishing line.

All in all I came in at just over 2:33hrs. Not where I wanted to be but I’d done it… again! I had the familiar feeling of pride and relief as I battled through the crowds to find my Mum and Nana and show my medal off. 

The uncharacteristically warm late-September afternoon made for a perfect setting for lots of post-race celebrating (hence why this post didn't get written in the normal Sunday evening slot) which all rounded off another great event day. And there will always be another opportunity to run a PB, let's see what the Turkey Trot has to offer in December!