Sunday 2nd April – Bungay Black Dog Half Marathon
I ran the Bungay Black Dog Half Marathon (13.1 miles) in 2 hrs 17 min 50 sec. This was an improvement of 12.5 minutes on my finishing time in my first half marathon (the Sussex Beacon in Brighton) 6 weeks ago, and encourages me to believe that sub 5 hours in the London Marathon is realistically possible. I take nothing for granted though, because the second half of the Marathon will be much tougher than the first.
Getting to and from the race in Bungay, Suffolk was a comedy of errors, fuelled by my pathological unpunctuality. Though scenically beautiful, there’s ****** all in Bungay in terms of transport links. To get there I had to travel on Sunday morning to Lowestoft, where at least there’s a cab rank and Bungay is regarded as a local destination.
The train to Lowestoft was delayed by 10 minutes so on arriving there at 11.40 it was already touch and go whether I would make it to the start line. I approached the cab rank.
“Could you take me to Bungay, please?” I asked a lugubrious-looking elderly driver.
“I COULD,” he replied doubtfully, “but I’ve promised to pick up my son locally in 5 minutes. I’ll have to make a couple of phone calls…”
I sat as patiently as possible in the passenger seat as the precious minutes ticked away.
Finally he turned to me and said, “You do realise it’s 16 miles to Bungay, don’t you?”
Good heavens! I’d thought it was about 7. What, I wondered, were the chances of getting this senior citizen to step on it?
“That’s fine”, I lied, “but if you are able to drive as fast as possible, I’d be grateful.”
“So where is this place, then?” asked my chauffeur as we crawled interminably out of Central Lowestoft.
“Maltings Meadow Sports Centre, between Bungay and Ditchingham”, I replied as calmly as I could, scrabbling in my Flora London Marathon backpack for race directions.
“Never heard of it”, replied Grandfather laconically, shaking his head.
Desperately, I tipped my voluminous and chaotic paperwork over the car floor, hunched forward and ferreted. Finally, with a Neville Chamberlain-like triumphant flourish, I brandished aloft the Piece of Paper.
“Pirnhow Street!” I cried. “That’s where it’s at!”
“Never heard of it”, repeated my impervious chauffeur.
Just as I was about to kill myself (or him), he added, “but if you spell it out, I’ll feed it into the navigator”. He indicated a futuristic device on his right resembling a high-tech mobile phone.
“P-I-R-N-H-O-W”, I intoned, fatalistically.
“Let’s see what the navigator says”, he nodded sagely. “Right. Good news. We’re now exactly 14.1 miles away.”
It was noon, and the runners were supposed to assemble on the start line no later than 12.20 for the 12.30 start.
“OK, thanks”, I said, telling myself I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if I didn’t have to run today, what with my dodgy runner’s knee and all.
As it happened, once he had his bearings the unflappable veteran astonished me with his speed, delivering me close to the start at exactly 12.20pm. The approach to the course start was heralded by a brace (is that the word?) of crowing cockerels, announcing eloquently the rural nature of the organisation.
My driver would have got closer, but the driveway was jammed with vehicles and full marathon runners (who’d set off at 10.30am) completing their first lap of the course. As is my wont on such occasions I shoved him a wad of notes, gibbered rapid-fire thanks, multi-grabbed my disorganised belongings and ran.
As I scrambled up the bank taking a short cut in the general direction of race officialdom, an announcement was being broadcast over the tannoy: “The half marathon will start in ten minutes, so race entry is now closed. Sorry….”
Fortunately, I had entered the race in advance, but I still had to collect my race number and pin it to my Serpentine Running club top (it’s kind of a rule that affiliated club runners are supposed to run races in their club colours – the Flora London Marathon being an exception to this general rule).
The usual breathless dash ensued as I bothered one hapless race official after another, including one sitting at an open-air table who looked horrified. Too late I spotted the notice beside her: “Do not approach the timekeeper”.
“I’ve entered, my race number is 829”, I gabbled at a doubtful-looking woman.
“Do the race numbers go up that far?” she asked a colleague. “Are you sure that’s the number?” It was now 12.23pm. “Yes, definitely, 829”, I said helplessly, wandering off in the direction of the clubhouse in search of some pre-race hydration. Parched from self-inflicted stress, I prevailed upon a luckless helper there to pour me some orange squash. “You’ll be fine”, this lady said, reassuringly. I doubted it.
The first lady ran into the clubhouse after me. To my unbounded joy, she was carrying my race number. “Have you got safety pins?” she asked. Surely someone as disorganised as this runner couldn’t have remembered an important detail like that.
She was almost right: on leaving home I’d cursed myself for forgetting my convenient microscopic gilt-effect pins which lend unaccustomed elegance to the art of affixing race numbers. However, I’d triumphantly retrieved that situation earlier that morning with the purchase of a First Aid kit from Budgens in Norwich railway station, from which I’d filleted the – alas- industrial-sized and defiantly unaesthetic bandage-fixators.
“Yes, yes, thank you, I’ve got pins”, I said, scuttling off into the bag depot and stabbing myself repeatedly in the midriff.
“Some runners,” the race-number giver related to her colleague, “are asking for race numbers seven minutes before the start. Very brave, that’s all I can say.”
Two minutes to go: just time to sprint across the meadow to the start. No time for conventional pre-competition nerves: as with chess matches, I prefer worrying about not missing the event altogether.
A horn sounded to start the race. I’d been expecting a gun, but took my cue from the movement of my fellows.
“At least there are no hills in Suffolk”, the driver had said. Well, God must have rounded up every hill in the county like dust on a dishcloth and dumped them all around the Bungay half marathon course.
But it was a fine day, although I got my regulation soaking at mile 10; with the race photographer lying in wait at the top of a steep incline. I shall not be blogging that photograph.
I could feel the improvement since my last half marathon, in that now instead of struggling to beat costumed freaks I was overtaking fit young people. 331st out of 382: not bad for a rookie. The race memento is a towel decorated with the Bungay Black Dog Running Club logo – a Black Dog. This came in useful later for drying my wet feet.
Since Bungay is in the middle of nowhere I walked 7 miles after the race to Beccles, the nearest town with transport links. Retracing the half marathon course through timeless country lanes I got another, thorough drenching relieved by the sight of the rainbow framing the lush landscape. Beccles has the most misleadingly signposted railway station in mainland Britain, and it took me 3 circuits of the town to finally blunder upon it. By this time the day’s combined walk/run was probably close to marathon distance.
At 7.40pm I had 40 minutes to kill before my train back to London and hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Lo, by the station – The Railway Restaurant! People were eating. I entered.
“I’m afraid we’ve finished serving meals”, said the landlord. At 1940? But this was Deepest Suffolk. Seeing my dismay, he added, “but I could fry you some prawns...”
Shellfish wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I wheedled a cheese sandwich.
4 hours and 2 more miles later, I was home. It can be cold and wet and lonely out there, if you’re a long distance runner. But it’s living, all right.
Cathy Warwick
I ran the Bungay Black Dog Half Marathon (13.1 miles) in 2 hrs 17 min 50 sec. This was an improvement of 12.5 minutes on my finishing time in my first half marathon (the Sussex Beacon in Brighton) 6 weeks ago, and encourages me to believe that sub 5 hours in the London Marathon is realistically possible. I take nothing for granted though, because the second half of the Marathon will be much tougher than the first.
Getting to and from the race in Bungay, Suffolk was a comedy of errors, fuelled by my pathological unpunctuality. Though scenically beautiful, there’s ****** all in Bungay in terms of transport links. To get there I had to travel on Sunday morning to Lowestoft, where at least there’s a cab rank and Bungay is regarded as a local destination.
The train to Lowestoft was delayed by 10 minutes so on arriving there at 11.40 it was already touch and go whether I would make it to the start line. I approached the cab rank.
“Could you take me to Bungay, please?” I asked a lugubrious-looking elderly driver.
“I COULD,” he replied doubtfully, “but I’ve promised to pick up my son locally in 5 minutes. I’ll have to make a couple of phone calls…”
I sat as patiently as possible in the passenger seat as the precious minutes ticked away.
Finally he turned to me and said, “You do realise it’s 16 miles to Bungay, don’t you?”
Good heavens! I’d thought it was about 7. What, I wondered, were the chances of getting this senior citizen to step on it?
“That’s fine”, I lied, “but if you are able to drive as fast as possible, I’d be grateful.”
“So where is this place, then?” asked my chauffeur as we crawled interminably out of Central Lowestoft.
“Maltings Meadow Sports Centre, between Bungay and Ditchingham”, I replied as calmly as I could, scrabbling in my Flora London Marathon backpack for race directions.
“Never heard of it”, replied Grandfather laconically, shaking his head.
Desperately, I tipped my voluminous and chaotic paperwork over the car floor, hunched forward and ferreted. Finally, with a Neville Chamberlain-like triumphant flourish, I brandished aloft the Piece of Paper.
“Pirnhow Street!” I cried. “That’s where it’s at!”
“Never heard of it”, repeated my impervious chauffeur.
Just as I was about to kill myself (or him), he added, “but if you spell it out, I’ll feed it into the navigator”. He indicated a futuristic device on his right resembling a high-tech mobile phone.
“P-I-R-N-H-O-W”, I intoned, fatalistically.
“Let’s see what the navigator says”, he nodded sagely. “Right. Good news. We’re now exactly 14.1 miles away.”
It was noon, and the runners were supposed to assemble on the start line no later than 12.20 for the 12.30 start.
“OK, thanks”, I said, telling myself I wouldn’t be too heartbroken if I didn’t have to run today, what with my dodgy runner’s knee and all.
As it happened, once he had his bearings the unflappable veteran astonished me with his speed, delivering me close to the start at exactly 12.20pm. The approach to the course start was heralded by a brace (is that the word?) of crowing cockerels, announcing eloquently the rural nature of the organisation.
My driver would have got closer, but the driveway was jammed with vehicles and full marathon runners (who’d set off at 10.30am) completing their first lap of the course. As is my wont on such occasions I shoved him a wad of notes, gibbered rapid-fire thanks, multi-grabbed my disorganised belongings and ran.
As I scrambled up the bank taking a short cut in the general direction of race officialdom, an announcement was being broadcast over the tannoy: “The half marathon will start in ten minutes, so race entry is now closed. Sorry….”
Fortunately, I had entered the race in advance, but I still had to collect my race number and pin it to my Serpentine Running club top (it’s kind of a rule that affiliated club runners are supposed to run races in their club colours – the Flora London Marathon being an exception to this general rule).
The usual breathless dash ensued as I bothered one hapless race official after another, including one sitting at an open-air table who looked horrified. Too late I spotted the notice beside her: “Do not approach the timekeeper”.
“I’ve entered, my race number is 829”, I gabbled at a doubtful-looking woman.
“Do the race numbers go up that far?” she asked a colleague. “Are you sure that’s the number?” It was now 12.23pm. “Yes, definitely, 829”, I said helplessly, wandering off in the direction of the clubhouse in search of some pre-race hydration. Parched from self-inflicted stress, I prevailed upon a luckless helper there to pour me some orange squash. “You’ll be fine”, this lady said, reassuringly. I doubted it.
The first lady ran into the clubhouse after me. To my unbounded joy, she was carrying my race number. “Have you got safety pins?” she asked. Surely someone as disorganised as this runner couldn’t have remembered an important detail like that.
She was almost right: on leaving home I’d cursed myself for forgetting my convenient microscopic gilt-effect pins which lend unaccustomed elegance to the art of affixing race numbers. However, I’d triumphantly retrieved that situation earlier that morning with the purchase of a First Aid kit from Budgens in Norwich railway station, from which I’d filleted the – alas- industrial-sized and defiantly unaesthetic bandage-fixators.
“Yes, yes, thank you, I’ve got pins”, I said, scuttling off into the bag depot and stabbing myself repeatedly in the midriff.
“Some runners,” the race-number giver related to her colleague, “are asking for race numbers seven minutes before the start. Very brave, that’s all I can say.”
Two minutes to go: just time to sprint across the meadow to the start. No time for conventional pre-competition nerves: as with chess matches, I prefer worrying about not missing the event altogether.
A horn sounded to start the race. I’d been expecting a gun, but took my cue from the movement of my fellows.
“At least there are no hills in Suffolk”, the driver had said. Well, God must have rounded up every hill in the county like dust on a dishcloth and dumped them all around the Bungay half marathon course.
But it was a fine day, although I got my regulation soaking at mile 10; with the race photographer lying in wait at the top of a steep incline. I shall not be blogging that photograph.
I could feel the improvement since my last half marathon, in that now instead of struggling to beat costumed freaks I was overtaking fit young people. 331st out of 382: not bad for a rookie. The race memento is a towel decorated with the Bungay Black Dog Running Club logo – a Black Dog. This came in useful later for drying my wet feet.
Since Bungay is in the middle of nowhere I walked 7 miles after the race to Beccles, the nearest town with transport links. Retracing the half marathon course through timeless country lanes I got another, thorough drenching relieved by the sight of the rainbow framing the lush landscape. Beccles has the most misleadingly signposted railway station in mainland Britain, and it took me 3 circuits of the town to finally blunder upon it. By this time the day’s combined walk/run was probably close to marathon distance.
At 7.40pm I had 40 minutes to kill before my train back to London and hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Lo, by the station – The Railway Restaurant! People were eating. I entered.
“I’m afraid we’ve finished serving meals”, said the landlord. At 1940? But this was Deepest Suffolk. Seeing my dismay, he added, “but I could fry you some prawns...”
Shellfish wasn’t quite what I had in mind. I wheedled a cheese sandwich.
4 hours and 2 more miles later, I was home. It can be cold and wet and lonely out there, if you’re a long distance runner. But it’s living, all right.
Cathy Warwick
posted by Cathy Warwick at 8:37 PM
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