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Sunday October 8th, 2017
The nerves were jangling, for sure. They always do on the start-line. But this was special, standing there in my England vest, representing my country for the first time. Today, I’d be in the first wave of runners, the elite, as we set out on the Chester Marathon.
Now I’m not going to lie. I’m not Olympic class or anything. Not many people are, in their mid-sixties. But the beauty of running is that race results are graded by age and gender, so we older runners can still compete against rivals in a similar state of decrepitude. I’d been selected in the V65-70 team. Officially V stands for Veteran, but I prefer to think of us as Vintage. Finely aged. Beautifully engineered – if a little slow. So what if most of the really talented runners of our generation have retired and been put out to pasture? And who cared if England didn’t seem to be running against any other country, as far as I could see? We were the survivors, still in the game, thumbing our noses at Age.
What a turnaround! Just four years ago, it seemed like the game was over. There we sat, Lena and I, in a dreary hospital office on a dreary day in Salford. After all the tests, the consultant’s diagnosis was devastating, if not unexpected. There was no cure. No hope.
That’s where my marathon journey started – stung into action by the consultant’s words. Hope was just a state of mind: I was determined to fight. Not long afterwards, half a body heavier back then, and hardly able to reach down over my belly to lace up my new trainers, I went out for my first run in 45 years … and spluttered to a halt in 100 yards.
Yet here I was today, fit and fuelled for 26.2 miles. Not quite in tip-top shape – I’d been fighting off a cold all week, and carrying an achilles niggle for months. Too many miles in training probably. But I knew that adrenalin would see me through, just like it always did. I knew that if I ran to form, I was on for a PB.
I looked across, trying to find Lena and our daughter Josie in the throng of spectators, but couldn’t see them. I knew they were there though, somewhere.
The starting-gun fired. We were off.
4 responses
Great read Alan where have them years gone
Thanks Martin. Those years slide past too quickly, don’t they? But here we are, almost another 10 years on, still thumbing our noses at Age. 😀
Alan, I remember that day in Chester so well! I wasn’t running due to my foot niggle, but was there supporting a friend.
You were an inspiration to me and I was delighted to briefly catch a glimpse of you in your England vest crossing the finish line!
Thanks Jill. We’ve been following one another’s progress for so many years on Strava, and it’s a shame we’ve never actually managed to meet up. We came close that day, and I hope one day we will. In the meantime, let’s keep cheering one another on.