"Amazed at how closely the signal matched the expected signature of an interstellar signal in the antenna used, Ehman circled the signal on the computer printout and wrote the comment 'Wow!' on its side" - The Wow! Signal
And so arrives a Parkrun day. In prep for the Duathlon next week, I decide I really ought to do my first brick - a cycle followed by run, aimed at getting the legs used to getting off a bike and heading straight off on a run. I take the long way to Kings Park, up the hill on Belle Vue Road, and along the seafront to Boscombe. It's hard going as the cold legs refuse to move and a fresh headwind pushes me backwards. Nevertheless, I time my arrival carefully - I'm keen to leave as little time as possible from getting off the bike to starting the run.
I get to the athletics stadium and lock the bike up on the railings, and it's then that I realise I probably really need to think through my transitions too. I get in a right mess trying to get the bike shoes off and the running shoes on. I nearly forget to take off my helmet. I fart around with the Garmin trying to switch it from bike to run mode. Either way, it's somewhat wasted - the usual pre-parkrun presentations (which are actually one of the best parts about parkrun) go on a little bit, and it's a good few minutes before we get round to starting anyway.
This week is a pacer week, and there's one running a 26 minute pace. Given that my 5k best is 26:45, it seems reasonable to aim for that, although I assume I'll tail off somewhere. The 26 minute pacer is Ian. Black from head to ankle, except for a fluorescent pink bib, he's pretty easy to spot. As the horn sounds, he storms away. I immediately start to panic that I've bitten off more than I can chew. After 30 seconds, a man next to me hollers "are you running 22 or 26?!". "It'll be fine!" shouts Ian.
We are the 26 Minute Army, closely ranked behind the pacer. It's a bunch of occasionals and middle-age spreads, the look of whom fills me with confidence that if they they can beat 26 minutes, so can I. After the hurried start, we settle into a more comfortable pace, and I'm feeling pretty good. "Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth" says Ian. Easier said than done. I don't appear to have enough nostril capacity to support my need to breathe. But at least I'm in better shape than some of the other foot soldiers. Around me are plenty of wheezes and barks. Most notable is a man in his 50's, resembling John Motson. Shoulders hunched, feet barely lifting, his running style looks more like a fast walk. And boy, is he wheezing. All due credit to the fella, he's just as fast as me, but it looks and sounds so strenuous I'm feeling it too.
At the Dean Court corner for the final time, Ian shouts "150 yards to go! Go past me now! Sprint!" to the assembled crew. The majority are either unable or unwilling, so I take the initiative and pick up my stride. I overtake not only Ian, but a handful of other runners just ahead of him too. It only takes a few seconds to realise that I've totally overdone it, but I'm committed now. The last hundred meters are agony, not least because I get that horrible feeling again that certain parts of my body are about to involuntarily evacuate themselves. I keep it up though, and cross the line in 99th place in 25:48* - a full 90 seconds better than my previous parkrun best, and a minute quicker than my 5k best. Another achievement to add to this week's honour roll.
Tomorrow, a rest day. I've earned it.
* As I reviewed the results page I realised that I actually overtook a runner in the finish funnel, as she was bent double being nearly sick, so officially it was she who was 98th in 25:45.
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