Photo pinched from Alex Corbett. Thanks!
When I realised I was running a fair proportion of the Portobello MV50s down to the Kelso 10K I toyed, in advance, with calling this blog 'Last of the summer wine'. Just for fun, you know. And I also wondered if Roly McCraw might be willing to pay something for us to 'get lost' en route... But then the first option just seemed plain disrespectful and the 2nd option seemed unlikely. It was actually very good fun travelling with the MV50s. Andrew made me a little nervous by shouting "No, No, NO, NO!" every time I took a fork in the road, but I trained myself not to react. Steve Crane did seem to have a firm grasp of where we should be going, which was reassuring.
We got to talking about the Tynecastle Bronze and how the constant search for new war memorials really did wake a person up to just how many men were killed in the wars and how devastating it must have been for the whole country. How the 1st and the 2nd world war happened back in times where there was much more respect for and obedience to authority - and that this had an up-side and a down-side...
Despite Andrew's forebodings we arrived in Kelso in plenty of time and found where we were going. It was a warm day.
I haven't run a 10K since Stirling 2011, so I felt I had the right to put no pressure on myself. This being a championship race there were points at stake, but I had already decided that points earned would not be dependent on how hard I ran but who else turned up. I hadn't checked the entry list so hadn't realised that Shery and Aileen, my main dangers, hadn't even entered! My last worry was Ellie Carr, but surreptitiously checking on-line found she was still in with the vets. Ya Beauty. 10 points were a possibility.
The race...well it was hard...and I tried not to let time worry me at all. I was going as hard as I could - and it was hot and quite hilly and my heart-rate was hovering around 165 which is plenty thanks. I could ask no more of myself. After the first 3 or 4K I settled in and even managed to pick off a few people along the way. I saw Graham Henry at 2 points along the way. First time around I was running downhill and trying to get my breath back while I was at it. He responded to this by shouting "COME OAN MARY, GET THE CIGAR OOT YER MOOTH!" I didn't know if this was a reference to Jimmy Savile or what, and couldn't see why running sub-optimally made me a paedophile, but there wasn't time or breath to argue the point.
The 2nd time I saw him he told me it was only 1200m to go, which 5 people afterwards agreed was helpful, but made me feel desperate. "1200m? That's nearly a mile!". By that time it was downhill all the way to the end and my needle was in the red and I didn't know if I could hold it captain, I was cracking up! There were feet behind me and I didn't want the people I'd taken to take me back so I gave it everything coming in to the finishing straight. Holy hell. I was blowing like...I don't know what. The old days probably.
Good event anyway...lots of Porties there running well. Well organised. A sea of cake. I fell in love with the gluten free appley-cakey things with almonds on.
I've gotta go, it's tea-time. Hopefully that was good training for Donkey Brae in a few weeks.