The clock does not lie – and the only way to really see where you are on the racing -snake stakes is to put yourself on a start line and give it yer best.
Because when the flag drops, the bullsh** stops, as we used to say in our triathlon heyday.
So on the day before London Marathon last weekend I found myself huffing and puffing along with a few other soggy folks round my local 10km road race. Now I can’t remember the last time I did 1Okm on the road – and one that wasn’t part of a triathlon.
I can remember zipping round Warwick University campus sometime in the late 1980s in 33mins and change – but between then and now?
Not so clear.
And, y’know, I thought I was in OK shape – I mean, nothing scary-fast but okayyyy-ish at least.
‘How long will it take you then?’ asks Mrs Mouncey.
‘Well – I’ll cry if it’s anything over 39mins.’ I said.
Oh dear.
I cried.
And the boys nearly left home ‘cos they had Dad down for the win.
Recognising that I had some work to do managing the expectations of my offspring, I was just thankful I had two positive stats in which there remained a hint of hope:
No-one came past me.
I managed to pass a few folks of my own.
So if it was process over outcome there was some stuff to cheer about.
Except it’s a short race – so it wasn’t.
And I never ever thought I register a time that slow for that distance.
Ever.
(sigh)
START AGAIN.
Fortunately the day after proved one of significantly better cheer as marathon news of (real name) Badr (see previous post) came through:
First there was the 4 minute documentary film the BBC had made of him last week when we had all gathered in Burnley for a final trouble-shoot session.
Then the texts:
He’s passed halfway!
Then: He’s finished!
Then: 3.57!
