‘Coming Forth to Carry Me Home’

The morning of the rehearsal. So much planning and effort had gone into getting James and I in the same place at the same time to do this. Midway between the point we enrolled and I started my training and the race itself (looming ominously in May, getting closer all of the time). The same distance we’d be doing on the day. Preferably in under an hour.

For me, having only just managed my first 8K in the previous 48 hours, this was daunting. I didn’t know where we’d be running, which meant that mentally I’d be struggling to gauge how much further we still had do go, and I didn’t know about James’s usual pace. What if I coudn’t keep up?

But this was no time for fear. We kitted up, and warmed up- James trying to disuade me from sporting my England Rugby top since we were in Wales during the final weekend of the six nations, with every Welsh born man and woman in a 100 mile radius praying that England would suffer a stupendous defeat to Ireland later that day- loosing them the grand slam and offering Wales the chance to beat France and win the tournement. (As it happened, England were beaten by Ireland and lost the grand slam, but then Wales were also beaten by France which meant England still won tournement. Ha! Unlucky Wales.)

I wore the rugby top anyway. Not because I’m particularly stubborn or nationalistic, but because I find it inspirational. To think that those men out there, who have to rely on their brain and braun equally under immense pressure, have no choice but to complete the 80mins of the game. If it’s going well or going bad at 20mins, they still have to carry on for another 60. That’s how I felt. No matter what happened, in about an hour after we left the flat, we would have ran 10K. If I slipped, tripped or vomited at any point, I would be back here in an hour. No matter what.

So we set out on the run.

A gentle jog out of the estate.

This was going to be fine. Then, the first 2K were all up hill. This seemed fine. The pace was maybe slightly quicker than I was used to but it all seemed ok for now. At the top of the hill we’ve already been going for a quarter of an hour, and now we’re running through a playing field. I’m impressed to see Rugby goal posts instead of the usual soccer ones you find in England. I’m liking the emphasis on the game here in Wales. I’m also pleased to note that I haven’t had so much as a funny look for wearing my England jersey.

Next, we’re crossing two public parks, and I’m encouraged to note how many runners are out. James tells me it’s because it’s perfect running weather. Personally I think it’s a bit hot. Sweat is dripping over my eyes. I must get a hair cut before the big race. Every path we seem to meet another runner, all jogging with their headphones and lycra- and to think I was embarrased just to be wearing shorts!

We’ve passed half way. I joke that James doesn’t look like he’s even started yet, and he returns the complement. Although I’m starting to feel it now. The stitch is there, clawing at my abdomen, and I’d kill for a drink. Why didn’t I drink more before we set off? Why didn’t I bring a drink? I should seriously start considering taking a bottle of water in future.

I’m not particularly out of breath as we apporach the final quarter, but something isn’t right. I feel empty, like I’ve been hollowed out, and the hollow is filled only by a screaming sensation. I’m not screaming, but something is. Screaming from deep inside. Screaming for me to stop. But I won’t. I’ve come along way for this. It’s nothing, barely more than the run I’d done two days earlier.

I can hear James encouraging me. Dammit, why does he seem so OK? He looks like he could happily do it all again. He’s asking me if I mind picking up the pace, just for the final sprint down Newport Road. I’m not sure that’s a good idea… but how much worse can it get? I’m feeling Hell’s torment as it is. Is it likely I’ll actually collapse? I don’t think so, 10K is nothing. Those guys I was talking too yesterday regularly ran 13miles as a warm up. Human bodies must be capable of more than this. What the heck. I nod. OK. Let’s pick up the pace.

We make the turn onto Newport road and he’s away! Where did he get that from? I try to speed up, longer strides, tearing down the pavement. I’m at his heels for a moment but then something goes. It’s too much. I sucumb, momentarily, to the screaming.

‘Go on, keeping going, I just need a minute’ I rasp, slowing to a canter.

‘Come on!’ James calls back encouraging, but when he looks over his shoulder he grinds to a halut, his cheeky grin now overwhelmed with concern. Christ, it must be bad.

He’s at my side, joining me at my canter-like pace, patting me on the shoulder and reassuring me that it’s ok. We’ve done well. More than anything I feel bad for holding him back, he was doing amazing. But this isn’t over. Already I can feel the recovery taking place. The emptiness is filling itself. The scream became a sigh of relief, and now it’s a cry of encouragement! I will carry on.

I’m running again- we’re running! I can tell James is hesitant to go too quick, but at least we’re still going together. As we enter the estate and begin the final approach to James’s flat - the finish line- I can barely bring myself to imagine it being over. But we’re there now! It is over! 10K! We did it!

And now I’m on the flaw, empty, dead, done. It’s over.

I can run 10K!