Last Sunday I did the Heathfield 10K which Little Trevor told me was a ‘gently undulating’ course. I should have smelt a rat when I arrived and realised that only Chris, a sprightly septuagenarian, who used to run from London to Brighton before Sunday lunch, and I were doing it. Little Trevor was there of course to offer support and wave me off. As usual I hovered at the back of the start line as the less people that over take me the more positive I feel about the whole experience. As soon as I started I was very conscious of a large vehicle right behind me. I stopped to let it pass then realised it was the St John’s Ambulance which was following the race. Every time I slowed down, he slowed down, every time I speeded up he attempted to change up a gear. Running in a fog of diesel fumes was not exactly how I had envisaged the event. A few times I waived my hands in exasperation and spun round to glare at him. Each time he replied with a cheery wave. ‘ Bugger’! After 2 miles I stopped dead, he parked. I turned round and he wound down the window. ‘ Hello Love’ Mr. Ambulance man said ‘is everything alright?’ I think he suspected he had got his first casualty of the morning. ‘No it damn well isn’t!’ I spluttered. ‘ I have come out on a nice Sunday morning to enjoy a peaceful run in the Sussex countryside and all I can hear is a smelly diesel engine behind me. If I take my race number off and drop out of the race can I follow you?’ ‘Oh sorry Love’ he replied. ‘ I didn’t mean to offend, just being helpful, you run on ahead and I will keep my distance’. He did.
Heathfield is the most inappropriately named village in England. It should have been ‘Heath Huge Hill’. I have never ascended so many hills since I went to Guildford to do the Christmas shopping. They should have provided crampons. ‘Bugger, Bugger , Bugger’ I muttered as I rounded another corner and saw another mountain. ‘We can’t be finishing in the same place as we started. We are now 30,000 feet above sea level with only 1500m to go’. Finally I saw the 9K marker and started the last uphill . ‘ Phew’ I gasped when I got to the top and saw Little Trevor waiving enthusiastically . ‘I’ve made it’. Oh no I hadn’t. The last 300m involved a sprint around a huge playing field of spectators. ‘Come on number 228, Jayne Webb, from Lingfield’ the man with a megaphone shouted. Even with an audience I knew it was too far for a Usain-style sprint finish. All I could do was stagger to the line and collapse in the arms of a 7 year old volunteer handing out the bottles of water. ‘ Well done Jayne, well done Jayne!’ Little Trevor yelled. ‘You did this one in the same time as the flat 10K last week, only 77 minutes’ This was a good enough reason for him to kiss me 4 times then buy me tea and cakes.
I am running the New York Marathon 2013 for Macmillan Cancer Support. If you are enjoying reading my blogs please donate at: http://www.justgiving.com/jayneandtrevorwebb