I never thought I’d run a half marathon. I remember Dayle Rowson running one a year or so ago, and I just felt it wasn’t for me. Ten kilometres? Sure, why not? Any more would surely kill me.

I’ve run the distance on five occasions or more now, but that didn’t stop me being a little nervous at my first actual half marathon. There’s something about an actual race that is different to a run – there’s a buzz, there’s apprehension and the unknown. I didn’t know the course or the layout, and driving in, I wasn’t even sure there was a race on. We didn’t hit any traffic until we got past Glumford Park, and there were barely any signs at all.

Of course (as mentioned last week) as a man of a certain age, immediately after pulling up I needed the little boys room. Luckily, the queues for this race were far better than for the Lincoln 10km. It was perhaps helped by the fact the 10km race started at 9 am, and we arrived just after, meaning it was just the 2000-odd half marathon runners on the site, as the others were up and running.

I remember Dayle once telling me he wouldn’t bother with a 5km run, around the time I wished I didn’t have to, and as I heard the 10km guys going off, it struck me that I might be that level of smug twat now as well. 10km? There is not a lot of point, mate, unless I can somehow get a sub-54-minute run (watch this space in four weeks).

I met up with an old colleague, Richard Scott, before the race, and I’m glad I did. He told me what was what, where the start line was and all the other little essentials. I haven’t seen him in maybe 20 years, but he’s been a source of support throughout my fitness journey, so it was good to catch up on the start line. We cut an interesting pair, his number 1878 inspired by his love of the Codheads, and mine (617) directly related to the Imps. Still, as you get older, you realise the only difference between you and the likes of Rich is location – he was unfortunate enough to be born in a Grimsby postcode, my lucky enough to fall into the LN area.

I confess, I was a little nervous at the start. I’ve screwed up 10km races in Lincoln before – I always seem to have headphone malfunctions, so I got everything sorted this time. In one race, I accidentally changed the headphone language to Japanese, and in the other, I selected a random playlist of someone else’s by accident and listened to 90s skater punk for 58 minutes. Six miles is a breeze, but 13? That’s different gravy and I needed to be prepped, headphones and all. Paul De Garis told me to treat this like London, which meant sub-6:17 kilometres (my chosen marathon pace) and no personal bests.

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I did try. From the start I just jogged along, letting people go past me like I was the little yellow hatchback from Inbetweeners doing a track day at Cadwell. No stress, I started up with the 1:40hr guys, so I expected a bit of overtaking. The course is nice and wide, unlike Lincoln, so no early congestion. I settled into what I thought was a good pace and just got on. My first km was 6:02, and I thought maybe that’s because it was flat. I just needed to ease up…

Second km, 5:47. Third, 5:50. Fourth, 5:50. I’d nailed pacing, but it was just too quick.

Or was it? I felt good, I’d tacked onto another runner and was following him. That helped me for a bit, until I caught him up, but right up until kilometre 12, I’d managed to stay within maybe ten seconds of 5:50. It felt a good pace, I had loads in the tank and the flat course really helped. If anything, it was a little boring, loads of open fields as we headed out over the M180 and off to Bottesford.

I just felt good. I skipped the first water station, didn’t stop for a walk and didn’t even stop running as I had my first planned gel, at 10km. I needed a wee pretty much from the off, but resisted the temptation to dive into a field. Others did, but it seemed a bit disrespectful, so I ploughed on. I had a Jelly Baby or two as well, and in truth, it all felt quite easy.

Paul said to me that he wanted me to get to the finish line and think I could do it all again. I got to the 15km mark and my pace had increased to around the 5:35 mark, which is pretty quick for me, but again, it felt good. My training had clearly paid off, and I began to smell a PB. I’m competitive, all of my runs I fought myself to improve, and I’d got to a stage where I was almost following the two-hour pacing flag. Maybe, just maybe…..

I reasoned with myself. I’d reached 15km, and I could quite easily turn around and go back, landing another 30km. In London, that would leave me around six miles to do, and everyone says the final six miles are a mental battle where you have to find pure adrenalin to get through. So, technically, I’d done what Paul wanted. Time to turn up the gas!

16km, 5:23. 17km, 5:12. 18km, 5:25. I was motoring, until I saw a portaloo. At that moment, I needed to wee so badly it hurt, and I figured I could drop 30 seconds, then catch up. I dipped in, struggled to locate the necessary equipment (running does that to a man) and before I knew it, I’d dropped too much time. My next km was 5:52, and that was the difference between under two hour, and just over.

Still, I could sense I was getting close, and I had loads left in the tank. As people began to walk and their pace slowed, I found my adrenaline, I found my power. I was no longer the little yellow car at Cadwell, I was Lightening McQueen, passing everyone with ease. I came around into Scunthorpe, and saw a sign saying ‘9km’, which I figured meant I had a kilometre to go. At the 10k a year ago, I struggled to drag my sorry ass over the finish line, but instead of flagging, I put my foot down. The track brings you around on Quibell Park running track, and I bagged a 5:21 final full kilometre. I could see the finish and crowds of people in front, so I upped the pace, not jogging, but sprinting as if everything I wanted would be mine if only I got over that bloody line. My pace for the final 100m or so was 4:09, and if Paul is reading this, I’m not sorry.

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That feeling of still having energy when everyone else has flagged was unreal. I imagined people watching looking at me and being utterly amazed as I came through like Jacob Kiplimo. It felt like I was batting people away, like I was the race winnner. I crossed the line and immediately it hit me….

I had pushed a little too hard. Of course, loads of people were sprinting, and few cared about this 45VET (that’s my category now, veterans of 45 years or more), putting a bit in at the end. I dropped to my knees, my heart beating out of my chest. All of the elation seeped from me as I realised that the last 5km, albeit just 25 or 30 seconds faster per km, had destroyed me. Right there, I learned an important lesson about pacing. I’m sure Paul is happy. I also learned that Docks Beers, the sticker on the back of my van, serve a pretty good pint as I enjoyed a race debrief with Rich.

I came in just over two hours, and perhaps without my toilet break (and a little stitch after a pretty needless second gel on 15km) I would have seen something inside two hours. Still, I set a PB and I did it while demonstrating an understanding of pacing, which is like a win/win for me.

I was a tiny bit disappointed that the 10km runners got the same medal as the half marathon runners. I guess that’s me just wanting something hanging on my wall that didn’t say 10km on it. Well, in eight weeks, that’s exactly what I’ll have, one way or another.

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