Today it's the Retford Half which was the last run L and I
did in 2020 before lockdown. L even put in extra distance afterwards as we
expected the Ashby 20 to still go ahead the following week but it didn’t.
Instead of Retford this year I had considered
Warwick Half which we could have possibly combined with a trip to see
Son and it would have
been more interesting place for L to spectate. Then I found out that
Warwick is
£36 and a t-shirt is £15 extra whereas Retford is £20 including a
t-shirt.
Given that Retford is also organised by the local running club that I would like to support, rather than a
profit making race company, here we are.
Run wise it is what it is. Country lanes, not terribly
exciting but useful training.
During the race I get caught by someone local to us who I’ve sort of being trying to beat for years and have usually done so until recently. Now he’s ageing better than me and he’s five years older than me as well. As we run a few miles together he’s delighted that we’re running at around 8:10 pace. While I’m dying because my target marathon pace is 9:00 and that's what I want to be running at.
I ran a pretty amazing 1:45 for this race back in 2020 which was a typical time for me ‘back then’ even though I was struggling to get my distance up for the marathon. These days I’m running closer to two hours (different era, different knees).
His daughter is running with him and is in training for the Manchester Marathon. Even 8:10 is too slow for her and she skips off in front because clearly we’re holding her back. A mile or so later I tell him I’m slowing down and drop off his pace.
I finish in 1:54, which is still quite good and I suppose all thanks to his suicidal pace making.
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