95. Dear Reader, I won

The King's Head Canter: not just a high-speed pub crawl.

Sep 09, 2023

Dear Reader,

You may know from reading my Jog log 🏃🏻 that earlier this summer I’d signed up for the annual 5k road race from the pub in the next village to my very own local.

I’d run the race twice before. My first outing had been in 2017 – a year in which I was fit as a flea, with daily swimming, weekly sessions in the gym with a personal trainer, sub-30-minute 5km Parkruns on Saturday mornings and running with my local club three times most weeks. By my second attempt in 2019 I’d gone from all to nothing, having pulled out of my first (and only) intended half marathon thanks to a fractured metatarsal.

Held annually at the end of summer, and with an almost-entirely uphill course, the Kings Head Canter is always a challenge, and with previous times of 32:21 (2017) and 45:23 (2019) I was determined to get myself into good enough condition to not only finish the race but to run every step of the way.

I’d promised myself that I would beat my 2019 time – accomplished (although I’m not sure my efforts at the time were worthy of the word) on an impossibly hot day and off the back of virtually no training. At the time I wasn’t even ‘background’ fit, having thrown in the exercise towel entirely after I’d injured my foot, giving up the whole notion of health and fitness as a bad job.

My target for this year’s race – or so I told people – was to finish in less than three-quarters of an hour, although my heart’s desire was to run it in under 40 minutes. 🤫

At no point in my 31 days of pre-race training did I run 5km. In fact, it was only on day 27 that I managed to run my practice route without stopping to walk, and that was still 500m shy of the race distance, and not uphill.

I’d made some progress, but would it be enough? Could I run – and only run – the full 5k? Run without stopping for three-quarters of an hour?

Reader, I wasn’t sure.

It’s always been the case that all finishers of the King’s Head Canter get to claim a free pint of the local brew – or a soft-drink equivalent – at the pub at the finish line, but in this 25th anniversary year of the event the pint would be served in a commemorative glass to mark the occasion, which finishers would get to keep.

I didn’t need telling twice: heck, they might run out of those glasses! I’d downloaded and completed the entry form as soon as I’d had the race director’s ‘ENTRIES ARE OPEN!’ e-mail, and after a self-imposed 24-hour cooling-off period I walked into the village in the pouring rain to pop it through his letterbox.

But it wasn’t just about the pint, or even its commemorative container. This was about getting back some of my former fitness, and having a goal to work towards might just get me active again on a regular basis.

When I had first started running in my early 40s it was to prove something to myself, and I’d set my sights on being able to join in at my local Parkrun1 on Saturday mornings. I wanted to get used to running for at least half an hour at a time.

After a lot of hard work I found myself red-faced, breathless and beaming at the finish line of my first Parkrun, where I spotted two runners in bright yellow vests with a name I recognised: ‘Uckfield Runners’. I went over to say hi.

‘You’re from my local club’, I said, brightly.

We chatted for a bit. ‘Would you like to come along some time?’ said one of them. ‘There’s room for everyone, even…’ He looked at me again. ‘…especially beginners.’

I felt seen. Acknowledged. Welcome. Excited to run with others.

That was years ago. After that first encounter I ran with the club several times a week, became one of the yellow-vested at Parkrun and even competed in races. I won a point for the club at a 5-mile cross country that first winter, ran a 5k ‘Reindeer Run’ on Boxing Day bedecked in fairy lights (worrying the whole way round that the batteries would die an early drenched-in-perspiration death), and came back to run the two-loop 10k the following Christmas, this time dressed in a Santa suit.

Badly-posed selfie taken on the way home after the race. You get the idea.

In 2017 I ran the 10k event at Brighton Marathon weekend in May and the Brooks Brighton 10k in November. I’d felt so comfortable at the latter that I signed up for the Worthing Half Marathon, to be held the following spring, as soon as I’d got home.

Rebecca in action at the BM10k in 2017. Yup, I’m *that* tall. 🤣

At that point my all-or-nothing approach to projects and passions overtook me. Reader, it turns out that the proper training to run a half marathon does not involve running 13.1 miles non-stop on your first day out on your own. 🙄

It’s strange looking back on this now, as such a keen solo walker, but right from the start my running had been all about running in company.

And that is what I got on Monday at the King’s Head Canter even before the race had begun.

Although Jim had offered to drive me to the start, I felt that a 3km walk across the fields instead would provide the perfect warm-up for my run. Plenty of others had had the same idea, and soon I found myself walking and chatting with a lovely couple with many more miles under their belts than my own and who had even run a 10k race in the next county just the day before.

Helpful signage meant that even I had no chance of getting lost on my walk across the fields to the start line!

A chap who caught us up in a field of sheep in our pre-run stride to the start was wearing a vest marking him out as a member of the club I used to run with. I have several such vests in my drawer at home, and although I knew I would have been welcome to identify as an Uckfield Runner today I was happy just to be representing myself in a plain bright orange vest.

‘Blimey, I’m going to see you coming!’ remarked Jim – the official race photographer – at the breakfast table that morning.

‘GOOD!’ I said. ‘You’ve got no excuse for not getting a snap of me in action, then.’ I rolled my eyes at him over the top of my cup of tea.

There is something exhilarating about being part of a crowd; being buoyed up – carried along, even – by the shared strength of others.

This exhilaration isn’t limited to just running in company, or even restricted only to physical activity: you can tune in to similar feelings singing in a choir, performing on stage in an ensemble of fellow actors or participating at book club. In these circumstances too, the small, independent parts played by us as individuals make up a bigger entity. Cells – people – circulate together to give the heart of life a purpose to beat.

It had been so long since I’d last run an event that I’d forgotten the sheer rush I would always get from running with other people, but at the start line on Monday I found myself joining in easily with chat and conversation. ‘This is such fun!’ I heard myself say.

Typical pre-race chaos not far from the starting line.

Energised by the crowd I joined the surge forward at the sound of the air horn. I was pleased not to make my mistake of so many times before of charging ahead faster than the speed I knew I could maintain, and instead settled into a comfortable pace, the seemingly endless stream of my fellow runners ebbing and flowing around me like the tide.

Most of the yellow vests of my former clubmates were quickly out of sight, but I didn’t mind: although we were all part of the same event we were each running our own race out there.

Soon there was nobody beside me, but I could hear other runners chatting breathlessly behind me, and ahead I could still see the chap I’d been following since the air horn had gone off. I felt as if I were a train carriage: an independent entity but moving as part of a whole, in a determinate order. It felt nice. Comfortable.

Now, on our narrow lanes deep in rural East Sussex there isn’t much room for anything wider than a single vehicle. If two cars need to pass each other, one needs to pull into the hedge and come to a complete stop before the other is able to inch past. There’s never a great deal of traffic, but there’s always a wide assortment of vehicles: cars, the ubiquitous delivery vans, lorries and, of course, farm traffic.

Non-running road user heading straight for the finish line in the centre of the village. Yup, this is typical for a bank holiday weekend around here… during a road race on the same tarmac. 🤣

On an August bank holiday there are some predictable seasonal additions to this heady mix: caravans and motorhomes. And, with the lanes not closed to traffic for the event, nearly three hundred runners were sharing the same narrow space on the tarmac with holidaymakers setting off after their long weekend break at one of the local campsites.

white and brown rv trailer parked on gray asphalt road during daytime — A *caravan* in British English is called a *travel trailer* or *camper trailer* in US English. A *caravan* in US English is called a *convoy* in British English. Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

A shout went up behind me.

“CAR!”

I looked behind, and seeing a 4x4 towing one of the largest caravans I’d ever seen on such a narrow lane scooted sideways to run as close to the hedge as I could get. It eased slowly past me and the driver and I exchanged thank-you waves. Around the next bend five minutes later I saw the same caravan stationary in the narrowest part of the road ahead. It was so wide that there was no way I could run past: I would have to walk around it.

Reader, I was going to break my promise to myself. I was going to lose my race.

Slowing down to wipe away a frustrated tear with the back of my hand, and with seconds to go before I’d have to grind to a halt, the members of the bulging group of runners that had been hampering the caravan’s progress had strung themselves out into single file, and at last the vehicle pulled away and passed them.

And there was a friend: he was standing outside his house holding his grandson. They’d been waving at everyone running past, and as I drew closer I heard him say this to the tiny boy:

‘Now, here’s somebody to cheer on! It’s Rebecca! Yay!’ The child beamed and waved his floppy up-and-down toddler wave.

This was extraordinary. My legs – suddenly not my own – changed up a gear. Reader, I was running faster.

In her compelling book, ‘Staring Down a Dream: A Mom, a Marathoner, a Mission’2, Julie B Hughes writes about exactly how the spectators at her 2021 Boston Marathon had made her feel:

They picked me up just when I needed it and my focus shifted to their cheers and shouts of encouragement.

And when Julie spotted her family, well, wow:

My grin was as wide as the street…

Shortly before the straight and level run-in to the King’s Head Canter finish line is a left-hand bend at the bottom of the only downhill stretch of the route, and as I started to turn I wondered whether to go all-out with 350 metres still to run. Did my legs and lungs still have it in them?

Maybe I could provide Jim with that action shot? He’d be looking out for my orange vest – we’d established that over cups of tea that morning.

‘Why not?’ I whispered, and with that my legs responded. Having trusted myself with my slow and steady speed to settle in to a comfortable race I was delighted that my approach was working. Not only did I feel I could carry on running, but I had more energy in the tap3.

I turned it up. Reader, I felt as if I’d never run faster.

Not far from the finish line I gasped as I spotted my two favourite people in the world. I hadn’t been expecting my parents, but here they were cheering me on.

In this snap I’ve just spotted my parents on the pavement, out of shot, I’m afraid, just the other side of the parked cars. I was so happy to see them!

I held out my arms and sprinted past them towards the finish. I could already see Jim lying in the road with his camera, where he’d been snapping the run-in of every finisher.

All the best athletes run with this much lumpy diabetes-management hardware in the pockets of their sports bra, don’t they? 🤔

I could do this.

I did this.

And I hadn’t stopped, not even once.

Dear Reader, I’d won. 🏆

Love,

Rebecca

Initial results were pinned up on boards at the finish line, and showed that I had finished in 256th place in a time of 37:43. *Confirmed* results posted on the race’s website the following day show that I had finished 257th out of 274 runners in a time of 37:58. Fine by me! You’ll find the official results - and photographs! - here.

Proud race finisher with her prize! This year, the 25th anniversary year of the King’s Head Canter, finishers not only got to claim a pint of ale (or the soft-drink equivalent) at the finish line, but also got to take home the limited-edition anniversary glass that it was served in. Cheers!

A huge, huge thank you to all the readers of the Jog log 🏃🏻, who reminded me every day that I could do this. I’m afraid I haven’t listed you all right here, but please know how very much I appreciate you. Extra love to

Beth T (BethOfAus)

to joining in with me on her own 5k over 10,000 miles away: Beth, we did it!

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Dear Reader, I'm lost

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