Tonky Talk Paul returns to the fray, a little older, a little slower

One of the great things about running is that it gives you the chance to frame your life in a vaguely heroic fashion. It’s an arena in which you can test yourself, struggle, experience both triumph and disaster. Everyone’s doing it at their own level and I’m no different. So here I am: after a summer recovering from surgery, I have begun a comeback of sorts.

I entered the Yorkshire Coast 10K in Scarborough. Targeted is perhaps too strong a word, but sacrifices were made in the lead-up to the race. I drank no booze in the week before, and from race-week Wednesday I found the strength to walk past the bread bin without diving into it. In the coded way in which I communicate to myself, this meant the race was a big deal. That, in turn, meant I had to ask the question: what do I want from it? If it’s a comeback, what am I coming back to? The laws of adaptability meant I couldn’t be as fast as I was two years ago; I hadn’t done the quality training. So, then, the aim was respectability, to feel like I was racing again. Time-wise, I was aiming for around 41 minutes.

The comeback thing was reinforced by the fact the race was in Scarborough, where I was born and raised. The race course covered the territory of one of my first runs as a kid: out and back along pancake-flat Marine Drive. On the drive into town the night before the race, it was all a bit overwhelming to see the road I used to cycle down to school every day and the field where the harriers would meet. The friend I was staying with lives just off my old school’s cross-country course. Kids were playing in the street, the air was clear, the gardens massive. I was back up north and it felt brilliant.

Race day was blustery and wet. We gathered by the old spa for the countdown and, after a final shake of the old limbs, we were off into the glorious greyness of the morning. After a couple of minutes I fell in with the group around the 40-minute pacer, an optimistic move. Ten days earlier I’d raced a 5K on the track in 20:10 and the effort had almost finished me off. But this felt a tad easier; the first kilometre flew by – four minutes. The first mile went by in 6:20. We surged into the wind, hugging the sea wall for protection. The pace felt familiar; this was the speed I used to run at, after all. It felt almost comfortable, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sustain it. It was like meeting an old girlfriend at a party: you have a nice chat but after five minutes you both remember why the relationship didn’t work and saunter off to mingle.

I ran 6:20 for the second mile as well, but my hold on the situation was precarious. Over the next half mile the others started to slowly pull away; then there was a hill – short but enough to psychologically separate me from the group. Then it was just me. As is my recent habit, it was time for the slow fade over the second half. It’s not like I wasn’t trying; it’s just that everyone who came into my vicinity beat me. I find it very hard to keep my head straight when I’m that knackered. The splits told a sorry tale: I did the first half in 20:30, but I finished in 41:42.

I enjoyed the event and the truth is that you’ve got to start racing again to realise how far you’ve fallen and where you want to get to. Nobody cares, nobody’s watching. What a laugh to race, to test yourself, to set off too fast, be finished at halfway but gather yourself for something like a sprint at the end. (Having said that, in the photos of me at the finish I look like an elderly gentleman laden down with invisible luggage while dashing for an imaginary train.)

I’ve realised that I want to compete again properly. That 6:20 group is where I want to be. That’s my natural home; I’m just going to have work hard to get there. I can’t turn the clock back but I know I can run faster than this. I’m on it. Next year, I’ll be back!