My Great North Run adventure

Okay, so this has nothing to do with design or UX, but a bunch of us at Riff Raff took part in the Great North Run yesterday, raising money for Finchale Training College, a nice group of people who help adults with disabilities to get back into employment. We've all been training for around 4 months now, and it has been quite an adventure.



In the build-up to the event, I was a little anxious and eager to find out what to expect. Googling the subject unearthed precious few helpful accounts of what I was letting myself in for, so I thought it might be helpful to write about my somewhat bizarre experiences here, in the hope that it might prove useful to someone else about to run their first half marathon.

By the time the big day arrived, the furthest I had run was 10 miles, which for me was quite an achievement; I'm not a natural runner by any means, and found the whole thing very challenging. A number of Great North Run veterans had assured me that the atmosphere on the day would carry me the extra 3.1 miles, so I felt pretty confident when the day finally arrived. I can confirm, however that this is a myth and something of a well-meaning fallacy.

Whilst the excitement and buzz of 50,000 people around you does indeed make 3.1 miles feel more like a pleasant stroll, the crucial part that everyone fails to mention is that it's the first 3.1 miles that seem to drift by without effort - when you're striding confidently along Newcastle's central motorway, with a fresh pair of legs, hundreds of spectators cheering you on and fellow runners chanting "Oggy oggy oggy, oi oi oi" as they pass through the echoing tunnels.

Rest assured that if I were to be carried any 3.1 mile stretch of the race, it would certainly be the last 3.1 miles, when the swollen blood blisters under my arches were biting into my feet with every agonising step, and not during the jovial canter across the Tyne Bridge.

The enormity of the event doesn't really hit home until you make your way to the start of the race. I hadn't bothered taking a bottle of water with me - the pocket guide said there would be water given out at the start of the race, and I wanted to travel light. What it didn't mention was that you'd have to fight your way through 10,000 people to get to the water stands, and by the time you got there, there'd be nothing but half-empty discarded bottles.

The toilets were no better, with queues trailing off into the distance. None of us felt the need to go, although pre-race nerves were beginning to gnaw at the bladders of the more generously hydrated. As we made our way down the motorway towards our starting section, we noticed people running up the grass banks to make water in the bushes above. One of our team described it as a "sausage-fest" as clearly 200 people all had the same idea, turning the bushes along the A167 into a wallowing bog of urine and trampled grass. I held off until we got further down the line (a good half hour trek).

We passed section after section, from the elite runners at the front, who had their own little drag-strip to warm up in, past the super-quick club runners in their expensive, colour-co-ordinated spandex running kit and the celebrities, to the first paddock of sprawling hoi-polloi, packed in like emaciated inmates in an Asics-branded concentration camp. First were the oranges - the seasoned veterans who had run a decent time last year - followed by the greens and the whites. Finally, we came to the pink section, reserved primarily for n00bs like us, oldies, the morbidly obese and nutters with kitchen appliances strapped to their backs.

We spotted our gate, with a huge queue building up, as the warm-up started. Time was ticking away, and we were fast approaching lock-out time, when the gates would be closed and we'd be sent to the back with our tails between our legs to race the 'sweeper bus' with the dregs. I decided to dive into the bushes for one last final squeeze before I committed myself to the 45 minute trek to the start line, and was met by a sight I will never forget.

As I pushed my way through the prickly branches into the bush, I came face to face with a line of pale white arses in the air a few feet above my head, like a chorus of fleshy trumpets heralding my arrival. It took me a moment to figure out that I hadn't stumbled into some weird woodland porn, and had in fact inadvertently walked into the ladies toilet bush. Narrowly avoiding a golden shower, I found a spot further along, amongst another "sausage-fest".

The Great North Run is largely well organised, and the whole thing seems to work pretty well, especially given the breathtaking scale of it. That said, there were a few Jobsworths. We'd been queuing for a good twenty minutes when the warden beside us decided that it was time to close the gate and send us packing. Trouble was, there was now a crowd of about 200 people at our gate, who had turned up on time, and felt a little cheated when asked to step back so that the gate could be closed. Naturally, we all ignored the warden and pushed our way through, and continued to ignore her as she shouted and tried her best to whip up a panic, as though her colleague was going to somehow cause a Hillsborough-style catastrophe by failing to close his gate. It didn't drag the mood down for long though, as there was plenty to amuse as people started vaulting over the fence in front of us, to her chagrin.

The Red Arrows thundered overhead (far closer than I'd ever seen them before), a genuine shudder of excitement pulsed through the entire crowd, and we began to surge forward. This was where the deft organisation really came into play, as we moved forward section by section, gradually building up the pace throughout the 30 minute journey to the starting line. It all worked so smoothly, and warmed up the legs nicely ready for the start. Everyone who had worn a jumper or hoodie discarded it along the central reservation - there were literally thousands of them left by the roadside.

As we ran past the first of the camera trucks, everyone waved. The giant overhead speakers belted out music that pounded through our chests, taking our breath away. I couldn't help but feel that we were lucky to have been so far back, as my one remaining working ear would've been ringing - which would've been a disaster for me, as I suffer chronic tinnitus in my other ear! By the time we approached the starting line, my legs were nicely warmed and we were at a gentle canter.

The streets and bridges over the motorway were lined with people, all cheering and shouting and waving banners. The pace was a gentle 10 minutes per mile, and there was really no speeding up, as there simply too many people in front of us. Our bright yellow shirts were attracting wasps, which became a bit of a pest, as the sun began to threaten a long, hot and uncomfortable race. A few very loud people just in front of us began chanting "Oggy, oggy, oggy" as we passed under the cool, echoing tunnels, to a hundred voices replying "oi, oi, oi". It had a strange, exhilarating effect, although I did wonder how they had the lungs to run and shout like a town crier at the same time.

As we came to the Tyne Bridge, I began to realise that my target for a sub 2 hour finish was a little unrealistic. The road narrowed and compressed the thousands of runners into a tight pipeline, tripping over one another. Peter and I started weaving in amongst the other runners, darting into gaps and checking our blind-spots like good road-goers. At the Gateshead-side of the bridge, the traffic narrowed even further under the railway arches, and to make matters worse, the entire swarm of people slowed to a crawl as they hit the first hill of the race; the climb to Felling Bypass.

I barely noticed the hill, if it weren't for the fact that bobbing and weaving amongst the masses became more difficult due to their slowing pace. Living at the highest point of Gateshead, my regular training over the last three months had mostly been punishing hill climbs, so to me it represented a slight incline. It was clear that there weren't many of us who had been conditioned for hill running, as we darted through the crowds pretty quickly and started putting some of the pack behind us.

By the time I reached Heworth along Felling Bypass, I had long lost Peter in the crowd and was beginning to get thirsty. I'd missed the water at the starting line and deliberately hadn't drank much that morning for fear of needing the toilet every five minutes. The most frustrating stretch of the race was along the A194, where the crowds were the thickest, and I wasted most of my energy running up grass verges, and around bus stops to get past the fun-runners. It's amazing how much strength you burn jogging on the spot behind groups of slower runners, all jogging in a line with their elbows out.

Some of the running styles were just amazing. The mind boggled at how people could ever manage a 13 mile race - some waddling along with an imaginary tray full of soup, trying not to spill a drop. Some wiggled like they were sweeping the road behind them with a broom up their arse, whilst others were wrenched from side to side by wallowing lycra-clad saddle-bags, like over-stretched bin liners full of porridge. I'm pretty sure I wasn't any more graceful.

As we reached John Reid Road, well over half way, the organisers started handing out jelly babies, which gave a welcome sugar rush. It was a shame they didn't hand out water bottles at the same time though, as the jelly just dried my mouth and made my hands sticky. The sugar was a good boost, and gave me something of a false sense of security. I know the roads well, but to drive on. Knowing where I was, I mistakenly thought the finish line was "just around the corner", based on a five minute drive. However, on foot, with blisters now fully ripened and ripping into my feet with every step, it was more than five agonising miles away - almost an hour at my rapidly dwindling pace.

As I arrived in South Shields, I realised that I had peaked too early and used up all of my energy reserves too soon. I had hit the 10 mile threshold - the furthest I had ever run - and was in serious pain. My shins felt great, and my stamina was as strong as ever, but the blisters on my feet and the shooting pain through my right hip where becoming unbearable. I slowed to a walk momentarily, as Lee past me, tapping me on my shoulder. My heart sank that I had been leading up to that point, so I started running again. I caught a glimpse of him getting stuck behind a group of people as I mounted the path and ran behind the spectators to gain some ground.

As I turned onto the see front, I saw a big flashing sign saying "Last Mile" and felt sweet relief wash through my aching body. I'd run this stretch of beach many times in training, and it's almost flat, so I felt sure it was going to be a breeze. I was running that mile for what seemed like an eternity. After what felt like twenty minutes, I reached the 400m sign, which I would have sworn, in my dehydrated, exhausted state was the finish line. I almost cried when I read it and realised I still had a third of a mile to go.

The Red Arrows thundered overhead again, in their closing display, which took my mind off things for a split second. What made it worse was that I thought my family were all watching, so I didn't dare slow to a walk in case I got caught. All of my great-nieces and nephews were watching on television at home, hoping to catch a glimpse of me, and I knew that it would be just my luck that they see me hobbling over the finish line a beaten man.

As it turned out, nobody was watching. They were so busy glued to the bloody Red Arrows display, that nobody noticed me crossing the finish line. Never mind.

So I finished in 21,279th place with a time of 2:15:18, which wasn't bad for a first attempt. All of us at Riff Raff finished within 4 minutes of each other, which was good too, and we hope to gain a better starting position next year so that we can all beat the two hour target!