The Great Scottish Run
The Great Scottish Run
10k isn’t really that far. I’ve put it into Google Maps and it’s barely a finger. How hard can it be? Although, apparently, they expect you to run it. And wear shorts. Who wears shorts in Scotland?
At the gathering point in George Square, I find myself surrounded by people who are far more enthusiastic, fitter and better prepared. This is where I must say goodbye to my loved ones who wrench my warming tracksuit away from me and tell me that they’ll meet me at the finish line as they venture off on some less circuitous route towards Glasgow Green, callously wearing their layers and waterproofs.
The start line has a jovial and friendly atmosphere where people give out free bottles of water, use the delightful on-street urinals, and do their final stretches as they prepare to beat their personal bests. The 10,000 runners are divided into groups based on perceived ability with different coloured pinned-on numbers. The elite are at the front, followed by the sort that are pretty serious who probably own at least one hi-vis top. Then there are the less serious runners who sort of believe they can get a good time but their ownership of those little water bottles with the handle gives away a lack of ability (I'm in this group). After that, it’s the people who are there for the occasion and to raise money for their chosen cause. These are the best people.
It has been ten years since I ran a 10k. Back then, I went running fairly regularly. Now, I’m older, fatter and twisted my ankle that one time and it’s been a bit weird ever since. My training has been interrupted by life and excuses and this will be the furthest I’ve run in quite some time, by quite some distance.
When you’re surrounded by thousands of other people who seem to be properly prepared, it can feel intimidating, but mostly everyone is focused on themselves. The serious athletes get in the zone by putting on their headphones and listening to some high intensity tracks, probably something by Bucks Fizz, or maybe just a recording of some inspirational messages like they’re in a cult. I can’t tell. I’ve put on an Adam Buxton podcast because my battered iPod can’t download music anymore. Top tip – this is not a good soundtrack for running.
To create more of a party atmosphere, music plays and they’ve organised some fitness gurus – apparently transported from 90s breakfast TV – to try and get us to do some funky moves and get into the spirt of things before the starting gun. Time slows down as thousands of Glaswegians awkwardly do some open-air aerobics. And then finally – BANG! It begins and the elite runners set off as the rest of us shuffle towards the line. I’ve got this. It’s just putting one foot in front of the other.
The route goes from George Square, straight up St Vincent Street. That looks like a pretty steep hill. Was Glasgow always so hilly? Why would they start us on a hill? If I know one thing about running, it’s that uphill is harder than flat. And if we’re going to involve hills, couldn’t it be those ones that go down? That wouldn’t be asking too much, surely. But uphill I go, with the momentum of the masses taking me faster than I really want to go. But as the road begins to open up, we begin to spread out and everyone’s potential is revealed. Some people are walking already but while the hill isn’t a great way to start, I’m not quite ready to stop.
As we move down towards the Clyde, the route takes us onto the off-ramp of the Kingston Bridge. This is a slightly surreal experience. It’s not something that you get to do every day without getting arrested. At top of the bridge it’s an amazing view. They should really open it up more often. You don’t really get to appreciate the vista when you’re stuck in traffic. I wish I could stop and take a picture down the Clyde. But more than that, I really wish I could stop. It’s been 17 minutes, that’s a pretty good start. I could just walk a little bit and that wouldn’t be so bad. I slow my pace and start to stroll.
Almost immediately, a passing woman hits me encouragingly on the back and says, ‘Come on Andrew! Keep going.’ How does she know my name? Do I have a stalker? Has my stalker been following me but now realised she has the ambition to get a better time? No. I remember now that my name now adorns my back like I’m some kind of sports person. But Random Woman is right; I should keep going. So, I pick up my speed to what normal people might consider just above walking pace and try to fight through the barrier of my own lack of preparation.
As we wind through the city streets along the Clyde, down through some of the industrial areas on the south side, I notice that there are some runners with big flags on their backs, each with different numbers. These are times indicating their pace. These pacemakers basically have super powers which tell them how fast they need to go to get a certain time. I don’t even know how long it takes me to get home from work and these people have an exact 10k worked out in terms of time and distance? And it’ll be at a slower pace than they actually can run. It’s witchcraft. After following the ‘50 minutes’ runner for a while, I start to realise that I’m not going to make it under an hour and let that time run away from me.
‘Just keep going. Keep running. This is the only time you have to do this,’ I whisper through my wheezing. It’s hardly the St Crispin’s Day speech but it keeps me going as we cross back over the Clyde and towards Glasgow Green. It’s important to remember I’m running for a reason as well. Lots of my friends and family have sponsored me to raise money for Parkinson’s UK. These events are so important because they provide a framework for you to ask people to donate towards causes that matter to you. Under most circumstances, it seems impossible just to come out and ask people to give money to a charity, no matter how generous they are. These events provide the perfect reason and they inspire people to help. And with a little boost from Arnold Clark match funding, I’ve raised more than £1000. That’s pretty awesome. All I have to do is keep moving.
Over the course of the race, I pass pipers and choirs but mostly it’s people that line the streets. They cheer, hand out sweets and even offer high fives. They’ve come out to see their own friends and family members running but they stick out the full race and shout encouragement to people they don’t know. And it really helps. It might be the shame of not wanting people to witness my physical meltdown or maybe encouragement really is encouraging, but these people do more than they know to get me over the finishing line.
And when I finally see Glasgow Green, the crowds grow along with the noise as the spectators hope to see the person they’ve been tracking on the app arrive at the finish line. It gives me a second wind. I’ve got energy to burn. Pick up the pace. Don’t jog. Run!
This is a mistake. I don’t really have that much energy. It’s further than I thought. So I slow down to the pace that my shaky legs will allow. But I still look cool and collected and not at all like a wreck. And there it is, the finish line. Cross it. Stop the clock. Stop running. But keep breathing.
Then I’m handed a medal. But not just a medal, there’s a whole goodie bag. It has leaflets and sweets (instantly consumed) and one of those giant foil blankets to keep you warm and looking distinctly like a roast chicken. I opt to stay chilled.
There are flagpoles all over the green with giant letters on which act at meeting points. Find your initial and find supporters. There are thousands – some waiting in anticipation, others giving congratulations, but most are in their metallic, shiny blankets looking relieved and happy to have finished. After some celebratory pictures, me and my people wander towards the train station. I feel great though. It was a good thing to do. I’m thankful for the experience even if I don’t ever want to do it again. Until next time anyway.
