Race day.

My alarm went off at 5am. Yes, FIVE IN THE MORNING. And for the first time in my running life, I didn’t feel the familiar nerves that go hand in hand with the knowledge that it’s time to pull on the lycra and line up for a race. Perhaps I was just so tired from the evil o’clock that I was numb to any feeling or emotion, or maybe I was finally starting to believe in myself.

Because this time, it wasn’t just about turning up and getting round in one piece, oh no, this time I wanted a PB and I secretly felt as though the sub 2hr dream was mine for the taking. I’d been steadily clocking 8:48/min miles on my long runs, and felt confident that I could sustain this until ten miles, and then the last three I could afford to take my foot off the gas to see myself safely over the finish line within the elusive 1:59:59.

But I tried to tell myself not to fixate on the time. I just wanted to enjoy the race and bag my first medal of 2013, so if 2 hrs came and went, then so be it. Above all else, I did not want to cross the line feeling disappointed. The Paris half and the next installment of Bridge The Gap is a fortnight away, and I wanted to feel ready and confident for that. So I gave myself a swift talking to, and then with bleery eyes I forced my thighs into their lycra cladding, packed the last few bits into my race bag, and inadvertently managed to cement my hair with porridge. Perfect. Time to head to the train.

Having run the gauntlet of passengers who were also insanely on a 6am train - first picking a spot next to a group of drunk boys who were just that bit too keen on my lycra-ed up legs, then finding my way to sitting with a woman who seemed stuck in a power ballad versus headphones battle - I finally settled into place amongst a group of runners all trying to nab a few more precious minutes of rest.

Jumping off the train in Brighton revealed perfect running conditions – bright blue skies, a relatively crisp bite in the air, and not much of a breeze. This was going to be fun. My yellow race number put me in the pen for 1:45 – 1:59 so I stuck myself towards the back of this group and in no time at all, we were off. The pack spread out and I found my stride much quicker than usual. I committed the cardinal sin of going off too fast, and at around 3 miles I realised it was time to slow it down….which happily coincided with a nice bunch of steady hills to test out the quads. Oh joy. How I love me a hill.

But I settled into my pace as my epic playlist took my mind elsewhere, and suddenly I was at mile 7 with a smile on my face. This could happen, I could actually do it….2 hrs was on. Mile 8 came and went, and whilst my legs were starting to feel the hit from those first 3 quick miles, I was still maintaining a good pace & keeping steady.

And then SMASH. I hit the wall.

Not the metaphorical wall that runners talk about. An actual wall. Well, OK, it wasn’t a wall, it was a kerb and a pathetically low crash barrier, but you get what I mean. And I didn’t hit it, I was barged into it by an egotistical bastard of a runner who was seemingly so intent on beating his time and cutting through the field that he didn’t hesitate before shoulder barging his way between me and another runner, sending me flying in the process.

And as I was knocked to the floor, the perpetrator of this crime against running etiquette simply glanced back before deciding it was absolutely fine to just carry on running.  It was, quite literally, a hit and run.

And he’s lucky he didn’t turn back, because I’d have taken both his legs out in one swipe had he come near me. But instead, whilst laying there as race roadkill, I satisfied myself with launching as many expletives in his direction as I could come up with. Other lovely runners stopped to see if I was OK (one very kind man offered to run him down and push him over) and helped haul my ass up off the ground. And with a surge of adrenaline, a sense of humiliation and an overwhelming hatred for the man who clattered me, I brushed off their concerns and sped away from the scene of my embarrassment as quick as I could.

In hindsight, what I should have done is eased myself back in and taken time to listen to my body and see what was hurting. But no, I went tearing off at top speed, and at 9 miles the adrenaline wore off and the pain kicked in. My ankle was hurting like hell after losing the fight with the kerb & the barrier, and thoughts of dropping out overtook my brain. So I gave up and stopped. I walked, I panicked, I tweeted, I texted, and I cried. (I can’t wait to see the photos from this stage of the race…) I couldn’t believe my best race yet had been ruined by some idiot in short shorts and compression socks. What a selfish dick.

Somewhere around 10 miles, I spoke to Soxles (who has endured more of my running breakdowns than anyone should ever have to) and she told me to stop walking and try running. And because she’s pretty much the only person, aside from Mama Duns, who I listen to, I did as I was told. I ran and walked through the next 2 miles, all the time watching my pace slip away, and getting angrier as the pain grew. But I swore that I would finish strong and run from mile 12 to the end without stopping.

And so at mile 12 I gritted my teeth, flipped the poor innocent race photographer the bird as he tried to capture this precious moment, and set off on the last mile. And suddenly there was the lovely Sami Furse, screaming at me from the crowd. Now I’ve said it before, and I’ll continue to say it until the end of days – I cannot tell you how much it helps to have people supporting you on the course, and this was just the boost I needed as I looked down at my watch and saw it ticking away at 2:01. Oh fuck it.

900m to go, 700m, 500m. And then there it is, the finish line. 100m to go. Come on legs, let’s go, time to sprint, BLOODY WELL PICK UP THE PACE AND MOVE.

And then it was done – I’d crossed the finish line. Hurrah! I had somehow survived 2 hrs and 9 minutes of running, and I had a medal put around my neck to prove it. A big, beautiful, shiny, pleasingly heavy medal – now if only I could have found that maniacal runner and hit him in the head with it, my race would have been complete.

So, now it’s onto Paris. My ankle is uncomfortably bruised but thankfully nothing worse, my hips ache as though I’ve undergone some kind of traumatic childbirth, and my quads are screaming at me to stop standing up and sitting down. But otherwise I’m OK.

The race rage has gone (although I did enjoy plenty of people on Twitter putting running curses on the idiot who barged me), and has been replaced with a strange determination to make Paris my best race ever. Although of course this time I’m going to be running 13.1 miles with outriders who will shoot anyone who comes within one metre of me, and I’m going to get some Boudica spikes for my trainers. So just you try and mess with me in Paris. I’ve got a PB to hunt down…. Viva la Duns.