The roar of the crowd

I never cease to be amazed at the power of this Internet thing you know.

Just a matter of weeks ago I was an unknown, with a quiet but confident ambition of securing a Gold medal for Queen and Country at the London 2012 games. Today having gone public with my ambitions I’m having to deal with the price that fame so cruelly parcels up and delivers gift wrapped to the modern elite athlete.

Take Sunday for instance. No sooner had I announced that I was intending to take part in one of those Piddling 10Ks in Ashford, than what seemed like the whole of Kent had turned out in force to welcome me to the Julie Rose Stadium.

To be honest it can be quite a humbling experience being amongst so many admirers and I felt it was only right to thank personally as many of them as I could. As I moved amongst them shaking their hands with my unique ‘Ron’ hand grip, I was introduced to a traditional Kent greeting which I can only assume must be reserved for visiting dignitaries. I have to say I’m unfamiliar with the term Tosseur (I think that’s how you pronounce it) myself but it’s obviously a local term of affection and most of those I greeted uttered the same phrase as I passed amongst them.

The price of fame, though, is sometimes hard to take and I must apologise to those of you who were disappointed when, on the advice of the Kent Police, for what I can only assume to be concerns over my personal safety, I had to halt my specially devised pre-race warm up programme of groin thrusts and anal crunches. Fortunately I’d had the good sense to carry them out in the VIP area of the main stand rather than on the track. I think, by the look on her face, my otherwise truncated programme certainly impressed the Lady Mayoress who for some reason had managed to reach the VIP area before me.

As I sat chatting away to the Police Superintendent in the back of a secure police vehicle until the threat to my safety had receded, I began to wonder whether this was just a taster of what is to come? I made a mental note to drop a line to Lord Coe and ask what arrangements had been made for the security and safety of us elite athletes in 2012. I’m not too bothered about terrorist threats or being kidnapped by disillusioned former Soviet Union dissident freedom fighters – I’m only bothered about a decking from the Frenchies when I leave them wallowing in my wake. And if you think that unlikely I refer you only to the reaction from that Zebedee Zidane chap when the French had their derriere’s wupped by the Italians in the World Cup final.

To be honest, by now, I was beginning to feel uncomfortable about my pre-race preparation. A feeling that was confirmed as I passed the stadium snack bar and caught a whiff of their snorker and bacon butties.

I resolved to immediately change my race plans. Yup – today I’d do a kit test run. Making sure that you are comfortable with your kit is just as much a part of big race preparation as running long, hard and fast. So, as I carbo loaded on said butties and altered the pace timer on my Garmin I made my way confidently to the start.

A couple of things bothered me about this race. First of all I had the misfortune to start with a bunch of squaddies. 24 of the Queen’s finest with not an inch of hair between them, in full kit – including combat gear and boots! Good job it wasn’t cross country I thought – you’d never see them.

My feelings of national pride for these chaps disappeared soon after the start though. For some reason they decided it would be very army-ish to shout whenever an obstacle appeared before them. So, when soldier no. 1 came across a ramp in the road, he'd shout ‘RAMP!!’ at the top of his voice to warn the chap behind. Then the chap behind did the same until each of the twenty four had uttered the same chuffing word. The problem was that there must have been thirty speed humps within the first two kilometres! To be honest, it was like running with a bunch of Tourette’s sufferers and their manic shouts were starting to unnerve the rest of the field - certainly this Buddie here was in the mood to tell them where to shove their bayonets.

So, I decided to put in an impressive turn of speed to plonk myself firmly amongst the leading bunch in the field and away from the ridiculous shouts of the soldiers. And that’s when I came across irritant no. 2. I’m talking about a certain type of runner. OK, a female runner – but let me assure you this is not a gender issue.

But what possesses somebody to go running in long trousers? OK, the army can get away with it – but these youngsters must have come straight out of the gym. They obviously haven’t run outdoors before because they turned up to the start with their flippin’ coats on!! So what happens? Coat gets tied around their waist as though they’re away for a Sunday afternoon stroll with Darren their plasterer boyfriend.

Which, of course, is their prerogative.

But why the hell do they then have to run eight abreast and block the whole chuffing road???!!

You don’t see Paula Radcliffe taking her place at the start of the London marathon with an FCUK pink sweat top with ‘Rock DJ Chick’ in silver, emblazoned across her ample chest* and a Reebok fluffy fleece tied to her waist do you?

Not many things irritate this kiddie – but I tell you what sunshine, this is one race technique that is definitely not up my strasse.

Back to the race though and as I started to ease myself into contention I was pleased that so many of my supporters were lining the streets. I made a mental note that I must try to educate them though. My laid back running style does look as though I’m not expending too much effort but all I’m doing is conserving energy for the home stretch. “Ron - you lazy bugger” they were shouting. How on earth they all knew my name I don’t know!

But that was nothing to the chaos at the finish. I appreciate that the organisers were probably acting in good faith – but having so many people at the finishing line waiting for my arrival was a mistake. The problem was that I couldn’t see the damned line! I was also disappointed to see that the organisers seem to have given a medal to anybody turning up in shorts because the finish area was teeming with people with kit and medal. By the time I’d worked my way through the throng my time was showing 57 minutes and half a day – so they’d obviously got something wrong with the timing clock as well.

I did feel though that my little jog in Kent has given me a good workout in advance of my return to European competition on Sunday when I take part in the Amsterdam half marathon. And, you know, I’ve also got to be unselfish about these things – one issue where I disagree with some of my fellow elite athletes is on the number of competitions. Not for me two races a year – this kiddie has a public to satisfy you know. But I see Sunday as a time for honing my race strategy and, although if I do achieve my short term objective of a sub 2 hour half this side of Christmas, to be honest I think Amsterdam is there to be enjoyed. No point in being too hasty at £25 a throw eh?

Anyhow, I’ll be letting you know how I get on in Holland – but in the meantime I’ve got some correspondence with the UK Athletics chaps to catch up on. I'll let you know how I get on.

Keep on tapering.

Ron.

*Sorry - just seen another piccie of Paula – forget that ‘ample’ reference.