“I’ll definitely only have one or two drinks tonight,” I confidently announced to my boyfriend, Zak, while putting my frock on the night before the Birchwood 10K – my first race in nearly a year. It was my boyfriend’s father’s 50th birthday and we were off out for tapas to celebrate; not the most sensible of pre-race meals admittedly, but I figured if I loaded up on patatas bravas, I’d be getting my pre-race carbs in.
Needless to say, caught up in the celebrations – and nerves about the impending race the next morning – I loaded up on prosecco as well as potatoes, topped off with a completely unwarranted brandy shot. And when I arrived home woozy headed and saw my kit laid out on the bed, I couldn’t have regretted it more. After months out of running due to a lingering injury, I’d targeted the Birchwood 10K as my comeback race. I’d made it through a whole six-week training plan without pain, dedicated mornings to interval training and evenings to making overnight oats and couldn’t have felt fitter.
But at 7:15am, I wasn’t looking quite as clever. It was 2am by the time we’d finally got to bed, after deciding to stay up to watch Bolt in the 100m Olympic final (another foolish decision) so, when the alarm went off, I felt hideous. Thankfully, Zak was running too, and he ensured we made into the car with a bowl of porridge in our bellies – hungover or not. An unwelcome taste of booze – and chorizo – grew more grotesque as the journey progressed and, when the sweats and stomach cramps kicked in as we joined the M6, our hopes of a PB looked less and less likely.
The Birchwood 10K is a well-known and long-established race, organised by Warrington-based running club the Spectrum Striders. Now in its 33rd year, it is perennially popular with runners in the north-west, particularly club runners, with around half of the field representing runners from 100 running clubs this year. With all the hype about the race, I’d expected a big event village, with a cheesy warm-up – the usual bells and whistles. But, when we arrived at the start, that was about all there was – a bell and a whistle. After the usual scramble to the toilets, it was time to go and, as the whistle blew, I reflected on just how refreshing it was not to have the usual pre-race fuss. I liked club races, I decided.