Sweating copiously and furiously, heart beating rat-at-at like a drum and surrounded by all manner of folk in scanty or silly get-up, I swigged from a bottle thrust into my hand from a friendly stranger and kept on moving . No, not another Thursday at Bridge Bar & Club, but my experience somewhere on the Oxford ring road at about mile 10 of the Oxford half marathon which this Sunday enjoyed its second staging, having had a test outing last year.
Around 4,200 plucky souls gathered at the Kassam Stadium for a nine-thirty start, doubtless a good many of them naïf-like students venturing outside the ring road for the first time. Running clubs were out in force, as ever, with the Headington Road Runners and the Didcot Runners showing particular strength in numbers.
Having been overlooked by LOCOG for the torch-lighting gig at the Olympic Stadium in favour of seven tyro British athletes, Sir Roger Bannister decided to show Seb Coe what a mistake he’d made by flawlessly starting things off at the Kassam. Not a word was misspoken, not a platitude was misplaced, and the old rogue was funny to boot. Off we all went then, embarking on a route that took in some of the most beautiful views in Oxford – though those from out of town who’d been drawn in by the website’s montage of the Bridge of Sighs were in for a shock.
An innocuous suburban first mile and a bit was followed by an esoteric highlight as the course went on a detour through the Mini plant at the end of the Cowely Road. Headline sponsors of the race, the factory owners had lined the track with a fleet of Minis, making the whole thing resemble a much crapper Italian Job. After that there were some hard and boring yards down the ring road before we runners descended into Rose Hill and eventually got our bearings on the Iffley Road.
Things were starting to feel a bit ropey at this point, at least for me, so it was a blessing to be in more familiar territory – though this did carry with it the caveat that if I was to collapse at this point it was more likely to be in front of someone I knew. Nevertheless the heart leapt a bit as we rounded the Cape of Good Hope and passed across Magdalen Bridge, with spectators now quite thick on the sidelines – though support all day was exceptional in numbers and volume.
The weather turned fine in time for our jaunt through Christ Church meadow, with the sun-dappled trees a delightful location to run through before we circumnavigated the Head of the River pub and scrammed back down the river for two glorious miles along the towpath. Concerns about space – I for one nearly landed in the drink several times – were more than amply cancelled out by the surroundings: certainly a lot better than the original route spanning three miles of the decidedly prosaic Abingdon Road.
After this though things took a turn for the depressing – another couple of miles of ring road, with support evaporating by the furlong and my Springsteen discology going from Born to Run (inspiring, hearty anthems of escape) to Darkness on the Edge of Town (earthy, depressed dirges about stagnation). This was roughly the same time that my knees gave in, and the slow but inexorable progress of the pacing balloon behind me reading “2.00” felt like something out of The Prisoner. Regardless, we pulled into the Kassam, joints moaning and limbs screaming, to a raucous reception and the natty medal and complimentary t-shirt dispelled any gripes.
There’s no shortage of running events in the area – Blenheim Palace hosted a half-marathon the week before this one – but this really was a magnificent morning out. Conditions, the route and the mood of the runners really combined virtuously to create a marvellous time for all involved. The man who, shortly after I’d crested the roundabout to watch the stragglers come in, finished the race looking solid only to do a 180 degree turn and continue on his improvised marathon had the right idea – this was a morning to savour.
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