Sadly, I was unable to threaten the world record, but I did set a PB, 25.59, which represented an improvement of three minutes over the course of a week's training (better late than never, eh?). It would appear that the 22-minute target set for me by my good pal Andy Graham was a little optimistic: I'm not sure how he came to the conclusion that I'm a world class fell runner, but a 22-minute 5k extrapolates to a half-marathon time of 1.30. Aye, right. Given that he turns up to the Stadium of Light and awaits three points for the home side, I think Mr Graham may have a problem with unrealistic expectations...
The run itself was not half-bad, taking in the University of Toronto's downtown campus on a balmy Sunday. Finding myself towards the back of the starting pack, however, I was soon finding it difficult to overtake groups of walkers and actually break into a run. By the time I reached the horseshoe section going down University Avenue, there were already runners coming back up the other way, grannies and toddlers among them. "Right," I thought to myself, "I didn't come here to play games."
So I turned on the afterburners and went hell-for-leather down University Avenue's grassy central reservation, leaping down stairs, dodging flower beds and overtaking my shell-shocked competitors. It was like a low-budget cross between The Matrix and Purely Belter.
I powered back up the course, driven on by the aged crones who threatened to leave me in their wake, resisting the urge to check my time for fear of depressing myself long before the end. I even managed a smug glance at runners who stopped at the halfway point for a swig of water, among them a group of Hooters waitresses who looked like they should have been able to run a marathon, top-heavy weight distribution notwithstanding.
Rounding the final corner, I knew I was on for a half-decent time (by my standards). Sadly, the organizers had decided that the final straight should be a) narrow and b) on cobbles, and so I finished less than gracefully, my face flushed and gurning as I nimbly overtook premature celebrators and glanced at my watch. I had broken the 26-minute barrier; an achievement on a par with my keepy-up record of 250-plus, set during France 98.
So a great big thank you to all who sponsored me. Your kindness and generosity knows no bounds. To those who decided against sponsoring me, you should take a long, hard look at yourselves in the mirror. That should be punishment enough.
Will I ever run again? Of course. At least until I can find a cheap road bike and spare my knees the punishment. Will I return the expensive running shoes that successfully replicate the feeling of running barefoot on a pebbly beach? Only if I can find the receipt.
