The pressure-cooked world of relay-running - April 3, 2005

Well, Milton Keynes AC and the SEAA have done it again: a superbly organized 12 and 6-stage extravaganza, and quite possibly the most pleasant day I can recall in my time at Belgrave.  There was great weather which saw everyone in such cheerful, upbeat spirits; the Bels base heaved with runners and supporters – new faces and old; and most important, a terrific and friendly sportsmanship between the clubs.  Oh, yes, and we got two brilliant races to enjoy.

It would be safe to say my day picked up in the pleasure stakes after my work was done.  After a start on the opening leg that was distinctly nippier than my slow-twitch fibres desired, I found myself skulking in the 50s after half-a-mile.  The anguished yelps from the crowd singed my ears: “Get OUT of there!” and “Must’ve lost a shoe again…”  Operation ‘damage control’ was launched.  But for some reason on this day I was feeling the pressure…and the heat…and too much cranberry juice swishing about in my belly. 

Never did a running shoe taste so good

At half-way I was nothing more than a choking, retching, wounded, furry animal.  So much for my big pre-match talk of a top-eight finish.  One thing about marathon training: it keeps you honest.  And since Frankfurt, although I’ve still trained hard, discipline levels have dipped.  Well, all I can say is that for every run or gym session I skipped in the last few months, I bitterly regretted yesterday.  Serious suffering occurred.  But there was always one shimmering, flickering light at the end of the tunnel.  At least the ‘smoky banger’ was handing over to the most well-oiled of machines.  And when Mossy contrived to bring us back in third I collapsed before him in relief to kiss his feet.  Never did a running shoe taste so good. 

He's so disgustingly clinical

The official race reports will give you the minutiae, as ever, of this splendid day’s racing, but particularly notice must be paid on this page to the day’s two most pressure-packed legs.  Phil Wicks’ duel with Mark Warmby was thrilling to watch, while man-of-the-match David Anderson set off on the high-profile leg 9 with the uncomfortable possibility that Ollie Laws could take 30 seconds out of him.  However, although severely lacking in background, it was our man who grabbed the precious half-minute - and more.  Game, set and match, good night Charlie.  That’s what I love about DA: he’s so disgustingly clinical.

A warm welcome to the pressure-cooked world of relay-running to John Charles.  I asked him if he had suffered from sickening pre-run nerves.  He nodded vigorously.  “And were they still there after you set off?” 

“Sure!” 

“And at what point of the run did you start to feel better?” 

“Better?!  I never felt better!  It was horrid from start to finish!” 

Well, John, you can get as nervous as you like, as long as you keep producing legs like that for the next 22 years or so.

For in 22 years John will be the same age as our ice-cool anchorman.  “Who have you got on 12?”  I asked a Newham man.  “A Four-minute miler!” he replied.  “So have we!” I shot back.  “Ours is 43,” he mumbled.  “So is ours!” I laughed.  Knut has been reserve for this team the last three years:  how nice to see him finally mature into a runner of real worth.

Can the blonde bomber make it eight?

In October, I flagged Spen for six National six-stage runs in a row.  Well, we had a man go an incredible one-better yesterday.  Paul and I have 5 A-team runs to our name – and several more have four – but the indefatigable Gnasher has a 100% seven-for-seven record.  A pearl for every year 1999-2005, not a clunker in sight.  There have been six ‘longeys’ and that 16:15 short-stage in 2000.  A.R.M. was on eloquent form as he wrote: “Young ‘Nasher’ went through the field like a dose of salts.  Taking the final turn wide, while Belgrave jaws gaped in wonder, Kevin surged up the final slope with eyes focused on infinity.  Absolutely Awesome!”   Can the blonde bomber make it eight we wonder?  Yes!  We shout. 

As the SEAA president handed me my medal yesterday, she looked me in the eye and said, “this was for John Jeffery, wasn’t it?”

“You bet,” I replied.