23 September - Me and John Parrott

I'd spent all day on Saturday feeling like death, after only a few bottles of London Pride at the bash the night before, so it came as a bit of a surprise to wake up this morning feeling almost alright.

Now, you can have two kinds of races: good, and bad. 99% of bad races come about because you start off much faster than you can hope to run the distance, get knackered, and spend up to nine-tenths of the race feeling awful and being overtaken by an increasingly ageing demographic of the field. Good races happen when you get it just right at the start then spend the rest of your time actually racing people rather than cursing them as they fly past.

Last year, the Sutton Six was firmly in the Bad category for me. It's not a particularly quick course considering it's tarmac, with some small hills at the start. The problem is that there are three of them and you do part of the same 3K loop twice, so it's easy to accumulate an overdraft at the Lactic Bank if you gun it.

Last year's torture: Conveniently forgetting that I'd run about 10 miles a week on average for the previous two months, I set off at a cracking pace, and everything was great for about a mile. Then it got seriously bad. I considered calling it a day at 3K - but eventually crawled to the finish in around 42 minutes. This year, learning my lesson, I set off only mildly too fast and slowed right down at the first sign of a hill. At 2K, I caught up with John Todd's daughter Gemma, running another really good race - and at 3K I actually felt nice and relaxed. The same hills came and went around the second loop, and then we were off and over the bridges.

The long downhill stretch was where I really died last time, but this time it was a lovely run and I forgot all about racing for a minute or two, which was how I came to lose touch with John Parrott. I've beaten or been beaten by John, who runs for Stockport, and probably doesn't play a lot of snooker, in close finishes all year - and when I'd found myself with him again within the first kilometre of this race I decided to stay close and see how he ran the course. Easy on the ups, quicker on the downs, all the way. Good man.

Amyway, John and me, we're close, for 5K, or as close as two blokes in short pants and vests can be when we don't actually know one another. Then he has a drink at the water station, my mind wanders, and he's gone. I spend the last 3K of the race alone, gradually catching someone from Chester Tri ahead (John's shot away into the distance by now), but too gradually to make any difference. I settle for a controlled finish, and as a result miss my PB by 1 second. Again. Oh well, I'm sure I'll smash the PB to bits properly when I'm not marathon training!

We don't hang about at the finish too long, as the parking for the race is in a muddy field along a very single track lane, but do get the chance to say hello to Stuart Doyle, who's run "33 something", and Mary, who seems happy that it's over! Gemma's had a good run, and Barry Chambers completes the Vale Royal finishers on the day.

Guilt (force 6) strikes on the way home, as I remember that I'd originally thought to do another 13 miles after the race, but then I remember all those sensible things about recovering properly from races - and the two hard runs I have coming up on Tuesday and Thursday!