Something new to start off Saturday morning: Sheringham Park Run.
OK…
I do enjoy running a new Park Run route. It reminds me as to why the beauty of Brockwell Park Run is so special.
I didn’t do any reading around the Sheringham course. Just turn up, just… do it, Jase.
I was a little alarmed to see that the crowd of 100 or so weekly runners were wearing what resembled walking boots, rather than light running shoes.
Ah.
And so it was a cross country 5km.
This could be interesting.
I was a half-decent cross country runner back in the rolling South Notts wolds at secondary school.
This was more to do with most of the other yoof seeing the weekly exercise as an opportunity to steal a crafty fag / fondle behind a bush.
I don’t think that there were many faggers or fondlers on the Sheringham Park Run.
And so where to position yourself in the pack?
At the front, stooopid.
LEG IT as soon as the race starts. Lead right from the flag being dropped, even if it is only for the first 100m.
It was more like the first 10m to be honest.
I soon clocked that the course was a large circular route, taking in much of the perimeter of the Sheringham Country Park.
A sharp left around a corner and the vista of Weybourne Windmill came into view, just as the North Norfolk morning illuminations broke through to light up the scene.
It was most splendid.
As ever with Park Run, you tend to find your place in the pack with your fellow runners.
I was paired up with a spindly chap, all elbows and knobbly knees as he jerked his way around the 5km.
He was running with a rucksack, which was slightly odd. He was also carrying a water bottle.
I heard it sloshing around as he breathed down my neck from behind.
I let him take me and then 10m, 50m, 100m whilst he was ahead, and I could still hear the rumbling.
Oh.
That will be my stomach, then.
Press on, Jase.
I put in a sprint finish, and was rewarded with 11th place in the race (that’s not a race.)
This translated to a second place position in my vets category, but a disappointing official race time of 23:47 - more than two minutes off a PB.
Mr Water Carrier struck up a conversation as we both clocked in with the barcodes. He asked me where I was from.
With absolutely no thought, I instinctively replied with Nottingham.
It’s been a while since I said that.
Where am I from?
Nottingham? South London? Bloody Essex?
A quick shower in the van, and then I stepped out for a Saturday morning walk.
Talk Talk’s Spirit of Eden album kept me company. It just seemed to suit the aroma of the autumnal acorns filling the air around me.
Or maybe that was my bacon breath?
I did the Sheringham charity / vintage shop circuit. I’m never quite sure which is which.
The GOD SQUAD was out in force in the town, handing out flyers and trying to clock up some Saturday morning conversions.
A middle-aged man dragging a full size crucifix asked me where I was from.
Without hesitation I said South London.
The conversation stopped instantly.
I doubled back along the beach, all the way over to West Runton. It was most definitely a morning for hit and miss snaps.
Daniel Ruiz Tizon appeared on my iPod. He’s always the same, always different. Absolutely compelling listening as you wish him on each week with his micro life struggles.
I attempted to jump down from a tidal windbreaker as I exited the beach at West Runton.
My facial expression was that of a pensioner who has left their reclining chair after an afternoon of watching Escape to the Sun.
The tidal windbreaker was all of 1m high.
OUCH.
That hurt.
Saturday afternoon was spent back in the van with my parents, reading the Jonathan Wilson Clough biog, and a little photo editing.
And then early evening came the train journey back to *over there.*
Oh dear.
Where am I from?