A life lesson from my fastest half-marathon

Thirty years ago: crossing the finish line of my fastest half-marathon.

Five miles into the race and with another eight remaining, I was having doubts about my ability to stick with the group of runners directly in front of me.

Up ahead the lead runners were out of sight. I was tagging along in the chasing group - and I do mean tagging along.

The group of five were doing consistent six-minute miles. So was I. The difference was I was hanging off the back of the pack, relying on sheer willpower to prevent myself from being dropped. Yes, I had a degree of confidence to stick with the pace, but it was wafer-thin.

Three months earlier I had barnstormed a half-marathon in 1 hour 19 minutes - taking 13 minutes off my previous best. However, that confidence boost had been dented when, two weeks before the current race, I'd run another half-marathon while recovering from a bad cold. I finished in 1:28 - not bad by previous standards, but way off my new record.

Now I was struggling to stay with the six-minute mile pace. I mentally set myself a target of reaching five miles in 30 minutes, after which I'd allow myself to fall back to a more comfortable pace. But there was a problem.

The group of runners were taking it in turns to act as front man - taking on the pace-setting duties for the others then switching over after a mile to let the next man do his bit.  I'd been so preoccupied trying to keep up at the back of the pack I didn't notice that I was next in line to pull my weight up front.

The conditions were perfect for long distance running. There was virtually no breeze, it was cool and the open countryside was shrouded by a thin mist. We had reached five miles bang on target. That's when the others called on me to get in place up front and do my shift. I had a choice to either buckle and fade away like a douche bag, or step up and lead the group through mile six.

Who's next? I'm hanging at the back of the chasing group,
shortly before taking over the paceman duties at five miles.

So there I was, very much feeling like the odd man out at the back. Doing your fair share of the pacesetting duties when required was an unspoken rule of the sport. I moved to the lead and decided that as bad as I'd been struggling, I would put in my one-mile shift to keep that six-minute mile canter going, even if emptied my reserves and punished me for the remainder of the race.

I concentrated on my running gait and cadence, making sure it did not slip from the pace I'd been following. There was a sense of honour in fulfilling the lead runner duty; carrying the group one mile closer to the finish. I didn't want to let them down, or require them to take over before I had fulfilled my mile. It would hurt but I'd stick it out, come what may. Then something happened.

As I pushed on, eager to be as competent a pacesetter as the others, I began to feel better. My running gained a bit more bounce. Before I knew it, the six miles marker appeared and I prepared to relinquish my spot at the front to allow the next man to do his pace shift.

Two things had happened during that mile. My watch showed I'd gone faster than a six-minute mile, it was about 10 seconds quicker. I glanced over my shoulder to see who was preparing to take the lead duties and saw the group of runners were no longer in a pack. They had started to string out, they were breathing heavier and none were near enough to take over the pace. I was feeling better, so I stayed at the front and added a second mile of pacesetting.

What had happened was the opposite to what I had feared. Rather than slowing down, I'd found the experience of being in front had lifted me. From somewhere inside I'd been able to tap into extra energy. It was a similar sensation to taking part in team relays, where a sense of duty to do all possible not to let down the others resulted in a level of effort that many times surpassed what might have been achieved as an individual.

I'd only slightly overcooked the pace in that first mile of pacesetting. The next mile also came in at around 5 mins 50 secs. I looked around to see if the others were ready to take back the pace role, but the group was now strung out in a line. My reinvigorated legs had taken the pace marginally beyond the fixed effort of the opening five miles. I pushed on, looking to see how much longer I could sustain that level, and with each mile completed my confidence grew that a personal best could be on the cards. It was. I ran beneath the finish line clock in 1:17:25.

During the next 12 years I ran more sub-1:20 half marathons, but none as swiftly as that one exactly 30 years ago this weekend.

As for the other runners in the group; well, the race changed complexion when my pacing altered the six-minute miles to 5:50 miles. They had been settled on running the half-marathon in the high 1:18s or low 1:19s, but most of them were pulled through faster as they followed my lead - indeed, one is seen about 100 metres behind at the finish line photograph. I feel they got an unexpected benefit too.

So what did I learn from it? It taught me that even when feeling tired and wanting to back off and sit back, doing the opposite can sometimes have a cathartic effect; pushing though the barrier of discomfort led to a place of more strength than I thought existed. And secondly, I learnt that taking on a dutiful role gave an added inner drive to succeed.