My Greatest Triumph Yet

In October 2024, I get a call from my brother. He sounds excited. He says, “Have you seen that they're doing a Christmas version of the Chilly 10k at Castle Coombe?”

Like me, this jolly fat man will travel great distances in exchange for food.

I tell him that, no, I haven't heard about this. But we've already done the race a couple of times now - and my last visit to the track wasn't exactly a fond memory for me. But Scott won't be easily dissuaded from his prize. He says that people are allowed to run in fancy dress, that there’s also a children’s Santa run later in the day, and that there will be mince pies given out on the finish line. I um and ah and hem and haw for a few moments, trying to find the politest way to decline or think up the best possible excuse – perhaps I’m having my leg hair permed or maybe he’d believe that running is against my newfound religion. But then Scott says the only sentence that could possibly change my mind.

“If you do it, you get a flashing medal.”

 With those words still echoing in my mind, we once again find ourselves on the starting line at Castle Coombe race circuit. This is my fourth visit to the course and apprehension is filling my heart, clouding me with bad memories of my last visit. As with the first time I ran the circuit, we’re in the middle of a horrendous storm with winds reaching sixty miles an hour in various parts of the country. The temperature is bitterly cold, made even more unbearable by the wide open space of the circuit and the relative lack of cover. So far it’s business as usual. All we have to do is complete three laps of the track and get back in the nice warm car.

But this time, there’s an added wrinkle in our run. We have the pressure of a goal. Back when we mentioned to our family that we were running this circuit again, Scott said that he wanted to finish it in under an hour, a small personal goal of his. I laughed it off – after all, one hour two minutes was my best time in the 10k for the last several years. Then my uncle spoke up and said, “If you can do it – both of you – in under an hour, I’ll give you a hundred quid each.”

Suddenly it wasn’t such a light-hearted jog around a racetrack. Suddenly it was a huge personal milestone to conquer.

Scott and I share a few pre-race jokes together, shuffling from foot to foot in the cold. We glance around and spot the pacemakers, positioning ourselves closer to the fifty five minute runner and putting the one hour pacer at our backs. There are a few hundred runners at the circuit on this cold Sunday morning in December. Quite a few of them are in fancy dress. I can’t help but wonder how many of them are doing this for that promised flashing medal or if anyone else’s uncle has promised them a hundred smackaroos for the privilege.

My view of the starting line and all the runners ahead.

Yes, I’m nervous, for a multitude of reasons. Firstly, I know that Scott has worked hard on his pace. He’s sent me the odd screenshot of his training in the last couple of months, showing that he’s able to smash 5k in thirty minutes easily. For him, finishing this course in less than an hour should be a simple enough task. Secondly, I’m remembering all the mental struggles I had while completing this circuit the year before and how much it has weighed on me ever since. Thirdly, we won’t win the money unless both of us finish in less than one hour; I can’t let my slow pace spoil things for Scott.

The race begins with a huge cheer. A bubble machine blows foamy “snow” across the start line, splattering everyone as we cross. Unlike all the other races I’ve completed, this time we’re running in an anti-clockwise direction. I assume that this is because of the strong winds blowing across the tarmac today; at times, it hits us from the side with such force that it’s hard not to stumble.

But we begin well enough. Scott and I keep a close eye on our pacer in front. We make good progress, moving up the pack and finding a good spot among the throng of other runners. Some – like us – decided against wearing fancy dress and opted for (comparatively) warm running gear. But there are still a fair few people wearing a variety of amusing costumes. I see giant wrapped presents, elves, snowmen and women, the odd Santa, a couple of fairies, and one man in full Grinch-Santa getup, complete with neon green face paint that somehow doesn’t drip down his face by the end.

About halfway through the first lap, I find myself getting too hot. I end up taking off my thick Christmas pudding hat and warm gloves, letting a bit of cold air cool my bare skin. It takes a good long while to find a decent setup that keeps me at the right temperature – I end up rolling my sleeves partway and using my chin-covering snood as a headband. 

 Halfway around the first lap, Scott glances behind us and points out that the sixty minute pacer is nowhere in sight. So far, we’re doing good. We’re going strong. I’m still feeling good and breathing well. Everyone around us has hit their stride and I’m using a few people ahead to keep my pace consistent. There’s a good vibe, with a couple of people cracking jokes and chatty casually as we go.

As the first lap ends, we run past a table of water and grab some plastic cups. This is where I start to fall behind. I have to slow down to drink. Scott doesn’t slow down, so he ends up chucking half the cup in his own face. But once I’m finished drinking, I can’t accelerate to catch him. Scott is now several metres ahead of me.

Now he starts to pull away. I tell him to keep going and do his best. I’m the middle of a group of people running at a good gallop and the last thing I want to do is push too hard and burn out during the second lap. I watch my brother get further and further ahead until I’m not sure which of the distance blobs is him. It doesn’t matter. All I can do is forge ahead and give it my all.

The second lap turns into the third. Casual chatter has dried up by now. My wife waves from the small crowd of chilly-looking people at the start line. I keep going, putting all my concentration into maintaining a good, consistent pace. I don’t need to be the fastest, I just need to keep going.

Professional runners start to lap us more and more. The fastest have already finished, turning in a final time of just over thirty-odd minutes. If I was that fast, I’d do these events more often.

Around halfway through the third and final lap, I glance behind me and see a sight that makes my heart skip a beat. The sixty minute pacer is in view. It’s a blonde woman with a determined smile and she’s gaining on me.

I push faster. The final corner snaps us back onto the last long stretch toward home, complete with a few dips and valleys. My lungs still feel good – not burning or bursting. I’m breathing well and managing a good intake. Even my thighs aren’t screaming in frustration. I have that David Goggins quote echoing through my mind once again: “Finish strong!”

People around me start to fall behind. I want to yell at them – come on, we’re almost there, don’t slow down now! – but instead I lower my head and push on. As people get slower, I get faster. I’m working my way up the pack now, getting quicker and quicker as a distance smear draws closer and transforms into the finish line.

Friends and families line up along the final tunnel, clapping and cheering us all home. My wife is there, whooping and hollering for me. My brother is there, yelling, “You’ve got this!” I push on, on, on, determined to beat the bloody course and I race to the line, closely matched by a man dressed as a Christmas tree.

Finally, it’s over. It’s done. I stop running and catch my breath. I collect my medal and eat a miniature mince pie and check my time. My jaw drops.

Fifty eight minutes and fifty seven seconds.

My fastest 10k in almost five years.

I couldn’t be happier. We both smashed our target goal. We did it.

Two bros, finishing in 56 and 58 minutes respectively.

One year after my worst run of all time, I returned to that circuit and enjoyed my greatest triumph to date. What a wonderful feeling. I set a new personal best, had a great time, and won a crisp hundred pounds into the bargain. Oh – and the medal? It’s very cool and it lights up.

Worth every metre.