Picture imperfect: The curse of the race photographer

There's just over a kilometre to go of the glorious Hampshire Hoppit Trail Half Marathon and, as I round a tall hedgerow - my thoughts drifting to the finish-line goody bag - a dizzying hill greets me. 

Powering up the incline, my legs burn and I can hear myself making some kind of guttural wheezing noise as it takes every ounce of energy I have left to beat the seemingly-vertical pathway. 

Reaching the crest of the hill I am greeted, not by the cheers of awestruck spectators, but by the unwelcome site of the race photographer. Perched on a camp stool and snapping away at the passing runners, like a lazy big-game hunter taking a trip to the nearest zoo rather than the Serengeti, I sense that he has me in his sights.

Unsure whether to jauntily wave, smile or give a thumbs-up, I opt to do nothing and instead attempt to look like a serious runner who is nearing the end of a breath-taking race across the Hampshire countryside. Unfortunately, the resulting photograph tells a very different story.

Indeed, if a picture is said to tell a thousand words, then most of those associated with this particular image would be obscene. Far from appearing like a confident runner who is digging deep to finish with a flourish, I look like I am moments from death. Worse still, the angle of the image doesn't even make the hill look particularly steep.

However, this is not the first time I have been captured at my worst by race photographers. In fact, it seems to be standard practice with every race I have entered and has made me wonder whether there is some kind of a conspiracy amongst the snappers to take bad photos of me on purpose. It's either that, or  I really do look like I'm about to vomit whenever I run.

Exhibit B

Browsing the vast gallery of images after a race does not help matters. Every other runner appears smiling, happy, waving or powering on with a look of steely determination and the confident composure of a serious athlete striving for a PB. Anyone stumbling across my images, meanwhile, must surely think that I have somehow signed myself up for the wrong race, presumably having ticked 'half marathon' instead of '1km family fun run' and been too embarrassed to back out.

Thankfully the organisers of the Hoppit didn't charge runners anything extra to download the race photographers' output. While having to pay for the offending photos would have felt too much like paying a mugger to rob you, having them for posterity will at least remind me of the painful moments, if not of the brilliantly organised event itself.

In reality, while the pictures may have told a different story, my first race in two years was a joyous and uplifting experience, reminding me of exactly why running is so special. The hours spent on solo runs can be both challenging and rewarding, but nothing compares to the anticipation and rush of endorphins that comes with competing. The thrill of running with others, to achieve an entirely personal time, is unattainable in any other setting and has been missed by us all during these long lockdown months.

Thank God, running races are back.

As for the race photographers, I'm pretty sure I'll be maintaining a social distance from them for years to come!

Enjoyed this? Check out my new book: The Running Drug

Available in ebook and paperback from Amazon.

From cancer diagnosis to marathon medal, via gloved fingers, blood tests and black toenails,  The Running Drug tells the personal story of how Tim Beynon’s running addiction helped him to overcome cancer, finish his first marathon and discover a fitter, healthier future.

REVIEWS

"Tim Beynon found himself in a situation nobody would want, and he ran and wrote his way out of it with searing honesty and a self-deprecating wit. It's a practical, morbidly fascinating and inspiring read. It made me want to get myself checked out."

Paul Tonkinson, Runner's World columnist and comedian 

"Tim’s 16-month journey is filled with worry, hope, belief, determination and achievement. Relatable and even funny at times, Tim overcomes so much and will hopefully help many other people think twice about the importance of health checks, at whatever age. The Running Drug made me smile, as well as think about all my male family and friends. The included information could be really helpful to them and may even save someone’s life. It’s a great book, highly recommended."

Nell McAndrew, 2.54 marathoner and model

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Running in the snow - fun or foolish?

Let's be honest, a smattering of the white stuff brings out the inner eight-year-old in all of us. It's like being transported back in time to the days when a hastily confirmed snow day meant that school was replaced with snowball fights, sledging, frost bitten fingers and day-long nasal dew drops. And so it was this weekend, when a blanket of snow greeted my family and I as we drew back the curtains on Sunday morning.

A thick carpet of snow covered our immediate surrounds and, after fighting my children into waterproof clothes, we ventured to a nearby hill, armed with a dusty sledge. Unfortunately, we were not alone. Most of the town had descended on the hill, turning a humble sledging opportunity into a coronavirus super spreader event. So we about turned and opted for a winter walk instead, accompanied by two grumpy children and a redundant sledge.

Before returning home though, I left my wife with the grumbling duo, offloaded my coat and joggers, and headed off for my Sunday long run. 

I was immediately grateful for the opportunity to have a snowy adventure of my own, revelling in the scenery created by a winter storm that had transformed familiar trails into movie-like scenes. Also grateful for my trail shoes, it was apparent early in my run that I would have to have my wits about me to judge snow depth, slippage potential and snow-covered water hazards.

The kilometres ticked by, albeit at a slower pace than normal, and - had it not been for the repeated photographic stops - I would have felt far more tired than usual. Running through snow is not too dissimilar to running on sand. Everything requires that little bit more effort and one's concentration level needs to be on a higher plane to avoid rolling an ankle or face planting into a drift. 

However, if you find a track or trail away from the crowds of snowmen-making families and sledging teenagers, a blanket of snow brings with it a magic silence and stillness that is unique to the conditions. At one point - the furthest point from home on my run - I stopped on a side-track that was, as our now recycled Christmas cards professed, deep and crisp and even. There was no one else around, no human or automotive noises to be heard and the only tracks in front of me were of the avian variety. In reality, I was probably no more than five miles from a McDonalds, but this could have been somewhere in the Arctic Circle rather than Hampshire. It was wonderful.

Thankfully, I managed to get around and home without falling foul of Mother Nature and, despite having fingers like frozen chipolatas, loved every minute of my snowy Sunday long run. As for my sledge-cursing offspring, they had spent the duration of my run creating a spectacular snowman in the back garden but, having exhausted the novelty of the conditions, were now back on a screen.

Snow or no snow, some things never change.

Enjoyed this? Check out my new book: The Running Drug

Available in ebook and paperback from Amazon.

From cancer diagnosis to marathon medal, via gloved fingers, blood tests and black toenails,  The Running Drug tells the personal story of how Tim Beynon’s running addiction helped him to overcome cancer, finish his first marathon and discover a fitter, healthier future.

REVIEWS

"Tim Beynon found himself in a situation nobody would want, and he ran and wrote his way out of it with searing honesty and a self-deprecating wit. It's a practical, morbidly fascinating and inspiring read. It made me want to get myself checked out."

Paul Tonkinson, Runner's World columnist and comedian 

"Tim’s 16-month journey is filled with worry, hope, belief, determination and achievement. Relatable and even funny at times, Tim overcomes so much and will hopefully help many other people think twice about the importance of health checks, at whatever age. The Running Drug made me smile, as well as think about all my male family and friends. The included information could be really helpful to them and may even save someone’s life. It’s a great book, highly recommended."

Nell McAndrew, 2.54 marathoner and model

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Why I'm no longer taking running for granted

Why I won't be setting a running goal in 2021

Do you run in kilometres or miles?

A little while ago I ran a simple, Saturday-night Twitter poll that inadvertently divided the running community into two passionately distinct camps; those who loyally run in kilometres and those who incomprehensibly run in miles.

I was certain upon undertaking the aforementioned social media survey that the vast majority of the world's runners would confirm their metric allegiance. However, with echoes of the Star Wars universe, the rise of the Imperial masses seems to have overpowered the rebellious metre masters. Those running in kilometres are in the minority as milers, it transpires, now dominate the world's Strava metrics. Kilometre-runners are the Ewoks to the Mile-runners Stormtroopers.

This result surprised me, to say the least. As someone who has always run in kilometres, I unconsciously map and measure every run in this way. I have my favourite 5K and 10K routes, I mentally map my long runs with around 15-20KM in mind, I'm happy if my pace averages anything below a five minute kilometre and my goals are all metrically-minded. 

Changing to miles is something I have never even contemplated and the thought of heading out for a quick three miles, instead of 5K, just does not compute with my brain. I have no concept of what a good mile pace would be and setting my weekly, monthly and annual goals in miles would be as alien as asking me to type this post in Spanish.

But running is a strange world, where kilometres and miles live oddly side-by-side. Our shorter races are always run in kilometres - the 5K and 10K bread and butter - while our longer races are always run in miles - the 13.1 mile half and the 26.2 mile marathon. No one thinks of a marathon as 42.19 kilometres and no one approaches a 10K thinking of it as 6.2 miles.

While training for the marathon, I ran more to time than I did to distance, but I still measured the runs in kilometres. Indeed, I believe the link between time and distance is the reason why runners are so loyal to one measurement over the other. Whether you run in kilometres or miles, if you have done so for a prolonged period of time, your body knows how long one unit of that measurement is. You become so familiar with the distance that, on those days when, heaven forbid, your watch battery has died, you can guesstimate how far you've run with relative accuracy. Like a natural odometer, your legs record a tally that is unconsciously recorded in your brain in either kilometres or miles.

Of course, for me, as someone who runs exclusively in kilometres, my brain has blessed me with the added complication of hypocritically computing all non-running distances in miles. I drive in miles, I travel on trains and in planes in miles, and I measure points on a map in miles. Ask me to do any of these things in kilometres and my brain simply shuts down, in much the same way as it does whenever my children ask me anything vaguely scientific; Dad, why's the sky blue? Dad, what's the difference between fog and mist? Dad, why do you sweat like a horse when you run?

So, what is the right unit with which to measure your running accomplishments? The answer, of course, is kilometres, and here is my justification; You get more of them in every run, meaning that the clocking up of KMs - and the reassuring buzz of your watch as you pass each one - provides a more frequent psychological boost to the average runner. Furthermore, kilometres are made up of metres, a simple unit of measurement that anyone who has ever sword fought with metre-rulers at school will be familiar with. The fact that there are a thousand metres in a kilometre is also simple to compute. Feet, inches and miles, however, are an entirely different and bewildering kettle of fish. How many of you know how many feet there are in a mile (no clues, you'll have to look it up)? And how many running tracks on earth are measured in feet over metres? Precisely none. 

With pun fully intended, this is a debate that will run and run. However, while I respect those of my fellow runners whose allegiance is imperially-driven, I'm proud to be a kilometre Ewok. After all, remember what happened to the Stormtroopers on Endor?

Enjoyed this? Check out my new book: The Running Drug

Available in ebook and paperback from Amazon.

From cancer diagnosis to marathon medal, via gloved fingers, blood tests and black toenails,  The Running Drug tells the personal story of how Tim Beynon’s running addiction helped him to overcome cancer, finish his first marathon and discover a fitter, healthier future.

REVIEWS

"Tim Beynon found himself in a situation nobody would want, and he ran and wrote his way out of it with searing honesty and a self-deprecating wit. It's a practical, morbidly fascinating and inspiring read. It made me want to get myself checked out."

Paul Tonkinson, Runner's World columnist and comedian 

"Tim’s 16-month journey is filled with worry, hope, belief, determination and achievement. Relatable and even funny at times, Tim overcomes so much and will hopefully help many other people think twice about the importance of health checks, at whatever age. The Running Drug made me smile, as well as think about all my male family and friends. The included information could be really helpful to them and may even save someone’s life. It’s a great book, highly recommended."

Nell McAndrew, 2.54 marathoner and model

 Next step: Join the conversation in our Facebook Group

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Runinng with a cold during the coronavirus pandemic - snot easy!

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A year ago, a cold was a cold. If I had one, I’d be miserable, I’d look like death and people would generally refrain from a cuddle, but we’d all otherwise go about our days. Today, however, venturing out in public with a cold feels like you’re threatening the security of the nation. People stare in horror, hurry their children away and tighten their face masks at the mere sight of your blood shot eyes or, heaven forbid, the sound of an involuntary sneeze, however muffled by your incendiary tissues.

 

My cold this week has put me firmly in the ‘he must have coronavirus, let’s avoid him’ camp, but I can’t blame people for scrambling to the nearest exit in their bid to escape the fallout zone of my nostrils. While I most definitely don’t have coronavirus  - no fever, no continuous cough and no loss of taste or smell – I’ve not exactly been an advert for positive wellbeing either, a point that was brought starkly home to me on my first post-cold run.

 

In hindsight, I should have left it one more day, but in my Lemsip-addled brain, I was determined to show this cold who was boss and get back to running. Over compensating for the slight dip in temperature, I spectacularly over dressed for the gentle 5KM I had planned, donning leggings and a buff around the ears. These served to almost instantaneously warm me up to a beyond comfortable temperature and set the trend for what was to be the most uncomfortable run of the year.

 

Without wanting to put you off your dinner, colds inevitably come with mucus and the kilometres that followed saw much of that mucus attempting to find its way out of my nose or down my throat. The result, I imagine, was the sight of a sweaty man whose bloodshot eyes were streaming and whose nose was running faster than he was. The strange gurgling/hacking noises, meanwhile, were not too dissimilar to those you’d expect from your average zombie. No wonder people were crossing the road 50-metres ahead of me, they were probably rushing to find the nearest cricket bat with which to bring my undead suffering to an end.

 

My energy levels were low, but at the back of my mind I had a nagging voice – most likely that of my old PE teacher – telling me; “This is good for you. It’ll sweat it out of you.” Of course, a large part of me wanted to believe it, but another part of me wondered whether “sweating it out of you” was supported by any kind of clinical evidence. Much in the same way as “run it off” was often used in my school days as a cure for sprained ankles and lower limb fractures, I doubted whether there had ever been a published study of either practice in the British Medical Journal. Nevertheless, I kept going.

 

Labouring around the familiar route, I was of course aware that I was still poorly, so I purposefully ensured that I maintained as much distance as I could between myself and anyone else on the pavements. The result was that I zig-zagged across streets and stumbled off kerbs, looking like I’d taken my last two paracetamol with a pint of Jack Daniels. However, I know that I did the right thing by my fellow pedestrians – as the majority of runners always do, despite the occasional glassy-eyed stares of those sceptical of anyone breaking a sweat.

 

By the time I reached home, I felt like I’d been in a fist fight. Everything ached and I had a ringing in my ears, but my breath eventually returned, my eyes stopped watering and, as I stepped into the shower, I realised that I actually did feel better for it. My body had needed a bit of a beasting to get it functioning properly and my mind had needed the wake up call to stop moaning and get on with getting better.

 

Granted, running with a cold is perhaps not a training session any of us would ever opt for, but when you’ve got no option – and providing you can accept the fact that you are going to look the worst you have ever looked – my 100% non-clinical advice is go for it. Just remember to take a tissue or two with you.

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Running backwards - Why running your favourite run in reverse works wonders

I am a creature of habit. I like my tea and toast in the morning, I sit in the same seat on the sofa to watch TV and I run the routes I am most familiar with, most of the time. It's boring, predictable and like being trapped in my own version of Groundhog Day, which is why I decided to try something radical when I strapped on my trainers last night, something that would push me out of my comfort zone and help me to cast off the shackles of routine.

I was going to run my usual route, but in reverse!

You only have to cast your eyes over my Strava run record to see that I have a handful of routes that I love. I enjoy testing myself on the segments I know so well and take comfort from knowing the routes like the back of my hand. I run these routes on autopilot, every turn, every hill, every crossing, junction, pavement and trail, they are all so familiar and require no thought whatsoever. However, I always run them the same way, starting and finishing at the same point and sticking rigidly to the clockwise or anti-clockwise routes I have always taken. Until yesterday.

Throwing caution to the wind, with the kind of careless abandon usually reserved for those rare occasions I choose Shreddies over muesli , I decided that I would run an ultra-familiar 45 minute route the wrong way.

So I set off, turning left at the end of my road instead of right, and so began an entirely new run. It was genuinely liberating, every road seemed different, every hill became a descent and every descent a climb, I noticed houses, gardens, roads and scenery that I had never registered before. I was seeing my home town and the roads I knew so well in an entirely new light. The route was the same, but the run was a true first.

The bizarre thing, however, was that running in reverse added around a minute to my time. I can only put this down to the fact that I was taking in my surroundings more and concentrating on where I was going, which suggests, of course, that familiarity makes you faster.

But it wasn't about time last night, I felt like I'd discovered a new route, and it felt great. So next time you set out on your favourite run, turn around and go the other way, you won't regret it.

Tick bites: The runners' summer curse

Earlier this month the Government loosened its grip on lockdown and allowed us to venture outside more than once a day. The news came as a huge relief for frustrated runners like me, who had spent two months in daily turmoil over whether to run on one's own, or walk with wife and children.

For one blessed week, I could enjoy the escape of a solo run around the streets of my home town, as well as the unutterable joy of a daily stroll with two ever-moaning, primary-age oiks. After such an extended period of enforced exercise restriction, this felt like we were being spoilt and that progress was at last being made towards a return to normal, or whatever normal may be in the post-corona world.  At least, all that was until I happened across a creature that would send me back into personal lockdown.

The creature in question was mere millimetres in size, but  when I noticed it firmly attached to my right calf as I stepped out of the shower, I knew instantly that I'd become bonded to one of Hampshire's most unwelcome of summer inhabitants, the tick.

A hasty Google search later and I was bent over my assailant, armed with a pair of tweezers. Pinch, but don't squash the tick and be sure not to twist as you pull in order to extract it in its entirety. The instructions were straight forward, but my new companion had done a Cummings and flagrantly disregarded all social distancing rules to bury himself head-deep in my leg. So, like extracting my children from McDonalds mid-Happy Meal, it took a surprising effort to heft the beast from its feeding place, thankfully in tact.

Thereafter, I did what all sensible, non-medically educated folk do in such circumstances and once again pored over Google in an attempt to reassure myself that I didn't have to worry about Lyme disease. However, the development of a suspicious looking circular leg rash over the next day or two saw me reaching for the GP's number and, one socially distanced trip to the pharmacy later, I found myself with a box of antibiotics and instructions to avoid sunlight for the duration of their course.

So, with the rest of the country enjoying repeated daily running in the outdoors - and my Strava feed seemingly mocking me with tales of intriguing trail runs - I have returned temporarily to the treadmill as I face a further week's lockdown. Well, almost.

Friday was, after all, my birthday, so the family and I did venture out in the sun and heat for a short celebratory run together. It was a pure joy, although wearing leggings, a long sleeve running top and a cap in almost 30 degree heat drew some strange looks from t-shirted neighbours.

My advice to everyone enjoying the sunshine and running al fresco today, avoid long grass and wear long running socks or tights if you can bear it. Ticks may be tiny, but they can pack an unpleasant punch and we've all got enough to deal with at the moment without them!

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