Going Round the Bend

If you look up the phrase “Round the bend” in the Collins English Dictionary it is defined as someone who does foolish or silly things and is the British slang for mad; crazy; eccentric.

At the age of 62 I completed my first ever competitive Welsh Masters season on the athletic track as a 200 and 400 metres sprinter where “going round the bend” in these events is compulsory.

To the uninitiated it’s true that for someone of my vintage there is a correlation to the dictionary definition and conceivably calls into question my sanity in tackling such a challenge. However, I hope to convince you otherwise. Indeed, I aim to explain how refreshingly exhilarating getting up to speed can be and tempt those armies of mature road runners to head for the track and pull on a pair of spikes.

Over the years, I like many of my generation have enjoyed participating in various park runs, 10ks, half and full marathons. Although I continued to have enjoyment and enthusiasm for these distance races it was when I reached that special milestone age which entitles you to a free bus pass that I began questioning my future running ambitions. Should I be content in the knowledge that I was continuing to run good times in these races for my age but acknowledging the fact I would never achieve a podium finish? Although I continued running 5 and 10k races and training accordingly for a couple more years, the yearning for a fresh challenge grew deeper.

One aspect of my distance running which aroused the occasional murmuring of ooh from some spectators was my ability to put in a reasonably “fast kick” at the very end of a race. Consequently, I was curious to find out if this end of race talent could be isolated in some way so that I could test my speed in short-distant races against runners of my age category. To my surprise after a short investigation on the internet, I learned that there were athletic track and field events held regularly for people in my and other age band categories. There was a certain gravitas embodied in the name used to describe such combatants that appealed to me – “Masters!”

Kieran McDonnell Brecon 100m gold

However, I must be honest with you; the words “athletic track” activated a cautionary alarm signal in my brain cells. I had not stepped foot on an athletics track since my childhood days. Surely this was the setting solely for those elite athletes I viewed on the television screen to perform their artistry. This could not be a stage where someone of my age and pedigree had any right to access it?

This initial negativity was soon cast aside after locating a local website “Welsh Masters Athletics.” To my relief it simply stated that if I was new to masters’ athletics they recommended that I attend their open events held during the summer months and crucially that I did not need any experience to do so. I could enter any of the events on the programme and pay an entry fee on the day. The age category races ranged from 35 onwards in bands of 4 years. My ambitious choice was to choose the 100, 200 and 400 metre sprint races as my goals in the age category range 60-64.

My road running experience had disciplined me to train hard and regularly but the actual content of this training consisted essentially of long distance runs that took equally long periods of time to complete, most days of the week.

It gradually dawned upon me that I had no idea how you should begin to train for these sprinting events. Surely races that would take seconds and minutes to complete indicated training would be equally succinct. Naively I pictured in my mind this would entail a gentle jog over to the local park where I would measure out the appropriate distances on my GPS watch. Then run as fast as I could, immediately repeating the exercise a couple of times, checking to see if my finishing times were improving. I surmised that after a few weeks of this I would then visit an athletic track to replicate the grass training sessions before entering an official “masters’ race.”

It was time to be honest with myself. I knew full well this simple scenario could not be the case. Just saying the word “sprinting” out aloud seemed to trigger an urgent need within to take an extra deep breath. There must be a plethora of unknown difficulties and hardships I would need to embrace before I could begin to enjoy a brand-new running experience and environment.

Could someone of my age who had become shall we say “comfortable” performing well rehearsed training routines for the primary goal of running distance road races tolerate the shock of such a dramatic change in running ambitions both physically and mentally. The whiff of a new kind of running challenge quietly and nervously began to excite me.

My first tentative training exploration into running fast over 100 metres would perhaps be classed as a start by most non-expert observers but to me the unspectacular time of 17 seconds could only be matched by the surroundings and climatic conditions that accompanied it. An overgrown grassy lumpy overused football pitch tucked away in the corner of a large expanse of playing fields was my remote gladiatorial training arena. It was framed by a chilly drab grey buffeting windy morning. Here I plied my first apprentice sprint. Thankfully the only spectators to witness this inauguration were three elderly horses. They casually lifted their heads briefly above some wire fencing that enclosed them with a smidgen of curiosity to acknowledge my presence before returning to their more interesting and appetising pleasure of munching clumps of grass.

I repeated the run almost immediately determined this time to provide evidence to my doubting mind that with the assistance of raw emotional guts and effort I could improve on my original time and recover a little confidence. It was not to be. Indeed, as a slower time of 17.2 appeared on my hand held watch I questioned whether my original assumption of possessing a “fast kick” was as impressive as I had secretly imagined. This was not an encouraging beginning to my quest to eventually speed around an athletics track.

I realised now that if I wanted to be serious about taking up this challenge, I had to acquire knowledge of how to train and obtain the necessary skills to sprint fast. The internet provided the desired information. At first, I found the initial advice somewhat awkward to put into practice.

The instruction was clear. To prepare the body for fast explosive movement it was vital to perform specific warm up drills before commencing any further traditional training. The awkwardness did not lay in the content or difficulty of these warm-up drills but rather with vanity. What would the reaction of casual onlookers be as they observe a white haired gentleman in his 60s perform the following: walking in slow motion style with exaggerated start/ stop high knee lifts together with slow methodical low to high alternate arm swings; skipping up and down for 20 metres in child-like fashion; hopping high in the air on alternate legs looking not to dissimilar to a Morecambe and Wise dancing exit routine; fast repetitive high knee movements, that could comfortably accompany the Cockney song Knees–Up-Mother Brown.

Thus, for safety reasons I selected the same undistinguished venue and four-legged audience mentioned earlier to premiere my Monty Pythonesque” drills. From that day onwards I refused to worry if anyone observing my warm-up drills mistakenly assumed I was high on some illegal drug substance. In all seriousness I soon found the pre-amble of performing various skips, hops, jumps and other general flexible exercises become increasingly beneficial and enjoyable.

I continued to research all aspects of sprint racing: learning and understanding the complexity of how you move, where you place your foot on the ground, the sequences of movements and posture; the distinct sections to a sprint race; the technique and mechanics at the start, the acceleration, reaching and maintaining maximum velocity of speed for as long as possible before decelerating for the last part of the race in a relaxed fashion.

Incredibly I found being an unattached student of these matters late in life to be invigorating and not at all boring. Almost magically the warm-up drills together with specific training exercises was persuading my aging body to squeeze out more speed. Consequently, my training ground in the following weeks did not appear so bleak. If my equine spectators bothered to raise their heads now, they would see my times for the 100 metres improving to 13.68 seconds. Encouraged by this improvement I felt an inner confidence to transfer some of my training to a local athletics track. Racing spikes were purchased and as I perused an empty 400 metres track and stadium a feeling of excitement and power tingled within me. The seductive red tarmac and white painted lanes whispered unspoken encouragement. It suggested that my body and mind could tackle and savour the sensation and thrill of dare-devil dynamic speed that had lain dormant for so long.

After a month or so of acclimatising to track sprinting on the straight and further exploration of speed work my attention was then directed towards the sweeping bend and contours of the individual lanes. The 200 metres race is located at the beginning of the bend and each lane has a staggered start line. The inside lane starting point is quite some distance from the outside lane start. As I begin practising the 200 metres distance it becomes apparent that I am experiencing a curious sense of danger and addiction to the sensation my body feels as the centrifugal force of the bend seems to catapult me in and out of its opening and closing arcs. I build on this experience and gradually acquire the skill to steer and control my body as it enters and exits the sweeping bend without hindering the fast tempo or jeopardise the harmony of my rhythmic breathing. The weeks of training continue, including 400 metres track running where speed, technique, aerobic energy, guts, and two bends were encountered and mastered to the best of my ability.

Now the time had come for me to put into official practise what I had set out to do. I was ready to compete in the 200 metres Welsh Masters Championships. In stark contrast to the anonymity of mass participation road race starts the start environment here is intimidating and personal as I and each of my five fellow competitors have our names announced on a loudspeaker. Regardless of our age we stand in our adjudicated lanes like gladiators ready to fight. As the Starter issues the command “take your marks” I walk in front of my blocks, look at the impending curve of the track before me and quietly say a mantra I have rehearsed for the occasion – big arms, powerful drive, accelerate, float, and maintain form to the finish. Having made myself as comfortable as I can in the blocks the next order is short and sharp “Set.” I take a deep gulp of breath and raise my hips up high, my back now in line with my head, eyes stare a metre or so ahead down at the ground. A combination of emotions course through my body in the moment of silence: apprehension; nerves; trepidation; anticipation; excitement. The noise of the starter’s gun explodes in the air and as if on automatic pilot my arms swing into action, my legs drive powerfully and as I reach the 20 metre mark the head and torso of my previously angled body rises gradually ensuring a smooth transition from its acceleration phase to a floating, almost outer being experience. I engage the bend’s exit with all its hidden understated dangers and soon realise I have negotiated the first 100 metres without too much difficulty. At this point in the race, I am aware of my competitors for the first time. Strange as it may seem I can hear the actual noise of my competitor spikes hitting the track. I urgently return my concentration to the finishing line that lay 60 or so metres ahead. A stress and fatigue conversation between my mind and body momentarily whispers negativity but I counteract it immediately by re-focussing on sprinting tall and maintaining form. This successfully transports me to the finishing line and with one last determined dip I look up to see I have finished 2nd by some distance from the winner but ahead of my other competitors – 27.8. Regaining my breath, I shake hands with my fellow competitors expressing mutual admiration as we do so.

I cannot hide the elation and astonishment of just how much I had enjoyed the whole experience. The training, the nerves, the competitive procedures and processes on the day had all combined to unlock the hitherto dormant thrill of feeling fast and mischievously dangerous GOING ROUND THE BEND at my age.

P.S.

I am now 70 years old and hungry to compete in more races

By Kieran McDonnell

B

By Kieran