The race that wasn't, the run that was

Today was supposed to be my first official 10km race. It was not my first official 10km race.

Two things conspired. First, me: I didn’t book in time, figuring I’d just rock up on the day and sort a temporary licence. A plan with a certain optimistic charm and a certain lack of a backup. Second — and I want to handle this delicately —

My friend with the washing machine issue from a while back was meant to join me this morning, but he had another emergency situation, this time involving his car. He phoned me last night, frantic, something about overheating and an urgent workshop appointment. And on that same call he said, “I know you’re going to write about me.” So I promised him I wouldn’t.

This is me not writing about him.

I will not mention that this is now the second last-minute mechanical emergency to separate this man from a run with me. I won’t note that his household appliances and now his vehicles seem to develop acute, run-timed illnesses with remarkable precision. I certainly won’t record that he promised to run back to his house and send me the “receipts” from his Strava — and that, to his enormous credit, he actually did. The man produces evidence. I respect it. But I’m not writing about it.

Anyway. Back to me, and the run that actually happened.

With the race off, my friend re-routed by his car, I improvised. There’s a parkrun about two or three kilometres from my house. So the plan became: run there, do the parkrun, run home. Add it up and it’s roughly a ten-kilometre morning. The very distance I’d been nervous about all week — just self-assembled, on my own terms, with nobody to perform for.

I arrived at the parkrun about fifteen minutes late, which meant a cheerful two-kilometre effort just to catch the back of the field. And there I made a discovery: arrive late to a parkrun and start at the back, and it is not, strictly speaking, a run. The back of the field was walking, chatting, enjoying the morning. The trail is flat, narrow, hike-like, genuinely lovely — and, from where I was standing, closer to a very pleasant park walk. So I did what any serious athlete would do: I took out my phone and edited some of my writing while I strolled.

Lesson logged: to actually run a parkrun, you arrive on time and go to the front. Otherwise, rename it.

By the end I’d covered nearly thirteen on the watch — call it a real ten, once my generous gadget is corrected — in an hour and forty. My longest real run yet, gathered up out of a cancelled race and a friend’s automotive misfortune. And at the finish, my shirt got a lot of attention for what’s written on it: remember who you wanted to be / be who you want to be. Which felt about right for a morning where nothing went to plan and everything worked out anyway.

No medal today. No official time. Just an accidental ten kilometres, a lesson about booking things in advance, and a friend whose alibis I have sworn never to document.

The race that wasn’t. The run that was. I’ll take it.