The Adidas Silverstone Half Marathon is, according to its organisers,  a much-loved and familiar milestone on the bitter ascending path of broken glass and crushed energy drink bottles that is the London Marathon training schedule. I have never really been tempted to run it before but decided, on a whim, to give it a go. What the heck? It’s another medal and when it comes to medals I’m like Muttley. I booked a place many months ago only to realise grumpily that it meant missing a Chelsea home game.
Silverstone is a motor racing track which has the interesting geographical quirk of being situated at the very centre point of the arse-end of nowhere. P is away snow-shoeing in the Alps at the moment (don’t ask) and the car is, in consequence, somewhere in an airport car park. The overwhelming difficulty of getting to the venue seemed a very good excuse for not bothering until I saw that a company was offering bus trips into the void that is Northamptonshire and glitz and glamour of 10, 000 unfit people risking an MI in unison.
The bus left Central London at 8 am so I set my alarm for a much earlier time. The alarm went off, I instinctively found the snooze button and slept on. Thus 7:30 found me running to the tube station and 8:00 found me still 4 stops away. As the train was above ground I texted a desperate message to the contact number of the bus company begging them to wait for 10 minutes. I got no reply – the bastards! I then phoned and got voicemail – the fuckers!
I burst out of Victoria tube station at 8:08 and skidded to a halt at the relevant bus stop at 8:09. The road was empty. I was furious, mainly at myself, but I was determined to find some reason to make it the bus company’s fault. At that point I remembered that I could simply bag the race and go see the game at Stamford Bridge. I stood dithering for a minute or two.
All of a sudden my mind made itself up. I was not going to be beaten. I was damn going to well get to Silverstone. I ran back to the station at what counts for me (and anyone dependent with a Zimmer) as a sprint. There I found a cab, told the driver brusquely to make for Euston with all available speed and sat grinding my teeth and fuming as the diesel taxi chugged through the back streets of West London.
At Euston I sprang up the escalator and bought a train ticket (for $30). I just had time to get a newspaper before jumping on to the train. As the train rattled through the suburbs and out into the countryside, I sat bolt upright in my seat, fists clenching and unclenching, trying to paccelerate the train by sheer force of will and irritation. When I had calmed down enough to regain the use of my hands, I texted the bus company asking them to confirm that they would condescend to take me home at least and also arranged for a cab to pick me up from Northamptonshire station and drive me to Silverstone itself (a $40 dollar ride). Round about this stage of the hour long journey into the boondocks, my imperious irritation gave way to an equally unattractive smugness. I had not been beaten! I had sorted it out!
As the train dawdled into Northampton station, my phone beeped. The so-called organiser of the bus trip was promising to try to hold the bus for me for 10 minutes. No guarantees he warned. That sent my heart rate into a rocket assisted ascent. I texted back that that was great news but a little academic 2 hours after the bus had left. I told him I was already in Northampton and asked him to confirm that he would at least make sure I had a place on the bus home. “Yes” was the texted reply.
The Northampton cab company had been as good as its word and was waiting outside the station. I raised my hand and waved to the driver and my phone rang. It was the bus company organiser. He had picked a bad time to call me. I was on a high induced by the cocktail of hormones and other chemicals produced by stress, anger and self-satisfaction. I prepared to stab him with a barbed comment.
“Er hi” he began
“What can I do for you?” I asked in a voice so sing-song I could have been slapping my thigh a-merrily in an amateur dramatics production of Oklahoma.
“I’m a bit confused” he continued “if you are in Northampton do you still need the seat on the bus?”
Oh this was too too easy. He was quite obviously a moron and it was going to be my pleasure telling him so. I waved my hand airily at the cab driver to tell him I would be with him in a minute. First, I had some business to attend to. Before I could get a word in, however,  Mr So-called Organiser Fellow went on:
“It’s just the bus is a race day transfer so if you are there already …”
The acid comment I had ready for him dissolved away on my tongue.
“Are you telling me the race is Sunday?”
“Of course. It’s tomorrow mate.”
So tonight I will set my alarm and, with any luck, I will be at Victoria Station at 8 am ready to board the bus.
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In the meantime, may I pimp this book:
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It is a collection of funny stories by British Bloggers including Emma K of this Parish. It was conceived, collated, edited, designed and published in a single week by the indefatigable Troubled Diva and the proceeds of sale go to Comic Relief. You can buy it here. Remember we are the nation that gave the world “Are you Being Served?” and “Mr Bean” so the quality of the humour is guaranteed.
I have no idea which of her articles Emma has included but I know the one I hope it is.