There have been others before. Ferdy Magellan, Chris Columbus, Jim Cook, Franky Drake, Dora Explorer and The Stotts. Great men and women who have pushed the boundaries, who've broken new ground, who didn't worry about what others thought could or couldn't be done, they just went out there and did it. And now they are joined by a new name. A man who didn't care that it was raining (it covers up the fact that I'm a sweaty git anyway), who didn't worry that his new trainers might get pretty damn muddy along the way, a man who made sure his nipples were well protected with en extra rub of Body Glide (god that stuff works miracles), a man who joined that exclusive band who've completed the circumnavigation of Portsea Island. There's only one other member of this club that I'm aware of, she gave me the Garmin maps of the route, which could feasibly mean I am the first male to conquer the island!
Of course such explorations are never without their dramas. Getting lost numerous times around the Eastney tip of the island probably added a mile or so to my route and the Tipner Foreshore being closed for roadworks forced me into a detour that meant I had to run amongst the residents of Pompey, in the daylight, in Lycra tights. A sight best kept away from Saturday shopping areas!
The main drama though came much earlier on the shores of Lock Lake as I rounded the section between The Thatched House and the Hayling Ferry. If the tide is out it's easier to run around on the small amount of exposed shoreline. I was merrily doing so when disaster struck! Unseen by me one section of the beach turned out to be a thick, deep, clay bog. When i hit it I instantly sunk up to my shins in the gluey pool. My momentum was enough to carry me through, just not my left trainer. Having loosened the laces to deal with the numb toe I'd been experiencing my foot simply slipped out and left the shoe behind. Not any old shoe of course, my two week old £80 shiny Brooks Ghost 5's. In as many steps as it took me to slow down and turn the water and sludge moved in and the trainer was gone. In blind panic I dived back in to the and thrust my arm into retrieve it, managing to do so before all trace was lost. I poured the pint or so of sloppy mess out, wrung my sock out, put it all back on and took a moment to collect myself before moving on. I'm sure I'll have setbacks along the way during the marathon itself and running the last ten miles with a shoe full of mud and stones is probably not the worst of it.
I ended up covering an unexpected 17.6 miles in 2:45 and was a gasping, muddy, Lycra mess by the time I attempted my "sprint" finish back into North End. I suppose you don't see runners covered in mud running the streets of the city every day so I'll assume it was this and not my Lycra running tights that the two old ladies at the bus stop were staring at. Mind you I swear I heard one of them say she'd been reminded to add chipolatas to her shopping list...
Of course such explorations are never without their dramas. Getting lost numerous times around the Eastney tip of the island probably added a mile or so to my route and the Tipner Foreshore being closed for roadworks forced me into a detour that meant I had to run amongst the residents of Pompey, in the daylight, in Lycra tights. A sight best kept away from Saturday shopping areas!
The main drama though came much earlier on the shores of Lock Lake as I rounded the section between The Thatched House and the Hayling Ferry. If the tide is out it's easier to run around on the small amount of exposed shoreline. I was merrily doing so when disaster struck! Unseen by me one section of the beach turned out to be a thick, deep, clay bog. When i hit it I instantly sunk up to my shins in the gluey pool. My momentum was enough to carry me through, just not my left trainer. Having loosened the laces to deal with the numb toe I'd been experiencing my foot simply slipped out and left the shoe behind. Not any old shoe of course, my two week old £80 shiny Brooks Ghost 5's. In as many steps as it took me to slow down and turn the water and sludge moved in and the trainer was gone. In blind panic I dived back in to the and thrust my arm into retrieve it, managing to do so before all trace was lost. I poured the pint or so of sloppy mess out, wrung my sock out, put it all back on and took a moment to collect myself before moving on. I'm sure I'll have setbacks along the way during the marathon itself and running the last ten miles with a shoe full of mud and stones is probably not the worst of it.
I ended up covering an unexpected 17.6 miles in 2:45 and was a gasping, muddy, Lycra mess by the time I attempted my "sprint" finish back into North End. I suppose you don't see runners covered in mud running the streets of the city every day so I'll assume it was this and not my Lycra running tights that the two old ladies at the bus stop were staring at. Mind you I swear I heard one of them say she'd been reminded to add chipolatas to her shopping list...
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