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Gothenburg: The World Masters Athletics - 800m
Tuesday 27th August 2024
First round of the 800m World Athletics Masters, Gothenburg, Sweden: V60 runners Nigel Herron, Phil Grabsky, Jonathan Burrell (Lewes but part of Phoenix training group), V65 Kevin Lowe, V55 Adrian Haines.
On-site report by Edna O'Brian (aka ChatGPT)
The afternoon was gray and sullen, a palette of pewter and slate. Dampness hung in the air, sticky and insistent, the kind that clung to your bones and made even the hardiest men uneasy. The runners gathered like sheep on the moor, all shapes and sizes, some sinewy and spare like winter branches, others bulkier, their muscles coiled tight as if in readiness for battle.
There was a curious silence before the start, a breathlessness among them, eyes flicking sideways, measuring rivals, taking in the lay of the land. In this place, it was the swift and the steadfast who’d rise above the clamor, leaving behind only the echo of their footsteps and the whispers of what might have been.
In the crowd, there were those who had been at it for years, who had carved their lives into the rhythm of the run, mile after mile, week after week, until it was no longer a pastime but a necessity. The old guard, weathered by wind and rain, had seen glory and defeat in equal measure. They bore the marks of time not as a burden but as a testament, each wrinkle and scar a story to be told on long, cold nights.
The newer ones—their eyes still shining with the naivety of hope—stood straighter, waiting for that fleeting chance to prove something, to themselves or to the world at large. You could see it in their taut faces, the trembling of anticipation, the way they stretched and fidgeted, as if every inch of their skin tingled with urgency. They had dreams yet unbroken by reality, still fresh as spring, the bloom not yet worn off.
The gun went off, and the world dissolved into motion. It was not a sprint but a measured desperation, a pacing that required both ferocity and restraint. Legs pumping, arms cutting through air, they wove a tapestry of effort, pushing through the ache, the breathlessness, the burning in the chest that grows sharper with every step.
The course snaked through two laps, as the stadium echoed with the sound of pounding feet. Past children with sticky fingers and wide eyes, past old men who watched with a detached sort of yearning, remembering their own days of vigor. Rounding curves that tested more than muscle, that stripped a man bare of all but his will. Along straights where balance wavered and one false step could undo months of effort. A first casualty – Kevin struck down by a torn adductor.
Among them was a man whose stride was so precise, it could have been set to metronome. He ran not with wild abandon but with an economy of movement, a calculation. There was steel in him, and yet something else, something softer—a yearning perhaps, a distant memory of why he began this journey in the first place. His name was Jonathan and he was striding towards a final – one of 12 true men of the 93 who had pledged to run.
Meanwhile, 2 more fell away – like climbers slipping on ice & shale – Phil and Nigel became detached; their hopes of personal bests shattering like falling stalactites.
The front-runners began to separate from the pack, their breaths harsh, staccato, like the wind whistling through the cracks of an old house. The finish was in sight, but it felt as distant as the horizon itself, shifting with every step, receding like a mirage. Pain set in, deep in the bones, a pain that didn’t just scream but gnawed. Still, they pressed on, for the end was not simply a line but a release, an exorcism of the relentless need to keep moving. Adrian was leading when another disaster struck – a calf screamed and his race was over.
And in the end, only one man – Jonathan- could bear the weight of time pressing down on him without crumbling. Through to the final: but victory is a fleeting thing, a shimmer of glory that dulls almost as soon as it was grasped. The real triumph is in the journey itself, in the grim determination that carries us through rain and sweat and despair. Or so they say. Those of us who failed to qualify sought solace in such thinking but resolved to train harder, longer, deeper.
When it was all over, the runners dispersed like leaves in the wind, each returning to their own lives, each carrying with them the silent knowledge that they had faced something elemental. They had stood on the edge and had chosen, again and again, to push forward into the unknown, knowing full well it could consume them. It was a kind of madness, perhaps, but also a kind of grace. We go again – one of us into the final, the rest of us to the next race, the next hope, the next unknown journey.
