The Great North Goose Chase

I arrived at the end of the Great North Run at the weekend, having taken four and a half hours to get there. There was a large collection of tents, all promoting their very worthy charity causes, and food stalls, doing what they can to ensure that people like me can maintain my current level of obesity. 

People milled about. Sweaty people in blue T Shirts which proclaimed them as “FINISHERS”, children wearing ice cream smiles and dogs darting excitedly from one place to another in the hope of a dropped burger or chip. 

An announcer who could not be escaped, as he was broadcasting over a very loud PA system, exhorted us all to visit him on “Avenue C” because “We want to hear your story!”

No, mate, you really don’t. Because if you broadcast my story of how we got to the event, in the face of all the positivity in the air at that moment, I would single handedly kill the vibe. Let me explain.

My Stepson and his girlfriend were participating in the race. (I’m sorry if I gave you the impression that I was taking part, as looking back on my first paragraph I can see that you may have been led down that path. But those who know me will understand that I’m more likely to see Crystal Palace win the Premier League than run 13.1 miles). I was there simply to provide moral support and cheer them over the finish line. 

We set off in good time, oblivious of the challenges ahead. After a sustaining bacon sandwich at M&S (middle class obligation) we hopped on a metro to go to South Shields, which on better days is a journey of about 40 minutes. But this was not a better day. 

There were 60,000 people taking part in this annual event, along with two or three supporters each, which meant that South Shields was bracing itself for something like 200,000 visitors on this sunny Sunday afternoon. What I wasn’t prepared for was for them all to try and get on the metro at Pelaw. 

Still, we met a few characters on the train. A nice middle aged couple from Darlington, whose daughter was running, and a six year old girl from Manchester who told us all about her home life in a very loud voice from a distance of about six inches. On the downside, a huge backpack got on with a skinny lad attached to the front of it, carrying the whiff of stale sweat and cannabis. I began to regret my bacon sandwich.

At least we were entertained in the two hours and thirty five minutes that we spent in their company. Yes, I did say two hours and thirty five minutes. By the time we got to the finish line on the seafront, which is a fifteen minute walk from the station, we had spent nearly three hours getting there. This included getting off at Pelaw and going all the way back into Newcastle to try and actually get on a train to South Shields at an earlier point where the crowds might not have been so heavy. 

My stepson had already finished by the time we got anywhere near the finish line. He’d managed the distance quicker on foot than we had on public transport, having raised a great deal of money for the National Tinnitus Association in the process. My admiration for his achievement was not diminished by the frustration that I felt in missing his moment of triumph at the end of the race because it had taken so long to get there. I will never not be impressed by his and his girlfriend’s efforts. 

There was a major bonus of our visit, as we met our stepson’s girlfriend’s parents and his girlfriend’s cousin for the first time, and very nice people they are too. I can only hope that they think the same of me: I wasn’t really at my best after spending the best part of the afternoon on a hot sweaty train. 

Despite the obvious attractions of the place, there was no reason to hang around in South Shields. I will go back when it’s a bit quieter, as it’s a seaside town with some lovely Victorian architecture and a Fish and Chip shop that is so well regarded that it has it’s own brown sign directing tourists to it. But that’s for another day. Circumstances on this occasion dictated that we turned around and went straight back to Newcastle as soon as we got there, which was the cue for another thirty five minute wait outside the metro station before we even got on a train. 

The day got a lot better after we and our new friends arrived at the ridiculously named “Scream for Pizza” restaurant in Sandyford. Thankfully, we didn’t have to scream our orders (although I was tempted) and we all sat down to truly great pizza before getting to know each other better. But I was still rocking the “hot and sweaty old man” image and after spending so much time travelling I could feel tiredness creeping up on me like a cat with it’s cold yellow eye on a sparrow. At any moment it could leap at me and I’d end up face down in my N’Duja and mozzarella with a concerned crowd around me. 

I think if I go next year, I’ll run it. Even at my pace, it’ll be quicker than getting the train.