There was cake. There were buggies. There was a 97-year-old who absolutely upstaged me.
They say you never forget your first time.
Especially when there’s a camera crew, a screaming child, and you finish the whole thing feeling sore, vulnerable, and oddly proud.
Welcome to Ormeau parkrun, where I popped my parkrun cherry and it lasted just 27 minutes and 53 seconds. No one clapped. I left immediately. 10/10 experience.
The Premature Arrival
The run starts at 9:30am. I arrived at 9.
Vintage Phil. I’m that person who gets to the airport six hours early just in case security decide to go full MI5 on my backpack. So yes, I was loitering in Ormeau Park trying not to look like I was there to steal a dog and commit some other sort of anti-social behaviour.
Around 9:10am, a taxi pulled up and a group of confused runners tumbled out, the legendary parkrun tourists. You can spot them instantly: big smiles, GPS watches, total disorientation. Like athletes in a foreign exchange programme.
After my near bladder explosion incident in West Belfast, I made a pit stop at the public loos to empty myself of emotional baggage (and three cups of coffee). Then I wandered to the start area, which was predictably deserted. Just me, the wind, and a BBC camera crew. Naturally, I assumed they were there for me. Maybe word of my Féile 5K blog had spread?
Lost at Sea
The area started to fill up. Slowly at first, then all at once. I stood alone, watching seasoned parkrunners stretch and chat and give each other “good luck” nods like they were going to war. I felt like the new kid on the first day of baby infants, no clue where the toilets are, no friends, and an feeling as awkward as a nudist at a cactus farm.
Eventually, I spotted a “First Timer” sign and a cluster of runners gathered around it. I joined the group, but between the wind, the chatter, and my own spiralling thoughts, I caught roughly 10% of what the poor woman was saying. Something about barcodes and marshals and not dying. I nodded earnestly. I figured I’d just follow the crowd and hope for the best. Same strategy that I have used so far in life.
Public Humiliation Averted
At the start line, we got the usual shout-outs. “Anyone doing their 50th parkrun today?” Nobody. “Any 100th parkruns?” Still nobody.
I braced for the final blow: “Any first timers?”
But it never came.
No public outing. No baby seal claps. I remained incognito, just another lad in a tragic backwards hat pretending to know what he’s doing.
They also promised cake at the end. I made a mental note to earn that sugar.
The Run: Strollers, Suffering, and Shouting Children
Before I knew it, we were off. And Jesus, they weren’t joking about the start line congestion. The first 200 metres felt like trying to run through a packed IKEA showroom. But by quarter of a mile in, things opened up and I could actually breathe and pretend I was in a real race.
Conditions were perfect. About 15°C, overcast with a breeze, the kind of weather you dream about when your legs are made of porridge.
Ormeau’s course is a lovely loop, but there’s a few gentle rises just hilly enough to remind you that you’re not as fit as you thought you were. I paced myself off a woman with a pram. You haven’t felt humbled until you’ve been overtaken by someone pushing 18kg of snack-covered toddler.
Speaking of which, a crying child near the final kilometre pushed me into a gear I didn’t know I had. Something primal. Something annoyed. I owe that kid my sprint finish.
The Stats (Because It Still Counts)
I crossed the line in 27 minutes and 53 seconds, which is either impressive or pitiful depending on how many Instagram reels of Kenyan runners you’ve watched that week. Out of 613 parkrunners, I came home in 236th place, a perfectly respectable result if you squint at it sideways. I was 171st male, so clearly some women out there were moving at speeds that should require a permit. I also finished 26th in the VM35–39 age category, which is code for “men slowly falling apart at the seams.” My age-graded score was 48.24%, which is essentially the running equivalent of being told by your teacher, “Well... you tried.”
The Twist I Completely Missed
Remember that camera crew?
Turns out they weren’t there for my underwhelming parkrun debut. They were filming a woman named Grace Chambers, who, wait for it, became the oldest person ever to complete 250 parkruns. She’s 97 years old. She did it four weeks after keyhole heart surgery.
And there was me, acting like I was the main character for running a sub-28 5k.
I only found out later when someone WhatsApped me a BBC article. It’s the kind of thing that puts everything into perspective and also makes you want to shut up about your sore calves.
Would I Do It Again?
Of course I would. I already have.
Parkrun is a weird little cult in the best way possible. It’s a group of strangers pretending they’re not trying, casually demolishing 5Ks before breakfast. It’s free. It’s friendly. It’s fast if you want it to be. And there’s cake.
Like a lot of first times, it was messy, a bit sore, and over far too soon.
But you know what? I’m glad I did it.
Now if someone could please Photoshop me into that BBC coverage, that’d be great.
Image of Grace Chambers courtesy of Ormeau Parkrun
