“Why are you going there?” My girlfriend asks, with a hint of concern in her voice. “Isn’t it a bit rough?”
Middlesbrough may not be high on the list of British tourist destinations, but I have a goal: the town’s annual 10k road race, and I want to reccy the “sights” that would make up the route.
I arrive at Middlesbrough’s railway station under grey and gloomy August skies. A light chill in the air carries a faint, almost metallic scent of an industrial town. I am already trying to block it out.
I start my reconnaissance at the Town Hall, the official start and finish line for the race. I can see the organisers erecting the timing chip pads on the road and the overhead gantry. The hall feels like a statement building; a grand, late Victorian gothic sandstone structure with dozens of arched windows like an administrative cathedral. I am impressed and hopeful for the rest of the walk.
I follow the race route north, underneath the railway line. A short walk later, I reach the “Old” Town Hall, Middlesbrough’s first building, dating from 1846. Expecting a well-preserved piece of local history, my hopes are dashed. I am greeted by a derelict shell with cracked windows, chipped red paint and walls scarred with graffiti. The hall sits on a patch of scrubland and not a well-kept square as I had anticipated. Behind the hall, two vast industrial cooling towers dominate the view, expelling aggressive puffs of water vapour.
Let down by the hall, I continue to the riverside. Into view comes the majestic Transporter Bridge, the symbol of the town. Its royal blue paint adds a welcome colour to the dull skies, its two support towers straddling the river Tees like pylons. I soon learn the bridge itself is also dormant. The lift mechanism needs repairing and requires a specialist part. The local council cannot afford the part, so for now the bridge will remain a sleeping giant.
It is now late afternoon and a biting breeze coming in from the North Sea gives me goosepimples. I leave the riverside and head back to the town centre. I pass a row of pubs, with lines of drinkers outside. I feel uneasy and hurry past a group lingering around the Town Hall, shattering the hopeful impression it first gave me. One individual stops me in my tracks, claiming to have won sixty-four thousand pounds at a bookies. I briefly listen to his speech with a hint of curiosity, but as he is reeking of whisky, I smile politely and move on swiftly.
I retreat to Albert Park, my final stop on my walk. It gives me a peaceful breather from navigating the gauntlet of the town centre, but the central fountain is clearly unmaintained, filled with thick green algae.
The grey day fades into black night. I head to dinner, on a side mission to find the local culinary masterpiece: the “Parmo”. The plate arrives, a frisbee-sized piece of breaded chicken, smothered with béchamel sauce and melted cheese, served with chips and a mixed salad. It is glorious. Admittedly not the best pre-run fuel, but without question the highlight of my day.
The next day, I get a new PB. The mission was worth it.
