Mon 23 June 2003

I was on the usual Sardine Express from Paddington last Thursday evening, sitting in a six-seat section, in one of the central seats, like so:

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As the train pulled into Reading, everyone around me got up to disembark, leaving me to muse over the order in which the empty seats around me would fill up.

This is what I thought would happen. The first person to arrive would sit here:

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1

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because they wouldn't have to make eye contact with me, and would be next to the gangway in case they had to flee from me if I initiated a brutal assault.

The second person to arrive would have a problem. They would have to weigh up the advantages of sitting in the vacant aisle seat, with the disadvantages of sitting next to me, and opposite No 1. On balance, they would probably go and sit by the window, though not, of course, next to me:

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1		2

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This minimises the horrors of personal contact, though in the event of a co-ordinated attack by No 1 and myself, they would be in trouble.

No 3 would obviously sit next to me, here:

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1		2

3	X

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because they have to sit next to, and opposite, someone and of the three available places, the aisle seat gives them the best combination of minimal personal contact and opportunities for escape from... yes, from a co-ordinated murderous attack by myself and Nos 1 and 2.

The next one is tough. Do you sit in the middle, hemmed in by all those horrible, foreign bodies? Or do you squeeze into the corner, where you would have no chance of escape from the increasingly likely assault, but would at least have the grimy window through which to admire the suburbs of Reading while being beaten to within an inch of your life? I suspect the latter:

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1		2

3	X	4

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Which leaves the unfortunate No 5 to squeeze into the final vacant seat. They can at least get comfortable before the start of the by-now-inevitable carnage.

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1	5	2

3	X	4

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I could hardly contain my excitement as the doors opened onto the crowded platform. Would my theory prove right?

But as the anxious crowd swarmed through the carriage, who should come steaming towards me but Sweaty Dave from the village pub, who shouted a hearty greeting, sat here:

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1	X

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and proceeded to relate a series of rather coarse jokes, one of which, concerning an Irish priest with a nose that looked like a turnip, was so engrossing that I completely forgot to observe how the seats around me filled up.

Which only serves to demonstrate that your friends have a tendency to come along and bugger things up just when you have everything neatly planned. If I think back to the middle of last month, it was all going so well. My races were planned, the excess weight was seeping from me as I slept, I was feeling reborn and enthusiastic. The smell of coffee was everywhere. But then... but then dear old QPR got to the play-offs, then got to the final. My life hung by a thread for two weeks before crashing into a slimy heap - where it lay, gurgling and festering for about three weeks.

Until last week, when I set off yet again on the great running adventure. In the last ten days I've managed to squeeze about 36 miles of sweat through these redundant pores, to the point where I feel almost normal again.

On Saturday I even managed a 10K race - the Datchet Dash. Not only that, I even summoned up enough to squeeze a PB, though I'm still hovering a tantalising 33 seconds the wrong side of the 60 minute mark.

I'd not been to Datchet before, and it made a good first impression. An olde worlde epicentre, with a striking war memorial, some formal flower beds and a sort of village green with a few attractive old shops. But the charm begins to ebb just beyond that, where it's spawned the usual suburban sprawl: neat housing estates and traffic-clogged roads. Pleasant enough, but perhaps a bit too vibrant for its own good.

A race usually reveals something of the local people, and of the area itself, that's normally concealed to the casual visitor. But pleasant though Datchet was, I didn't feel I learnt much of the place. The race was like some great transparent snake superimposed on the town. We made no discernible impression. We came, we raced, we left. And no one noticed. The people carried on mowing their lawns and feeding seaweed elixir to their roses and their runner beans. Through the privet they murmured their misgivings about the Euro and the new vicar, while a thousand invisible people plunged past.

But while Datchet remained a mystery, I think I learnt a little of myself. As always, the race was hard going. Every kilometre cranked up the discomfort. My breathing got wilder. But I'd been reading some of the Noakes book about the psychology of racing. It was a description of something a thousand miles from my experience: Roger Bannister's historic four-minute mile. But the description of the race, and in particular of Bannister's mental toughness, stayed with me. I was taking about 2.5 times longer than he had to get through each mile, but I was still running for my life in this race. I'd decided that this one should be a watershed. If I got a PB I'd carry on to Dublin. If I failed, I'd flush my running gear down the toilet and take up intravenous drug use.

Right up till the 8th kilometre I was convinced I'd get in below the hour, but at the eighth there was a small incline. Only 100 or 200 metres long, but enough to force me to walk for a minute to catch my breath. I knew then I'd blown it, but still hoped to get the PB. And I did, with 24 seconds to spare.

After collecting the memento (a decentish long-sleeved, light cotton shirt), I wandered back towards the car, stopping off at the war memorial to spend a few minutes with some of the other invisible fellows commemorated there. The traffic was heavy and bad-tempered, but in the afterglow of the race, I was able to find some peace there in the strong sunshine. Farewell Datchet. I'll see you again next year, even though you won't see me.

No run yesterday, and none today. The training programme for the 2003 Dublin marathon has now officially begun, and like all Hal Higdon schedules, the first day is a rest day. I'll need it.

Why not come along?

Thanks for reading.

Tues 24 June 2003

According to my horoscope in Metro (the freebie London newspaper) a couple of weeks ago, If you're single, this is a good time to take advantage of Uranus. This provided plenty of food for thought as I trundled along the Hammersmith & City Line.

It's with a sense of deja vu that I begin to ask questions like "What will I do differently this time round?" The experience and, if it's not too portentous a word, the wisdom you slowly accumulate as you age, tells you that pretty much everything in this life is fully user-configurable. The realisation takes a while to develop, but it arrives with most of us eventually, like some cave painting becoming clearer as the eyes grow used to the dark.

And a pretty heavy fragment of sagacity it turns out to be. We can't rely on the unpredictable anymore. We are accountable. More than accountable: we become the authors of our own lives. Random gusts of fate are a thing of the past. Even the movements of Uranus are no longer important. It's up to us.

So. I know what I want to achieve: to complete the Dublin marathon in less than five hours, and to enjoy the race more than I did in London and Chicago. It's up to me whether these things are achieved. Worse than that, it's up to me how these things are achieved. Which brings me round to that question again. What will I do differently this time?

The best way of securing an improvement has to be to do the training this time round. Sounds obvious perhaps, but for both the London and Chicago campaigns the actuality never quite corresponded with the good intentions. To add a bit more spice to the resolution this time, I'm sticking with the tried and tested Hal Higdon, but am trading up to the Intermediate I from the Novice programme. (There are another three steps after this one.)

The Intermediate I represents a significant gear change. Including the race itself, the total mileage is 591, compared with a mere 460 for the Novice programme. It includes two long runs each weekend instead of one, and two 20 milers instead of one for the novices. As sports reporters have a tendency to say these days: "It's a tough ask".

The biggest obstacle to improvement is a lack of fitness and endurance, which equates with a simple lack of miles. If I can crank up the mileage without getting injured I'll feel much more confident of a good run on the day. There are plenty of other measures to take, but I'll come to them over the next few days.

This morning I knocked off the first 3 of those 591 miles. I've taken to getting up early and running first thing. Fab weather in England at the moment, and 5:45 is a great time to enjoy it.

There seem to be more animals around at this time of the day. Dozens of rabbits in the back lanes; deer and racehorses along the estate paths, and the great conference of crows down by the lake. I enjoy a gentle canter in the sunshine, before turning towards home for newly-baked bread and honey and bananas. A shower, fresh clothes and a stroll to the station. It's a perfect start to the day, and I grin like a maniac all the way to London.

Thurs 26 June 2003

I've been rumbled:

Cooper concludes that we all share pathological narcissistic and masochistic tendencies but that most of us find ways of diverting these tendencies toward useful activities. The marathon runner is likely to be quite far along the narcissistic-masochistic spectrum and, "almost uniquely, carries on a useless activity that symbolises society's need for a special hero who will enact the infantile triumphs requisite for healthy functioning and who also enables the audience to share vicariously in some of his or her forbidden pleasures".

(From "Lore Of Running", Noakes is talking about Arnold Cooper, professor of psychiatry at Cornell University in New York.)

So now we know.

Yesterday I decided it was time to try a lunchtime run. But what a pain in the nuts, having to assemble and convey all that gear into work. I can't criticise the facilities at the place I'm currently working (I have four gyms to choose from within five minutes walk), but it took time to hunt down one of the changing rooms, and get out on the street. It was supposed to be five miles but I ran out of time halfway round Wormwood Scrubs and had to head back. Still, I managed just over four, which was fine. In the week's running bank I have a surplus of a mile, so I could afford a bit of flexibility. (I'm trying to match the weekly targets rather than slavishly matching the runs day by day.) It was good to get out, but all things considered, probably more trouble than it was worth. Unless I've no choice I'll be sticking with early mornings and, as a second best, evening runs.

Today's been shockingly healthy, with a bracing three miler this morning and an hour of Pilates this evening. I need sleep. On the train this morning, glowing with good health and razor-sharp insights, I wrote a ream or two of stuff in my brand new Dublin marathon Muji notebook with my brand new Dublin marathon Muji pencil. The plan was to post it up this evening, but... but I've deposited this instead. That's how it goes sometimes.

And Finally... strutting along by Hyde Park this morning, marvelling at the mental clarity that my early morning run had given me, when I realise I've left my smart Lowe-Alpine jacket on the train. Mental clarity? Pshaw!

Sat 28 June 2003

The Grazeley 10K this afternoon was like being trapped in one of those Escher trompe l'oeil pictures where those funny little men keep walking up and up stairs in an eternal climb to nowhere.

It had started so well. The course was even flatter than a pancake for the first four kilometres, and I was more than a minute ahead of schedule. Tomorrow's Sunday Times headlines were already forming in my imagination.

But then an undulation happened. A one-way, upward undulation. Then a brief plateau before another gentle climb. Then another one. "Hullo", I said to myself, "there's something not quite kosher about this fellow."

And so it went on. We seemed to keep ascending right till the finish. If I'd run the whole course again a couple of times, I'm sure I would have ended up around fifteen thousand feet above sea level. But mercifully, we were required only to get through the first 10K. Which I did, eventually, but the hilly bits and the heat had taken their toll. The race had begun at 2:30pm, and must have taken place through the hottest hour of the day. It was baking along some stretches, and I had to walk a couple of times.

I eventually came in at 62 minutes. Not a great time, but I'm glad I did this race. It was a classic local 10K event. Part of the Grazeley fete, with all the traditional stalls: coconut shy, hoopla, tractor rides, darts thrown at playing cards, Harry Potter reading tent, and so on. A really nice event. For some reason I kept thinking that this would make a great subject for a documentary film. One of those slice-of-Britain type of things.

Quote of the day came from a rather badly-equipped elderly lady standing behind me at the start. I heard her say to her friend: "As long as I beat someone wearing a singlet I'll be satisfied."

Happy to oblige, Ma'am.

Sun 29 June 2003

Up at 6:30 on a Sunday to run eight miles. What's going on?

This was an important run as it's a few months since I've been this far. It was a good one too. Plenty of wildlife along the canal towpath: two deer, hundreds of rabbits, a heron, a line of cows to run through, couple of sheepdogs and more anglers than you could shake a stick at.

I'm toying with the idea of trying the run-walk method on the marathon. There are various versions to choose from, but I tried out the walk-one-minute-each-mile on this one. It seems a bit of a cheat but it might well explain why I got through the distance fairly easily.

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