Thurs 1 April 2004

Is there any point continuing with this running stuff?

As I went out for my stuttering 5 mile run along the canal this morning, I found myself thinking about last night, when I'd paid my first visit to the running club. I did enjoy it at the time, and felt quite excited that I'd made this big step, but I was slightly horrified at this sight of a hundred people plodding miserably round the track. It reminded me of that scene in Midnight Express when all the asylum prisoners are shuffling round and round in a small circle, and our hero has to force himself to walk in the opposite direction to stay sane. Or a hamster on a treadmill, just vacantly pedalling like mad, going nowhere.

Isn't that a bit like the sort of running we do at my end of the field? What's the point of it all? I could have an extra hour in bed each morning. I could stop pretending that I'm not an overweight, middle-aged bloke who should be tending his purple sprouting broccoli and repainting that back bedroom yet again and calculating my pension (if I had any), in readiness for those shadowy years waiting just up ahead. Useful stuff.

Instead, I pull the wool over everyone's eyes -- and particularly my own -- by spinning out this pretence. Fooling myself that I'm some kind of born-again athlete. Something admirable? No. The more I think about it, the more I think this is all a waste of time. Running, and writing about running. I think it's time I just got back to doing what I do best: nothing very much.

And how ironic that it took my first visit to a running club to come to this realisation. Perhaps I shouldn't have gone at all. I might have stretched the self-delusion all the way to Copenhagen and beyond.

Should I continue the Running Commentary? Perhaps I could just write about other stuff instead?

I have some thinking to do here. I may not be back here for a while, but I will return to let you know what's going on when I get the chance. How sad this is.

Sun 4 April 2004

As April Fools go, it wasn't what you'd call a whizzo stonker, but I was still taken aback to get four emails asking me to reconsider what I wrote in the last entry, as well as a few messages on the forum. What began as a joke ended up making me feel like a rotten cad.

No, I'm not planning on giving up just yet, though I am getting anxious about the schedule. The calendar's running out of squares, and I've still not run more than 13 miles. Yesterday was supposed to be 15, but I was able to squeeze in just 11, before having to head back to keep an appointment. I'm looking for a man. Not just any man. He has to be strong and decisive. And reliable. And own a digger. And not charge me too much to use it in our garden. I think I may have found him at last.

The run was OK. Bitty. It was no problem doing the 11 at a moderate place. Worse was the constant nag that this wasn't going to be enough. I pottered up and back along the canal for a couple of hours, being sprayed with a fine rain for most of it. This meant it wasn't a great day for photography, but I did get some reasonable snaps:

Tues 6 April 2004

Being drunk for three consecutive days doesn't, after all, appear in the Hal Higdon marathon training programme. Damn, I must have misread it.

After a strangely hollow, monochrome day at work, when I was tempted to wonder if running had given up on me, I finished early, came home, and went out to run 9½ miles in a fantastic range of weather: a turbulent twenty-minute tempest sandwiched between two slabs of warm sunshine. Wonderful.

I don't know why or how I did this run. It just... happened. Quite unplanned. But this was a vitally important run, yanking me back on track just as I was drifting away. I'm feeling suitably realigned.

A few weeks back, I said that we should remember that the marathon journey has a source as well as a destination. It was a kind of throwaway remark at the time, but it's stuck with me. I get minor pangs of panic about the marathon in 40 days time, but it doesn't help to focus only on the finishing point. When I started running 2 or 3 years ago, it took me something like nine months to drag myself from zero to a point where I could run for 30 continuous minutes. Throughout that deeply frustrating period, I must have dreamed of a time when it would be possible to get home from work with a lingering hangover, change, and head off into the tumultuous rain to run for 9½ miles without stopping. Followed by a normal evening without any bad residual aches and strains. That's what happened today.

It's possible to be too precious about progress. But it seems reasonable to allow yourself to be cheered by it from time to time.

Wed 7 April 2004

The Maidenhead Easter 10. This is a race in Maidenhead, 10 miles long, that takes place at Easter.

No surprise there. I entered it today, partly because I wanted to enter a race with a sensible name. Much better than the Air Products 10K, or the Massey-Ferguson 5, happening the same weekend. Much as I like running at the seaside, there's something unappealing about the idea of taking part in the Fitness First Bournemouth Bay Half-Marathon. Though I grudgingly acknowledge that having Fitness First as a sponsor is better than some. Far worse: the Epsom National Counties Building Society 10K, the Afford Rent-A-Car Potteries Marathon, the Lipton Ice Tea Marathon Challenge and (this is a corker)the Elan Printing Icknield Way Charity Half-Marathon.

A different category altogether is Races With Silly Names. At least there's something admirably self-deprecating about these. The Near As Damn It 10K sounds kinda interesting, as does the Hairy legs Challenge Duathlon. The Dogathon 3.5, where you have to run with your dog, is just plain funny, though my response is the same as it is when I see those signs on the tube, next to the escalators, that say "Dogs Must Be Carried": what are you supposed to do if you don't have a dog? Walk up the stairs, I suppose. Seems unreasonable though.

Anyway, I think I'm going to boycott races with crap names. Give me the Maidenhead Easter 10 any day.

I returned to the running club this evening for an hour and a half of "Drills and Skills". We started by prancing up and down the football pitch in the centre of the track for a while, doing unnatural things with our limbs. Then a long spell of intervals on the track followed by a warm-down and some stretching. I took _colin along to check out how much running was actually done in one of these sessions. The slightly startling answer is 5.65 miles, and would have been quite a lot more if I wasn't so... leisurely in my technique.

It was a tough session, made tougher by the forceful, perpendicular rain that arrived midway through the track session, sending a few squealing weeds flapping back to the shelter of the changing rooms. But well worth doing. The underlying purpose is to try to improve, but the variety it provides is itself a good enough reason to try to keep going. My legs are aching this evening. Probably a good sign.

Thurs 8 April 2004

OK, another confession. That picture of the koala further up the page... I didn't really snap that along the Kennet & Avon Canal. It was taken on a run though, but not one of mine. Step forward, Graham H-M, otherwise known as Midlife-Crisis-Man. Graham is a suspiciously lucid Australian who has gone a bit quiet recently. Maybe a truckload of Boags went off the road behind his house. It would take some digging to conceal it properly. He's given me a lot of good things to think about (like beer recommendations) over the last couple of months, not least of which was to lead me, quite unintentionally, to the discovery of the true secret of the meaning of life. But that's another story for another day.

No, I don't see too many koalas round here, though I don't suppose it was a remarkable sight to him. There again, deer are a commonplace around here, yet I recall an American lady squealing with excitement about seeing deer in Richmond Park. It's old hat to swoon about the wonders of the internet, but... nah.

I had a complimentary email the other day from a BBC journalist, Alison Harper, who's been keeping a radio diary of her London Marathon training. Modesty prevents me from relaying her message, but if you have a few minutes, you can listen here to her marathon training broadcasts.

Last night's running club intervals have left my thighs throbbing with pain. Quite a pleasant sensation as pain-throbs go, but it does give me some anxiety about this 10 mile race tomorrow. Enter in haste, repent at leisure. Ask Boris Becker. To add to my worries, I raced up the stairs last night in the dark, and stubbed my toe on something called a vaccuum cleaner that my wife was keen to introduce me to. And to cap it all, I've been hungry all day, and therefore eating all day. I'm sitting here with a horribly bruised toe, aching muscles, and a belly the size of a space hopper.

I'll definitely turn up tomorrow morning, though I suspect my chances of completing 10 miles are about the same as spotting a kangaroo on the village high street.

The Maidenhead Easter 10 - Fri 9 April 2004

Good Friday - eventually.

I rose from the dead at 6:30am (it's OK, I'm a card-carrying atheist, I'm safe), not really in the mood to run 10 miles. I stood at the kitchen window, munching on dry toast and swilling severe, black coffee. A 10 mile race or a gardenful of torture? And how had I managed to put on 3 pounds yesterday? The pedantic voice of reason recited the list of hot cross buns, easter eggs, crisps, biscuits and gratuitous sandwiches I'd shovelled in. That's how.

It was time to cheer up. Yes, I was conscious of the ache in my left foot, my swollen stomach and my tiredness, but at least Wednesday's thigh aches had receded. And let's face it, the start of 4 days off work can't be too bad.

The morning was bright and cold. Good running weather. And the bank holiday gave me the rare opportunity of breaking the speed limit on the M4 at 8am on a Friday. Things were looking up.

The race HQ was some kind of complex in a patch of pleasant parkland to the west of Maidenhead. A modern collection of buildings including some kind of hall and a bar. I couldn't work out what purpose it had in real life. A works sports and social club? It suited the purpose very nicely. It reminded me of that daydream I occasionally have. To be created once I win the lottery jackpot. A purpose-built running complex with a series of routes and terrains, and every imaginable facility for the runner. I even have a name for it: Plodderama.

The pre-race atmosphere was chatty and bustling and convivial. There's something terribly English and garden fete-ish about the organisaiton of these races. It must be something to do with my age but I find it shamefully reassuring.

It was a bit like being in a large pub, except it was 9 in the morning, and no one was drinking alcohol. Or playing darts. Or watching the football. Or fighting. In fact, it was absolutely nothing like being in a pub.

I collected my satisfying plump race packet just after 9am, half an hour before the off. Number 1230. "Is this my race number or the time you expect me to finish?", I asked. "Oh no", said the earnest lady, "it's your race number".

Half an hour to kill. For some irrational reason I decided there would be no harm in drifting over to the bar and investing in two hot cross buns and a large glass of orange squash. I devoured the first bun and glugged down the sweet, sticky drink before admitting this wasn't ideal preparation for a 10 mile run. Why do I do this? I wrapped the other bun in a blanket of tissues and stuffed it into my jacket pocket for later. I'd already felt bloated. Now it was like I'd had a bowling ball surgically implanted in my stomach.

I rolled myself back to the car, and sat listening to the radio. George Bush's latest attempt to create World War III is in full swing. His latest wheeze, destroying mosques with helicopter gunships, is an absolute corker.

The race began and I trundled off into the distance. With several hundred yards gone, I realised that _colin, my Garmin Forerunner gadget, wasn't playing the game. Perhaps it was the mass of competing speed and distance and heart rate monitors, but I couldn't get a satellite signal. I'd asked the fellow to keep a very sedate pace (10:55 mins per mile), but despite that, I was being warned: YOU ARE BEHIND BY 0.45 miles. Well cheers _colin.

The course was pleasant enough. We wound our way round the grounds a couple of times, then headed out for a while through some local lanes and past a lot of rich people's houses. The marshals were encouraging, as usual, but this time they seemed to be sincere. When they said "Well done", they seemed to mean it. I did get annoyed once, when a marshal said "Well done you stragglers" as a group of us went past. But then I noticed that The Stragglers was the name of the running club on the vest of the guy panting alongside me.

Meanwhile, something strange was happening. My reproachful watch was slowly changing its tune. From starting at 0.45 miles behind, the figure had crept downwards. After three miles it was telling me I was only 0.1 behind, and after another two, I was 0.1 ahead. Could I keep this up? A strong sixth got me to 0.2 miles ahead before I started to flag. I got increasingly tired as the final miles ticked by, but still managed to avoid stopping at any point. Rather pathetically, this is one of my criteria for judging the success of a run. Even though I'm slow, ten miles without a break is an achievement for me. Perhaps the number of 10 to 13 mile runs I've done recently has put some extra endurance in these wobbly old legs.

I wonder also if I was beginning to see some benefit coming from my two visits to the running club. Last week I was given some pointers about technique. Lifting my feet, kicking back, increasing stride, running upright, looking ahead and not down... It's hard to shed bad habits overnight but I was much more conscious of how I was running, and tried to accommodate some of these new ideas. Interestingly, I also took far more interest in how other people were moving, and even began subconsciously to sort them into running club members and solitary plodders, based on their style.

I was wary about reaching the 8th mile. This is where I've dropped off during half marathons. Perhaps because I knew there wasn't much further to go, I managed to hang on this time. The final mile was hard but I tried to concentrate on how I was running, and got through it. My estimated time had been 1 hour 55, but I managed 1 hour 45, so I was well pleased. My splits were: 10:07, 10:14, 10:06, 10:34, 10:27, 10:14, 10:25, 10:32, 10:58, 10:36, which gives me the least-slow average race pace since June of last year. Perhaps things are looking up.

Collected my mug (always an appropriate memento for any race that I enter), and limped back to the car to enjoy my Mars Bar and bottle of water. I was sweating like mad, and had to mop up this fluid with a squishy bundle of tissues I found in my jacket. There was something unusual about the springy constitution of this makeshift sponge. Puzzled, I unwrapped it. There was my hot cross bun.

I can now reveal that hot, damp, salty hot cross buns are delicious, and as I drove off, grinning, I decided that they'll have to become the trademark delicacy at Plodderama.

Sun 11 April 2004

A quiet, non-running day. I've pushed my long run back to tomorrow to allow a bit more recovery time after Friday's race. Not that I feel I need any more. Nothing aches except my stomach straining against my belt as it tries to cope with today's onslaught of easter eggs.

I feel grimly unhealthy, but nothing that a 16 mile run tomorrow won't cure.

-------------------

I wrote the above at about 6 o'clock. Just as I was about to upload it, M came in and said: "Why don't you go for a run while it's still light?" Two minutes later I was cruising up the road on my staple 3½ miler. It's an unusual time of day for me to run, and I enjoyed it more for that reason. There was a noticeable bank holiday feel in the village. The streets were empty, and only one car passed me in 35 minutes. The evening air was cool and refreshing, despite the lingering tang of woodsmoke.

I got back, had a shower and guzzled one of M's special bacon salads. The world is now a quite different place. I'll never tire of saying this: running is the answer.

Mon 12 April 2004

I did sixteen miles
Or should I say
They did for me.

Thurs 15 April 2004

It's been a deflating week so far.

Bank holiday Monday: I went out for a languid 16 miler but just ground to a painful halt after about 7 miles, overwhelmed by fatigue and a sense of foreboding about the way my training is fizzling out. Got home to find that some kids had set fire to the trees at the bottom of my garden.

Tuesday: No run, but someone broke into our shed and nicked enough tools to give me a great excuse not to do any gardening for a while. The only good news of the week.

Wednesday morning: Set off for a nippy 4 miler before breakfast. Gave up after 100 metres, strangely exhausted.

Wednesday evening: Turned up at the running club for an evening of inspiration, but my group were doing an out-run, so I spent an hour plodding 5 miles round the track on my own. Not unpleasant, it has to be said. On the way home, feeling pleased with myself, someone drove into the back of my car. We both pulled over. As I got out, he drove off. The registration was false.

Thursday evening: A juddery 4 miles, exposing some odd aches in my right calf. No crimes against me to report, for the first time this week.

I see now that I made some fundamental errors with Monday's long run. Under-hydrated, and I had nothing to call upon when my energy started to wane. I've another longie to confront this weekend, and I'll approach it better. Today I called into a sports shop in Maidenhead and asked if they sold energy gels. "Er, is that something to do with training shoes?"

I tried the cycle shop instead, where I unearthed someone whose knowledge surplus was equivalent to the previous guy's deficit. I sauntered up to the counter, spotted some unfamiliar gels among the clutter but thought I'd buy one to try. He recoiled at the suggestion.

You should think carefully before using gels, he said. Did you know they actually suck moisture from your stomach?

It was years since I'd been in a bike shop, and I was amazed at the mass of crap available for cyclists to buy. The shelves were piled high with glittering chrome whatsits and thingummies. Derailleurs, splined brackets, cranks and tapered chainsets... And such a smell of rubber. The experience was shining a light into some long-forgotten corner of my childhood, when I would haunt these places, buying cheap bits and pieces like puncture repair kits (which I'm delighted to see still come in those handy tins that usually end up filled with bent screws and roasted nuggets of cannabis), and salivating over real racing bikes and mysterious accessories and their wondrous price tags. There's even more of this junk around these days.

If you're running or cycling long, you need to ensure you have a constant supply of fluid. Water will do, but some kind of sports drink is preferable. However, if you really must use gels, stick to water. Before a long run, try to drink at least eighty five centilitres of water, or some kind of glucose solution. Much better than gels. Take plenty of liquid with you. You can't always be certain of finding enough on the way...

Just shut up and give me a gel, I thought. Why are cyclists and golfers so obsessive? This guy was wearing some kind of obscene, fluorescent lycra uniform covered in slogans and go-faster brand names and initials. GT, Turbo, Avid, Laser... From his shoulder hung a cycle tyre, and he wore fingerless leather gloves, making him look like some sexual deviant on his way to a party. He droned on.

The trouble with gels, he was saying, is that they burn your stomach. Yes, they can damage the lining of your stomach if you don't keep those fluid levels topped up. Make sure you examine your urine regularly...

This was taking the piss. "I've changed my mind", I told him. He looked pleased. You don't want a gel? "No", I said. "I want three. Make it four. You've convinced me."

Fri 16 April 2004

Quote of the day, from an article in The Guardian newspaper about Sunday's London marathon:

One of the plodders on Sunday will be Michael Ward, a 46-year-old antique dealer from Bromley, Kent. Ward is unusual in that he has done absolutely no training for the event. "I haven't even tried on a pair of shorts yet," he says. "I just haven't had any time to train. I start work at three or four in the morning, have a young family, there just aren't enough hours in the day. All I've done is to make sure I eat a fried breakfast every day."

So why bother? "It's something that I've always wanted to do," says Ward, "a bit like climbing a mountain because it's there. I'll also raise a bit of money for the local school, where I'm a parent governor." But surely training is essential? "I'm not looking to win it," he says incontrovertibly. "Training just wears your body out. I'd rather save my energy for the day."

On a related subject, I've developed a theory about the person who broke into my garden shed earlier this week and stole a spade. Of course! It was someone carbo-loading for the big day, who needed a bigger implement than a fork to shovel all that pasta in. I've left a message at the local police station, summarising my idea, and recommending that they compile a list of all people in the village who are due to run on Sunday. Unaccountably, they haven't yet returned my call.

Sat 17 April 2004

Another long, painful run today. 18 miles.

My preparation was better than it had been for my 16 miles on Monday, and I suspect this explains why I got to about 10 miles this time before exhaustion dragged me to a stop. From that point on, I was alternating a mile or so of plodding with a couple of minutes of walking. By the final mile I was limping badly with a pain in my right foot, just above my ankle.

Summary? Delighted to have put in the miles, and pleased to have had a less bad run than the last long one. But with 4 weeks to go till race day, this performance doesn't fill me with a lot of confidence.

Let me put that another way: Oh shit....

The London Marathon - Sun 18 April 2004

So you thought that running a marathon was tough, huh? Well try applauding for 5 hours. I now know the origin of the expression "clapped out".

Marshalling at the London Marathon turns out to be formidable cross-training. Our group assembled, and split again, in Trafalgar Square after a brief, matey breakfast. Those with a haunted look vanished into Charing Cross station to join the queue for the train to Blackheath. The rest of us filed down to the Embankment to begin the long march along the Thames to the Tower of London.

The morning was bleak and wet, but nothing could dilute the excitement on the streets. London is a great marathon and a great city. Evidence of the operation's slick clockwork was everywhere. A herd of trucks crept along the Embankment, dispensing trestle tables and water and barriers and placards. Silent, intense teams battled the stiff wind coming in off the Thames, struggling to create those arching clumps of coloured balloons, and to tie flags and streamers to the lamp-posts. Everyone was determinedly purposeful, including us.

Three miles along the river, we assembled just outside the main gate of the Tower for a solemn, unexpected, ceremony. Marshals, it seems, are awarded the same chunky medals as the competitors, and even better quality technical tee-shirts. And lists of schedules, and rules and warnings and greetings. And a fluorescent yellow bib that's a bugger to pull on when your upper body is immobilized by multiple insulating layers. And a badge to wear round our necks. But finally, bibbed and badged and suitably warned and instructed and thanked, we march on the Tower, where we penetrate the walls with only token resistance from the benign Beefeaters.

For a first marshalling experience, the Tower is a good place to be. And what a responsible job I had. Within the confines of the Tower of London, the symbolic heart of the Queen's dominion, I reigned over my own ephemeral kingdom - a patch of coarse grey carpet. I didn't just reign, I pored over it, memorising every square inch long before the first competitor appeared. My brief? To ensure that any ruffle and crease was noted, and to take "appropriate action".

The cobbles of the Tower of London are a notorious hazard. The eventual first and second in the men's race, Kenyans Rutto and Korir, collided on the greasy stones and both went over just as they reached the gates. Perhaps worse than their slipperiness is their unevenness. Ankles and knees that have been punished for 22� miles now find themselves being cruelly jarred and twisted by the � mile or so of cobbles alongside the Tower. A pretty inadequate palliative is to line the stretch with strips of carpet, about 5 feet wide. These provide a bit of cushioning, but their tendency to bunch and ruffle under the pummelling of thousands of footfalls, creates a new hazard. Weary runners can easily trip and fall.

I was there to save them.

It took a while for the marshalling pot to begin bubbling. For about an hour we adjusted things: our bits of carpet, our rainwear, our knowledge of the other marshals, our relationship with the restless Pearly Queen Mum of Hackney, and I presume her grand-daughter, the Pearly Princess. They kept glistening past us, as though unsure of why they were there, and where to station themselves.

We looked at our watches and we waited.

Above us loomed Tower Bridge, London's international motif. We could see the crowds leaping and waving, and could hear them screaming encouragement as the runners passed before them. Swinging right into Tower Bridge Road, the weary marathoner is almost sucked across the bridge by the passion and the volume of the celebratory mayhem. This marks the twelve mile point of the race, and is one of the greatest things an ordinary runner will ever experience.

We couldn't see the competitors, and we wouldn't see them until the same people being cheered now had travelled another ten miles. But eventually they came.

Suddenly, the cheering away on the Highway seemed to be rolling towards us. We looked at each other, and scrutinised our bits of carpet for the last time. Then bang, it happened. The police motorbikes appeared, then the van with the huge digital clock came past and vanished again. Then for a few tantalizing moments: nothing. Then three or four wheelchair competitors arrived, aching and straining to lift themselves over the undulating, carpeted cobbles. It felt so cruel not to be able to give them a push up the steep stretches.

And then, silhouetted against the East Gate comes the tiny figure of Kenyan, Margaret Okayo, followed a couple of minutes later by the Romanian Dita and Petrova of Russia. These were the first droplets. Then the trickle began, and before we knew it, the torrent.

But if carpet-watching was my theoretical principal responsibility, in practice it was to yell encouragement and clap like crazy. Names on shirts turns this into a strangely intimate experience. Well done Simon! Come on Tracy! Keep going Davinder! Only three miles left to go! I heard a passing American tourist say to her husband: "That guy sure knows a lot of people in this town."

Only three or four times did we have to divert the human river away from the mats to reposition or re-tape a piece. This wasn't an easy task. After 22 miles, most marathoners are zombies, and have lost the means to communicate with the outside world. We were pushed and sworn at, and one girl started to cry as I tried to move her gently around one stretch. I felt like a monster, but I was only trying to avoid a Foinavon-like tumble and pile-up.

I had a mental list of runners to watch out for, but I saw only two: Nigel Platt, the celebrated wordsmith, and Steve Home, star of the BBC Running Club. Steve is an annoyingly good runner, but he looked to be suffering as he passed me, and seemed not to hear his name being called until he was past me. I bellowed it three times, and eventually he turned his head stiffly. Clearly disorientated, he croaked my name, Rosebud-like, before plunging on into the rain. His eyes were blank with pain. I looked up his time today. 2 hours 48 minutes. Astounding.

I almost missed Nigel. If he hadn't called my name, I would have done. I ran alongside him for a bit. He too looked pale. Like most runners at this stage of the game, he was coasting on autopilot, and seemed troubled. How was he feeling? "Stomach trouble" came the subdued reply. This is often an adult euphemism for something unspeakable, so I probed no further. I'd not rehearsed this tremulous moment. What could I say in 5 seconds to encourage him? I produced some garbled stuff about how little there was left to run, but knew it must have sounded unconvincing. I now know that he finished in 4:18. A few minutes outside his PB, but still a great performance in terrible conditions.

(Make sure you go to the forum and read his great race report. I can't link directly to it, but the thread is called London Calling � 18.04.2004, and can be found in Training Diaries > Nigel.)

The marathon is a long and often desperate journey, and here were the travellers on the final, painful stretch. After our duties were over we began the long walk back to the coaches, alongside the weary back markers. Most were walking now, but some still shuffled in agony, their faces blank and distant.

Whether you're running or spectating or marshalling, every marathon contains one moment and one memory that is the wrapper for all the other moments and all other memories. You mustn't look for it; it will find you. Mine came as we passed under Hungerford Bridge.

I stopped to ask a policeman for directions. This generously proportioned man, with his bushy whiskers, rain cape, and the sort of avuncular smile that policemen aren't supposed to deploy anymore, looked like something out of a Victorian comic book. As he was peering at my sodden map, a pantomime camel trotted past, led by a drenched nomad with a towel wrapped round his head. Without warning, the policeman burst into uncontrollable laughter. At that moment, a train rumbled across the bridge above us, drowning out all other sounds. Its loudness and unexpectedness were startling, and in my own tired state, it sounded like a massive burst of celestial applause. That's when my marathon moment happened.

Caught in this moment of chaos, I glanced along the Embankment, through the dense curtain of grey, teeming rain. All I could see in either direction was the stumbling army of battle-weary marathoners. Next to me, the sound of his mirth submerged in the tumultuous clapping from the passing train, this caricature of the laughing policeman, head thrown back, arms akimbo.

And that's the London marathon.

PS I admit it. I made up that joke about the American tourist.

Tues 20 April 2004

Less than four weeks to go to Copenhagen, and at last - the start of some good old dry-mouthed terror to report.

Saturday's droopy 18 miler seemed like a gloomy portent, and marshalling at the London marathon on Sunday was another - at times. If I shut one eye it was a joyful experience. If I opened it and shut the other... well, it was like peering from the shadows at my own funeral.

On the positive side, I had an unexpectedly good 5 mile run this evening. Learning to appreciate the special quality of early morning outings proved to be a long and painful apprenticeship. Since then I've rarely run in the evening. Tonight I did, and it reminded me how cleansing it could be. Just as running early in the day sends you off to work with a tornado-like sense of internal energy, running late can be gorgeously cathartic. It's a different gift to yourself, but just as valuable.

Mon 26 April 2004

Things are getting worse. I set out on my 20 mile run yesterday morning, but decided to stop after less than a mile after an ache appeared in my right calf. It wasn't a pull, just the start of a pain that I guessed would get worse. Instead of my long run, I pottered in the garden before going to the pub to get drunk and watch Arsenal beat Tottenham to take the Premiership.

What to do? It's another long run missed, and with three weeks to the big day, I'm now feeling chronically undertrained. I've got to stay calm and calculate my best option. It's out of the question to pull out of the marathon. I stopped yesterday as a precaution - I didn't want it to become an injury.

A two week taper (rather than the usual three) is called for. But what am I tapering from? I don't feel I've reached any crescendo of effort from which to wind down. My best hope is to have a great training week this week. That will work wonders for my morale. This means runs of 5, 10 and 5 miles midweek, and the missed 20 miler at the weekend.

Today I've rested. Early tomorrow, I start again.

Tues 27 April 2004

Quote of the day: "When it's brown it's cooked, when it's black it's fooked".

This gem appeared on a TV programme about a failing Yorkshire restaurant this evening, and I feel duty-bound to pass the wisdom on to all chefs in need of a guiding rule.

Back to business. Yesterday's entry wasn't intended to be so gloomy, but I've had enough encouraging messages today to tell me that it must have come across like that. I was a bit fed up, but was trying to sound determined to get back on track rather than unhappy about being a bit behind.

Anyway, a good 5 miles before breakfast this morning made the world seem a brighter place than it was yesterday. I've noticed something interesting. On these sunny spring mornings, when getting out there is no great hardship, the payback doesn't seem quite as good as when it's black and freezing. In mid-winter, the post-run buzz lasts nearly all day. On kinder mornings, it's nowhere near as dramatic. A good thing. You need more reward when it's tougher.

Today's post brought a letter from Copenhagen, detailing the arrangements. Unusually, there's no requirement to pay in advance. I definitely have a place and a number, but I'm to pay when I turn up at the expo. This will be at some place spelt with lots of Øs and Ås. The other interesting snippet is the discovery that the leader of a pacing group is, apparently, called a fartholder.

I see.

Fri 30 April 2004

A spot of misery always cheers me up.

I'm not a pessimistic sort of chap by nature, so when a cloud descends, I'm always fascinated. Perhaps it's a defence mechanism; a way of detaching oneself from it. Stepping outside and giving it a prod here and there to see what it's all about.

Interesting times. Something has happened recently. The flicking of an internal switch. It came suddenly and without warning. People complain about demotivation as though it's the problem. Surely it's a symptom of another problem?

My running appetite hasn't been lost, but something isn't right. I no longer seem to think I can do it. Bizarre. I need to hunt this one down and squash it before I become too miserable to walk to the pub. That really would be a disaster.

Sorry, I'd love to stop to chat for longer, but early tomorrow morning I have my last chance for a decent long run before Copenhagen, and it's already past midnight.

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