Sunday 4 December 2005

I've had my number through for the notoriously tough Cliveden 6 mile cross-country on December 28th, and was feeling pretty good about this as I know that the race is now full. But then I read a message from the race director on the Runners World messageboard, in which he consoles those who missed the boat. "Remember", he said, "That people who don't get a place are the lucky ones".

I see.

Running drips with ambivalence -- don't we just love to hate it? And races are a distilled nugget of running. We really love to really hate races. Which is why the race director's remark first made me grimace, then made me smile. Apparently I'm glad to be reminded that it's a tough one, and a tough one that comes just after Christmas.

I've been having a busy time of it recently. Nothing exciting. Work, work, work. My running hasn't stopped completely, but I've been managing only a couple of jaunts per week since the Brighton 10K. Just enough to avoid seizing up, but not enough to feel that I'm making progress. It's that ticking-over mode.

I've joined the local gym, in yet another attempt to convince myself that yep, this is it. A bit of variety in my training would be welcome, I tell myself. Indeed, a bit of training would be welcome. Let's grow a few muscles to help avoid a repeat of the great Hamburg collapse. But perhaps the best reason for joining is that it offers a place other than the pub to watch the occasional football match. Yes, I can plod along on the treadmill or the cross-trainer while gazing upwards at those delicate Prem gods, and their complex Weltanschauung.

Is it just me, or do others find watching football to be a profound experience? I'm serious. It's impossible to watch a game without questioning my ethical standpoint on a number of things. The diving and cheating -- which seems less serious when it's your team doing it. The attempts to hurt people without being found out. The play-acting. The referee and all the calculations he makes as he considers whether, and how, to punish someone. The fans -- their irrational evangelism, the complex rituals.

It's so close to being unbearable to watch, that it becomes totally compelling.

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Saturday 10 December 2005

It was the gloaming, when a man cannot make out if the nebulous figure he glimpses in the shadows is angel or demon, when the face of evening is stained by red clouds and wounded by lights.
--Homero Aridjis, 1492: The Life and Times of Juan Cabezon of Castile

Fantastic plod through a Berkshire twilight. The sunset was sensational, in the way that winter sunsets can be. Down here, all is subdued and frozen and hollow. But up there? A man could almost believe in heaven.

The running is holding up surprisingly well in the face of the usual onslaught -- inactivity and too much beer and chocolate. I'm not exactly feeling strong and wiry and confident, but nor am I feeling the terrible burden of the plodder. It wasn't easy, but there was no temptation to stop and walk.

My run took me through a neighbouring village. It's just one lane with cottages on one side of the road and a large field on the other. It has real English rustic charm. Halfway along the lane, I came across a farm worker wheeling a ricketty wooden handcart groaning with hay through a field gate. His voice was weary, as he answered a question I hadn't posed. "Last one of the day; nearly done now". It could have been a scene from any time in the last thousand years. To happen across it at deep-dusk in mid-December was a delicious jolt. It was strangely affecting, and enough to make me thankful that I'd pulled those reluctant trainers on this afternoon. It reminded me yet again that running pays surprising dividends.

But why do I need to be reminded? Running seems to force forgetfulness on us. Just as we constantly forget how terrible running is, we also forget how inspiring it can be. It offers us those flashes of insight and opportunities for rumination that seem available nowhere else. I thought about this for the last couple of miles as the run took me past the lake and through the deer, scattering noisily in the darkness through the fallen leaves. The haunted, frightened trees. Eventually I arrive home, overflowing with gladness.

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Tuesday 13 December 2005

Two runs in three days that have yanked me out of my comfort zone.

On Sunday afternoon I started with 3.6 miles. The greasy granite sky I found myself moving towards was the output of the Hemel Hempstead fire, but it might just as well have been a grim augury. I reached the gym, spent 40 disconsolate minutes bobbing up and down like a drowning man on various pieces of machinery, then set off to jog back home. It was a mistake. By now it was dark and very cold - well below freezing. I was tired, and found it hard to crank up the energy needed to carry on. A couple of miles on, and bizarrely, I seemed to hit the wall. Or a lesser version of it. More a box hedge, perhaps. Suddenly, all energy had drained away and I started to sweat furiously. From nowhere, a great hunger and thirst descended like a bird of prey. I came across a petrol station and tried buying something to eat and drink. I say I "tried" because it was a struggle. With 8 people tutting behind me in the queue, I couldn't unzip the pocket at the back of my shorts. Eventually I got there, and 4 energy bars and half a litre of sports drink later, I was able to walk the final wretched mile or so.

An interesting and useful experience. The long break between the two runs was an error. Doing more than I was ready to do was an error. Going back into the big bad black frozen world after I'd cooled down, with the same sweat-wet clothes on, was an error. Running while dehydrated, after too much beer and wine and cheese and ice cream the night before, was an error. But we all know that that which does not kill me... makes me breakfast.

Or something like that. I have feasted on this one.

Tonight I rejoined the local group that I ran with from January to July of this year. Man oh man, it was hard. I did 5 hilly miles with the middle group. For the final mile I was on my own. A bleak and wearisome mile it was too, which told me just how unfit I am. The others were decent about it, though I doubt if their patience is limitless.

I need to think about Saturday. I've agreed to meet up with Antonio d'Almeria, and take 21 of his 17 year-old Spanish students for a walk in London. If they were a year older I could make it a tour of historic pubs. So near, yet so far.

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Friday 16 December 2005

Crikey. A further sign of getting old -- watching Steve Davis play Stephen Hendry in the UK Snooker Championships. Looking at Hendry's cratered visage, I don't think I could ever call him "fresh-faced", but when I last saw them head-to-head, they could at least reach back to their teens without using a rest.

No more. Now I see two rugged, middle-aged guys strutting their stuff. Steve "Interesting" Davis turns out to be shockingly... interesting. No surprise to learn that he also plays pool professionally, but it seems he's also a top poker player. And very keen on chess too, having been President of the British Chess Federation, no less.

Spoke with Antonio this evening, and was disappointed to learn that our planned walk tomorrow is off. He and his students are going to the Changing of the Guard in the morning, which would have fitted in well with the plan, but they now want to go to Notting Hill in the afternoon instead of taking my Grand Alternative Tour. A shame. I'd put together a good plan for entertaining a bunch of 17 year old Spanish students in London. Jokes prepared; maps printed; prizes and mince pies assembled; attractions chosen. I think you can only understand a city on foot, and this is more true of London than most places. You have to get into the, er, the very bowels of the... the people. As it were. For anyone reading this who doesn't know the city well, walk the river sometime. You'll see the place in 3D. Even to old hands, it's like seeing the place for the first time.

In the meantime, what do you do with 36 mince pies?

I know, I know.

That's what I'm worried about.....

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Saturday 17 December 2005

Eight satisfying miles along the canal late this afternoon, starting in sunshine, through twilight, ending in darkness. I've been a bit concerned about not doing the distances recently, so was determined to get this one under my belt. I managed it by reminding myself what these weekenders are supposed to be about -- long, slow distance, or LSD. They cultivate endurance.

I'm a slow runner, and today I became slower. I decided to limit myself to steady trotting. Burn a thousand calories or so, and keep moving for 8 miles. That's how it went.

It was a fascinating melange of running environments. Through the village in fading, but almost warm, sunshine. A lot of Christmas-giddy kids about, jabbering in cartoon-speak and cackling at my knees. Then four and a half gloriously twilit miles along the canal. It's a modest waterway, but at times it offers a sense of natural peace and tranquility that I've rarely found anywhere else. What a sight it was, running into that languorous, black and gold sunset. The only other human I saw was an angler, and he was so immobile that I wasn't even sure he was still alive.

The last couple of miles were a reintroduction to reality. After turning off the canal I had a choice -- a 4 mile detour to take in 2 or 3 hills, or the direct route back to the village. I took the latter. I was getting tired, and hills in the freezing darkness held no appeal. So I chugged home along the busy A4 instead, my icy nackers shaking like maracas, ankles crackling like castanets.

OK, a gross exaggeration, but the assonance and alliteration was irresistible.

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Sunday 18 December 2005

Hello, I use agency of acquaintances. It gave to me your email address in agency of acquaintances. I would like to find out you better. Write to me a little about itself. I shall answer for I the lonely girl. To me of 28 years. And I have no children. I with impatience shall wait for the letter of you.

I've been getting a lot of this kind of stuff recently. Web translation utilities clearly aren't quite there yet.

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Monday 19 December 2005 - Dusseldorf

Arrived at my hotel at 6pm, to find no non-smoking rooms left. Threw a few toys out of the pram -- didn't like them much anyway -- and cancelled the reservation. Returned to the street with my bags. Took a look around. Slightly daunting. Dusseldorf is cold today. Surrounded by office blocks blazing in the darkness, but little else. Was I making a mistake? Wandered round the corner, full of loathing for modern life. Then a Novotel bumped into me. Get in! Life was good again.

I've felt unhealthy and bloated today; not the ideal way to start another marathon training campaign. The few glasses of wine I imbibed last night are annoying me. Well hang on, it's hardly their fault, is it? I'm the one to blame. I didn't overdo it, but I had just enough to make me think "what the hell" when I tried to tiptoe past the mince pie stash without waking them. Scoffed four of the seductive blighters, plus lots of fatty junk stuff through the evening. Crisps, ice cream, cheese, crackers.

Alcohol. It's all the fault of alcohol. The root of all evil for the runner with the... fuller figure.

Booked into the second hotel, stripped off, went to the fitness room and spent a grim 25 minutes bouncing along the treadmill and dancing with the cross-trainer. It was hard and horrible and I sweated like a sweaty pig.

Serves me right.

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Friday 23 December 2005

I've lost my life.

The implications cut deep. Even now, 24 hours later, I'm still being pulled around, dodging avalanches of warm despair over there, trying to stay beneath the waterfalls of ice-cold relief over here. Acceptance is gradual, but I'm nearly there.

Getting through the shock phase now.

It helps to be a positive thinker. Where did this character trait come from? Somewhere in my twenties, but I can't be more specific. Perhaps it was the travelling; perhaps it was the drugs. Perhaps it was the women or the music or the jobs, or that book on Buddhism I read at university. Somewhere along that roller coaster, the big truth emerged - that nothing much matters. Nothing much really matters. As soon as you see it, you're pretty much happy for ever more.

Adversity is a challenge to be confronted intellectually, not a blow that's already been struck. No one will wound me without my permission.

Yesterday I lost my memory stick, and along with it, 960 megabytes of personal data. Emails going back 10 years, diaries, professional notes, all my website files, financial spreadsheets, my running logs, short stories, letters to everywhere, my not-so-great unpublished 150,000 word novel, and yes, the 45,000 words of my running book. Sweet silver angels over the sea, please come down flyin' low for me.

My running book. Remember that? It was stuck on 20,000 words for a long time, then I met up with Nigel in the summer when we talked about our respective writing projects. He did the decent thing and got on with his. I dribbled on with mine. It was one of the reasons my contribution to this site was even sketchier than usual. I wound up with 45,000 words, which I was going to supplement with 50,000 or so hacked from these pages.

But it's all gone now.

Backups? Er, well.

It doesn't matter.

Time to run.

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Monday 26 December 2005

Warning. Very dull entry shortly arriving....

Here we go.

Running a marathon is a sane and reasonable ambition, even if it takes a year or two to realise it. You lose weight and get fitter; it boosts your self-esteem and self-confidence; gives you an excuse to visit places you might not think of going to, and the pleasure of participating in a large communal event.

And yet we pretend it's a ridiculous thing to do. "I must be totally mad, but I've entered a marathon. God knows what came over me." In the same way, even seasoned marathoners cheerfully grumble that Christmas is a terrible time to kick off a training plan.

It isn't.

It's a great Christmas present to yourself. How exciting to look at that grid, to see those long run distances climbing upwards through winter and into spring.

Grids? Training plans? Yeah, I know. Not long ago I was writing off training schedules, but here I am, grasping the skirts of another. The cheek-reddening confession is this: I can't live without them. Hopeless.

Reaching for a schedule is like a condemned man cheerfully asking for a tour round the gallows before his big day.

Ah, but there I go again. Condemned man? Gallows? It's the marathon runner's self-imposed victim complex yet again.

This last week marked the end of the phoney war. My rather miserable, hungover Monday evening plod on the treadmill in Dusseldorf marked the beginning of the 16 week run-up to Zurich on April 9th.

I'm always reluctant to talk about the detail of training plans for two main reasons. One is that you're inviting humiliation by setting out your grand intentions so publicly. The reality rarely matches this neat blueprint. The second reason is that schedules are a bit like children or dogs. I'm happy for other people to have them; but they are rarely as interesting to me as they evidently are to their owners.

That said, the last time I said something about training details being boring, I had a couple of emails saying no, they found other people's training schedules to be deeply interesting.

Crikey.

So for the benefit of those couple of... difficult cases, here is the training plan I'm pursuing this time around. It's from Bob Glover's admirable Competitive Runner's Handbook.

	Mon	Tues	Wed	Thurs	Fri	Sat	Sun	Totals	Notes
Week #
1		3	4	4		8	3	22
2		4	4	4		10	3	25
3		3	5	3		13	3	27
4		6	5	4	4	3	8	30
5		4	5	5		15	3	32
6		6	5	6		12	6	35
7		5	5	4		18	3	35
8		6	6	6	4		13	35
9		5	6	6		20	3	40
10		6	5	5	5	3	6	30
11		6	6	5		20	3	40
12		6	6	6	4		13	35
13		5	6	6		20	3	40
14		6	6	6	6		8	32
15		5	5	4		8	3	25
16		4	4	3		2	26	39

When I first followed one of these plans (the Hal Higdon Novice Schedule), I'd panic about missing one of the midweek runs. For instance, I once did a 5 miler then realised, after getting home, that the plan had said 6 miles. So I put my shoes on again and went out for another mile.

Such a literal interpretation isn't necessary or advisable. For one thing, you have to fit races into these plans. More important, you have to fit your life in somewhere too. This isn't an invitation to cut corners, but it's reasonable to shuffle things about when greater beings like bosses and wives get in the way. My main aims are 1) to hit the weekly totals, 2) to do the long run distances and 3) to do the long runs well.

The third point stems from the tendency in recent times to approach the runs wrongly. Enthusiasm and energy can vanish in a puff of smoke halfway through, with me walking most of the way home. I'm trying to re-appreciate the true objective of the long weekend run. Slow, easy running to build endurance and stamina. I've tended to lope off at my single, unchanging pace. The same pace I use whether I'm off for my 4 miles round the block before work, or for a Sunday afternoon pre-marathon 20 miler. It's an invitation to failure.

Yes, I'm in that razor-keen, early stage of marathon planning. It's like falling in love. You try to analyse what went wrong last time, and vow not to repeat old mistakes. Yeah, right.

I like simple schedules. Here's an example of the sort I can't stand. I plucked this gem from Runner's World magazine last year. Almost every day of the 3 month plan had something similar. Only a starey-eyed nut still in search of a first girlfriend could devise this sort of stuff without giggling:

Run one mile at 10K race pace and recover with four minutes of jogging. Then run 1200m at 10K race pace with a three minute recovery jog. Follow with 800m at 10K pace and another three minute recovery jog. Finish with 2 x 400m, running each 400m about eight to ten seconds faster than you ran all the other laps. Jog one lap to recover between.

Here's where I am so far:

	Mon		Tues		Wed		Thurs		Fri		Sat		Sun		Totals		Notes
	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual	Plan	Actual
Dec 19			3	3	4		4	8.3			8	3.5	3	9	22	23.8
Dec 26		4	4		4		4				10		3		25
Jan 2			3		5		3				13		3		27
Jan 9			6		5		4		4		3		8		30
Jan 16			4		5		5				15		3		32
Jan 23			6		5		6		5				13		35		Almeria Half

Eagle-eyed analysts will note that I've had a couple of longish runs recently. The best, without doubt, came on Christmas Day. No distance monitor, but I did have an old sports watch on, which told me that I ran for 1 hour and 50 minutes. And I do mean "ran". Not a moment of walking. I'm guessing at the distance, but because it was such a leisurely run, am being deliberately hard on myself. Probably nearer to 10 miles, but I've erred on the side of caution and put it down as 9.

A Christmas morning run is one of the best of the year. The world is a different place. People grin through their new scarves and bid me a cheery "Good Morning". I had only one "Merry Christmas", and interestingly, this came from a beaming Moslem couple out with their two kids. I was in Crawley; totally unfamiliar running territory. After a bit of initial meandering, I found a bridleway-cum-cycling path, and headed off in the direction labelled East Grinstead.

An hour or so later, I turned and ran back to face the music.

It was my Christmas present to myself.

Felt fantastic all day.

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Wednesday 28 December 2005 - Cliveden Cross Country

A frost so severe this morning that just stepping through the back door was to feel your dangly bits withering and dying on the vine. cliveden 2005

Standing there, quivering, in my leggings and three T-shirts, apprehensive sweat freezing on my temples, the temptation was to give up. But I need stuff to write about, and if I don't run then this blog is buggered. That's about as basic as I can get.

My car is full of apple trees and bird tables at the moment. The branches of the Russet are so profuse and intrusive that driving is like.... like driving a car while climbing a tree. It's fantastic.

The 25 minute journey made a stab at warming me up, but I was still practising an involuntary rigor mortis routine by the time I parked. There was a glorious chance of picking up an injury in these conditions, so I tried to spend my spare 20 minutes wisely. 5 minutes brisk walking and 5 jogging, repeated. By the time the morose hooter sounded, I was at last feeling semi-human.

This was race number 35 for me - the Cliveden Cross Country, and mile-for-mile, easily the toughest race in my modest calendar. Only 6.35 miles, but slippery going down, and very steep going up. It's a splendid location, but I talked about the setting in last year's race report, so I won't repeat all that old rubbish. Instead, I'll offer some new old rubbish.

I set off at the back, just behind the meaty girl from the Vegetarian Running Club.

The bloke beside me had a bandaged ankle, and was limping heavily. He was wearing a rugby shirt and football boots. "These boots are killing me", I heard him say. "I've not worn 'em for fifteen years." So I felt confident that I wouldn't be finishing in last place, though I wasn't feeling confident about much else.

The first mile or so of Cliveden is cruelly deceptive. The rest of the race is deceptively cruel. The fairy-tale frost on the trees; the splattering of snow on the trail beneath your feet; the fantastic views of the majestic Thames far below, glimpsed through clouds of desperate effort. They all point to one big fat lie -- that you're having a good time.

No.

cliveden 2005

You start with a long flattish stretch along the cobbled driveway, round the frozen fountain, and off through the grounds. Then you come to a big open field - downhill but pimpled with rock-hard, icy bobbles of grass. It was here that I first appreciated my off-road shoes. I bought this pair of Asics Gel Guts more than a year ago. Before today, I'd averaged one mile every two months in them. Indeed, the Cliveden race is their annual outing. The soles give me much better grip than my normal New Balance 854s, though the uppers are a bit unforgiving. Still, at this rate of wear, I estimate they should have worn themselves in by around the turn of the 22nd century.

After the field comes a sight to chill the blood - were it not already frozen solid in my veins. The woods. Those dark woods. The Cliveden Woods are where the worst demons live. Again, the first stretch is easy enough - a gentle downhill shuffle - but then you go down some more, and down some more, and more again... and the further down and down you go, the faster these words pass through your mind, like a manic news ticker: What goes down, must come up...What goes down, must come up...

It comes up.

Built into the steep hillsides around the Cliveden estate are a series of deep wooden steps. Because they are deep, you can't get into a rhythm to jog up them. You step up, run forward a yard (or sometimes a yard and a half), then step up again. During the race, you do this 445 times.

Yes, you read that right. 445 times.

Most people end up walking the steps, though even to walk them is exhausting. In relation to the length of the race, the fatigue is severe, and it seems to hit you quickly. As soon as one torture session of steps is over, you find yourself on a slippery, grassy stretch. It's no surprise that both years I've done the race, I've come across people injured by the side of the track, clutching an ankle or a knee.

But I finished, and I finished in 76:20 -- 2½ minutes faster than last year.

Footnote: Just seen the results. The limping bloke with the bandaged ankle and the football boots finished 10 minutes ahead of me.

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Friday 30 December 2005

There's a nasty bite to the weather as end of the year approaches, but even the wind and rain couldn't hold me back this afternoon. It's one of the great benefits of working close to home. An early lunch break, nip home, get changed and out for a 3½ mile dash round the block. Back home, quick shower, and back at my desk barely an hour after leaving it, glowing like a beacon and vibrating with feelings of "wellness", as we have to say now.

Some of my good work was undone by the generosity of my boss, who'd ordered a stack of pizzas while I was out. Managed to limit myself to 3 spicy hot monster triangles. Man, they tasted good.

Despite the stiff wind and icy drizzle, I enjoyed the run. Some corner has been turned. Today I felt properly strong and confident for the first time in recent months. Tomorrow brings another long run. Then it's off to a local gastro-pub for a New Year's Eve meal with M. But as with today's pizza, with a decent run under my belt, I'll feel no guilt or disappointment about a good guzzle.

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Saturday 31 December 2005

New Year's Day tomorrow, when a million new runners will be born. Like frog spawn, most won't survive into February's tadpole stage, and fewer still will ever know what is to leap between April's muddy puddles, with the promise of summer to reward their persistence.

Runners who fall by the wayside before the end of January will moan about the pain, the hassle, the weather, the effort it takes, the lack of an instant reward and the hurdle of motivation. What they won't know is that even seasoned runners grumble at pretty much the same things. The difference is that we've stuck around long enough to recognise the concomitant benefits, which are barely visible to the newbie plodder. Running is full of dividends, but they're available only to those who keep faith in their investment.

Today was overcast and unwelcoming. If it's like this tomorrow, half of those new runners won't even manage that first leap from their front doorstep. Tip 1: There's no relationship between how it looks out there at the beginning, and your eventual reward. Some of the dreariest days have witnessed the best runs, while the fairest and most promising have delivered only disappointment. Learn not to have expectations, because the reality will almost always reverse them.

Cold but not bitter, so I eschewed a jacket. Just shorts and teeshirt and cap. Tip 2: Dress for how you'll feel 10 minutes into a run, not how you feel the moment you step outside.

Did the usual circuit of 3.5 miles, before heading off down the canal. I had a decision to make - just do the out and back route, or go for the hilly diversion? There's an undulating half coming up at the end of January in Spain, and I quickly need to grow a bit of steel in these floppy quads. So it looked like the hilly diversion. But then a mile or so down the towpath, I thought no, the idea of the long run is to get those miles in and increase endurance. So I switched back to my flat out and back. Tip 3: There's no law against changing your mind in mid-run.

It's a while since I'd been down this far. There's a water tap along the canal exactly 4.61 miles from home. There and back, plus the initial 3.52 miles, minus the short cut corner that results from cementing these two runs together, would add up to pretty much exactly 12.5 miles. Tip 4: Brush up on your mental arithmetic before starting to run. You'll need it.

Not many people about, and those that were, weren't too sociable. I passed four tittering teenagers issuing clouds of marijuana smoke, and a skinny runner who wouldn't return my Shearer salute. Tip 5: Accept that 50% of other runners are miserable buggers.

Arrived finally at the tap, to find that the water had been turned off. Bad news. The final 4½ miles dragged, and the last mile was positively tough. But I made it, managing to run for the entire distance apart from the brief stop at the tap. Tip 6: Try not to run 12½ miles without water.

This was one of those ground-out runs, chilly and monochrome, but I knew before I started that this was all about building stamina and endurance, and I would have to hang on in there. It told me that I'll have no trouble running the half marathon at the end of January, even though I may decide to shelve plans for a PB attempt. I'm building the distances again, but my speeds are poor. Maybe I'll use Almeria as a training run, and have a proper go at the Wokingham half two weeks later.

Hot shower, then clean, warm clothes and a cup of tea. Felt like a king. Tip 7: Understand from the start that running is about deferred pleasure. It's often hard to enjoy being out there, and we shouldn't judge running on that. We should judge it by the tranquility of these grinning, post-run moments.

Happy New Year everyone.

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