Tues 1 March 2005

This evening I sat in a hedge, ruefully recalling that in Ye Greate Wise Booke of Runninge Lore, Rule Number 427 states: "Tie your shoes, and tie 'em tight." I'd memorised the first half of the sentence, but that last bit had slipped away somewhere.

After last week's episode, in which our man had turned up at the sports centre in time to see his running group vanish in a hissing cloud of rain spray, tonight I resolved to leave home a bit earlier. This was achieved (I realised later) by skimping on some details of preparation. Like tying my shoes quickly - but not very tightly.

We set off. The night was cool, but not really cold enough to justify the three layers and the gloves I'd thought necessary. But I'd have to put up with them. For a third of a mile or so, I strode along purposefully near the front of the group. I was enjoying this. Then I noticed a sort of regular, clicking sound and looking down, realised that one of my laces had come undone. Damn...

I executed an emergency stop and bent down to deal with the shoe. An easy operation, surely? But I was wearing those fluorescent yellow running gloves that M bought me. They're effective, but I startle myself every time I catch sight of these spectacular items swinging by my side. Imagine trying to do up some buttons with boxing gloves on. Same sort of thing. First attempt was a hopeless failure. And the second. By now the group had vanished round the corner and I was panicking. Should I take my gloves off to do the job properly, or have another go as I was? I had to factor in the extra time that peeling the sweaty buggers off would take, and pitch that against the chances of getting it right third time, if you get my drift. I decided to gamble. With the gloves still on, I attacked the problem yet again, this time with increased vigour and determination. Yes! This time the lace disappeared through the loop, and with an energetic yank I was able to pull it tight.

I sort of leapt forwards, like a 100 metre Olympic finalist leaving the starting blocks. But what happened? I didn't go anywhere. I sort of half-somersaulted, tripped over my own foot, and crashed into a hedge or large bush by the roadside. Why was my hand stuck to my foot? What was going on....?

It was my glove. I'd managed to tie a floppy finger of my left hand glove into my shoe lace. I'd become a one-man three-legged race.

Oh misery. I finally got myself sorted and hared after the other runners. A traffic light had delayed them at the next junction, but I still never quite caught them. They were there, 50 to 100 tantalising metres ahead of me, for the entire 4 miles, but I never reached them.

I ended the run feeling uncomfortable - overheated and frustrated. Was this because I'd struggled to catch the group? Or because I still hadn't recovered from the excesses - good and bad - of last weekend? It didn't matter. A bad run was overdue, and here it was. Move on.

Two items of note from this lunchtime's visit to the supermarket, both while I was waiting to pay. First was an internal staff notice I saw by the till. "It has been reported that some team members are swapping their breaks without health and safety clearance", it said. "Any team member found doing this in future will be invited to attend a counselling session with their team leader."

Counselling? Bah! Whatever happened to good old "severe disciplinary action", not to mention "instant dismissal"?

While mulling over this depressing gem, I leafed through the TV magazines displayed by the checkout. So what's happening in Coronation Street, I wondered? I used to watch it, but gave up a long time ago. So out of idle curiosity I turned to the "Soaps Summary" to find out the latest dramatic twist. What had I been missing? It said simply: "This week, Eileen continues to battle against her addiction to cheese and onion crisps."

Reassured that there is always someone worse off than myself, I paid for my bag of salad and fled back to the real world.

Sat 5 Mar 2005

The sun pours down like honey over West Berkshire this morning, 24 hours ahead of the Reading Half.

This last week has been low-key for running, and intentionally so. Some people like to squeeze out extra runs out in the week before a race, as though they fear that an unscheduled rest day will drain them of fitness, and of everything they ever knew about running. Others spend that extra rest day enjoying the sensation of strength and mental freshness pouring into their limbs, not out.

I've been out twice since the last entry, but only for mild canters through the snow storm (Wednesday) and the freezing streets of Tilehurst (Thursday). The latter was supposed to be another run with the group, but most of them didn't turn up -- a combination of the fierce cold and the impending half marathon.

Nearly everyone in the group is running the race. For many, it's just another swing of the pendulum. It's Reading time again. A couple of these middle-aged regulars have even run every Reading Half since it began in 1983. Others, like me, have it as part of a wider training programme. Mostly the London Marathon, though for me it's Hamburg, the week afterwards. And for some of the runners in the group, the Reading Half is looming out of the darkness like some great cliff that must be climbed. It's their first race and they don't know what to expect.

In 2002, Reading was my first race too. You can read about it here. A first race teaches you something very valuable, particularly if you're a solitary plodder, as I had been up to that point. Until I did a race, I was convinced that running was just my dirty little secret, and despite what I'd read on Ye Olde Interwebbe, surely no one else was really as inept as me? I'd come last, I knew it. I'd turn that final corner and find they'd all packed up and gone home.

I wasn't last, and they hadn't gone home when I finished. Everywhere I looked, as far as my eye could see - both ahead and behind, I could see people just like me. I was already in love with running, but this was a turning point.

Thinking about starting to run might be to turn the handle slowly, and getting out there to shuffle a few tentative steps might be to push open the door a little. But to really fling it wide open, you have to run a race. Fear keeps us away from so many things that, when finally experienced, reveal themselves to have been friends all along.

It won't resonate for everyone, but for me, the Reading Half was one of those experiences, and to run it again tomorrow will be to meet up again with an old mate.

Sun 6 Mar 2005 - Reading Half Marathon

We were nearly halfway round when I overheard a woman in front of me wearily ask her running partner: "How many miles are there in this race?"

"Thirteen", he panted.

"Thirteen! Oh bloody hell!"

This struck me as a curious exchange.

Come on. You get up early one Sunday morning, pin your race number to your top and put your running gear on. You check the map to find the best way to Reading, and to the start line. Meet up with your running mate and stand in a frozen field for an hour, waiting for the last possible moment to take off your fleece and dump your baggage onto the truck. You queue for another half hour at the start, manufacturing yet more small talk before setting off. You then run six miles.

And then, and only then, does the question cross your mind... How long is this race I am running in today...? She was no first-timer either, on the evidence of her well-used Asics and pleasingly Lycra-ed bottom.

Reading does attract a lot of them. Lycra-ed bottoms? Yes, but I really meant first-timers. Numbers pinned to the back of hooded fleeces (with just two safety pins). Khaki shorts. Tennis shoes. Coarse walking socks. A duffel bag. Balaclava. Two litre bottle of Pepsi. All exhibits for the prosecution case. Not that it's of any concern to me really. I just find it odd that some people find it hard to distinguish between strolling in the countryside and running an urban half marathon.

As I mentioned recently, I was a first-timer at Reading too, in 2002. Today was my third visit in four years, and I'm delighted that even though the course has changed since I did it last, the organisers have decided to retain some of the race's most celebrated traditions, like delaying the start by half an hour to ensure that any odd toes escaping frost damage in the long wait in the playing field can be properly finished off. This makes sure that any trace of pre-race high spirits can be thoroughly subdued, greatly reducing the danger of releasing glee onto the streets of Reading.

But if you survive the annual, terrible start, you're in for quite a treat. Reading is surely the most frustrating of the big races on the calendar. Every year, the organisers so nearly get it right. Every year there are Everest-like, man-made organisational obstacles to overcome. Every year, emotional runners line up to denounce the race on the running forums, declaring that they will never run this race again. Unsuccessful social gatherings in breweries are referred to. And yet.

And yet so much else about the Reading Half is good. For an urban race, the course is good. If you subtract the opening stretch through Whitley, and the final mile or two round the featureless business park behind the Madejski, it's an attractive course that takes you through the university, a variety of tree-lined residential areas and the town centre - all to the accompaniment of the best crowd support I've come across outside the big city marathons. One or two inclines aside, it's a flat course. Ten thousand-ish good humoured runners, many rehearsing their London Marathon fancy dress performances.

I collected Antonio at 7:30 from a hotel a couple of miles up the A4. Our meeting in Shepherds Bush yesterday evening was smoother than feared. No Doctor Zhivago syndrome here. And lost among the subway crowds I try to catch your eye.

We drove back to Berkshire via floodlit Windsor Castle and the quaint Eton High Street. The itinerary looked simple on the map: Eton and Windsor are adjacent, facing each other across the Thames. Trying to get from one to the other by car, however, was a complicated affair, and involved a detour of about 5 miles. Antonio kept me amused with his analysis of the impending constitutional crisis to be triggered by the marriage of Charles and Camilla. This was followed by his lusty rendition of "It's A Long Way To Tipperary".

We eventually arrived home to find a bloke called Kevin in the sitting room. He was also running the race, and had offered to stay the night with us. We exchanged gifts and went for some pre-race pasta in Pangbourne.

After collecting Antonio from the hotel on race morning, I gave him the ten-bob tour of the area and its running routes. This took a bit longer than expected, and we arrived back home to find those luminaries from the forum, Sweder and Seafront Plodder, skulking in my kitchen, being fed and watered by Kevin, the mysterious houseguest. His presence hadn't been in vain.

Then we all went and ran a half marathon.

Delays notwithstanding, I enjoyed this race a lot. The first two numb-toed miles were challenging, but after that it just slipped by, without me really noticing it. 3 miles, 5 miles, 7 miles. Eh? 7 miles? Over halfway? Why wasn't I feeling this more?

I think the answer is that I've been doing my long runs this time, and 13 miles just isn't that big a deal at the moment. When I got to mile 11 I suddenly realised that this was easy, and began to accelerate. The final mile, in just over 9 minutes, was one of the fastest race miles I've ever run, and was more than a minute faster than my average for the race. The final time, 2:14, still sounds embarrassingly slow though it was a 1 minute 20 seconds PB, so I'm pleased. Second half marathon PB in a row. Could I make it a third successive one at Silverstone on Sunday? Bizarre thought.

Back to the pub for a swift couple of beers where we were unexpectedly joined by Nigel and his three children. The usual post-race mellow afternoon followed. I was able to reflect on a strangely mixed day. The race had started badly but ended well. I'm trying to keep a lot of balls in the air at the moment, and the race, and my preparation for it had somehow got lost in amongst the other stuff. I forgot about my Champion chip till we were going out the door - when I happened to notice someone else's around their ankle. Then I got to the race where I realised I'd not brought any energy gels with me. Then I had a banana and a cereal bar while I was waiting for the start. I never eat this close to the start of a race. What was I thinking? I was thinking about other stuff.

But at least I knew how many miles I had to run. And I ran them.

Mon 7 Mar 2005

It's too quiet. Eerily quiet.

I'm talking about my body. After yesterday's half marathon, I expected an ache or two. Nothing. The best I could manage was the faintest of calf twinges as I stepped out this evening for a recuperative 4 miler. Not even a real twinge. More of a yawn than a "hello".

What can this all mean? Either I'm fitter than I thought I was, or I'm heading for a dastardly fall. Crunch. Was that me stepping on a plastic cup? Or the sound of my knee disintegrating?

Phew. The former.

Wed 9 Mar 2005

I'm taking no chances. After yesterday's plod around the block, the remote calf twinge of the previous evening had shuffled a little closer. Not quite a wave at me, but definitely a sort of waggle of the little finger. So tonight I cancelled my run and went for a walk instead. To the pub. I needed a break. It's been a tough week.

Yesterday morning I discovered by chance that a stretch of the Central Line will be closed at the weekend, including White City. This is the station next to the meeting point for the coaches to Silverstone on Sunday, and would have been the means of travel for nearly all of the 80 or so people coming with us.

Oh god. Mad panic.

Except it wasn't really. No panic at all. Just an hour or two of option-weighing before arriving at the idea of Marble Arch, via the help of a phone call from Switzerland. It was young Swiss Bobby, with whom I once had a bitter dispute about bananas on the RW forum. Good suggestion, mate.

Anyway, it's been a slightly fraught week. But nothing that a few pots of decent ale and a Champions League match can't sort out.

Tomorrow I'll run.

Thurs 10 Mar 2005

Middling to wobbling.

That's a Huddersfield expression. Or at least, I knew a guy in the town who used to say it when asked how he was. I thought of it this evening as I plodded round Tilehurst with the local running group. We're the middle group. The middling to wobbling group.

Only four people from the middle group turned up for this jaunt, which was probably a good thing. We took it easy. My calfs were grateful. And I was grateful that they were happy. Yeah, I'm on calf alert. I can feel them smirking at me. The buggers know.

And to make it worse, they know that I know they know.

I'm feeling calmer about the Silverstone coach. I've heard back from just about everyone about the new arrangements. There are just one or two rebels holding out. I'll be smoking them out tomorrow.

One good thing about running two coaches up there is that I don't have time to worry about the race. The race? Damn, I just reminded myself about it. Do I really have another half marathon to run this weekend? Apparently so.

Fri 11 Mar 2005

"Thank God I'm an atheist....", as Dave Allen once said.

I met him once. He turned up one Saturday morning to buy a case of Champagne when I worked in a wine warehouse in Battersea. Crikey. Must be twenty years ago. 1985. It was a brief meeting, but there was something interesting that I'll mention.

We chatted for a minute or two, as you do. Buying wine makes people loquacious. As was customary, I carried his case of Taittinger (if I remember rightly) out to his car. He had a lovely old Rolls Royce parked outside.

He opened the boot and I had to plonk the wine in where I could. There was a lot of junk in there - old newspapers, tools, shoes, and I had to push stuff aside to make a space for it to fit. As I did so, I came across a large silver plaque in the shape of a heart. It had been jammed under a wooden box full of tools, and was dented and battered. My curiosity was aroused so I picked it up and turned it over. It was an award. Engraved on it in large letters was "Dave Allen, Variety Club Personality of the Year, 1967".

He just chuckled and said "Terrible aren't I? Don't go telling anyone, will you?"

And while he was alive, I don't think I did. He died last night in his sleep. May his god go with him.

No run today. With the race on Sunday, I'm going to take it easy. Instead I'll be deflecting pangs of last minute anxiety about the coaches we're taking to Silverstone. Will people be on time? Will the M40 be clear? And where do I find 90 fruity bagels on a Saturday morning in rural Berkshire?

Life is non-stop excitement.

Sun 13 Mar 2005 - Silverstone Half Marathon

There's a point in the Silverstone Half where the course seems suddenly thrown into uncertainty, and you become part of an eternal snake, looping up and down and back on yourself. You lose sight of where you are. Those people over there - are they faster or slower than you? Are they the fat bastards or the fast bastards...?

And as far as the eye can see, ahead and behind, nothing but long lines of pensive runners. One serpent with ten thousand heads and ten thousand tales.

Last year, I remember someone posting a message on the Runners World forum saying that, as he surveyed this scene, he was struck by the utter futility of running. I knew what he meant, but couldn't agree with the sentiment. Maybe I'm a glass-half-full kinda guy, but where he saw futility, I see only inspiration and a kind of reassurance that what I'm doing must be OK. It's a bold and brilliant illustration, and maybe not within the appreciation of all. Some say that a race is about the need to win. Well perhaps. But what they cannot see is this: that it isn't one race but ten thousand races.

Take Paula. She came with us on the coach last year, along with her partner, but he was injured this year, and couldn't make it. So Paula came alone. Nothing remarkable about that, you might say, except that she's severely visually impaired. I sat next to her on the way up, and asked her about her disability. "I can see something two inches from my face as well as you can see something twenty yards from yours", she explained. "Or to put it another way, when I look down at my feet, well, I can't actually see anything..."

How does this affect her running? "I have to accept that I'll fall over. Happens all the time. Just one of those things. You get up and get on with it." Yet she runs on her own most mornings along the Thames, whatever the weather. "The day I decide not to run just because it's cold or raining, is the day I'll give up".

I agreed with her. "Running in the rain brings out the kid in me", I said. "Yeah, me too", she said. Then we giggled for a while, like we were sharing some grubby secret. She's a fine runner too, planning to run the 56 mile Comrades Marathon in South Africa before she's forty, in 3 years time.

None of my worries about the coach had been borne out. Last week was difficult, with the discovery that White City tube would be shut, but the revised plan, to meet at Marble Arch, turned out to be a good move. Most people actually preferred it. One of our worries was where to leave the car. How much would it cost to park in Mayfair for an entire day?

The surprising answer was... nothing. If it's a Sunday. Even at eight in the morning, in the middle of that dead period between the nightclubs closing and the Oxford Street shops opening, we were shocked to find acres of car space in Green Street. We unloaded our bagels and bananas and chocolate and Cava, and crossed Park Lane, where we found the coaches waiting for us. This was the second of our worries to be crossed out.

The third was the arrival of the runners. Everyone was on time. Even the two people we nearly left behind were on time. They just didn't know where exactly we were meeting. They turned up at Marble Arch, but didn't actually catch us until we were speeding up Wood Lane in Shepherds Bush. They fell out of a taxi and flagged us down just as were about to be sucked up the A40.

We'd sold 94 seats, but after last-minute pull-outs through injury, were expecting 84 people to turn up. Remarkably, 84 did turn up, and we were on our way.

One of the first to arrive had been Robert from Switzerland. He went off on the first coach while we waited with the second. He's a public-spirited sort of chap, and we benefitted from it. Who else would have noticed that the coach driver had blithely driven past the motorway exit? They were almost in Leamington Spa before Swiss Bobby took matters into his own hands and ordered the fellow to turn round. We left London twenty minutes after they did, but got to Silverstone twenty minutes before them. Cheers mate.

I'm not much good at urinating in the public eye. It's one of those seemingly trifling skills that has, nevertheless, devastated my entire existence. At Silverstone, squashed into a corner of that fetid latrine, trying to pee, as the clock ran down towards the 12 o'clock start, was surely my nadir. I implored my inner god to help me in this darkest of moments, and amazingly, he came up with the goods. Or so nearly did. Just as I could sense relief spilling over the horizon to rescue me... my phone rang in my back pocket. It was my wife. "Where are you? The race is about to start..."

I abandoned all hope of respite at that point, adjusted my dress and legged it. Paula took my arm and we made our way to the start. There was nothing to worry about, of course. We hung around in the cool Northamptonshire air for ten minutes or so before the hooter sounded, and we began to move off.

For five minutes I tried keeping up with her. Then I noticed my GPS watch. It said I was running 8:30 pace. Suicidal. So I told her to carry on, and off she sped on her invisible feet, vanishing almost instantly into the crowds in front of me. Despite running on her own, and being unable to see, she was hoping for another 1:40 half marathon. It was somehow too much to take in.

So I thought about emptying my bladder instead. My stomach felt distended, like I was running along bouncing a gigantic, water-filled rubber ball in front of me. It was a surprise to be able to move at all, yet I wasn't just running but running quickly by my standards. It's not unusual for me to run training miles at 11 minutes a time, yet here I was effortlessly striding along at a minute and a half quicker. The opening miles went: 9:27, 9:24, 9:48, 9:20, 9:33, 9:40. For me, amazing.

Around mile 6 I finally spied a sort of reverse oasis. A toilet. Veni, vidi, vici.

It was a shame to lose the time, but my rapid start had stored a few unexpected minutes in the bank, and as I rejoined the field, sans superfluous fluid, found myself still a few yards ahead of the 10 minute mile pacer. Hey, this wasn't bad. Before the start, my rather wild aim had been to run the whole race at that speed. If I could just keep ahead of this guy, my life's work would be complete.

-ish.

We experienced the Silverstone Snake just around here, and for ten minutes or so, I tasted serenity - like only a guy who's very easily pleased can taste serenity. Mile 7 was 9:29, but after this high came the abrupt start of the hangover. Miles 8 and 9 slowed markedly to 10:11 and 10:03. Mile 10 took a long time to come around, and even longer to burn up. 10:20.

My only real sniff of despair in the race came now, when I suddenly noticed the 10 minute mile pacer up ahead of me, fifty yards away. Where had he come from? Somehow he'd slipped past without me noticing. I tried catching him, but I felt like a man drowning. The more I thrashed and wailed, the more I felt myself slipping beneath the same tides that had carried me here. Mile 11 was a painful 10:30 - slowest of the race.

And that was it. After spending ten miles gushing with over-confidence, it had proved itself to be nothing but our old enemy, complacency. These negative feelings lasted for a wretched half mile or so - the low point of the day. Then mile 12 arrived. Yes, mile 12 arrived and with it came a thought. The thought was "bugger this", and I suddenly began to run again. The penultimate mile was 10:04 - not bad. And now I could see the 10 minute pacer up ahead again. I had a mile to catch him.

It was hard, but I finally reached him a hundred metres from the finish, turning in a final, weary mile of 9:42.

This was my third half marathon in six weeks, and my third PB - this one a 3 minute improvement over Reading last week. And with it came, for the first time ever, the realisation that I really can get round a half marathon in under 2 hours. Not this year, but who knows? Perhaps in 2006.

And barring unforeseen circumstances, there will be a Silverstone 2006 for me. I can understand some people thinking it a drab venue, but I like the place, and I like the occasion. People come here to run and to worry about the London Marathon. It's a sort of festival of anxiety. Yet every year it ends up in a celebration of all that's good about this activity. So many people break down barriers at this place. They realise they can do it.

And there's the Running Bus of course. A bit like the race itself: hard work, and full of fretful and frustrating moments, but ultimately satisfying. Maybe we've been lucky, but the runners who come with us are really good people. Friendly, courteous, appreciative, good fun. How can we not do it again?

And one other thing. Next time you're moaning about running in the dark, glance downwards. However dark it is, I bet you can still see your feet...

Wed 16 Mar 2005

I'm getting anxious about the mile to kilometre exchange rate.

We've been a bit complacent about the 1.61 rate that's held for a few years now. The Hamburg Marathon next month is measured in kilometres of course. But I've been nervously reading about the recent running boom in Germany. Demand for kilometres is increasing all the time, and there's a rumour that there may have to be a "readjustment". This won't affect the Germans of course, but for anyone (like me) running in miles, it could be bad news. Looks like next year's German marathons may be pushed out to the 27 or 28 mile mark for British and American runners. Let's hope they keep it stable for the next few weeks, for the sake of my sanity.

Sun 20 Mar 2005

Where did that Spring from?

A few months ago, I mentioned that there's always a single identifiable point that divides summer from autumn. You wake up one morning, and there it is. Last year, it was the day I ran that 10K race in central Reading then flew off to Ireland. The game was up, I said. Months of icy darkness were on their way.

How hopeless it all seemed then. But if all things must pass, then even passings must pass, and this week, spring quite unexpectedly sprung. Just two weeks ago, the Reading Half was as cold as any race I'd ever done, barring the Chicago Marathon in 2002. We stood in a frozen field for an hour, cursing the weather. Even last weekend, Silverstone was windy and bleak, with just occasional glimpses of sunshine. But this week, it's happened for real. Friday was mild and bright, and yesterday, the long weekend run was as hot and as draining as anything I did last summer.

I was up at 7 a.m. for a breakfast of dry toast, hot cross buns and bananas and black coffee. By 8:30 I was out.

The first hour was bright but misty. Just impossibly lovely, really. After the first half mile I enter one of the long, local lanes. It's a bucolic vortex. The world beyond the tall hedges vanishes. I stride past a clump of thatched cottages and into the fields. Where did all the birds come from? And the rabbits? And look at all the stupid lambs pogoing around over there. And now, along the oak-lined avenue through the estate I see that the deer are back. Where have they been? As the sun starts to break through the mist, you remember what this running lark is all really about.

This dreamy overture lasted almost an hour. The big circle I drew around the flat, local countryside was closed as I arrived back home for a quick water stop. I was unusually thirsty, and eagerly drank most of the contents of the bottle I'd concealed in the hedge. This should have been a clue, but I didn't notice it at the time. I just glugged, and carried on. Nearly 6 miles gone, and another 14 to go.

I headed for the canal. It was still misty along the water, but the sun was out strongly now. And so were the flies. I'd forgotten about the gauntlet of flies beneath the overhanging trees at the start of the canal. They filled my eyes and mouth for an entire half mile stretch. A carbo-loader's dream. Simultaneous running and refuelling. I had to put my head down and leg it until I got out beyond the trees again. Horrible, and a reminder that warmth has nasty undercurrents.

Another three miles to the water tap at Aldermaston, but I didn't mind. The weather was astounding, and as I chugged along through the rustic bliss of the Kennet and Avon Canal, I felt strangely content. An odd thing to feel perhaps, 11 miles into a run, but there are times when running offers so much joy and tranquility that for a while at least, you want for nothing.

And this, of course, was the point where it all started to go wrong.

I reached 13 miles easily enough. This was where I could turn round and head back. Tired, and still with 7 miles to go, but boosted by the knowledge that each stride was getting me nearer to home now, rather than further away. I marked the point with a minute of walking and another minute of stretching. And that was it. Suddenly I was exhausted. It was all over. Except that I had to cover those 7 miles. I jogged up to the 16 mile mark, but had to run-walk the final 4. To make it worse, the 4 miles became 5. I'd made a miscalculation somewhere. My GPS watch clicked past the 20 mile point, and I was still a mile from home.

15 miles good, 6 miles bad. Was this a crap run for the long, disastrous final stretch? Or was it a useful 15 miler followed by an extended warm-down?

And why did it go wrong? I can think of a couple of explanations. The unexpected heat and dehydration were obvious problems. But most of all, I think perhaps the two half marathons on the last two weekends just finally caught up with me.

The plan now is to have a fairly leisurely week before the Maidenhead Easter 10 on Good Friday. See you there.

Good Friday, 25 Mar 2005 - Maidenhead Easter 10

It seemed like several days since I'd done a race. I was getting twitchy.

There's something satisfyingly to-the-point about a race called the Maidenhead Easter 10. Where, when and how far. A pair of running shoes and those three words. What else do you need?

How about a urination strategy? The more genteel runner prefers to describe it as "hydration strategy", but it amounts to the same thing.

Yes, I spent the entire ten miles thinking of my bladder, or thinking of ways of not thinking about it. But all these paths were cul-de-sacs -- I was conscious of forcing my thoughts into some direction so bizarre that I couldn't help arousing my own curiosity. What is it I'm not supposed to be thinking about? Oh bugger...

And for every second that I thought about it, it seemed to get very slightly heavier, bouncier and more painful. It's the third race in a row that I've had this problem. At Reading and Silverstone I relieved myself half way through, but Maidenhead... Maidenhead is different. The sort of place that will have a by-law punishing public urination with a spell in the ducking stool. So I thought better of it.

There's also the "wet weather tyre change" dilemma to wrestle with. Will the extra time taken to stop be made up by the extra time gained by being better equipped? I guessed one way at Reading and Silverstone, and the other this time. Who knows?

This was the 30th race of my plodding career. That's OK, but it was also the 3rd in the past 20 days, and that may be too many. It's not just the physical fatigue. The mental stuff is even more corrosive. A race is an emotional plug hole. You need time between them to fill up with enthusiasm and appetite and excitement again. Too many races too close together, and you don't replenish yourself.

Which I suppose explains my ambivalence towards this year's Maidenhead Easter 10.

I drove the 20 miles and parked without problem, then walked to the start, feeling sort of uninspired. There was something annoyingly insipid about the whole affair, though the majority of the other thousand runners seemed to be well up for it as they flapped to the start, hyper-ventilating, starey-eyed and glistening - like plump fish floundering on the riverbank.

I stood in the crowd at the start and considered feeling melancholy. Sometimes I must feel this way at the start of races. There is just too much to think about in those last, shifting moments before the hooter hoots. You look around and try to remember what life was like before this running stuff came along. A cheer goes up. Let's get outta here. My bladder wakes up.

What makes for a good race? Hard to say. I've been reading the reports on the Runner's World forum, and everyone is praising the Maidenhead race to the heavens. I've no big criticism of it myself. It was well marshalled and flat. Nearly all was traffic-free. The runners and spectators were friendly and supportive. Maybe I'm just a bit worn out at the moment. Or perhaps I can see Hamburg looming. But this year, I just found the Maidenhead Easter 10 a bit... a bit dull.

Oh god, I feel so anarchic.

Within the ten, there's a 2 mile stretch that releases us from the Midnight Express-style endless winding around the corporate tarmac. For eight miles we bing-bong-ping between the faux grandeur of the Nortel entrance and the social club buildings. Somehow it made me think about work, which wasn't really the idea. That said, I may have been thinking about work only to stop thinking about... oh god, I've just remembered again. Heavier, bouncier, more painful.

The lunch break, as it were, comes around miles 5 and 6 when we're led through a gap in the fence, and set free for a bit. For a brief 20 minutes or so, it's like we've been paroled unexpectedly. Free at last, we flee past the enormous field of cabbages and kale (or possibly radishes - the Runners World forum is uncertain), and on past that stunning row of wobbly 18th century houses. You know, the ones fringed with high-end Mercedes and BMWs...

During this period that I caught up with Walking Girl. A beautiful sight. There are times when athletics become aesthetics. To see this tall, muscular woman striding forth with astonishing grace and rhythm was truly startling. We played cat and mouse for two or three miles before I finally lost her. Where'd you come from, Where'd you go? Don't know, but she was replaced by bladder-think and more corporate tarmac. Not a good swap.

6 miles, 7 miles... how was I doing for time? My only target was to beat last year's performance - 1:45:20. If I could stick to 10 minute miles or thereabouts, I'd have no trouble. Miles 1 to 6 stuck to the script...

9:39
9:42
9:34
9:54
9:48
9:37...

Then it hit. Just like my long run last week. Suddenly I had to stop. Then I first pulled up on 15 miles. This time it was 6. I don't know why. I just ran out of juice. For months I've not had to stop during a long run. Now it's happened twice in a row. What's going on? I seem to be overdrawn at the energy bank all of a sudden. Why? Am I being too profligate early on?

The final four miles were stop-start:

1015
1112
1021
1040...

The good news is that I did squeeze home with another PB. My fourth in four races, and more than three minutes less slow than last year.

Easter Monday, 28 Mar 2005

Just a quickie to report on a successful 17.5 miler today. Coming just a couple of days after that slightly flawed experience at Maidenhead, this was a welcome tonic.

Deciding where to go on these long runs is a problem. The simplest solution is up the canal for (long_run_mileage/2), then back again. The setting is always tranquil and arresting, but an out-and-back route is never ideal, and the longer the run the less ideal it becomes. Today I threw in a variation to avoid repetition, though it meant a long slog up the turbulent, clangorous A4. That bit wasn't fun, but after such an awful starter, the main course - back along the canal - tasted better than ever.

A warm and sunny afternoon for running, so I didn't put much pressure on the accelerator. It was a steady chug. A 3+ hour chug, and I feel better for having done it.

Wednesday, 30 Mar 2005

I'm approaching that ethereal period, that no-man's-land that is the marathon taper. The final obstacle, a 20 miler on Saturday morning, has to be cleared first, and then all I must do is toast my self-confidence on three weeks of psychosomatic illness, virtual calf twinges and moments of arbitrary derangement. The Americans call it taper madness.

Here's a useful article on the subject: www.runnersworld.com/article/0,5033,s6-51-56-0-5958-1-1X2X3X4X5-6,00.html

This evening I took myself off for a 4 mile splosh through the grey, misty drizzle. I saw three other runners who looked like they were off on some Arctic expedition. Covered from head to foot in plastic and wool. Looked wretched. Bunch of idiots really. In trying so hard to protect themselves, they end up destroying the point of it all.

It wasn't a cold evening. Mild and bright and pleasant, with a bit of rain. Why people can't just enjoy the fresh air and the cool, gentle rain and the twilight birdsong is beyond my comprehension. No, their prejudices and preconceptions are screwed up too tightly. They have to resist, and in doing so, lose the fight. They overheat, get drenched anyway, and end up miserable. For me, it's teeshirt and shorts as usual. Just accept it and enjoy it, I want to tell them. And best of all, enjoy your acceptance of it. Isn't that true defiance?

As I ran this evening, I was thinking about Saturday. It promises a lot, but could just as easily be a total disaster. 20 mile run starting early in the morning. Then drive to London to watch the lads play top-of-the-table Sunderland. Then going to dinner with some old wine trade friends, Monsieur B and his wife A. I've not seen them in years.

Unknown is how my run will go, how my team will fare, and whether we will spend the evening fighting like we used to.

The one certainty is that we will become hopelessly drunk on a selection of very fine wine. One of my most memorable Christmases was 1986, spent with Monsieur B and his then girlfriend. We spent months collecting 24 bottles of interesting, unusual or just downright excellent wine. Then the three of us drank them all over two days. After the very final glass of Taylor 77, late on Boxing Night, I crawled to the bathroom and puked my guts out. If only I could have bottled that vomit.

No doubt the memories will be revived on Saturday night. Let's hope I can be revived on Sunday morning.

Talk to the foot...

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