These entries first appeared in the abortive TypePad blog.

Tuesday 7 August 2007

At last. Something to write home about.

3.5 miles doesn't sound much, but it was hilly and airless. Add to that my 9 days of abstinence (running abstinence, that is -- unfortunately not the alcohol and chocolate variety), and this was always going to knacker me.

Though I say it myself, I sensed I must have looked somewhat dapper in my yellow club singlet and matching cap. I set off with the usual medium-to-slow group. We're a strange mixture. A few crusty old men like me, plus a bevy of well-rounded young women in lycra. These club runs certainly get the old heart-rate up.

I'm often surprised by the delights concealed in the fringes of Reading. Hidden behind the modern, chavvy estates, are some startlingly wild patches of undulating countryside. I probably still wouldn't know they existed if it wasn't for these occasional club runs.

Tonight's gave me yet another new discovery. Louse Hill doesn't sound idyllic, but it turned out to be better than its billing. The first two or three hundred panting yards took us up a steep woodland track. Through the wet summer, this would have been a murderously slippery yomp through deep mud. Tonight it was a quintessential English woodland in high summer. Ideal for strolling through on the way to a hilltop pub. My train of thought led me to the Bell at Aldworth, one of the finest pubs in the county, and in England. (One of many articles)

It's a while since I've supped at the Bell, and I thought how pleasant it would be to round up a few of the RC gang one day to run up the hill from Streatley to Aldworth, probably 4 miles or so, and finish at the Bell for a few bevies. Or perhaps if we were in a hurry, we could forget the run bit.

But anyway, Louse Hill (which is nowhere near Aldworth, it must be said), was a steep climb, though not too long, and eventually led to a long, open lope across the brow of the hill, from where a splendid vista of... Reading was available. Not the most picturesque of towns, but when you have it fixed in the middle distance, the glistening Thames wrapped round it like a festive ribbon, it seems not quite so bad after all.

It was while peering over at this view that my left foot landed in a hole, encouraging me to issue a great throaty cry to the still evening air. A tumult of birds crashed through the trees in shock, and my fellow runners squealed in sympathy and decelerated. But I have to conceded that my reaction wasn't quite commensurate with the injury. Not a serious twist by by any means, but just mildly painful enough to be annoyingly uncomfortable for the remaining two miles or so.

Apart from admiring the scenery, both human and pastoral, I took the opportunity of this largely peaceful outing to mull over my recent state of mind. I think I must be a bit like the stock market -- I don't mind if things are good or bad, because I know how to deal with these states. It's uncertainty I dislike.

This job application has proceeded well. I think. Without wanting to tempt fate, I think the job is mine if I want it -- subject to references and my own approval. Trouble is, I've had nothing in writing, so I don't know enough detail to be sure it's the right move. And the HR supremo has just gone on holiday, so it may be a while yet before I'm in a position to make a decision.

In the meantime, it must be good for my mental and physical health to get back in the running groove. I've been feeling fatigued recently, and constantly sleepy. Maybe it's something to do with the cricket season. But it was good to get out this evening, and I must try to keep it going.

Just at the moment my motivation isn't great though. For running or writing, or for doing all this paperwork that's piling up next to me. VAT, income tax, things to sign and approve. Just stuff to deal with. Why is it suddenly so hard? I'll snap out of it soon enough, and I'm sufficiently old now to know that it's something for me to just decide to do, before doing it. No point boring everyone else about it. Just get it done, mate.

But first I must go to bed. I need sleep.

And track du jour? It has to be the track through the woods on Louse Hill. The prize was always there, and always will be. All you have to do to win it is be willing to turn up and accept it in person.

(Edited -- Hmmm. Does that thought drag me a furlong, nay a perch, nay a farthing's breadth closer to comprehending this running lark? I fear it might.

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Friday 10 August 2007

Friday evening.

Around 8 o'clock, as usual, I wandered into the village. But not to fill up with beer this time. I need to prepare for the morning. Bananas, malt loaf, sports drink.

If all goes to plan, tomorrow will be a first. A long weekend run with other people. A few of the club runners are assembling for 10 or 11 miles along the Thames, and the aim is to join 'em.

On my stroll up the road, I realised how much better I'm feeling physically, compared with a week ago. And mentally. Much as I enjoy a few beers, and the social life that goes with it; and the portentous uncorking of a decent bottle of wine, I have to face the truth -- that this alcohol stuff doesn't bestow too many favours beyond the bliss of the moment. An alcohol-free week has illuminated this cold fact yet again.

Damn.

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Saturday 11 August 2007

I slept fitfully, wanting to ensure that I got some carbs down me before the run today. And so it came to pass that at 5 a.m. I was lying there in the dark, chomping through a banana and half a Soreen malt loaf, before attempting another stretch of sleep -- not too successfully.

Up at 8, feeling unrested.

But what a perfect summer morning. The sun was was already blinding and warm as I left the house.

It was a rapid drive to Prospect Park, in keeping with my poor time management. Last night I started reading a self-help book called Get Everything Done And Still Have Time To Play. It told me that if I always have to rush to get to appointments, I need exactly the sort of insight and assistance that this very book will provide. I do always have to rush to appointments, so I guess I'm reading the right book. I'll report back on any noticeable transformation. Though perhaps I won't need to. If I start saying things like: As usual, I had to wait fifteen minutes for the other runners to turn up, you'll be able to draw your own conclusions. If I continue to say things like: It was a rapid drive to Prospect Park, you'll know that my £7.99 could have been more wisely invested in the Rhône section of the Waitrose wine department. And indeed, that more wisdom could have been purchased there.

The other three club runners evidently had more impressive time management skills than me, as they were already there. Peter, the stalwart veteran club captain, plus Liz and Maxine, neither of whom I knew before today.

Or at least I didn't think I did. But a mile or so into the run, the charming Liz asked: "Oh, are you the Andy of Running Commentary fame?" And it turns out that I've been corresponding intermittently with her husband over several years, after coming across him on the Runners World web forum. After this realisation, I had to struggle to avoid calling her Mrs Blue Knees.

But seriously, she was great company for much of the first 7 miles. Runners are just damn nice people.

The run took us down to the river near Purley, and along the Thames Path for perhaps three miles before we arrived in Reading town centre. By some sleight of foot, we somehow transferred onto the canal towpath without me realising. I started to suffer badly here. It was getting pretty hot now -- probably 75°F. (No idea what that is in fancydanspeak.)

Hydration, never a problem in my leisure time, has always troubled me on long runs. I've tried most things but nothing is quite right. I can't run with a water bottle in my hand. Apart from feeling unnatural and just plain wrong, the heat from your hand ensures that the liquid is simmering nicely by the time you need it. Lucozade Sport is bad enough even when rendered near-tasteless by a night in the fridge. Taken as a hot toddy, it's unreckonably abominable.

Worn on a belt, a water bottle doesn't get so hot, but it sort of bounces around -- it's like being tethered to some obese rodent in the throes of a violent nervous breakdown. I have quite enough trouble with heavy items in that area -- my stomach for instance -- without needing to add to it.

I've tried one of those bladder-pack jobbies worn on the back. This is the best of a bad lot, though I worry that it makes me look too much like a gear-freak. I'm a portly, middle-aged bloke with a face the colour of an over-ripe tomato. That's quite funny enough already.

So anyway, my liquid reserves today were just a 200ml pouch of orange juice, squashed into the pocket of my belt. And delicious it was too, but there wasn't enough of it. After 4 miles, it was exhausted. A mile further on, I was too.

I struggled on for a couple more miles, but with about 7.3 on my watch, I told the others to continue. Of course they protested, and insisted on sticking around, but I had to tell them it would be even kinder of them to continue, which they did, with impressive reluctance.

It gave me the chance to get my breath back. I walked for a while -- perhaps 10 minutes, then jogged on. From then it was stop-start, but I wasn't too disheartened. Despite being a hot day, and inadequately equipped liquidly speaking, I'd knocked out the first 7 miles in around 10 minute miles which is actually pretty quick for me, especially coming back from a lay-off. I was able to add another 2.5 more leisurely miles to bring it up to about 9.5 in all.

I'm happy with that.

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Thursday 16 August 2007

I woke up on Tuesday morning with a 4 mile run pencilled in on my schedule. Began to clamber out of bed, and was immediately aware of a sharp pain in my left knee. So bad that I couldn't bend it.

Eventually I eased my way onto my feet and limped towards the stairs. Getting down them was quite a struggle. I couldn't put any weight at all on my left knee, so had to sort of hop down, one step at a time.

Fast forward 3 days, to today. The simple truth is that it's still really bad. I can now get up and down the stairs much more easily, but I think this is more to do with having developed an effective technique, rather than an improvement in the underlying problem.

I'm at a loss to know what's happened here. I've never had trouble with knees. Calf muscles, yep, and both big toes have tormented me from time to time. But the bigger joints -- ankles and knees -- have been kind to me. So I can't understand what's going on. Last week, I did step into a hole while out with the running club, but apart from some temporary discomfort with my left ankle, there seemed to be no lasting problem, and certainly nothing knee-ational.

Looking at it now, there's no swelling, no discolouration, just a sharp pain when I press the knee-cap, or when I bend the joint more than a few inches.

Hmmm. No running, needless to say, and just about zero chance of doing the Burnham Beeches Half on Sunday.

I'm puzzled rather than gloomy about it.

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