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Saturday 5 May 2007The early part of the morning was spent trying to finish a longer entry that I started to write some time ago — but it can wait another day or two. If I continue to suspend normal life on here, I'll miss out recording the other good things that are happening. Like a really bouncey run this morning, around a six mile loop of the local fields. It wasn't over-speedy but that was semi-deliberate. Today I truly wanted to run again, and to enjoy that sense of liberation and strength that's been absent for a long time now. My Track du Jour came in the middle of the latest Pheddipidations podcast (Episode 95), which you'll find here. (You may have to hit the "Podcast Archive" button.) As usual, the show is worth listening to, but the song I heard must be Let Me Know, performed by a band called The Fire Apes. I know nothing about them, but if you like Beatles-esque vocal textures, this may suit. You'll find them on MySpace. It felt good today: a new band on a new path around a local field. I found the trail only by checking one of the self-mapping websites that were mentioned on the forum recently (www.mapmyrun.com). Check out sanoodi while you're at it. I searched for local runs and came up with some new running ideas. Here's a map of today's run: PIC. The outline of the run looks like a dog's head, or perhaps Australia on a bad day. Today was a good day. We're back in business. Tomorrow, I'll get that longer entry posted.
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Sunday 6 May 2007
i have always known
that at last i would take this road, but yesterday i did not know that it would be today. Akira No Narihara Now then, friends... Sweder's heroic battle with the Two Ocean's Marathon (and if you've not read it, read it now) added a bit more fuel to a fire that's been glowing for a few weeks now. I started thinking about all this a couple of months ago — shortly after my dismal performance at the Almeria Half, and Sweder's tale has neatly stepped in to plod alongside, and offer encouragement to, my train of thought... I've been thinking how feebly we fight against the worst part of ourselves; how easily we accept our current state of being. Instead of asking ourselves what we want to do, where we want to be, then calculating what we need to do to achieve those things, we tend to say: this is what I am and this is what I can do at the moment — what choices are available to me? It's not always conscious. We can even convince ourselves that the mere act of considering our options is tantamount to being ambitious and aspirational. But being a planner isn't the same as being a winner. The TOM stories influenced my thinking because I'd intended doing the Two Oceans, but wimped out around the new year. My attitude was "it doesn't look like it's going to happen", as though I was making a detached observation; as though this state of affairs was outside and beyond me; as though I was merely reporting something over which I had no control. The likely reality is that I'd made some subconscious decision not to prepare for it, so that I could present myself with a fait accompli. It becomes helpful to stockpile ignorance and self-delusion like this. It immunises us from ourselves, and protects us from having to make the tough decisions. Failure is painful and awkward. Or is it? The fear of failure is actually more injurious, because it prevents us from acting at all. A fear of failure leads to paralysis. It's better to look at failure in a more positive light — as the first, and perhaps even necessary, step towards success. If we can see it like that, we see that by extension, a fear of failure amounts to a fear of success. A pointless neurosis, and a self-fulfilling prophecy. About 11 years ago I stopped smoking after several failed attempts stretching back years. Campaigns had become a twice-yearly tradition. My smoke-free state might last a few days or even two or three weeks, before my resolve disintegrated. But I felt great about trying. I felt better about trying, than I felt bad about failing. And then one day I got fed up with failure. One day I put aside the books, the patches, the mints, the acupuncture, the hypnotism, the strategies... I pushed them aside, breathed a deep sigh of relief, and announced that I'd stopped smoking. And? And I stopped smoking. In the end, my desire to be liberated from failure became even greater than my desire to be liberated from a severe nicotine addiction. It's time to recall that lesson and relearn it. How easy, and lazy, and smug, to think that my running is worth writing about — or reading. It isn't even glorious failure anymore, just aimless ramblings. This isn't to denigrate myself — that wouldn't be fair. Until recently, I had no athletic history beyond running to the pub to get there before closing time. I came to the sport extremely unfit, overweight and demotivated. To move from that low point in November 2001 to the London Marathon in April 2002, and onto Chicago a few months later, taking 36 minutes off my time for the same distance, was a decent achievement. Well done me. Excellent improvement. A vindication of the training and commitment... Isn't that enough? Isn't it all just a bit of fun? Well it can be. It usually starts off that way. Someone tackling their first 10K or half marathon or marathon, particularly if they're emerging from a non-athletic background, is likely to be aiming for little more than getting round the course in one piece. Reaching the start line is success; reaching the finish line is victory. It's a triumph for your new life; a conquest of your pessimism, your self-doubt; a victory over the mocking demons, both within and outside you. How much time passed while you were moving between start and end doesn't matter much. It was only after I finished my first marathon that I could see that, for me, there was no beginning, and there would be no end. The race began long before the start line, and it will never finish. If you're anything like me, you're not running against other people. The only ticking you hear is from the clock of your own life as it slowly winds down. In truth, we run not against a watch but against a calendar. In that first long race, you're straining to out-run your own history, your own paralysis, your own paranoia. Like Pheiddipides, the original marathoner, you're running to deliver news of victory and liberation — Your own. There's nothing wrong with leaving it there. Different people run for different reasons. Some — many — want to complete a marathon as a one-off fund-raiser. Or as a personal challenge. Or as part of some complex social compulsion: another tick, another box. But others recognise its potential as a springboard, as a route to further advances in both running and in life generally. That was the script I read, and have kept re-reading. And I'm only now realising that all I've done is to learn the lines without daring to step into the real drama. So although London and Chicago were good achievements, there's barely been any progress since. Five years on, I'm still unfit and overweight and slow. After Chicago, my marathon time capsized again for a couple of years before coming back in 2006, when the fear of the Zurich sweeper bus was enough to push me below the five hour mark for the first time. But even so, 4:56 after 5 years isn't great. And half marathons? My first one, Reading 2002, was a perfectly acceptable 2:32 for someone who'd been unable to run three miles just 12 or so weeks earlier. But five years on, Almeria 2007, I plod home in 2:28. OK, so between those two races I've managed halfs in 2:11 and 2:12 but these are hardly dazzling beacons of achievement. Here's what's happened. Between Reading '02 and Almeria '07, I have passed through the gates of the fabled Plodderama, the virtual land of compromise, where we alternate patches of good behaviour with larger expanses of bad. Our goals are as wobbly as we are. Modest targets remain unreviewed and unchallenged. No one and nothing troubles us. We have risen to our natural level of mediocrity, and here we stay, bobbing up and down a little in the conflicting and temporary tides of diet mania, extended lost weekends, anxious race preparation, holiday lethargy, renewed determination, injury... activity, panic, activity, panic... a disorientating and self-defeating oscillation, the result of us remaining anchored to our own chronic lack of ambition, of self-confidence and ultimately, of courage. It's easy for failure to become part of our personal culture. Or worse, to convince ourselves that failure is actually success. How do we manage this? Well, residents of Plodderama reach out alright — just never quite far enough. The very act of stretching seems sufficient because we see that so many don't bother doing even that. Plodderamatists quite enjoy the comfortable stretch. Far enough to generate that delicious, self-congratulatory inner warmth, but never quite far enough to get any better at what we do. We are satisfied to drift onwards on that slowly deflating cushion of distant past achievement, unable to see that we are losing altitude with every passing month. Mediocrity can be a pretty savage word, or is usually intended to be. As I just demonstrated, it's deployed lazily — an all-purpose insult — but its literal etymology is actually rather colourful and interesting. It means "halfway up a rugged mountain". That's where I am. Halfway up a rugged mountain. Let me get to the point. I've recently done a lot of thinking about the running firmament, and my place in it. I've mentioned the Two Oceans failure and my hopeless Almeria performance as sources. There are others, like the writing I've been doing for the proposed book, and the analysis and introspection this has prompted. And then there's Doctor George Sheehan, the running writer I've been looking for (without realising it) these past six years. Sheehan, who died from cancer in 1993, was a prolific, and in my view, great writer. A true philosopher, and a runner. People either get Sheehan, or they don't, in the way that people get Bob Dylan or get golf. I do get Sheehan. At the age of reason, I was placed on a train, the shades drawn, my life's course and destination already determined. At the age of 45, I pulled the emergency cord and ran out into the world. It was a decision that meant no less than a new life, a new course, a new destination. I was born again in my 45th year. From "Dr. Sheehan on Running" And that's my choice. To stay off the train, or to get back on. For the last five years I've been jumping off at stations here and there, but as the train has pulled away again, I've panicked and leapt back on. My decision is to get off, and stay off. Notwithstanding my recent visit to the epicentre of the gelato universe, I've been mulling over Sheehan's maxim, "First, be a good animal". Running helps you to become a good animal, but being a good animal is a prerequisite for being a good runner. It's a self-referential continuum — the journey, not the destination. But I don't want to get too Zen-drenched. Some people may indeed turn on and tune in, but too many others will turn off. I'll leave aside Sheehans's scalpel-sharp insights and analysis. Read it for yourself. In summary, my point is this: that it's time I decided either to do this properly, or not to bother. And I've decided to bother. To keep things manageable, this is a one year plan. It began a few weeks ago, and will end, or at least it will be reviewed, on Monday April 21, 2008. On that day, a major ambition will be realised. I've spoken to the tireless Adele at the JDRF, and on that day I will run the Boston Marathon for the charity. I'll also run a marathon in the autumn of this year — probably Dublin. I just deleted a long paragraph with more detailed race plans and targets. It missed the point. The year ahead will be more than just a list of races. It's the manner of them, not the the mere act, that will focus my mind. I'll say this though: that all my PBs will go in the next six months, then they will go again in the six months to follow. This site will also evolve further and become more inclusive. The best writing on the site appears on the forum, and I plan to showcase more of this on the main site, to give it the attention it deserves. There are also plans to revive the original aims of the site — to help new runners get off the ground, and organise and re-present some of the great material that's been produced over the years about training and race preparation. In the five or six years that this site has been going, I've never known such a powerful wave of optimism among the RunningCommentary community. Feeling positive is itself uplifting, but hitched to a plan of action it's sublimely liberating. If you've not tried it, try it now. OK fellas, let's go. Comment
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Bank Holiday Monday 7 May 2007 — Shinfield 10KThe Shinfield 10K was a sort of accidental race. A minute or so into this event, I suddenly thought: "Crikey, I'm running a race". It was as if I'd suddenly woken up and found myself sleepwalking. In the real world, I'd opened my eyes at around 8 o'clock, got up and mooched around for a bit. Over a cup of coffee, I absent-mindedly checked out local 10K races for the coming months, and saw that there was one happening today, in just over an hour's time. Hmm, well, why the hell not? If you want to know what the Shinfield 10K is like, think of the Boston Marathon, then go right to the other end of the spectrum. But this spectrum is horseshoe-shaped, so the two extremes are actually closer together than other random points. It's just different, and my preparation for it is equally different. Boston I know all about, and I enter one year in advance. Shinfield? One hour. Runners need to support races like this, I thought, as I threaded my way through the fragile, trestle-tabled stalls on the green. Here we had the ladies of the Women's Institute selling their jams and chutneys. Others dispensed indefinable knick-knacks for unknown causes, while others were more up-front: the church fund, Help The Aged, an Indian orphanage project. Over there, the pitch 'n putt and the kiddies' slide. In the village hall, where I was able to hurriedly register, were the tombola and the cake stall. Everywhere was polite but animated chatter. Small-town England still exists alright, despite what it says in the Daily Express. I had a few minutes to consume before the race so I wandered round the green, taking random snaps of the scenes around me. No great pictures, but should help to convey the atmosphere. I was intrigued by the sight of one almost perfectly spherical fellow, his intrinsic circularity emphasised by a gleaming pate and expansive grin. Not the sort of chap I'd have earmarked as a natural athlete, which I suspect was exactly what he was thinking about me as I wobbled past. Dammit, let's not revert to self-caricature so soon after yesterday's personal call to arms. I've lost 12 pounds in the last month, which is really pretty good, given that this period includes 10 days in the land of pasta and vino and exquisite ice-cream. I'd forlornly assumed that the past month would be two steps forward and three back, but [whispering] I seem to have got away with it. Twelve pounds down, and another 30 to go to reach my initial target. I'm totally confident about doing it. The last time I said something like that, I was just very much hoping I'd make it. This time I know I'll succeed, because this time I've decided to do it. Simple as that. As my last boss used to say: "hope is not a strategy". He was right about that at least. There was a good turnout of runners. Perhaps 600? I made my way to the back of the field and waited for the hooter to hoot. It hooted, and off we set. And that's when I thought: "Crikey, I'm running a race..." It's been only three months since the last (Almeria Half) but it seems like a long time ago. The spring is usually full of races — including a marathon — but this year? Nothing. I suppose the absence of a marathon has removed the need to collect the usual halfs plus the odd 20-miler. It's good in a way. I feel mentally fresher, and have more appetite for the challenges ahead. I knew I'd break no records today, but was keen to improve on my terrible Brighton 10K in November. The course was a pleasant enough circumambulation of Shinfield and Spencers Wood. The first kilometre was uncomfortable — the usual mixture of mild physical trauma (if you can have mild trauma) and a sense of slight regret that I find myself where I do. Why invite this upon myself? But I knew that this would give way soon enough. Once into the second and third kilometre, I'd found my stride and was plodding merrily, managing to maintain a pace of around 6 minutes a kilometre. The topology was reasonably kind — flat apart from an annoyingly long, rather than steep, incline at around the 4km mark. I'd just got to the top of it when the rain started. Mild, even pleasant at first. I thought about the grumblers who whine about running in the wet. Somehow they seem to miss the point of it all. Running, and particularly running in the rain, allows an adult to be a child. It brought to mind something George Sheehan said: There are as many reasons for running as there are days in the year, years in my life. But mostly I run because I am an animal and a child, an artist and a saint. So, too, are you. Find your own play, your own self-renewing compulsion, and you will become the person you are meant to be.The long upward slope was a strain, and I felt the pace fall back a little. I had a brief chat with an older guy who said two things that made me laugh. As the downpour intensified, he said "One wonders how much of this is sweat and how much is rain". And another kilometre further on, we approached a sharp left hand turn at which an ambulance was parked, back door open, ramp down, directly facing us. As we got closer, he panted: "I'm just weighing up whether to turn left here or just keep going straight ahead." Well, perhaps you had to be there. In the final two kilometres, the rain gradually became a deluge. We've not had any rain here for months, and this was payback time. The last few hundred metres were manic, and the finishing area was chaotic. Someone with a plastic carrier bag over their head staggered round blindly, holding out an armful of medals on the off-chance that someone who'd just run a 10K race was passing at that moment. Another child, close to tears, was finding that handing out chocolate wasn't quite the dream career she's hoped it was going to be. I grabbed my medal and Mars Bar without stopping and carried on running through the funnel, across a muddy field, down a lane and back onto the main road where I eventually found the village green and hall again — and my car. I heard someone complain that this course is a shade short, but my race was 11km at least. The village green was a sadder sight than it had been an hour earlier. Clumps of saintly people huddled around their merchandise under flimsy awnings, awaiting the post-race revellers. But the revellers were gone. I drove home wearing nothing but a pair of sodden lycra shorts, and a modest grin. As accidents go, this hadn't been a bad one.
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Tuesday 8 May 20074.6 miles on a cool evening, catching the last of the light. As part of my campaign to improve, I've resolved to extend my bog-standard 3½ mile round-the-block jog when I can. I've tacked on a detour which, I'm appalled to announce, includes a hill, or at least something that I would call a hill, but which, I suspect, some of the RC regulars would scoff at. I mean, it must be at least 15 metres high, and the incline stretches for a good 100 metres or so. Well, perhaps 75. But I've rarely, if ever, voluntarily chosen to include an up-bit in my repertoire, so I felt rather heroic about the project. Track du Jour? Well, I was trying to decide between Led Zeppelin, The Doors, and Joni Mitchell when, a few minutes from home, this came on: The Clancy Brothers - All For Me Grog Every iPod should have one. It'll pop up on your shuffle quite unexpectedly every couple of months, and you will smile. I did. And still am... Comment
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Thursday 10 May 2007As the great EJ Thribb (17½) might have said: So. Farewell then Tony Blair. The Churchill of The modern era. Never was so much Promised to so many by So... few. Now you're gone, So... phew. I'd be slightly more charitable than Private Eye's redoubtable wordsmith and obituarist, but an expectant universe will have to await my assessment — partly because, despite today's announcement, he'll still be PM for another seven weeks, and partly because it's late, and I have the rare need to be up early in the morning to catch the London train. Tonight was a brisk and wet 4.8 miles with the running club. Slightly faster than was comfortable, which made it a good and worthwhile jaunt... though, perhaps like Blair's premiership, something to be appreciated more in retrospect than in real time. Ooops. I took another sort of plunge this evening by finally entering the Dublin Marathon. 
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Sunday 13 May 2007 - Woodley 10KAnother race, another deluge. Was there a time when I ran races in dry weather? I fancy there must have been, but it seems like a very long time ago now. I have distant recollections of finishing a race feeling rather warm. I can recall a towel being used to wipe sweat, and not rain, from my face. Like last week at Shinfield, the Woodley 10K is a cordial, community event. And like last week, it was almost ruined by the weather. The contest itself wasn't affected, but the joy of the wider event was. So instead of wandering around the burger and church fund-raising stalls, I stayed in my car in the supermarket car park, feeling somewhat glum, while the heavy rain obscured the windscreen and drummed on the roof. Sitting there, curtained from the outside world, I was tempted to forgo the whole thing. Why not just hide for an hour, then drive home? I could log a standard race report and no one would know. Then I got a bit more realistic. The radio was on. I heard an item about the family whose 4-year-old daughter has gone missing in Portugal. Then a piece about another eight soldiers being killed in Iraq. Get real, mate. The true picture presented itself. The fuzzy focus sharpened. My problems are not problems at all. What's a bit of rain for god's sake? While other runners jogged to the start line in hooded rain jackets, leggings, and even under umbrellas, I strolled there in my singlet and shorts. We were going to get wet, so what did it matter? Beneath the teeming rain we stood while the well-insulated, plasticated race organiser lectured us through the capricious public address system: "Be careful... the grass is wet... remember that wet grass is slippery... be careful... there are some speed bumps on the road... be careful... you can trip over speed bumps if you're not watching where you're going... so be careful... you don't want to run for six miles with grazed knees..." The cold rain continued falling as he sermonised to his 700 surrogate toddler-grandchildren. Be careful about the traffic on the road... Jeee-sus. Shut the fuck up, and start the race. And at last, he did. The race began, and we charged out of the park. Sixty two minutes later, I arrived back. There's not a lot to say about the intervening period. We ran around the pleasant suburb of Woodley. Some posh people waved and clapped as we passed. Thank you, posh people. We ran past many side roads backed up with cars containing miserable looking locals, unable to conceal their loathing for this army of semi-naked, rain-loving freaks, splashing through the hood, separating them from Waitrose. Sorry people. Very sorry people. I had a good run. My splits (9:30, 9:50, 9:59: 10:02, 10:08, 10:27, 8:53) were good by recent standards. It was my least slow 10K in two years. Three minutes faster than Shinfield last weekend, eight minutes faster than Brighton last November. The improvement is underway. Comment
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Tuesday 15 May 2007Dress disposably... This invaluable piece of advice appeared while I was searching for information on the Boston Marathon. I call it "searching" but you don't have to look too hard. Boston is massive. We don't normally associate running races with tradition, but Boston has it oozing from every orifice. Much more of this over the next few months, I'm afraid. I mentioned a few weeks ago (see April 9), a strange experience I had, waking in the middle of the night to hear a voice coming through the radio, telling me what my running plans were to be for the coming year. Someone mailed me yesterday, asking me what that was all about. First, this is what I heard: Listen I've mentioned Pheddipidations a few times. It's a weekly podcast from a Boston runner, Steve Walker. I like it, and can see why it's attracted quite a following. A few weeks ago I downloaded a couple of episodes onto an SD memory card. I stuck the card in my digital radio and started listening to it as I drifted off to sleep. I don't know what it was -- M pottering around somewhere, or perhaps hearing the words "running commentary", but I woke up at this very moment, and lay there, profoundly disorientated about who was saying this stuff to me. Quite weird. Tonight a fairly relaxing 4.62 miles with the club. It nearly didn't happen. I arrived at our meeting place and parked up. It's almost superfluous to mention that at that very moment, there was a dramatic cloudburst. It's equally unnecessary to add that I hadn't brought a rain jacket with me. I opened the car door and poked my head out. Uugh, this was nasty, cold, weighty rain. I slammed the door shut, deciding to return home, find a jacket and run locally. Tragically, before I could escape, the running group emerged from the sports centre, and I was spotted. "Hurry up, or you'll get left behind!" Damn. There was no possibility of wimping out now. Everyone but me and one other, wore jackets and leggings. For those first ten minutes, there was no option but to keep my head down and plough onwards, and listen to someone saying "I'm so glad I wore my jacket this evening..." But then the tap was turned off again, and within minutes my comrades were tying their jackets round their waists, and tutting about the inconvenience. Hah! Serves them right for not dressing disposably.
The good news is that I'm starting to feel positively fit and strong. I've not felt this good for well over a year. It was my third running day in a row, so tomorrow I rest. Last night, a pleasant 3½ miler to get me out of the house, after a day working from home. I listened to a podrunner podcast. A neat idea. Some dude called DJ Steveboy (I'd wager he didn't acquire that name at the font) puts together a weekly extravaganza of electronic music that keeps the same rhythm going for an hour. Aimed at runners and spinners. But it got kinda boring after a while, and my spirit began to shrivel. So I switched back to my unaccompanied Cornish language folk music, and the less precise cadence of my own footsteps. Things are pretty good at the moment. Comment
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Thursday 17 May 2007Apart from global celebrity, there aren't too many benefits that come with the maintenance of this website. The friendships I've made and the encouragement harvested from them stand out as the biggest plus points. However, the occasional freebie doesn't go amiss. I've had a few offers and limp inducements over the years but the only two useful ones that come to mind are 1) a free subscription to the excellent WeightLossResources which has helped me shed some surplus lard, and 2) a wireless headset that recently came my way. I wrote a while ago that I usually go through three distinct phases when I get a new gadget. Phase 1: Damn, it doesn't bloody work. Phase 2: Oh hang on, hmm, yeah I can see what you do now. Tsk! It doesn't work very well though, does it? Phase 3: But wait, now that I've read the instructions, it seems to be working a whole lot better. We're all iPlodders now, it seems. I have mixed feelings about this. There's been much feisty correspondence on the RW forums recently about the wisdom of using an MP3 player or other portable audio device (henceforth abbreviated to "iPod") when running. My opinion is simple. I don't care what people do in training. It's up to them to gauge how safe it is, and act accordingly. But I'm not happy seeing them used in races. Runners who use them tend to veer. Once you've been attacked by a grinning iPod zombie in a race, you tend to feel grouchy about them. Trouble is, iPod racers are unaware of their tendency to meander, and tend to get exceedingly hot under the collar when challenged. Have you ever driven on a motorway behind someone using a mobile phone? Noticed the way they drift across the road, then back again? That's exactly what racing iPlodders do. Annoyingly, they tend to agree that some other iPod-wearers do veer in races, but vehemently deny that they do it themselves. Same with the deviating car drivers. They'll accuse others of wandering across the carriageway, but refuse to accept that they do it. Apart from this danger to fellow runners, my other objection is that it devalues a race. It's a personal perspective but one that I know is shared by many — that a race is a community event. I rarely talk much in a race, but am acutely conscious of participating in something bigger than the individual. To cut myself off from the other runners, and in particular, from the spectators who are cheering and supporting us, seems disrespectful, selfish, and contradictory. These are generalisations. I did once use my iPod in a race — the Bramley 20 miler. I knew that in the last half, I'd be on my own. Most people run the 10 mile version of the race, then stop. For long stretches of the second half of this rural race, I saw no one in front of me, and no one behind. And no spectators. It rained heavily, of course. On this stretch I used my iPod to keep me from going nuts, knowing that I could veer as much I had to, without being a hazard to others. I listened to a couple of Rickie Gervais podcasts, and remember my sides hurting when I laughed, the malady commonly claimed by critics on posters outside theatres. Though I have to tell you, when you've run 18 wet winter miles, your sides will ache — with or without a comedy soundtrack. But it's me who's meandering now. Back to my free headset. I usually use an iPod on solo training runs, but hate the dangling wires that threaten either to strangle me or, far worse, tickle me to death. Enter the Philips SHB6102/05 Bluetooth headset. It was sent to me in the hope that I'd mention it here. I accepted it on the understanding that I may or may not mention it, and that I wouldn't feel obliged to put any unwarranted gloss on the gadget if I did. As it happens I do like it, though like everything else in this world it's not entirely perfect. Here's a mini review. I first tried it out in Sicily, with mixed results (as befits Phase 1, above). I'm not much of a hardware geek but the nice thing about this gadget is that your MP3 device doesn't have to be Bluetooth-enabled. The headset comes with a small... thing that fits into your iPod and natters to the headset. There were teething troubles. The connection kept dropping out. Then I worked out that this happens only when the dangly... thing was jiggling about against the iPod. Once it's allowed to dangle free, or better, contained by the elasticated holder that comes with it, it holds the connection much better. In fact it works well. Rechargeable gadgetry is good. Much lighter, and cheaper to maintain, than batteries. However, there is a downside. What you gain on the battery-free swings, you tend to lose on the yet-more-bloody-stuff-to-store-or-more-to-the-point-lose roundabout. There's also the danger of setting off on a run moments before the power gives out, and the suicidal trauma that must surely follow. Here are the good things about the headset: - Wireless. Major benefit. - Connection works well once you experiment a bit. - Good audio quality. - Comfy, cushioned earpieces. - Adjustable for big'eads. - Works with a Bluetooth-enabled phone, and automatically stop the music when a cal is received. - Can adjust volume on the headset itself. - Works within 10 metres of the MP3 player/phone. - 10 hours battery time/260 hours standby (untested). There aren't any significant negatives. Yes, you have to remember to charge it. It's light but not exactly minimalistic. I have some nice sporty Sennheiser headphones that are thin and look a bit more, er, wicked. That said, it would be hard to incorporate all the controls on a very small headset, but perhaps if Philips and others are serious about the gym/runner market (as they should be), they may move towards this ideal. I can't find a price, and it's impossible recommend the headset without one. If £20, it's fantastic value. If £200, it's not. In the meantime, I'll carry on using it. Thank you, Mister Philips. Talking of electronic paraphernalia, I read something entertaining yesterday on the Dead Runners Society email discussion group. I joined the DRS list about 5 years ago, and I've been trying to get off it ever since. My 'unsubscribe' requests go unanswered however, so the mails just keep coming. Very occasionally i.e. about once a year, I'll open one of the mail digests and see what's going on in there, always slightly wary of what I may find. However, last night I was pleasantly surprised to find a most excellent rant in response to this question: Is there a better way for me to carry my Blackberry? Paul from Potsdam (New York) memorably replied: Yes, I believe there is. But first there may be a very small need to question the need for carrying the little gadget around with us in the first place - you know, a little "connectivity" machine, so to speak - whether it's in the bathroom, in the bedroom, in the kitchen, in restaurants or the grocery store, in the cubicle or boardroom, in our automobiles, at sporting events, at our workout facilities, even on top of mountains. And as good consumers (or as investors in consumer goods), we must always be in the loop. (Reproduced with Paul's permission.) Fantastic. Comment
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Friday 18 May 2007
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So I went for a half hour, 3-mile jog along the canal, and returned instead with six miles and no canal. Instead, I found myself being drawn around a lake that I should really visit more often. I've run here only once before. The surrounding path is just one mile but well worth including in a run. Intensely peaceful — and there's always the chance of spotting a bar-tailed godwit — evidently. This morning I saw no humans, and heard nothing synthetic. Just sunshine and birdsong. I considered another circuit, but running on grass seems to drag the strength from my legs, so instead I headed along a track that runs close to the canal, though you never actually see it. The narrow lane takes me past the Thames Valley Police training school. I try to look like a Deputy Chief Constable. Car drivers, erring on the side of caution, are always courteous when I run around these parts. Just in case I'm the plodding plod. Eventually, I cross the canal but decide against returning home along the towpath. Time is getting short, so I continue along the lane, over the railway line, past the spot where seven people died in November 2004 (BBC report, and the RC entry). The final stretch, along the A4, is the antidote to all that's gone before. The bucket of cold water that wrenches you from your dream. Loud, busy, dangerous. Horrible. I made up a word recently. You know that rather embarrassing and annoying situation when you go through a door, and there's someone following behind, and they are just at that distance from you where it seems rude not to hold the door open, but just a bit too far to be comfortable for either party? Dawkwardness. Comment
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Sunday 20 May 2007 — Oxford 10KWriting a race report on the Oxford 10K without using the phrase "city of dreaming spires", or even less resistible, Frederick Raphael's "city of perspiring dreams", is probably tougher than the race itself. But I'll give it a go. This is the race, mentioned here, to which I'd challenged my athletic Moriarty, Mark. Getting out of bed at seven in the morning on a Sunday, isn't much fun, particularly after a late night. We'd made our first ever trip to Camberley where we saw an amateur production of How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying . A sixties' satire, but with plenty of truth in it. We enjoyed it. Am-drams is always a risk. We went to a local production of Turandot recently. Three hours out of my life that I'll never get back. I could have driven to Oxford, run a 10K, and driven back in that time... On the subject of which, we arrived in the city at 09:11. Multi-storey car-parking makes you acutely aware of this sort of detail. Twenty minutes later we were at the cricket pavilion in the centre of the University Parks, where we met up with Mark and Celia, his wife, and son Joe, who'd just finished a creditable 4th in the 3K race, and Harry, Mark's wine-trade colleague. I'd not seen them for 10 years, almost to the day. The last time was just before my 40th birthday, when we'd driven down to eat at Le Manoir, and combined it with an overnight stop at Chez Mark. He claimed that the last time we'd met was in Paris the following year, but I'm buggered if I remember that. It's another indication of galloping age — the ability to erase from the memory a trip to Paris (in my case), or the ability to convince yourself that you'd been there to meet me, when you hadn't (in his). A period of obligatory banter ensued. Mark showed me his running shoes which he'd apparently had for 25 years. The sole had come away from one of the shoes, and was literally hanging off. He wore a rough old cotton teeshirt. I'd asked him about his training regime. Apparently he runs exactly one mile — never more, never less — every morning, seven days a week, 364 days a year. And on the 365th day? On the 365th day, he runs the Oxford 10K. We moved to the start line. Or at least they moved towards the start line. Knowing my place, I hovered around the rear of the field. Hoo-ooot. We're off. The start of all big 10Ks is rather chaotic, in my growing experience. We go off like the clappers, flapping newly sharpened elbows. There's a sense of near-panic in the air, like we're escaping, rather than pursuing something. I like 10Ks. Sort of. It may be truer to say that I simply hate them slightly less than the other distances. Long enough for me to feel that I've been out for a decent lope, anyway. My quick round-the-block 3½ miler is just a puff of athletic vapour. Ten kilometres, or 6.2 miles, is a workout, yet one that doesn't require pasta preliminaries or a hydration strategy. So what will I remember about this race? I'll remember the heat and the sunshine. Yes, you read that right: not only did it not rain, but Oxford was positively warm and sunny. So warm in fact, that the water station at 3.5K was reduced to chaos as thousands of sweating bodies descended on it within the space of a few minutes, like a swarm of flies on a fresh turd. By the time I got there, all the filled cups had been taken, and the helpers were working feverishly trying to place more cups on the table and fill them from five litre bottles just slightly faster than the runners could scoop them up. It could have been a scene from some 1970s TV game show. I bobbed around the wobbly trestle for 20 seconds or so, trying to grab a cup quicker than someone else, but I failed — until I decided that I couldn't wait any longer, and started off again. I've often run 10K races without any water, and on training runs, I wouldn't normally consider taking fluid with me for just six miles. But it illustrates how hot it was that I felt quite dehydrated early on in this race, and could have done with the water. Oxford itself made a good impression on me. It's not a city I know well, partly because I knew very few visitable students there — in the days when I used to spend dazed weekends staggering from one college town to the next, like Chaucer's Friar, who "knew the taverns well in every town". It's bigger and grumpier than Cambridge, which I've always liked more. But in the sunshine of a late spring Sunday, with the college lawns gleaming like fluorescent carpets, Oxford seems to scrub up pretty well. One of the great things about running is that shows you things you wouldn't otherwise find. In the hunt for new territory, you push yourself into places you'd normally stay away from. My knowledge of my own area is ten times greater than my wife's. But let's face it, races aren't the ideal sight-seeing opportunity. You see things fleetingly, without the luxury of time to enjoy them. I think I saw the odd blue plaque at the rim of my vision, the way I occasionally think I see a kingfisher along the canal. A lot of iPod wearers in evidence again, bumbling around like a batallion of chronically short-sighted people who'd had their glasses confiscated. One of the two race photos I found of me clearly shows a woman behind me, far more interested in her playlist than the race, or anyone around her. Anyway, we did a circuit of part of the town centre before heading back to the Parks for a stretch along the river, then back to the town briefly, before a final return to the Parks for the finish. My time was a few seconds slower than at Woodley last weekend, which was a disappointment, but when I later checked my watch, I found that I'd run 6.38 miles against 6.26 last weekend, and in fact my average mile pace in Oxford (9:53) beat my Woodley pace (9:57), so I'm putting this down as a further improvement. Taking the heat and the congestion into account, I'm happy with it. And Mark and Celia? Well, despite my pre-race bluster, they came in at a very respectable 50:12 and 51:13. Bugger. The distant aroma of beer summoned me back to the town, while Mark returned to work in his wine shop. We all met up again a couple of hours for a deeply unhealthy, and deeply enjoyable (for a chap who's been nibbling salad for too long now), buffet curry. The day continued well, with the purchase of a case of vintage Champagne which I got with a savage discount. Anyone joining me at Dorney next month will benefit from my good fortune. Then back home where I decided that I may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, and took myself off to the pub for a couple of hours rehydration before returning home and devouring a lump of mature cheddar the size of a house brick. As I chomped through it, I was reminded of the convent girl's prayer: "Oh Lord, make me chaste — but not just yet". A great day out. I've a feeling this will now be an annual, rather than an every-ten-years fixture.
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Tuesday 29 May 2007Sometimes you get away with it, but usually you don't. This time, I seem to have got away with it. I'd always intended a spell of R'n'R after the Oxford 10K. Not because the race was especially taxing, but because it marked the end of a solid spell of running. For the first time in well over a year I'd done three successive weeks of 20+ miles. Burnt off another ten pounds of lard. So I scheduled a couple of days off, and a slightly more adventurous rehydration regime than I've enjoyed in recent times. I offered myself an inch of rope, but took rather more. Though not quite enough to hang myself, it seems. Despite the patchy week, I did run a couple of times. Just short loosening lopes around the block. By midweek, I should have been back on the schedule, but a few beers in front of the Champions League final seemed a more reasonable way of whiling away an evening. It was virtually the weekend by then, and a holiday weekend at that. Combined with some truly horrible weather, well, a couple of trips to the pub to tend to the local community seemed strangely preferable. This evening I knew I had to get back out there. A long weekend of beer and Beaujolais, including a huge pub lunch on Saturday, and a long procession of fatty snacks at home, left me lying in bed this morning, perusing my stomach, which seemed suddenly to contain a quivering medicine ball. I feared the arrival of a John Hurt, Alien moment. All my recent good work undone. But I shouldn't have worried. An average pace of 10:30 won't sound impressive to all those rippling athletes out there, but compared with my assumptions, and fears, it was just fine. Much more important was that I felt... strong and bouncy. I know what I mean by this. Take my word for it — it's good. There was one negative. It came as I reached the main road that crosses the end of a little-used, long, straight, hedged lane. I was puzzled by the absence of traffic that I can usually see zipping past as I approach from between the hedgerows. When I finally reached the junction, I could see why. The road was blocked by four or five police cars, blue lights flashing. A few yards in the other direction were the remains of two cars. One was burnt to a crisp. The other looked like it had been attacked by a scrapyard crusher. The ambulances had been and gone. According to my GPS watch, my run contained a period of 7 seconds in which I had stopped still. It must have been there. No iPod this evening, so my track du jour was the song thrush that chirruped like mad in the branches above my head as I arrived back home, panting. Glad to be alive. Again. Comment
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