Sunday 28 June 2009

It seems like more than nine weeks ago that I was lining up in Hopkinton, pointing my innocent knees in the direction of a distant Boston. In a way, it is more than that, because to try measuring the gap using time alone is misleading and simplistic.

I shouldn't be surprised. I warned myself against it enough times — the danger of allowing the momentum to drain away too quickly. It's happened after every previous marathon, though this time, of course, I vowed that it would be different. Predictably, it wasn't.

The bald story is that since Boston I've piled on around 20 pounds, jogged a total of 5.47 miles (the last 3.47 of these being six weeks ago), and have gradually offered up for sacrifice on the altar of gluttonous self-indulgence, every hard-won fragment of fitness accumulated between October and mid-April.

So. What now?

The answer is simple and exciting: that Sisyphus-like, I start the long haul back up the marathon mountain.

I don't mean that to sound forlorn. I've been down this track enough times to know that there's no point in feeling negative at this stage. First of all, annoyingly, it's entirely my fault. Second, pessimism or a sense of resignation is not going to help. Third, the prospect of starting over again is quite exciting. And fourth, it's hard to feel too bad about a level of unfitness and plumpitude whose attainment has been achieved through the experience of so much pleasure.

Although I've been dissolute and lazy for a few weeks, I have kept one eye half open, like a self-satisfied cat basking on a sunny windowsill. The hazy eye has been trying to make sense of running targets as they sporadically reveal themselves on the distant horizon. Here are my findings:

First of all, I have actually entered the Brighton 10K on November 15th. Unless the domestic tectonic plates shift unpredictably again, as they did with the death of my mother this year, then I can assume that the Almeria half marathon will be on the calendar for the last weekend of January. And there is the Connemara half on April 10 next year. What started as a casual suggestion seems to have rapidly turned into a firm plan, with half the RC community signed up to the idea.

With these races given the red-highlight treatment on my spreadsheet, I can start to visualise where other items might be dropped in. Despite the post-Boston hesitation about doing another marathon, I don't think I have much choice. It is one of the dwindling opportunities for a middle-aged bloke to get his kicks, even if the activity is always likely to kick back at inopportune moments. So I have to haul the marathon flag up the pole yet again, to help give shape to my life, and to keep alive the writing and running mojo.

For Boston, I couldn't afford to have bold targets. I wasn't sure whether, or when, the calf and knee problems might reappear. On top of that nervousness, was the new and untrained-for experience of the constantly undulating Boston course. My only aims could be counted on the fingers of a triumphal Churchillian hand: 1) get to the start line, and 2) get to the finish line. This time around, I can afford to be more audacious, partly because I have greater control over the choice of course-type, and partly because it's far enough away for me to be able to pump myself up with untestable arrogance.

Given the date constraints and my need to aim for a flat course in a big-but-not-stupidly-big field, in a city I don't know very well, but one that will appeal to M, I can reveal that all fingers and pointy signs are directed towards.......... Barcelona on March 7 2010, where I will aim to hack a chunk off my marathon PB. With a bit of injury-free luck this time, I am confidently predicting a 4:30 finish time, having finally breached the 2 hour barrier at Almeria, itself a satisfying accompaniment to my Brighton 10K PB.

The race is five weeks after Almeria, so I can comfortably use the half marathon as a testing training run, and five weeks before Connemara, which should be long enough to have recovered. It will also, I hope, stave off the temptation to lapse into post-marathon physical turpitude. Last year just under 10,000 runners took part. The course is mainly flat, and meanders around most of the tourist glories. I don't know the city at all, but M does, and numbers it among her favourites, so there should be no domestic objections.

At the moment, the very thought of a three mile plod around the block produces a rapid drying of the mouth, and I am having trouble seeing my keyboard beneath this extraordinary midriffial overhang. So the marathon is a long way off in more ways than one. Training is unlikely to start in the immediate future, as I have at least 3 food-and-drink outings planned for the next week or so. But at least I can begin chipping away at my current mindset, and start creating a plan. As usual, it will have to kick off with an improvement in my eating habits to shed a few pounds, helped by rejoining the gym, before a gradual return to the mean streets of West Berkshire.

In getting off my inflated arse, it will help to have something closer to aim for. The Brighton 10K in mid-November isn't long enough or soon enough to fill that role, so identifying some challenging autumns targets will be my first stop on this journey to Catalonian glory.

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