|
<<< last month | next month >>> |
Sunday 8 March 2009At 12:30pm yesterday, I announced a personal state of emergency. My wife represented the population of planet Earth, and it's fair to record that she did not immediately grasp the gravity of the moment. Instead, she leant forward and turned the radio back on. I had silenced it just a moment earlier, in readiness for my declaration. "But it's The Now Show", she said, as if this justified her recalcitrance. I pressed on regardless, certain that the significance of my statement would eventually perforate her bulletproof indifference.The venue for this weighty moment was my car. We were travelling to London for an afternoon of intended pleasure in Shepherds Bush. Hers, at the new Westfield shopping centre, was pretty much guaranteed. 42 years of experience told me that my destination, just around the corner in Loftus Road, would be a less reliable source of satisfaction. We parked in Westfield's palatial subterrane. It's rare to find a reception desk at a car park, never mind a space-age chrome and glass version, surrounded by dense carpet and luxurious seating where you can wait while the valet retrieves your car. With time to kill before the match, we aimed for The Balcony to nose around the food outlets selling every variety of international exotica. Lunch hadn't been on the schedule, but it became increasingly impossible to resist. Eventually we stopped, almost arbitrarily, at Comptoir Libanais, where we filled a tray with Lebanese delicacies. I'd love to report that this was an exquisite culinary experience... in fact, I think I will. This was an exquisite culinary experience. Let's pretend. Let's also pretend that M hadn't managed to send half of my Levantine titbits clattering to the ground while I was busy paying for them. No offer of a replacement. It is part of the marriage contract that, despite her mistake depriving me of most of my lunch, she retained the right to be upset, while I had to console her, while glancing enviously at her overflowing plate. I bade a hungry adios, and headed off to the venue of so much joy, anxiety, boredom and rage over the decades. The reason we keep going is that we never know which emotion will be served up this time. Or rather, the proportions of all of these, and others. It's never total glee, or total despair. In fact, the proportions are not that important, now that I think about it. It's the order of them that matters. I would happily settle for 80 minutes of gloom and a final 10 minutes of elation. Hugely preferable to the reverse. It's the residual bit that matters. Yesterday's residual bit was little more than boredom streaked with sadness. The team, and the club, are in disarray. For the record, we (QPR) drew 0-0 with Sheffield United, and I don't intend saying more about it. Flavio left the directors' box grim-faced. Last season, when the commoners were allowed to sit alongside the orange-faced god, I would often get a handshake from His Holiness as He passed. He was a benevolent deity back then. These days he's a mean-spirited grouch, grumbling snootily about the commonweal in the cheap seats, and their unreasonable demands. Of course, there are no cheap seats anymore, which is partly why there is so much griping. Unless I renew in the next month, season tickets will increase in price again next year. My seat will cost over £700. Or would do if I were to renew. I'm going to do something philanthropic with the money instead. Met up with M again at Westfield. While she shopped and consumed milkshakes with startling ingredients like raspberries and Dime bars, I sat in a comfy armchair high above the mercantile tumult, reading volume 5 of A Dance to the Music of Time, Anthony Powell's glorious 12-novel social history of the first half of the 20th century. Long-standing RC readers will be familiar with my quest to get to the end of volume 12 before I die. Eventually, M agreed to suspend shopping hostilities for long enough to eat with her ravenous old man. I'd earlier earmarked a salad bar called Tossed. I'm in healthy mode again, and this would be ideal. And it was, apart from the clearly irresistible temptation to make the staff wear teeshirts with slogans like I'm a tosser, and Watch me toss, and I love tossing, which just went to prove that a joke does not get funnier in the retelling. Apart from that crass error, I enjoyed the fruit of the tossers' labours. I ordered their 'signature salad' which is an Everest of lettuce and lean chicken and apple and grapes and pepper and olives and cashews and thousands of other things. It even comes with a halo — or did I imagine that? While I was smugly crunching, M was rather mournfully fighting a large bowl in which a sea of gravy supported a flotsam of Vietnamese noodles and anaemic meatballs. Ha! Last weekend's run was a disaster. I'd set off along the canal on a grey, blustery morning. Five miles later, I reached Reading. An interesting mile followed, through the town on the towpath. It's always a good way to see a place. It's like an urban boat trip — you see things that you suspect you're not supposed to. It's as if you've got behind the defences of a place. You're seeing the real thing while its back is turned. Not that Reading's backside is especially elegant. At some arbitrary point I left the towpath and darted between two unfamiliar blocks of flats to find myself in Broad Street. This was the best part of the run, as it was such a novel experience. I'm not accustomed to threading my way through large flocks of sullen shoppers. We thought each other mad and unfortunate, but each interaction lasted just a couple of seconds, before we moved onto the next visual confrontation. I felt like a hallucination. So many people blinked and double-taked, and raised eyebrows, as if needing to be sure I was real, and not some spectre sent to shock them awake. It made me think of the final, salty-faced miles of the Copenhagen Marathon, when I had to shuffle through parting, cheering crowds of shoppers and tourists, trying to spot the red balloons that would guide me home. Nothing so glorious in Reading last Sunday, but the thought came back to comfort, and perhaps threaten, me. Out the other side of the town, and onto the Thames Path. I looked at my watch. 8½ miles down, with perhaps another 5 to go. I wasn't sure. I was beginning to tire, but knew I had to dig in and get this one done. And then it happened — again, without warning. A sharp pain in my left calf, and I had to instantly pull up. I hobbled to a nearby bench and swore like a trooper with Tourette's. I wasn't going to get any further. Long story short -- I called my wife who, for the third time in this marathon campaign, has had to drive to pick me up. What do unmarried marathon trainees do in these circumstances? Fortunately, there was a pub close by called The Moderation, where I thought it advisable to take refuge. In for a penny, in for a pound. I wasn't going to be running for a while, I reasoned, so I may as well cheer my spirits with a couple of pints of Brains SA and the citrussy Tribute Ale from Cornwall. I was sitting next to a couple of young guys, and overheard this conversation: Believe me, I'd love to go, but I just can't. I've got no holiday this year.The beer put me in reflective mood. Why was this happening to me again? The canal path had been unusually interrogative this time around — though I don't believe that was the cause of the injuries. I think it's overtraining. This may sound laughable, given my patchy regime, but that's the very point. I've had two extended periods of inactivity, following the first injury, and the funeral, and I committed the classic error of trying to make up for lost training. On the Tuesday I ran 11.5 miles, followed by two hard gym sessions, then an attempted 15 miler, halfway through which I broke down. But the news isn't all bad. It's not a pull or a tear; just a strain. This second injury isn't as bad as the first, though it is in the same place, which is worrying. I don't want to find I have a permanent weakness in that spot. Unlike the first time it happened, I didn't have to hobble half a mile or more this time. I was able to get somewhere warm and comfortable quickly. Also, I bought a neoprene calf support strap last time but not until about 10 painful days had passed. This time, it was on within an hour and has stayed on during the day ever since. I believe it helps, and if I believe it helps then it does help. I did nothing energetic for three days this week, but managed a reasonably serious gym session on Thursday. Friday I went out for a probing 3½ miles round-the-block. The first 1½ was surprisingly comfortable, though I was cautious. After that, I started to feel a twinge, and thought it wise to walk the rest of the distance. On Friday evening I went to the pub and drank too much beer. I awoke Saturday morning feeling rough, with a strapped-up leg and the realisation that there are only 6 short weeks until the Boston Marathon. I lay in bed, scared. Boston has to happen. I've booked our flights, and accommodation. I missed it last year, and can't miss it again. What I need is a new plan — one that will get me round. I long ago abandoned ideas of PBs and enjoying the race. I need to complete it in one piece, which I can do as long as my calf holds up. How do I ensure that happens? I can run through blisters and stitches and general fatigue, but a calf strain or pull is impossible. The most important thing, I decided, was to admit that I'm in trouble, because this will focus my mind. So at 12:30 yesterday, in the car on the way to London, I admitted I was in trouble. It's true that M did not seem overly concerned by the announcement, but it didn't matter. She wasn't the real audience. The person who had to hear it was me, not her. My plan is this.
Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Tuesday 10 March 2009Like the final overs of the cricket (in which, as I type this, England have 5 overs to get 3 West Indian wickets**), Boston has become a touch-and-go marathon. I'm definitely going, and unless events (like a bad injury) make it utterly futile, I will be at the start line on April 20th. The big question is whether my stroppy muscles and tendons allow me to make the distance.All I can do is try to maximise my chances. The calf is my, er, Achilles' heel, so I'm doing as much stretching and massaging as I can without actually weakening it further. Gym this evening, for a more moderate session than Sunday's 250-minute monster. Tonight I settled for 30 minutes of cardio, and 15 minutes of calf stretching on the leg press. Then home for a deeply unsatisfactory evening of TV sport, apart from Liverpool's impressive 4-0 drubbing of Real Madrid, and work emails. An early night with Danny Baker, I think, and a few more miles of Michael Connolly's "26 Miles to Boston". He was a crocked plodder who ran the centenary marathon in 1996. The inspiration will help develop those mental muscles. Not that I think there's too obvious a deficit there. I'm being as upbeat as I can, and possibly more upbeat than I should be. Tsk! Did I really say that? Excuse me while I chase away any residual negativity. It's all "Yes we can" from here to Hopkinton. (**I'll ignore the example of England, who just drew with the Windies, thereby losing the series.) Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Saturday 14 March 2009Over yonder, in Twitterland, I've been trying to allocate a regular "Boston optimism" index to my daily disposition. A 60% score may not sound too good, but it has crept up from 45% a few days ago. I suppose the direction it's heading is more important than the absolute value. So the important message is that hope is waxing, and the optostat is showing my mood moving from cool to tepid. Oh moderately happy days.This isn't the same as positive or negative thinking. I remain startlingly upbeat about my chances of getting through the Boston Marathon on April 20th (37 days from now), and am doing everything I can to maximise my chances. But I have to do what runners are constantly urged to do -- listen to one's body -- and it's the messages it's transmitting that become the realistic measure of my chances. I have a feeling this weekend will mark a critical point, and Monday will see a significant movement in one direction or the other. So. Why is the sight of the promised land in slightly sharper focus today? It's not from running — though I did manage a pain-free 3½ mile jog around the block on Tuesday. The main source of hope comes from yesterday's visit to Phil Chalmers, who I first went to see in the new year, following the shocking events of Boxing Day. Phil is a sports masseur and personal trainer. More than that, he's a long distance runner in his late 40s, so I'm guaranteed a sympathetic hearing. Sports massage is a masochistic treat, a bit like running itself. Although most of the session was spent chatting normally, there were times when I was rendered speechless by the pain as he buried his fingers deep into my muscles and tendons and sinews. Occasionally he would warn me. Did I detect the faintest of sadistic chuckles as he uttered those menacing words: "Right, I'm going in deep"? But seriously, it feels as if it's doing me good, and his thoughts and analysis make me feel more positive about my chances. That alone makes it worth the investment. When I arrived at midday, he was just back from a 25 miler along the A4. This is in preparation for the Stockholm Marathon at the end of May, which itself is preparation for (I think) the Mont Blanc Ultra, a 100-mile, 2-day race over the Alps. "I've asked a few friends if they fancy joining me, but for some reason, no one seems interested". His view is that I have every chance of getting round Boston as long as the calf doesn't go again, and I keep up the cardio-vascular training. Seven hours a week should do it, he reckons, ideally with an increasing proportion of road miles. I booked another half hour for next Friday, and hobbled away. In my head at least, I felt better. A few hours later I was in the gym for 100 minutes of furious activity, starting with half an hour on the elliptical and 20 minutes on the treadmill. Phil is a keen cyclist, and tells me that low-resistance static biking is probably the best form of low-impact cross-training. So I managed 50 minutes of frenetic pedalling that left my legs feeling like sausage skins filled with lumpy custard. I think this is probably a good thing. Tomorrow I'll know more. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Sunday 15 March 2009 - Finchley 20 (DNF)My first ever DNF (Did Not Finish) today. But it's OK — it was expected, and I'm not unhappy about it.I entered the Finchley 20 a month or so ago, before the recent recurrence of the calf strain. It was going to be the culmination of four carefully choreographed training weeks in which mounting mileage was to be added to increasingly frenzied aerobic gym sessions. A sturdy, indefatigable athlete was to emerge through the dry ice at the climax of this process. But that was then. Instead, I had a good 1¾ weeks, before the calf twang left me well and truly plucked. Since then, just 7 road miles in total, with (admittedly) some crazy gym stuff. After talking to Phil the sports therapist, I decided to turn up for today's race, with the caveat that I should stop if and when the calf started complaining. The race, 4 x 5 mile laps, made this arrangement possible. So I went, with one target and one hope. The target was that I should hit 15 miles; the hope was that the calf would survive intact. A target of 15 miles in a 20 mile race might seem defeatist, but in the circumstances, it was reasonable. Had other factors been different, I may have allowed myself the outlandish luxury of fantasising a full complement. But on the back of the training I've done, a 20 miler this weekend was not a realistic reach, and especially not when I realised the topography of the course. The final abandonment of false hope came last night, when the BBC weather forecast told me to expect an unseasonably warm and sunny day in London. My running becomes ever more hopeless in such conditions. It's a long while (3 years) since I started a 20 miler race, and I'd forgotten how much faffing was involved. Compeeds, Vaseline, gels, what to carry, changes of clothes, food and drink. One thing I got wrong was the advance hydration. There wasn't any. I'd normally glug a few litres of water over the preceding couple of days. It seems to make a difference. But this time, I forgot, and I suffered for it. What could have been an even worse mistake was making the foolish assumption that the Finchley 20 was likely to take place in Finchley, the suburb of north London known mainly for being the constituency home of Margaret Thatcher. But no, the Finchley 20 takes place about 15 miles west of this hallowed Tory ground, in Ruislip. Fortunately, I Google-Mapped the start before I left, or this might have been a briefer race report. Ruislip is a bland suburb on the capital's north western fringe. I can recall stressful childhood visits to an aunt and uncle who lived here; and more happily, occasional trips to Ruislip Lido, which brought a touch of Bondi to our austere concrete lives. Parking today was at the Lido, and as I hurried towards the start, had my first glimpse of that unspeakably exotic stretch of water in probably 40 years. Mais ou sont les water-skiers d'antan...? Every race offers lessons, and today's was this: Do not attempt to change the data screens on your Forerunner 305 just seconds before the start. The first half mile was spent with me poking the spongey, unresponsive buttons, and squinting at the barely-readable display. Finally, I managed to get it to show and record my humiliation in the desired format, and was able to give some attention to my cardio-vascular predicament. By this time I was already part of the final half dozen or so back markers. No problem here. It had been my intention to tuck in at the back and run a slow but steady pace. This race was all about my calf, and about distance and endurance, not speed. Which was just as well. The sun was already high in the sky, and an ominous stream of sweat was starting to trickle down the back of my neck. The course, mostly suburban pavement, was dull, though the experience was sweetened by the effervescent marshals and supportive, if sporadic, spectators. We were largely ignored by the local residents who walked their dogs, clipped their privet, fed their lawns, polished their front doors and tinkered quizzically with the hinges of their garden gates, without seeming to notice the hundreds of groaning, semi-naked people plodding past them. We are just some minor English suburban custom, playing out at the periphery of their minor, English suburban Sunday lives. We should be grateful for the indifference; it has to be preferable to violent protest and flaming barricades. It was a tough run. Race organisers like to describe courses as undulating, but this can mean so many things that it's become a meaningless adjective. A hill is a deeply subjective notion, as I was reminded yesterday when reading the Runners World forum, where someone states that the Reading half marathon course has "two hills of note, in miles 3 and 8", and someone else chimes in with "And don't forget the really big hill in mile 1". As far as I'm aware, there are no hills whatever in the Reading Half, just a couple of mild and fleeting inclines. The brutal Seven Sisters Marathon course has been described as undulating, as has courses that are generally flat, apart from one notable hill. But the Finchley 20 really was undulating. The occasional flat sections came as a respite. Most of the time we found ourselves travelling upwards or downwards, with the short repetitious circuits emphasising the wearying relentlessness of the course. Being positive about the constant switching, such undulant terrain was a terrific — and terrifying — workout for the naughty lower left limb. It came through pretty well. Ten miles passed without me noticing it at all, but after that I could sense the calf slowly starting to emerge from its slumbers. I stopped several times to stretch it, and was struck by just how good it felt. It seems there's a correlation between the pleasure you get from a stretch, and the need for it. Does that make sense? Today's calf raises on the kerb, while clinging to a lamp post, were astonishingly satisfying, and evidently unusual enough to catch the attention of some of the locals, who peered at me over their shades as they ambled past on the way to the newsagents. I started to struggle on the third 5-mile circuit. The heat was becoming a problem, and my dry mouth and salty face were telling me I was getting dehydrated. The gels were a help. SIS GO isotonic gels are my current faves, though there's every chance I may discover something new at the Boston expo. I remember coming away from the Chicago Marathon expo with dozens of freebie samples that kept me in race sustenance for months. I've not always been convinced by these things, but I'm certain they helped me today. The SIS gels have moved away from the mucilaginous goo of the PowerBar and Lucozade Sport offerings, and are relatively liquiform. They slake thirst as well as pump glucose into the blood. Decision time came at around mile 14. The normally concealed macho part of my being tried croaking an order to crack on with the final quarter of the race, but the even lesser-spotted sensible voice urged caution, and insisted I stick to the original plan — to be satisfied with 15 miles. I needed little persuasion to accept the petitioning of the latter. I was hot, dry, tired, and I couldn't be sure just how far I could push the leg. Moreover, I couldn't raise a convincing argument for continuing. Would it really benefit me? The clincher was having a word with a marshal at the end of the third leg, who told me that his colleagues would start to be stood down over the next half hour, before the final stragglers had finished, and there was no guarantee that water would be available when I needed it. I was happy with where I'd got to, and decided to call it a day. Asking for a medal was out of the question: I hadn't earned one and didn't want one. I did however fancy a teeshirt, and was able to get one with a little sleight of hand. I'll never be able to wear it without feeling like a fraud, however. It proudly shouts: I completed the Finchley 20. I shall blush slightly every time I see my reflection while wearing it. This is not a bad race. The 4-lap format won't please the purists, but I'm not sure that matters. I suspect that most of the entrants were London (or some other) Marathon competitors, and were using the race to bump up their training mileage and test their progress. It's a sort of functional, therapeutic event that exists to help runners rather than thrill them. Nothing much wrong with that. If I ever do another spring marathon, I might well consider doing it again. And if it continues moving 15 miles west, I might just catch it in 3 years time as it's racing past my front door in West Berkshire. The next three weeks are make-or-break. If I can continue the progress, churning out increasing road miles along with plenty of fitness work in the gym, I'll be happy. I have the Reading Half in two weeks time, and possibly the Worthing 20 the week after that. I need to finish Reading fairly comfortably, and get round the whole of the Worthing course without dying. If I can do that, I'll be as ready for Boston two weeks later as I will ever be. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Wednesday 18 March 2009Crikey: good news to report.A decent morning's work merited a break at about 2pm for a 7-miler along the canal towpath, and back on the farm track. What a corker of a day it was today. At this time of year, the sunshine doesn't always deliver the heat it promises when viewed from inside, but today was an exception. It was genuinely warm out there. The canal was at its glorious, silvery glinting best. It's days like today when the deserted towpath, winding its way around the lakes, beneath the overhanging trees, becomes some sort of secret England; one that, through the winter, you keep fearing is lost and gone forever. But today it came back. A good day for wildlife too. I work next to an upstairs window, and have a steady stream of visitors alighting on the ivy: starlings nesting in the eaves above the window, as well as sparrows, blackbirds, song thrushes and many more. As I headed out for my run, I dropped by the pond to check what was going on. We have masses of frog spawn this year, much of it beginning to morph from into thousands of tiny black wrigglers. A couple of big brown frogs splashed about in front of me, detonating a scarlet explosion of goldfish. I counted seven of them, which is an unexpectedly good result. The menacing sight of the heron last autumn, followed by a hard winter, had convinced me that we'd have no fish this spring. But as usual, they've proved me wrong, and I'm delighted. This year, I'll offer them more protection from predators. The best wildlife spot today was a weasel on the canal towpath. At least I think it was a weasel. I don't think I've seen one before but it was the right shape, and had the right markings. But much smaller than expected. It could have been a young un I guess. It just sat there on the track as I plodded ever closer. By the time I stopped and fumbled for my camera, the little fella had taken fright and scampered into the undergrowth. The run wasn't easy, though I did have a 2-mile purple patch, once I'd reached the farm road and was heading homewards. It was about 4 miles in. Suddenly, some invisible wind just filled my sails and propelled me along at a much faster pace. It was a mini-runner's high. My thoughts switched to Boston. In my mind's eye I've survived the Wellesley girls, and am plunging down the three-quarter mile descent of Washington Street. 16 miles, and the quads are screaming. And suddenly there it is: the fire station, and the sharp right-hander into Newton Lower Falls, and the beginning of 5 miles of nasty undulation, the last part of which, Heartbreak Hill, where so many — elite and plodder alike — come to grief. I've not said much about Boston. It's not a city I know, yet this marathon has a hold on me like none other, and I don't know why. I could write a long article on the history of the race and the course, though I could say nothing original yet. My perceptions are all second-hand. There's more literature available on this event than any other road race on the planet, surely. I need to tread carefully here. I suspect no one else shares my obsession. But take this as advance warning that I will have to start talking about it soon. Or is that tempting fate? Perhaps I should cram it all into the race report — presuming that one is required. The good news is that the chances of a report are growing stronger. The run passed with no obvious ill-effect on my calf. Regular stretching seems to be doing its job. This evening, I boldly decided that I hadn't yet had my fill of physical effort today, so I took off for the gym and pumped out another sixty minutes of sweat. 15 on the elliptical cross-trainer, 30 on the static bike, and 15 on the step machine. Between each session I tugged and stretched both calves. As I found on Sunday, there was a sense of relief as I did so, which made me think it was something my body needed me to do. With my cotton shirt darkened with perspiration, I trotted home, feeling very satisfied with the day. Boston optimism? I'll allow myself 65%. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Sunday 22 March 2009 I'm not quite sure how, but perhaps — just perhaps — Boston really has been dragged from the jaws of failure.
I set off yesterday morning, knowing that the following few hours would reveal all. Strangely, it all felt beyond my control. I knew I had to try hard, and stay focused. But I could do that and still fail if my calf or general fitness let me down. I had 18 italicised miles on my training spreadsheet, but started out with no good idea of how many of them I'd be crossing off. The weather forecast was for a hot and sunny spring day, but when I poked my head out the back door at 6.45 a.m., I could see little through the thick curtain of freezing fog. The bucket of water by the door, where a family of frogs reside, had a lid of ice. I chomped a banana while deciding what to do. The lingering frost turned out to be a good thing. I swapped my natty new RC vest for a long-sleeved shirt, and headed off for a preliminary 3½ miles around the block. By the time I returned, the mist had dispersed enough to let the sun poke through. The morning was warming up, as was I. I had a quick stretch, then swapped the shirt for the vest, loaded up with fluid, and went off again. I won't detail the run as it was disappointingly uneventful. No weasels or other wildlife to report; the ugly side of nature came in the form of two unhinged Jack Russells, and a couple of grimacing car drivers affronted by my decision to run down the same narrow lane that they wanted to use. The bizarre fact is this: I ended up running 21.26 miles, a distance not covered since the Zurich Marathon, almost 3 years ago. Apart from last week's wearying 15, I'm not sure I've tackled any distance over a half marathon since Zurich. How did I manage it? Good question. Three differences from normal. One was hydration. I ran two loops, or three if I include the initial 3½ miles. As I passed my house each time, I was able to nip into the front garden and take a deep slug of Gatorade, and take another bottle with me from the stash under the hedge. As a result, I didn't feel dehydrated at any point. This was a new experience. A second difference was that I had no breakfast, apart from the contemplative banana alluded to. I tend to eat bagels or porridge, then have to wait about 4 hours until they squeeze themselves into my intestines, at which point I finally feel able to move. And third, I stopped for a minute or two of stretching every 3 or 4 miles. The pace was deliberately stately. The important thing was distance and endurance, not speed. That said, the pace would have got me round a marathon in around the same time as I managed Zurich — perhaps a shade slower, so I was happy with that. I arrived back home at just below the aimed-for 18 miles, so I continued up the road in order to hit the target. And as I did so, I thought what the hell, I may as well finish off with my usual 3.5 mile circuit. Which is how the 18 ended up as 21.26 miles. It's a great number to hit. We all know if you can run 20, you can run 26 on the day. The miles were gratifying, but the best outcome was the way my legs felt. No new calf strain, and no hint of one. And no walking until the final mile or so, when, after a final stretch, I found it hard to get going again until I'd walked for 3 minutes or so. This should be a more effervescent entry than it is. I'm not sure why, but hyperbole seems off the menu just now. Perhaps I'm nervously incredulous about it. Or still mentally exhausted. Two weeks ago, I was in despair about my chances of getting round Boston. Now I'm feeling confident and really quite relaxed about it. But i need to stay businesslike and focused on the task. Tonight I had an hour of cross-training in the gym to gauge my recovery, and I felt great. No significant aches. So that's 35 miles chalked up for last week. In the week ahead I need to maintain that, or push it up to 37 or so. I have the Reading Half Marathon next Sunday, leaving me 24 to find. Perhaps 7 tomorrow, 10 on Wednesday, and 7 on Friday, with some gym in between. I'm so pleased that Boston is suddenly looking not just more possible, but not quite so traumatic and painful as I was fearing. It's vital that I don't get complacent, but I need to be confident too. These two weeks of 'emergency measures' have paid off. I need to maintain this approach and self-discipline for another four weeks. If I can do that, I will be plodding into Boylston Street on April 20 after all. P.S. The snap was taken just after returning from the 21. The RC vest did a fine job. Also pictured is the slightly awkward Finchley tee (see entry before last). I'm glad the "20" is shown in inverted commas. It's as if they were winking at me when they handed it over. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Monday 23 March 2009Up at 06:45 for a 7.2 miler along the canal and back through the lanes. After weeks of running through the farm, and grumbling to myself about the hazard of the wild canine, I realised last night, on looking at an Ordnance Survey map, that it isn't actually a right of way. So the scowls I occasionally see on the faces of man and beast alike as I trot through, are more justified than I imagined. I wish I didn't know this. I'll now worry about being shot or eaten alive each time I take this route.But it was a decent run for all that. Boston is four weeks today, and things are going OK. Tomorrow, the plan is to be in the gym at 06:30 for a couple of hours before work. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Thursday 26 March 2009Can my luck hold out for another 25 days? In my universe, it's a bigger question than Is there a god? (no); or Which came first, the chicken or the egg? (the chicken); or Will the Rowdies win the quintuple? (no).At 6:30 on Tuesday morning I was in the gym for 90 minutes of sweat production. This wasn't enough to satisfy my new-found craving, so I returned in the evening to top up with another 60. Well, I say "returned", but I'm a 2-gym man at the moment, so I selected my secondary facility for the evening's exertions. I've previously presented Little Gym as the knees of the bee, but I'm starting to have my head turned by the egregious FitnessFirst. Loyal readers will recall that I stole a free day from the latter a few weeks ago. My instincts were to dislike the place: it's big, impersonal, and a bit too smarmily ostentatious. Surely I preferred the unpretentious charm of my small, local, under-populated, slightly tatty school gym? And yet I'm slowly having to concede that Big Gym has some things in its favour. They:
 On the downside, they are more expensive, and they are... well, they are FitnessFirst. I've taken out a month's membership, and will review the situation after I get back from the US. It has occurred to me that maintaining my gym regime might be a good way of coping with the problems I have with running in the heat of summer. An hour or two in an air-conditioned gym might be the answer. Certainly preferable to doing nothing at all. But let's see if I get to, and survive, Boston first, and will make a decision then. Unlike the local gym, which lets me pay on a month-by-month basis, Big Gym demands 3 or 12 month contracts (plus, I bet, signing-on fees and admin charges and other pay-up-or-piss-off demands).
Let's move to yesterday, when I did something shocking: nothing. My first rest day in 11 days; second in 15. Despite the risk that comes with overtraining, I've been on a training bender for two weeks now. Luckily, I seem to have survived intact. Yesterday's day off was unplanned. I woke early, intending to run 7 miles. I winched myself into a semi-sitting position, then just flopped back again, knowing that it wasn't going to happen. I told myself I'd postpone it till later in the day, but as the hours ticked past, I realised it would be wiser to make it a sweat-free day. By contrast, this morning I woke feeling refreshed and alert, and ready for a lengthy outing. I made the error of not laying out my stuff last night, so wasted too much time assembling my garb and ancillary electronics. Twenty minutes later, munching on a ripe banana, I was out the door. It was surprisingly cool at 7 a.m. The last week or two have spoilt us, luring us into the trap of believing we'd suddenly leapt into late spring. I was wearing an old Reading Half Marathon teeshirt. It's always struck me as a somewhat dishonest garment. It feels like some sort of 'technical' running shirt but it's just a nylon shirt with pretensions. It occupies a slightly shamefaced berth in my wardrobe: not quite in with the real running shirts, but not cool enough to be pub garb. Just because it's not cotton, it wants us to believe that it's a full-on wicking running shirt. I don't buy it. It's a brutal polyester number that refuses to settle down and become comfy, and offer me the sort of relationship a man needs with his athletic toggery. I knew all this when I set off, but was offering it one final chance to come good. I did my usual short round-the-block 3½ miler, before heading off towards the canal. Until this point I was still expecting the sun to emerge and warm my bones. Instead, something quite unexpected happened. For the first time in months, I found myself running in cold, torrential rain. By the time I reached the towpath, enough water had fallen to soften the ground, and turn the track into a slippery, muddy stream. I soldiered on, mindful that this muck-skating was unlikely to be doing my knee or calf much good. So it was a relief to come off the canal at 6½ miles, and head up the metalled road towards the sturdy farm track. Still it rained, but the pulsating Podrunner podcast, vibrating rhythmically in my ears, kept my feet chugging through the puddles. I'd have worn a jacket had I known it would tip down like this. Instead, by the time I arrived home, I was drenched. Not only that, but the wet nylon teeshirt gave me the worst case of nipple-chafing I've had in years. Crikey, I had to spend the rest of the morning working bare-chested, like some alpha-geek. The good news is that I managed 10.23 miles. This may be my last run before the Reading Half on Sunday, so I needed to chalk up a few miles to ensure I pushed myself over 30 for the week (presuming I finish the race on Sunday). This follows 35 miles last week, and an aimed-for 37 next week. Tomorrow it's a couple of early-morning hours in the gym, followed by a leg massage and pre-Reading tactical talk in the afternoon. I haven't decided whether to treat Sunday as a training run, or shoot for a PB. Let's see what coach Phil has to say. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
Sunday 29 March 2009 - Reading Half MarathonAll races are events, but some are Events. The Reading Half belongs in the capitalised category, where accountants and marketing teams often seem to nudge out running people. And yet I manage to approve of Reading, partly because they seem to have the balance between sport and business just about right, but mainly because it's my local big race, so a spot of greasy chauvinism is always going to blur the lens of objectivity.Many halfs start and finish in a town centre, but vanish into the countryside for a 10 mile loop in between. There's a lot to be said for that. Who would object to a Sunday morning spent winding through the lanes? Yet I like the urban backdrop to this race, which starts at the Madejski Stadium, home of the annoyingly goody-two-shoes Reading F.C.,then heads for the town centre via the university. We never stray outside the town. Instead we gradually spread across it, like red wine spilt on a napkin, or like some B movie-style pestilence. The Curse of the Runners. We take over, reaching into every fissure, grasping the very apparatus of local government. Indeed, I spent five minutes chasing a silver-haired, middle aged man with a teeshirt that stated in large letters: I AM THE MAYOR OF READING. Was this blatant populism from the big man? Or a once-aspirational admin assistant from the planning office, with a surely dwindling belief in the power of positive affirmation? I am unlikely ever to know. Piercing the heart of the town, and remaining within the notional battlements, also guarantees the sort of hearty vocal support that you tend not to get in the villages of rural England before the pubs open. Add in the pony-tailed, middle-aged rockers pumping out an electric 12 bar blues in an otherwise tidy front garden; the Stomp-like percussion band clattering out their driving message from under the Oracle shopping centre flyover; the sports drink regularly on offer on the course; water in bottles rather than plastic cups; the stadium finish; chunky medal and well-stocked goody bag; and the silver foil blanket... and you end up with the closest thing I've experienced to a big city marathon. Apart from, well, apart from the several big city marathons I've done... Some negative musings to report though. As much as I like this Event, it's getting worryingly bloated. Not a reference to the pot bellies sported by me and 'The Mayor of Reading' (note inverted commas), but to the size of the field. I've done the race four times, though not since 2005. It's grown since then, and it must now be at its limits, if it hasn't already exceeded them. One of the paltry benefits available to back-of-the-field athletes like me is that you have plenty of room. Agrophobiacs are fast runners, I'm sure. But today that convention was trampled on by the thousands of other slowbies who'd been let in. Seriously, I don't recall ever doing a race that was so congested all the way round for the more... patient runners. Even coming down the A33, an arterial dual carriageway, it was hard to squeeze past the scarlet-faced, flagging masses. And as the stadium approached us, I wanted to put on a final spurt after the 400 metre sign, but again, there was no way through the wall of flailing lard. Quite a novel experience. It won't stop me doing it again, and I still think it's a cracking race, but I hope the organisers take note of the interminable queue for the shuttle buses, and the overcrowding along the route. It's an expensive day out. Including the elegant teeshirt, it costs more than the London Marathon. I worry that some thrusting young marketing accountant, not looking beyond the bottom line of his spreadsheet, is looking for ways to turn the race into the sort of human disaster that the Great North Run has become. Being stranded in South Shields for 4 hours has to be one of life's low points. No race is complete for me without some burst of panic on the way. I'm late, or can't find a place to park, or need to pee, or regret having that extra slice of toast for breakfast. This time it was confronting a series of Road Closed signs as I threaded my way through Reading's small intestines. Unlike the vehicles u-turning all around me, I pressed on, hoping that the signs were officious bluster. Thankfully, they were. The roads would be shut later, but at 8 in the morning, they were still open. Once parked, I lingered in the car as Jensen Button won the Melbourne Grand Prix, with Lewis Hamilton, who'd started in last place, finishing a creditable third. With every mention of Lewis Hamilton came the memory of the Lewes Hamburger of course. Remember that? October 4th? I may not be the athletic miracle I briefly threatened to become at one pre-Christmas point, but the health nadir of Lewes sure seems a long way off now. The new anxiety is my upper back. The big knobbly bit at the very top of my spine. (I wouldn't be surprised to learn that there's a more formal name for it than that.) Ever since I started plodding, back in 2001, I've had this problem. It appears when the distances creep up past 10 or 12 miles. It doesn't stop me running, but it's a pretty severe discomfort. It vanishes shortly after I stop, but while I'm in full lissome flow, it's almost impossible to move my head sideways, or bend it forwards, without a nasty, stabbing pain at the base of my neck. It brought back thoughts of the Zurich Marathon, and five hours of incessant rain, being chased by the growl of the sweeper bus, and this pain in... in the big knobbly bit at the top of my spine. Not my most comfortable afternoon, but still better than being run aground in South Shields. I mention the back pain because on my way to the start of the Reading Half, I spied the massage tent, and took the £5-to-charity offer of a 10-minute massage. The girl was giggly, and polite enough to laugh at my jokes, but she lacked the sadistic, killer instinct of Phil, so I'm not sure that it did me any good. But I was able to feel holy about my charity donation, and had the unexpected opportunity to lie down for a few minutes before the start of the race. It's become a hillier course than it used to be. Like the label of Chateau Mouton Rothschild, it changes every year. Last time I did the race, it was flat. Now, there are three quite sharp inclines, two of them in the first mile or so. Like most tasks in life, if there are going to be bumps, it's best to get them out of the way early on. I started with the 2:10 pacer, and stuck with him up to about the 7 or 8 mile mark, when the 3rd hill loomed. By the time I reached the top, the pacer had scarpered. Run away. So I settled into a steady chug, wondering if and when the 2:15 man and his followers would overwhelm me. The answer made me wait another 5 miles. I was nearly home when he suddenly appeared and nipped past me on the right, while I was painfully trying to look to my left. Crafty beggar. I stuck with him as we arrived at the stadium, assuming stupidly that this would give me a time of 2:15. I'd forgotten that I'd started with Mister 2:10, so instead I ended up with a 2:18, about 7 minutes outside a PB. I didn't mind. It was the getting round that mattered, and getting round without enraging any latent injury. On that front, mission accomplished. As always, I was struck by the alarming amnesia that sets in shortly after the end of a race. The final few miles were a slog. I've experienced a lot worse than this in races, but I can't say that I squeezed much joy from the latter part of the Reading Half. Dry mouth, head down, move one leg in front of the other, and count down the mile markers. Final mile blurry, breathless and unpleasant. Over the finish line, feeling salty-faced, giddy, empty inside, and with some remote high-pitched siren running around my brain. But within a minute or two, sports drink drunk and bemedalled, I'm grinning again, and urging on the birth of some strange truth: that everything was fine; I enjoyed it; looking forward to next time, when of course a PB will be collected. The elation of finishing is a wave that washes away all traces of the pain of the moment. I'm glad it happens, or most of us would never run more than a single race. Instead, another cell turns red on my spreadsheet. Just three more blue ones in the current batch: the Worthing 20 miler this Sunday, Maidenhead 10 on Good Friday, and the bad boy itself: Boston. That's all that's left. Just 56.2 race miles between here and Boyleston Street. 56 miles and a couple of condensed lifetimes. Comment
on this in the monthly forum thread, or visit the
main Forum.
|
| <<< last month | next >>> |