Thurs 11 July 2002

It's not been a good week for running. Monday was a rest day, intended to be a cushion between the exertions of the weekend past and the ratcheted-up exertions of the week ahead. But those future efforts didn't happen. On Tuesday I was suddenly taken drunk, and had to be excused my athletic duties. Wednesday I felt rough and weary; unable to face anything very much, least of all running.

Tonight I did get the 5.5 miler in that I should have done last night. I'd gone through today still unable to work up much enthusiasm, and had to create some. So I jumped off the train at Reading to visit Sweatshop, located conveniently just outside. Unusually for this esteemed establishment, I wasn't subjected to a fusillade of info-nuggets about the shoes on display. Was this a bad thing? Perhaps not. And I didn't get a go on the Footscan machine, though I'm sure I would have if I'd asked. But in his defence, I did march in there with a pretty fixed idea of what I wanted.

On Monday I'd been to see the podiatrist at one of the local sports centres. It was useful, though I felt sorry for her. Why? Because I didn't know what I wanted. I just wanted to talk about my feet with a foot-brainy person. God, what a job. I suffered from blisters last time, I explained. "And you're getting them again?" she asked hopefully as I began removing my shoes. "Er, no", I had to admit.

It's a bit like:
"Hello Doctor"
"Good Morning, what seems to the problem?"
"Problem? No, I feel fine."
"I see, so what can I do for you?"
"I want you to tell me if there's anything wrong with me."
"But you said you feel fine."
"Yes, but I was ill once if that's any help..."

Anyway, she prodded these things a bit and invited me to waggle them as she looked at them from a variety of angles. Then I walked up and down a long corridor as she wrote her shopping list on a clipboard. At least that's what I suspected. "And again please." What was that Sicilian cheese called? Then I ran up and down a few times as she continued looking pensive. Extra thick bleach.

Actually, she was pretty good, announcing that I pronate slightly. Hurrah! I was so bored being a "neutral foot-striker", as I'd previously been described. A whole new world of shoe-buying pleasure opened up to me in that remark. She went on to admit that she didn't know much about running shoes, but mentioned New Balance 854s, and that was it. I had to have some.

So tonight I bought some and ran 5.5 miles in them. What luxury it is to run in new shoes. These chaps are very cushioned but supportive. So far so good. Let's hope they do the job. If they shape up I might buy another pair and alternate them. Extravagant I know, but it extends their life disproportionately.

Tonight's jaunt was along the canal again. The highlight was gingerly threading my way through a herd of cows grazing near the towpath. They must have been very old - they were still in black and white.

5.5 miles in 58:54, which is 10:36 a mile pace. Not bad for me. A minute faster than the other time I did this route. One thing I've found different this time around is that I seem able to finish much faster if I want to. Most midweek runs (when I consciously try to run faster) end with me sprinting the last half mile or even mile. Every time this happens I think of those immortal words of David Coleman from the Montreal Olympics: "Now Juantorena opens his legs -- and really shows his class".

Sat 12 July 2002

A hard 11.2 miles this afternoon.

I spent much of last winter trudging along frozen lanes in the dark, fantasising miserably about the promise of long hazy summer days. Like Jeffrey Archer wistfully dreaming of ice buckets loaded with Bollinger, I remembered only half the picture. Or perhaps I wasn't thinking as a runner then. The airlessness, the raw heat, the sweat stinging your eyes, the squinting glare, the salt-encrusted lips and cheeks, the mouthfuls of flies, the deep fatigue, the heaviness of the bones, the extra effort. It's hard.

Am I saying that I preferred running in winter? No, certainly not. Just that summer is not the smart riposte to winter that I thought it would be. Perhaps the autumn or the spring might be, but not mid-July.

I ran two circuits of the 5.5 mile run I did on Thursday. This isn't my favourite way to do a long run: there's something dispiriting about knowing that you have to do it all again. Physically, the first half wasn't bad. I began slowly but after 2 or 3 miles I had... adjusted. I wanted to say something similar to "got my eye in" - the way that a bowler is said to get his eye in after a while. What's the running equivalent? Things just click after half an hour or so, and you enter a spell of short-lived pleasure in which you feel co-ordinated and in control. I don't think this is the fabled "runner's high", though it's related.

The halfway point was our house, where I stopped briefly to fish out the bottle of orange squash M had hidden just inside the gate. Thirty seconds of enthusiastic glugging, and it was on my way again towards the canal. Still feeling on top of things at this point.

It's a 0.9 miles to the canal. Past three pubs in the first half mile, then a sharp turn past the station and into the countryside beyond the village. Here the road narrows and I often have to thread my way through cars waiting to get across the tiny bridge over the Kennet & Avon. It's the final 21st century image before turning to the infinite promise of the canal, with its silence and stillness, and its almost overwhelming sense of peace.

A mile or so of rabbit-scattering takes me to the first gate, beyond which the path takes me across a bumpy field, and another gate, past the weir where a heron is often seen, a stretch of gravel then another field, this one with the additional hazard of overhanging branches. I have to watch my footing here. It would be easy to twist an ankle on the uneven path, or to end up sprawled across a trailing root. Eventually the narrow track turns into a tarmacked surface again. A relief.

Three miles or so after I started, I reach the second road bridge, and it's here (if I'm doing the 5.5 mile circuit) that I turn away from the canal and start back. Three hundred yards of country lane then bang! Onto the A4 for about a mile and a half of noise and chaos. It's not a nice stretch. The road is busy, the path is narrow and filled with overhanging trees. It seems to be a path not designed for walking on.

On the first circuit I was feeling fine here, but by the time the second came around, the game was up. Apart from the brief stop to rehydrate, I stopped only once on the run, about halfway along the second A4 stretch. I was very tired, but the 45 seconds or so of walking did me good. From there I was able to press on, and managed the final mile on auto-pilot.

So, five weeks down and thirteen to go. Another 11 miles in the bag, but it's not been easy. I don't have the same fears about completing the distances that I had last time. I know now that I can do it. But perhaps this is itself a problem. I find myself underestimating the challenge of the weekend runs. Last time I would spend half the week anxiously psyching myself up for the long run ahead, scared of failing but excited about the challenge. This time, what I initially thought of as confidence and a refusal to be overawed, I'm now beginning to think might be complacency.

Another manifestation of this is the way I'm eating. Last time I lost nearly 10 pounds during the first 5 weeks. This time it's fluctuated like mad. Just at the moment I'm only three pounds lighter than I was five weeks ago, but this could easily change in the wrong direction.

Right. It's time to get serious about this. If I was a stone lighter it would make all the difference. The hard-line diet begins... tomorrow. After breakfast.

Next week >