Tues 17 Sept 2002

People sometimes ask me where the pleasure is in running. It's a reasonable question. It must seem more trouble than it's worth, and if they'd been reading some of the recent entries here they would be even more mystified by why I bother. Over the last two or three weeks I've not enjoyed it much, and there have been times when even I have felt that it's little more than a waste of good beer-drinking time.

And then, out of the blue, a great run comes along and I remember what it's all about. I really wasn't expecting it either. It's been another fairly grim couple of days nutritionally speaking, so much so that by the end of this afternoon my thoughts were meandering dangerously away from the plan to get off home to run, and wandering instead towards that mecca of world football in West London, to the home of Queens Park Rangers, who this evening were taking on Huddersfield Town.

But folly got the better of me, and eventually I packed up my things and waddled off to Paddington.

I left a bit earlier than normal to try to get home in time to run while it was still light. And the first 20 minutes or so of the 5.55 miler did coincide with the final traces of daylight. I was still on the canal towpath as it got dark, but I pressed on. The flies are still around but do seem to be on the way out at last. Either that or I've just grown accustomed to swallowing mouthfuls of them, and no longer notice.

No wildlife to report apart from the odd slug. On Sunday there were loads of pheasants about, and I also saw something like an otter or a stoat: it was some sort of elongated creature about the size of a cat, and it ran across the towpath about ten yards in front of me and disappeared into the bushes down by the water's edge. Also a couple of weeks ago I saw some fluorescent green glow-worms in the bushes along the towpath. Quite rare it seems.

For the first 15 minutes or so of tonight's run I felt like i was going through the motions a bit. And then suddenly it happened; that moment of transformation when I could feel the bounce coming back into my step. I could feel myself running at last. This might seem a surprising way of putting it. The whole thing is running, surely? Well yes, but sometimes it's a slog, and sometimes it's a mechanical shuffle. The feeling of 'jogging' is surprisingly horrible. No one wants to jog. We want to run. Running is great. Running isn't necessarily fast, though it is something to do with the energy in the legs, and the rhythm and, yes, the way that the feet seem to bounce along the road. It's a great, natural feeling. It's like being a child again. It energises and enthuses the mind, and increases your self-confidence and self-esteem, and gives you an appetite. You feel as though you've done something useful and worthwhile. It's a catharsis.

I sometimes explain it as being the opposite of drinking. Nothing to do with healthy versus not healthy. And nothing to do with enjoyment. They're opposites in that, for me at least, the real pleasure of running comes after the running is over. You have to make the effort and take the pain first, and enjoy the glow afterwards. Drinking is so easy to do because the pleasure comes first. It's instant gratification followed by extended pain (depending on how much you imbibe of course). Running is all about deferred gratification. This makes it hard to do. Like saving money. Much nicer to spend it all now. Running is like making that investment. Perhaps the post-run buzz is the occasional windfall that comes in the shape of a dividend, but the real reward is in the much longer term.

I got back, feeling great. Had a shower and a bite to eat and felt even better. There was just one final thing that would make it a perfect evening. And sure enough, it happened. We won 3-0.

Hurrah!!!!!

Thurs 19 Sept 2002

Much to my amazement, I did it. Nearly 10 miles on a pitch-black, hostile evening, when I really didn't feel like it.

A desperate day at work. I got home late-ish, weary and disillusioned. I'm not into speed training, but twice on the way home I was forced to produce explosive bursts of sprinting -- in vain. First at Paddington, between the Bakerloo tube train and platform 10 of the mainline station, where I arrived, panting, to see the 18:18 moving off without me; and at Reading, between the train and the local branch of Sweatshop, where I wanted to replenish my supply of Powergels in preparation for my 20 miler this weekend. But again, I missed it by the skin of my gnashing teeth. The shop shuts at 7pm, and as I rattled the locked door my watch said 19:00 and 26 seconds. The two guys inside glanced up for a second in response to the noise, then went back to their examination of the till roll. Frustrating.

No moon at all tonight. It's hazardous running on roads with no pavement in total darkness, but with longish runs I don't have much choice. I stuck to my shortish local circuit (3.67 miles) which I ran just over 2 and a half times. A total of 9.75 miles at about 10:25 a mile. I was knackered when I got back home at about 10:15pm, but it felt great to have done it. There were several opportunities to curtail the run but I managed to resist them all.

And so to the weekend, and the dreaded 20 mile long run. On one level it's a horrible thought, though it does represent the peak of the training progrmme that I'm doing, and the start of the taper. Hmm, I shouldn't feel too smug about reaching the taper at last though; too many runs have been missed for comfort.

I have a lot left to do -- at work, in training, in fund-raising. I've had some donations this week from fellow QPR fans (thank you Nik, Julia, Jamie and PW), and have already received generous pledges from Ian Painter and Charlotte Dutch, and a surprise contribution from an old friend, Luke. These were all made through the Just Giving website, which can be found here. I still have other friends and relations and work colleagues to come, so I hope I can boost the total quite a bit further yet.

Sun 22 Sept 2002

Women are geniuses. I bought yet another pair of socks yesterday, and immediately found myself on the horns of a dilemma. The packaging asserts that "most long distance runners do not use petroleum jelly on their feet". I was shocked and upset. It had a ring to it not dissimilar from "real men don't eat quiche", an epithet that ruined the 1980s for me.

What was I to do? I had used PJ liberally for all my long distance runs. Was I to break this habit now, on the eve of my 20 mile run? I sought the advice of my wife who immediately issued me with my instructions. I was to coat one foot in this substance, and leave the other one jelly-free, then compare the results afterwards. Phew!

Life is almost pleasurable again. QPR are top of the league, and today I ran for 20 miles without any walking breaks. That is a major achievement for me, and is by far the longest bit of constant running I've done.

To call it "running" is possibly an exaggeration. I decided beforehand that the only chance I had of completing the distance without blowing a leg gasket again was to take it really easy. I did the whole distance at a comfortable jog, breaking into a proper run only in the last half mile when I realised that I could get home within my original target time of 4 hours. A time of 3:58:40 is not fast for 20 miles, but it's about the same as I took for the Worthing 20 when I was preparing for London in March, and you're always going to run a race a bit faster than on your own. It was also pretty miraculous that I was able to run -- sprint even -- at the end.

I cadged a lift from M to a place called Kintbury which is just short of Hungerford, where she was heading to check out some antique shops, in a continuing search for a 1920s porcelain lampshade to replace the one that the removal men broke when we moved house, back in April. I'd spent all morning consulting maps and measuring distances on Autoroute, and had finally settled on Kintbury as being a point exactly 20 miles along the canal.

Some great countryside to enjoy around there. The canal is even more rustic than it is nearer home. Around the Kintbury area the towpath is a narrow, rutted track, and the canal is partly shaded by huge, overhanging branches that add a strong air of tranquility to the scene. It was a good, peaceful way to start.

As I said, I took it easy, aiming to run a steady 11:30 to 12:00 a mile. This is about 2 minutes a mile slower than most of my training runs, but it was the best chance I had. The only two brief stops I had on the entire run were when I was unable to cross the canal because a bridge was being swivelled round to let a barge through. Apart from that I just kept on and on, and once I'd got to the 12 mile mark (where I'd hidden a drink in the bushes earlier in the day), I knew I was going to make it.

When I got home, I found that M had finally found her lampshade and that Queens Park Rangers were still top of the 2nd Division. Hurrah! If it wasn't for the continuing anxiety about getting a project finished at work before we fly off to Chicago in less than three weeks time, it would have been just about a perfect weekend. Oh bugger work for the moment. Hurrah!!!

Oh, and about those feet... amazingly enough I found that both toed objects were still intact once I'd summoned the courage to remove my new socks. And stranger yet was the discovery that the non-lubricated foot seemed to come off slightly better. Well well. We live and learn.

Next week >