Weeks 8 to 6: Sun 18 Aug 2002 to Sun 8 SeptWhen it comes to marathon training, some weeks are tough and some weeks are bloody impossible. The last 6 or 7 days have veered towards the impossible, but I am hoping that this weekend will get me back on track.Right. Last Sunday. Burnham Beeches Half Marathon. Perhaps I'm ready to lay bare my soul at last... Despite the sense of incredulity that had lasted all of last week, I did make it to Burnham, though in keeping with the precedent set during my London training, everything was thrillingly last minute. I was up early enough for my condemned-man breakfast of dry toast and coffee. Even at 7am the morning was bright and clear, and I could see that it was going to be a scorching day. It didn't assuage my sense of foreboding about the venture. I pottered around for far too long, and at 8:45am, the point where I should have been striding confidently towards the car, I was instead still in my dressing gown, straining to get out of an armchair, and wondering where I could find some safety pins to attach my running number. Even in my most disorganised pre-London days, I would have prepared a 'to do' list the night before a race, and at least have laid out my kit and pinned the running number to my Hal Higdon singlet. No such foresight was going spare this time around, which is why, with only an hour to go till the race (30 miles away, in a place I'd never been to before), I found myself rapidly sinking into a puddle of panic, as I tried to recall all those essential things I had to do for a race. Petroleum jelly, blister plasters, water, those damn safety pins, contact lenses, sunhat, spare socks and shoes and T-shirt for the journey home, money, heart rate monitor, dressings, kitchen roll, Power Gel, cotton wool... But I needn't have worried. M had heard my high-pitched distress, and had come to the rescue. With her help, I was out of the door and on the M4 by 9:15, and had found the venue by 9:50, which left me precisely the 10 minutes I needed to jog the 3/4 of a mile to get to the start. I even had time for a few stretches once I'd joined the other 800 or so runners. I still felt pretty rough, but it was too late to back out, and as that suitably mournful sounding hooter sounded to start the race, I had no choice but to shrug my shoulders and get on with the thing. The rain god didn't deliver, and it turned out to be one of the hottest days of the summer, though this didn't stop some people wearing leggings and long-sleeved shirts. Inexplicable. The suffering began immediately as a long, steep hill appeared round the first corner. News of the pain began with a murmur at the front of the field which rolled slowly back down the hill like a lumbering avalanche, growing in audibility as the athletic profile became less... athletic. By the time it reached us at the back, the volume of the moan and the pain of the hill had become quite disproportionate to that of the smarties at the front. It was the first of many occasions when I was tempted to walk, but I just managed to avoid it, switching to that strange shuffle that every plump middle-aged jogger keeps tucked in his sock along with other emergency supplies. I'd not been to Burnham Beeches since I was a child. It was the sort of place that kids in my neighbourhood used to get bussed out to by the church on summer Sunday afternoons, in the days before mass car-ownership. It was always a pretty exclusive address, and 25 years of fat-cattery has kept it so. Now and then we would creep past some great detached house with extensive mature gardens and carport, and see one or two of the residents standing silently at the gate, gazing at us without expression, as though posing for a formal portrait. I couldn't work out if they were being disdainful or supportive. Paranoid, or just curious? I got the impression that perhaps they wanted to feel that they were taking part in this annual event, but that they weren't quite sure how to cope with the social interaction involved. At other races I've been in, people smile and clap, or shout encouragement, or distribute sweets, or do something. Here, they seemed disorientated and awkward. Or perhaps they were just making sure no one nipped inside the gate for a furtive pee. I got talking to a couple of chatty, sporty Kiwis (is there any other sort?) after a couple of miles, and stuck with them for half an hour, before they eventually pulled ahead. All along the course were signs declaiming "CAUTION, RUNNERS!" Wasn't sure if this was a warning to drivers to watch out for pedestrians, or a general warning that there were hundreds of people in the area who wanted to run 13 miles on one of the hottest days of the summer. "Beware!", it might almost have been saying, "Lunatics at large in the woods". An hour into the run, and the heat and the recurring hills were becoming quite a problem. It didn't help to see crowds of solemn locals, sitting along the route licking ice lollies or languidly sucking on long iced drinks. But I managed to keep running, determined to beat the Reading Half Marathon time of 2 hours 30. With an additional 4 months or so training, this was well within my grasp. My splits up to 12 miles were: 9:08, 9:34, 10:03, 10:41, 10:36, 10:04, 9:47, 11:06, 12:23, 9:29, 12:59, and 11:40. This meant an average of 10:32 a mile which, given the conditions, I was happy with. If the final mile had gone the same way, I'd have finished in 2:18, 12 minutes ahead of the Reading time. But the final mile did not go the same way at all. With less than a mile to go, I was following behind a small group of two or three runners, and looking forward to seeing the finishing line. We reached a T-junction, where a marshal pointed us to the right. This took us along a long, quiet lane. Strange. Instead of getting closer to the end of the race, we seemed to be heading out into the country again. But we kept on until the woman running in front of me started to voice her suspicions that we weren't going the right way. We'd been running for 6 or 7 minutes since the last marshal, and even at my slowing pace that was at least half a mile. We should be hitting the finish around now, but there was nothing in sight. Then a cyclist went past, and told us we were going the wrong way. We should have gone left at the T-junction, not right. It was a terrible thing to happen at that stage of the race. After trying so hard not to take any walking breaks for so long, I just gave up at that point. The thought of running an extra mile after being so close to the finish did not appeal. The only incentive I had to maintain even a steady walk was that it would get me to that bloody marshal a bit quicker. There were three or four of us, and oh dear, when we finally got back to the fateful junction, we lined up to let him know how we felt. He nervously explained that he was chatting to a friend and had been pointing to a car, rather than indicating the direction we should take. I can't repeat my exact words as I'm writing this before the 9pm watershed, but let's say that I was half-expecting to be disqualified for abusing an official. By the time I'd finished with him he'd gone white, and I can only guess what colour he ended up. As I tottered off towards the finish, the Australian guy behind me was yelling at him: "Yer know what I'm gonna do to you mate? I'm gonna pull yer f***ing head off and push it up yer arse!" Whether his plan came to fruition, I don't know. But I hope so. In the end, my official time was 2 hours 30 minutes and 28 seconds. I had to wait till I got home to discover that this was 8 seconds faster (or less slow) than my time for the Reading Half Marathon. Eight bloody seconds. It should have been 12 minutes. I later complained to the race director, a rather oily man who suggested that I find him after the presentations because he "might be able to find something" for me, presumably to keep me quiet. I thought: "Bugger the lot of you", and limped back to the car. Tues 20 Aug 2002Tuesday of this week I'm up early, 5:30am, for a 4 mile jog around the lanes. What a great time of day this is to run. It's cool and quiet. Some rain must have fallen recently, and the village church is half hidden in a light mist. A few minutes out I'm in a long lane off the Bradfield Road. I begin to hear something crashing about on the other side of the tall, brambley hedge. I can't imagine what it can be. Then suddenly, through a gap in the hedge, right in front of me, leaps a young deer. It turns briefly to face me. It's trembling and sweaty. There's a sudden... moment, as we exchange startled expressions, then it darts off again through a gap in the hedge on the other side of the road, and goes bounding off across the field towards the thick wood on the other side of the river. What an extraordinary and a beautiful thing to happen. It is a memorable moment, and one which reminds me yet again that despite the hassles and the strain of finding time to do it, running can be a constant source of wonderful and unexpected little gifts.Theale 10K: 24 Aug 2002If the Burnham Beeches Half left me mulling over the quality of the race officials, the Theale 10K was a sharp reminder that I should be grateful for any marshals at all, however dozey.
Ten kilometres isn't a very appealing distance on a weekend when I'm supposed to run 16 miles, but I made an exception here as it's my local race, and thought it worth supporting. As it turned out, it didn't really need my support. When I eventually got my application in, I found that they were only 5 entrants short of the 250 maximum.
The race took place at Englefield, the local estate. This isn't an estate of the council or housing varieties. It's one of those posh medieval types with a stately home and 15th century church and an aristocratic family who've lived there for some ludicrous period of time -- 800 years or something. I bet they don't scan the property supplement of the Newbury Times with much interest. They let the plebs in occasionally. One weekend in May we are invited in (on payment of a fiver) to admire their good fortune at first hand. And the Theale 10K appears to be another Lucky Locals day. With as much gratitude and deference as I could muster, I took my place at the start: the imposing gates you see on the left hand side if driving up the A340 towards Pangbourne. (Note: actually, I quite like toffs. As I type this out on my lap-top, on the slow train to Waterloo, there is a chap crammed into the seat next to me who fits the description nicely. He wears a bow-tie and a pink shirt, and an aristocratically crumpled suit. He is reading every inch of the Times, and has it - and by extension, his arms - spread across me. His left elbow, and something alarmingly solid in his trousers, are digging into me. Does he care? Does he feel embarrassed? Not a bit of it. Though perhaps if he glances at this screen he'll feel sufficiently self-conscious to sit straighter. But then, fellows like him don't feel socially awkward about anything much, which is why I quite like 'em. Ah, he snorts and stirs...) Where was I? I was at the start of the Theale 10K, that's where. On another roasting day in what has turned out to be a pretty damn glorious summer. By the time we set off at 11:30, the sun was high in the sky and we were already sweating. I soon settled into my customary position at the tail of the field. This turned out to be a piece of unexpectedly good fortune. It seems that early that morning, some anonymous imp had gone round the course, removing the fluorescent orange way-markers, or in some cases, switching them round to point in the wrong direction. What a thoroughly good wheeze! Certainly something I'd have considered doing myself in my younger days. Its victims weren't so forgiving, and the sleek creatures at the front of the field grumbled so much that at one point I thought there must be a thunderstorm on the way. By the time I reached the troublespots the arrows had been corrected, or perhaps it was that the gang of plodders I was following knew the way. It didn't affect me. Had there been marshals to point the way this wouldn't have been an issue, but there weren't; a reflection I suppose of the difficulties of trying to organise an event like this. Runners want to take part, and non-runners probably want nothing to do with the event. I did briefly take a wrong turning, but the sudden rush of high-volume bellowing from the rear pulled me back on the straight and narrow. It was quite a tough, undulating course, and included one killer of a hill that almost everyone walked. Most of it was grass or rough woodland path or tractor-rutted tracks. Some might prefer these surfaces, but not me. It's even more strength-sapping than tarmac, and the danger of stumbling over a tussock or twisting an ankle in a rut is never far away. Highlight was being overtaken by an athletic blonde woman, pursued very closely by half a dozen panting middle-aged men, their eyes firmly fixed on the lycra-clad bottom in front of them. If you have a glamorous wife like mine, then of course this kind of behaviour holds no appeal whatsoever. I think it worth making that point absolutely crystal clear so that there can be no misunderstanding of my position. The other highlight was the fields of sunflowers at their spectacular peak. There's something about these flowers that appeals to the child in me. Or is it LSD nostalgia? It was the promise of a medal and a large vessel filled with icy water that got me round. The medal kept our rendezvous, but not, alas, the water. They had run out. Which just about summed up the organisation of the Theale 10K. I did at least get an apologetic email from the organisers the next day, which is more than can be said for the Burnham people. Fortunately it was only a mile or so from the finish to home, so I was able to avoid the indignity of dying of thirst in the middle of the West Berkshire countryside. After a decent breakfast and shower, it was time to pull on that famous hooped shirt and get off to Loftus Road for yet another astounding Queens Park Rangers performance. Bank Holiday Monday: 26 Aug 2002The Theale run meant a reorganisation of the weekend's schedule, and I decided to push my 16 miler back to the Monday which, as luck would have it, was a holiday.The conditions, cool and overcast, were ideal for running, and absolutely traditional for the late Summer Bank Holiday. For only the second time since I bought it in June, I put on my water-belt and headed for the canal. What can you say about a solo 16 mile run along a canal? Er, well quite a lot actually, but i don't have my notes with me, so call back in a day or so, and I'll have come up with something. Tues 27 Aug 2002Good 4 miles in the twilight: report coming shortly.Hmm, well that's what I wrote to remind me, but I'm buggered if I can remember it, other than that it was fast for me - about 09:30 pace. Wed 28 Aug 2002Woke at 5:30am. Within moments I was up and out. Another lovely Berkshire morning: fresh, cool, bracing. No time for a warm-up, so it was straight into it. My usual 3.67 mile circuit.No deer this morning (see last week), just a rabbit or two and a squashed fox. This is a great time of day to run if you can get out of bed in time. Last time I did this, I was buzzing all day. Let's hope the same happens today. I'll talk about this in more detail when I get a chance, but briefly, I've decided to run for the UKBTS (The UK Brain Tumour Society) I have just created an online page with Just Giving. It can be found at www.justgiving.com/Group_Giving/?id=CGG/2194. My task for this week is to start publicising it. Stay tuned. Time for work. Thurs 5 September 2002What's going on here?Answer? Not a lot. And certainly not as much as there should be. Work has become a millstone around my sensitivities, and I'm having to work later and later. My running has been getting squeezed, to the point that I am now worried about my schedule. This morning I filled in some of the gaps from the past week or two, and have slotted them into the relevant places, above. In particular, the Theale 10K entry. Last night I went out for my first run in a week. That is bad enough, but to compound matters I might have picked up a potentially bad injury. It was dark. Indeed I'm amazed at how much more darker the evenings have become recently. It's Autumn all of a sudden. The mornings are cool and misty too; ideal for running if only I could get out. I thought I might just be able to squeeze in a 5 miler before it got too dark, but by the time I got to the canal I could barely see my hand in front of my face. As I turned onto the towpath, running at some speed, I managed to catch my left thigh on a chunk of metal attached to a gatepost. This is what it felt like: HAARRGGGAAA-DARRRGGGAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHH--UGUGUGUGUG-BWARGGGGHHHH, followed by a KWEEEEEEKKKEEEEKKEEEEKKEE-OOOOOOOOBRROOOO-BROOOOOOOO-HURRRGGGHHHHHHUHUH. I came to a doubled-up dead stop, just like a cartoon car braking suddenly. I just clung to the gate, cursing and wheezing to myself. Painful, painful. To make things worse, I was just about at the halfway point, with more than 3 miles left to go, along the pitch-black towpath. I stayed where I was for several minutes, hoping the pain would vanish, but it didn't. Eventually I had to start limping along, past half a dozen anglers who'd been sitting mutely and invisibly, right alongside me, all the time I'd been hopping and clinging and squealing in agony. Cheers guys. Don't let a near-bloody-fatality put you off your fascinating-bloody-pastime. Today my leg has been throbbing, and has a lump on it the size of Ben Nevis. (For the benefit of my American friends I should explain that Ben Nevis is a mountain, not a person). Too painful to consider running this evening. In short, my Chicago campaign is in total crisis. Instead of doing the Hal Higdon schedule, I feel as though I've switched to the Pam Mather programme. My preparation has been poor this time, but I'll still do it. It's now desperately important that this leg gets better by the weekend so that I can do a serious, long run. At least another 16 miles. Sun 8 September 2002The 16 miles did happen, which I suppose is good news, but the way it was done was pretty depressing. Not surprising; I've not had a proper run for ten days or so, and even that was a short one.Buggered about most of the day, but eventually got out at about 4pm. It's definitely cooling down but there was still enough sun to whip up a good sweat before long. As I had a water belt with me, I decided on the rare step of taking along a radio. Despite reception problems, it was a good move, and helped to keep the boredom at bay. Being a bit out of condition, I decided to take it easy, and walk for a minute each mile. Inevitably, the minute got stretched a bit as time went on, and after about mile 12 I could barely run at all. I ended up walking most of the last 2 or 3. I have to be sanguine about this. With so little running recently I need to accept that I'm not going to be able to run 16 miles without trouble. It will take me one or two more to get back into the swing. The problem is time. The race is 5 weeks away today. The next two weeks are supposed to be the peak of effort with the longest distances covered, before the 3-week taper begins. It's all going wrong. Work is going crazy at the moment, and I'm finding it hard to get the time to do the midweek runs. Past midnight; I have to get to bed. Tomorrow everything will be wonderful again. At least QPR won 4-0 away from home this weekend, and the Scots were humiliated in the Faroes. Let's keep some perspective, eh? Next week > |