Mon 11 March 2002

No scheduled run today so I whiled away Coronation Street and University Challenge on the exercise bike instead.

There's been a bit of correspondence today on the running newsgroups about the fat, panting newbies like me who lined up at the start too near the front, thereby depriving people further behind of a winning chance. Or at least, forcing them to overtake too many runners in a congested opening mile.

Hmmm. It's hard to justify deliberately pushing-in, but I'm also surprised that people get so exercised about this in a mass-participation event like Reading. The opening half mile was pretty congested, it's true, but after that there was plenty of space on the course. I obviously don't understand the etiquette fully yet, but it seems a bit odd to me that you'd want to complain about the inconvenience of overtaking people. It's a race; that's what you do. But next time I'll be more aware of this.

Here's a brief list of some things I learnt yesterday, along with some general advice for the new runner:

don't kid yourself that putting on some running clothes and taking part in a race is a simple activity;

get organised the day/night before. And remember - however well prepared you think you are, there'll be something you've forgotten;

don't decide to quickly check your email over breakfast;

driving for an hour at over 100mph immediately before a race is not good mental preparation;

have a plan for when and where you're going to change into your kit and your shoes. It won't work out like that, but having a plan at least postpones the panic for a while;

in the interests of brotherly love and world peace, don't start too near the front if you have a beer belly;

decide your race plan and pace well in advance. The first mile of the race is not a good time to start doing tricky mental arithmetic;

sponges dripping with freezing water can be fun, even on a chilly morning;

running and drinking simultaneously is not easy. Practise this useful art;

still with water, little and often is good - better than the opposite;

spectators are genuinely impressed with your effort. A welcome reminder that not everyone can run for 13 miles or more. Nice runners show their appreciation back;

it doesn't matter how certain you are that those shoes are just perfect for you. Believe me, they aren't.

but the best thing of all about a major mass participation event like this is that it really doesn't matter how fat and slow and crap at running you think you are -- there's always someone even fatter and slower and more crap at running than you. Grin broadly at them as you pass. They'll appreciate the encouragement. And so will you...

Tues 12 March 2002

Today I went to see a qualified sports injury specialist. He took a look at my variegated toes and said: "Forget about running a marathon. In fact, forget about running."

After returning home I checked a couple of websites and discovered there's a name for the source of the problem: "Morton's Toe". It means the second toes are longer than the big toes. A common problem: many runners have it. I called a podiatrist and will be seeing him tomorrow to find out what the options are. I want some proper advice.

At least the guy I saw today didn't charge me. He was quite a character. Ex-Bristol Rovers footballer. He threw in some advice on how to avoid blisters in future. "Get a bucket", he said. Piss in it. Soak yer feet in yer piss for 'alf an hour. You'll have no more trouble with blisters. My grandad - bare-knuckle boxing champion of Bristol. How do you think he kept his fists hard?"

I had a funny feeling I knew what was coming here.

"Soaked 'is 'ands in a bucket o' piss. You can do a lot of things with piss yer know. It's the ammonia."

"I see..."

Five mile run this evening. After my 11:30 mile splits on Sunday I ran tonight's at 11:00 just to see the difference. I did the 5 miles in exactly 55 minutes, and felt pretty comfortable about it but wondered if I could sustain it for 13 miles. Sunday's half marathon in Fleet would seem a good place to try.

Assuming that I get some better news tomorrow, that is.

Wed 13 March 2002

A more constructive meeting with the podiatrist in Bristol this evening, though the news still isn't great.

This is what I was told during the meeting:

the nails of the second toes on both feet will shortly fall off. This isn't a disaster;

I should consider having them surgically, and permanently, removed or they'll continue to cause trouble;

there's no reason why I shouldn't run the Fleet half marathon at the weekend, or the London Marathon, but "it might hurt"

my right foot is going to be more susceptible to blisters because my gouty big toe is forcing me into a slightly unusual running style

the right foot problem might be helped with a moulded orthotic insole though this would cost about Ł200

I need to lance the blisters as each one "has about a teaspoonful of gunk inside"

don't run before the weekend race

that will be twenty eight pounds please sir...

All in all, worse news than hoped, but better news than feared. Worse things happen at sea. Sometimes. Probably.

To help recover from the consultation, and to steady my nerves for tonight's auto-surgery, there was only one thing for it: fish and chips and a bottle of Chablis.

Sun 17 March 2002 - Fleet Half Marathon

As the list seems to be the medium of the moment, here's another brief one. More things I learnt today:

the humble Ford Focus is well capable of speeds in excess of 115 miles per hour;

in the interests of minimising stress of all kinds, get to the starting point of the race before it actually begins;

do not underestimate the importance of adequate hydration and carbo-loading in the days leading up to the race;

you can protect your feet with the right sort of plasters;

don't overdo breakfast;

Yes, despite today's race not starting till 12:15pm, and despite the lessons so painfully learnt just one week ago, I once again managed to be late for the big off. But today was even worse. Today I didn't have Reading's gratifying incompetence to rely on, which meant the race started on time - and without me.

After a good sleep I got up around nine and had too much for breakfast: 2 x toast, cereal, banana, yoghurt. Fortunately I had three hours to digest this before running but it was still too much.

Last week I made the mistake of going online when I should have been doing useful things like pinning my number to my shirt. But as my wife likes to remind me, I don't learn from my mistakes until I've made the same one at least three times, which is why this morning I decided to go online instead of...

At around 10:30 it suddenly hit me that there was only 1:45 hours to go till the race started, and as Fleet is 85 miles away, and as I hadn't yet assembled or packed my things or even done something useful like pinning that number to my shirt, I was in trouble.

Out of the door by 10:55. I had 100 minutes to drive the 8 miles to the motorway, another 62 miles on the motorway, another 15 miles once I'd left it again, find a place to park and get to the starting point of the race. My only friend during this manic experience was Radio 3 and its soothing succession of madrigals and Gregorian chant. Not my usual Sunday morning listening but anything else would have meant more pandemonium.

I arrived in Fleet like Steve McQueen practising that car chase in Bullit. It was 12:05. I asked a marshal where the race started. "Right over the other side of that park", he said, "But you have to park your car over that way", and pointed in the other direction. Oh God.

Within 5 minutes I'd found an illegal parking space and got my shoes on. I pulled off my tracksuit bottoms and discovered that my shorts were on back-to-front. Oh God again. Shoes off, shorts off, shorts back on, shoes back on. 12:11 and I started sprinting back down the hill, past the marshal and into the park. No sign of the race. "Right over there mate," someone shouted. Oh God yet again. It was at least half a mile.

The soggy icing on this disintegrating cake was the condition of the ground underfoot as as I tried speeding from one side to the other. A muddy swamp. Half way across it my shoes had a thick coating of liquid mud. I was just beginning to feel the cold slop oozing through my socks when the mournful hooter sounded to start the race. I was still at least 400 yards away.

By the time I got across the park and down the treacherously muddy steps and into the lane, there was no sign of the runners. All that was left at the start was a thousand or two empty paper cups rolling around in the road and some rather melancholy bunting flapping about in the breeze. It was surreal, as if I'd been invited to some huge party, but got the time wrong and bowled up just after all the guests had left. Had they ever really been there?

To make it worse, I was now breathless and feeling pretty knackered. I'd done no stretching, no limbering up, no gentle warm-up. No exercise for 4 days in fact. Just a frantic 1:20 hours of driving and a mad sprint for three quarters of a mile, most of it across a morass of mud. Here I was: stressed out and weak and panting, and I hadn't even started the race! Was there really any point in carrying on? Why not just go home?

[...To be continued]

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