Mon 4 March 2002

No run today. Instead I'm enjoying the warmth of belated satisfaction about getting through 18 miles yesterday. For some inexplicable reason it seemed to pass me by yesterday.

I'm getting confused about carbo-loading. I read Hal Higdon's Ultimate Marathon Training Guide last week in which he is pretty strict about the need to wolf down 400 grams of carbohydrate every day in the run-up to the marathon. So I tried it for a few days - and felt pretty bloated. Despite running 26 miles in the past 3 days I managed to put on a pound in weight. Not what I expected.

The obvious counter-observation is that I got through those miles, so perhaps that's the trade-off. Perhaps it was the carbohydrates that kept me afloat. So maybe I have to forget about the weight-loss objective for the time being. In any case, I'm 37lbs lighter than I was when I started so perhaps I should be satisfied with that, and concentrate on the big day. Just 6 weeks, 40 days, to go now...

Tues 5 March 2002

A lunchtime run today of just over 4 miles, at 11.02 a mile.

I said some time ago that I'd take more notice of times and speed once the race was within 6 weeks. That's now. It can't hurt to be more conscious of pace, but I don't think it's a wise move to translate this into a target time for the race itself. Almost everything you read says that the goal for a first marathon should be to finish the race. You then have some benchmark against which to aim if and when a second marathon comes along. It sounds right. After all, having (by definition) never run the distance before, the novice's target can only ever be a fairly arbitrary choice. A stab in the dark.

The times you produce in training give some idea of potential pace for the first half of a marathon. But it's the second half that's the unknown quantity. If I could run 11.02 for the entire marathon I'd be very happy. This would produce a time of around 4 hours 50 minutes - fine for someone like me. But I don't think I could maintain that pace for 26 miles. Not at my current level of fitness and stamina.

The risk with a time goal is that it could force me to run faster than I want to, and push me into the discomfort zone sooner than necessary. This in turn would almost certainly put paid to the goal in any case, so I'd lose on both counts. I've thought about this a lot, and I believe that my target should be to run the distance, and nothing else.

The Reading Half on Sunday is different. I know I can complete the race because I've run the distance 4 times now. My target time is 2:30 - slow by most standards but this is of no importance to me. It will give me something to aim at in the Fleet Half which comes a week later.

I finished Julie Welch's 26.2 this morning. A good read for all London marathoners. Unlike most running books, written by expert runners trying their hand at writing, 26.2 comes from an established writer who wants to talk about her inexpert running. It makes a refreshing change, not just because the writing has more colour and vitality than usual, but because its perspective has more resonance for the ordinary runner.

Today's run was a bit achey, as Tuesdays tend to be. A hangover I guess from Sunday's long run. Good weather. Perhaps too good: it reminded me that all my running has been done in the winter months. The cold weather is grim for running, but warmth and sunshine present different problems.

I spent today's run thinking about how to approach the running of the marathon. I did say some time ago that I didn't need a race strategy, but this was wrong. I need to split the race up into manageable chunks, and deal with it piece by piece. I've been struck by the annoying indivisibility of the number 26. Perhaps experienced runners can think of it as 2 half marathons. After Sunday's three 6 mile circuits, I'm thinking I could divide it into 3 x 6 then 2 x 4.

Leave it with me...

Wed 6 March 2002

9 miles before breakfast. The first morning run I've managed without early retirement through injury or profound misery.

It was still tough going. Like all crack-of-dawn runs there was something raw and bleak and high-resolution monochrome about it. Creaking out of bed in the cold half-light, pulling on shivering synthetics and finding yourself on the streets. Deeply unnatural. How you long for the warmth of the womb.

It's like one of those nightmares where you find yourself standing naked at a bus-stop, or walking into the office with no trousers on. Everyone else is scarved and gloved against the cold but I'm attired as though I'm sitting in a beer garden on a sweltering Sunday afternoon in July. Worse still, instead of keeping a low profile, I'm pounding along the pavements past these bemused commuters to make absolutely certain they see me.

At least today I knew after a minute or two I was going to be alright. Previously I've known as soon as I'd stepped outside that it wasn't going to work out. Why was this one different? Perhaps I'm just that bit more adept than I was; perhaps mentally tougher. Or did I just manage to have more sleep this time? More determination? A greater sense of urgency now that the race is less than six weeks away? Or are the brighter, frost-free seven o'clocks less intimidating? Who knows. Perhaps I could try the same thing tomorrow and fail horribly. Despite the clocks and the pacemakers and the precise distances and the heart rate monitors, running remains a fascinatingly anarchic and unpredictable and disorganised activity.

Last time I ran in the morning I was consumed with rage about George Bush's 'axis of evil' speech. Today I woke to the news that the US was unilaterally imposing trade tariffs in contravention of the WTO rules, and felt just as fired up. I'm planning to be in Chicago in October, but I almost feel that cancelling the trip is the only way I can protest. The USA seems to be still punch drunk after September 11th, and is in danger of becoming some sort of rogue state, withdrawing into itself in a cloud of suspicious hostility. A respectable member of the club who have suddenly started to act strangely. We try to be sympathetic because we know they recently suffered some personal tragedy, but eventually you suspect that they are taking advantage of the situation. How is it that Americans are so decent and humble and helpful and personable, yet the political layer above them is precisely the opposite?

I ran the same route as last Sunday, doing one and a half circuits rather than the three I did then. The first leg seemed harder than the first one on Sunday, though I might be imagining that. You quickly forget how hard running is. By the end of it, and particularly after a bath and food, almost all you feel is relief and elation. You've already started to haemorrhage reality.

Tough yes, but this was a long distance for the time of day, and I'm delighted that it worked out. There was never any serious danger of not finishing. I felt quite strong and focussed from the start. I've continued the carbo-loading in recent days, and perhaps this was another reason I felt on top of it.

The only negative is that my toes ached by the end. Last week's blisters are still very much in evidence, and though their volcanic qualities seem to have been disengaged at last, they are still painful weaknesses. With the Reading Half coming up in four days time, I'm thinking of swapping tomorrow's scheduled 4 mile run for the exercise bike, to ensure that I still have some toes available for Sunday.

Thurs 7 March 2002

As hinted yesterday, decided to implement a mini-taper for Sunday's Reading Half by swapping the scheduled 5 mile run for 40 minutes on an exercise bike. Also helped to preserve what remains of my lower extremities.

That's it for now...

Sun 10 March 2002 - Reading Half Marathon

Well, I didn't win... but it was close. Had I shaved around 60% off my time, my name would be up there in lights in Reading this evening. Instead, the luminary in question, and the 2nd and 3rd finishers, are all Kenyans - two of whom didn't turn up to receive their prizes at the post-race presentation. I happened to be limping past the makeshift stage at the time, and stopped for a minute to see them not be there.

The day got off to a bad start. Had no trouble waking and debedding at 0630. Over a breakfast of toast, banana, cereal and a pint of Lucozade Sport, I decided to check my email - as one does - and got a bit carried away. After a last minute rush I found myself setting off on the 75 mile journey with less than an hour to get to Reading for the planned 0845 arrival. I'm not a motoring anecdotes specialist, so I'll skip the gory details of what happened next, suffice to say that whatever it was, it happened very quickly.

After some panicky parking, I jogged off to the sports centre for the start. The plan was to casually drop off my bag at the main hall on the way. However, I found myself joining a static queue of around a thousand people planning to do the same thing. I felt like a voter in Harare.

All this talk of disorganisation and queuing is pretty dull, so let's press on. I'll just say that the start was delayed and everyone got off at the same time - eventually.

There were around 7000 participants in the Half Marathon. I slotted in where I saw a space, and as we waited to start I noticed that I was standing in the area reserved for those expecting to run a time of less than 1 hour 20 minutes. This wasn't me, but I decided to stay where I was, as there were plenty of other displaced porkers in there besides me. A few minutes later, amid great cheering and yelping, the mob began to move. Interestingly, the excitement seemed to produce a great cloud of methane gas from the assembled lycra-ed arses which, for all I know, is still drifting across West Berkshire in a highly unstable state.

It was surreal to be running in a 7000 crowd all of a sudden, having run all my training miles so far on my own. But it was actually quite reassuring, knowing for certain that there were thousands of other weirdos like me. It reminded me of an episode of The Twilight Zone, but I can't stop to explain as it will delay the progress of the race still further.

It took a few minutes to get across the start line, and the first half mile was slow through sheer weight of human traffic. This gentle warm-up jog was a good thing, and allowed me to work out what sort of pace I should be doing. I didn't have a hard-and-fast target. My priority was only to finish reasonably comfortably, but decided to aim for 2 hours 30, which meant running each mile at around 11:25.

The first 2 were 11:45 and 12:12 so I had some catching up to do. During this first mile or so, a lot of people passed me. Not surprising, given that I'd started with the sub 1:20 runners. I felt a bit better after noticing a couple of people walking already.

Around the town centre and off through the university area. Entering it we were entertained by a small folky band: an accoustic guitar, an accordion and a drum. It brought to mind the Gary Larsen cartoon depicting Heaven and Hell. At the gates of Heaven, a saintly figure sits playing a harp. At the gates of Hell sits a devilish fellow playing an accordion.

I tried to keep a steady pace for the next few miles, which were: 11:03, 11:10, 11:23, 10:55, 11:08 and 11:18. By now the route had left the university area and meandered off around Whitley Wood. This isn't the most salubrious part of the town but the support here was probably the best in the whole race. One helpful little boy ran alongside me for a few seconds, grabbed my hand and said furtively: "'Ere mate, I know a short-cut. Foller me..." I declined the offer and he went off to try assisting someone else.

Around this point - roughly halfway, my right big toe started to hurt, as though I had a stone in my shoe. I put up with it for probably 2 or 3 miles until I had to stop and take my shoe and sock off to investigate. I couldn't find anything wrong though I noticed my feet were looking battered.

At one point we passed a church on the right with its doors flung wide open. A cheery voice was booming through a PA system: "Jolly well done! Only another 4 miles to go. Once you get to the top of this hill it's downhill all the way..." I was puzzled. What was the source of this voice? And then it struck me. Bugger me, it was God. The Deity Himself was spurring us on to greater heights.

A short while later we ran down a narrow terraced street. On the doorstep of one of the houses sat a guy with long straggly, greasy hair, glugging beer from a bottle and sucking on a spliff. On a plate next to him was a packet of mini pork pies, waiting for the munchies to strike. Did I chortle at the superiority of my lifestyle? Did I hell. Oh how I envied him!

Up to Mile 12, my mile splits were 11:53, 11:59, 11:12 and 11:44. So I was slowing down a bit. The final 1.1 miles of the race was a hard 12:42, leading to a final time of 2:30:36. I wasn't bothered to have come in on the wrong side of 2:30 by a few seconds. I didn't run the race as fast as possible; I tried to understand the discipline of running a steady mile pace.

It was a joy to see the finishing line. I collected my medal and my goody bag. Was ever a Mars Bar consumed with such speed and pleasure? I doubt it.

Conclusions: this was a great experience. It gives me a baseline time to aim for in next Sunday's race in Fleet, and has taught me something about raceday conventions that will come in useful in London. On the running front, while my time was not fast, I was delighted with the fact that apart from the minute or so I spent removing and replacing my shoe and sock, I didn't stop to walk at any point during the race. For me, that's remarkable: 13.1 miles without a break.

On the debit side, my toes are ruined. Cut to ribbons. It looks like I'm losing two nails, and I've new blisters to nurse all over the place. But I won't dwell further on these till the morning, when I'll inspect the damage with a fresh eye.

All in all, a good day's work. I'm happy.

next week >