There's a faint stirring in the depths of my running psyche; a gentle awakening, maybe even a new dawn - but lets not get carried away just yet.
I'm entering into a 'run when you feel like it' phase. It won't necessarily mean less running (that's hardly possible after a parched April/ May), rather less running under pressure. I've been guilty of forcing myself to get out there, of trying to run at a standard and pace at odds with what's been a rather hectic slice of life. The result has been frustration, injury and a nagging feeling that I should pack it all in for a while.
The hope now is that I start to enjoy running again for running's sake as opposed to a means to an end (weight loss - ha! Fat chance, as the age-old gag has it; races - none on the immediate horizon; improvement - all very well if you operate on a full compliment of cylinders I'm sure). If that happens I might relax enough to let the synapses re-boot and before too long start churning out more comprehensible drivel to post in here.
Until then I'll pop in with irregular mini-updates, rather like this one.
Woke up this morning, felt good, strapped on the runners and chugged a leisurely fifty-minute five miler under a baking sun. A deliciously cool breeze mopped my brow, twittering skylarks and chirrupping blackbirds provided the soundtrack. I so enjoyed running at a less-than-bothered pace I actually relaxed a bit, stride lengthening, corpulence flowing freely on the wind-assisted homeward leg.
I could use a few more of these. It's what running, at this level at any rate, should be all about.
Before I go I'd like to share some rather exciting news which landed on our doormat on Monday.
Phoebe, now fourteen, has been working like a trooper over the past four months, going through any number of selection processes, auditions, interviews and hoop-jumping exercises, in an effort to win a place with the London School of Contemporary Dance Centre for Advanced Training (CAT). She made the regional (Brighton) group back in February, that series now just ended. This last round of grillings was for a place at The Place, one of LSCD's CAT facilities in the capital. She passed the audition and we all went up for the interview where we were told that although we'd made the cut into the last thirty-plus they would have to whittle a little more to fill the twenty-five places available. With talented applicants from as far afield as Dorset, Suffolk and Manchester we knew the competition would be fierce, and the nail-biting began.
As you may have surmised the news was good and she starts in September, every Saturday up in London and twice weekly at a satelite school closer to home. To say I'm chuffed would be a masterful understatement. I now have the task of keeping Phoebe's feet on the ground whilst trying to anchor my own sizeable plates, but just for the moment - Yeeeeeeaaaaahhhh!!!!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Terrific speech by President Barack Obama this morning at Cairo University. I got back from a warm morning flog across the hills just in time to listen, spellbound, to his fearless delivery, earnest sweat splashing on my wooden office floor as his words resonated around the world.
It remains to be seen if regional leaders can find the humility to respond in kind or if they will drag out their moth-eaten sacks of rhetoric to release damnation, to curse the infidels one more time. Obama said at his inauguration that he would 'hold out his hand where before there had been a fist', and here it was, palm open, arm extended. Lets hope no-one tries to bite it off.
Obama's speech was, of course, 'just' another collection of words. However the substance therein, and the sincerity and humility with which they were delivered, brought a chill to my spine and raised the hairs on my arms. This man believes it to be his destiny to seek and create a brave new fear-free world. He has a hideous fight ahead, at home and abroad. But anyone who doubted his intentions back on that crazy night in Chicago at the end of last year, or his words amidst the pomp and circumastance in DC this January should watch/ read this address.
Bill Clinton believed in a place called Hope. This man truly knows the meaning of that word, and he's working to bring it to the world.
It's been an odd running week. I managed a couple of early workday local outings followed by a visit to the Brighton & Hove ParkRun 5k on Saturday morning.
Despite an ale-fuelled evening with the Seaford Allstars I managed a respectable (for me) 23:27, finishing 51st in a depleted field.
This morning I peeked out of the bedroom window to see lush, rain-fed grass glistening in cool sunshine. The promised overnight rains had duly landed, softening the ground before the clouds drifted inland on a chillled offshore breeze. It was all I needed. Tom Roper had suggested a plod around the Seaford Half might be just what the doctor ordered. The thought of flogging my burgeoning carcass over the demanding Sussex course in baking heat had seemed improbable at best. With soft ground and a soothing wind all that remained to worry about was fitness and injury. I felt sure I could cover the distance, albeit at a gentle pace, and ibuprofen would take care of the rest.
The Seaford Half was the last run I took with Moyleman. I'd also completed each of the last four in the series. With all these factors taken into account it seemed churlish to go back to bed. I scarfed a bowl of muesli laced with blueberries, chopped banana and maple syrup before scuttling off to register at NPS Lions HQ.
Before the off I met up with Tom, Irish Michael, Ade and Chris. With my lack of preparation and minimal expectation I felt supremely relaxed, enjoying the fact I'd decided as late as this morning to run simply because I felt like it.
For those who'd like a detailed description of the course take a look at last years' report. Suffice to say I chugged around today, starting slowly and getting slower, soaking up spectacular downland and riverside vistas, snapping photos along the way and posting updates on Twitter at mile intervals before crossing the line in a Garmin time of 2:06:30. The following dip in the powerful, foaming ocean was the highlight, ice-cold water dispersing lactic acid and flushing the salty sweat from my body & clothes. Feeling terrific I changed clothes before heading for the Beachcomber to down a brace of Guinness; one for me, one for Chris.
This remains one of the most beautiful half marathons in the South of England; I recommend it highly.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Followed up the Seaford Half with a couple of recovery plods. Tuesday my legs were still in tatters, the hard climbs and perilous cliff-edge descents having bludgeoned my under-cooked thighs into Tesco's Value mince. I took it easy, shuffling into a light westerly breeze, hunched down into my traditional Quasimodo stance as the lactic acid seeped from my tired muscles.
This morning was a different animal. Stressed - I'm traveling today; by the time I left the house I had precisley 75 minutes to run five hilly miles, shower, pack and load up for Heathrow - I took off at an unusually brisk pace. The dogs looked bemused. Usually I take it easy up the early inclines, allowing the pack to stop and smell the . . . roses. No time for that today.
A mile in and I noticed my bearing felt different. My back felt straighter, my running style economical yet strong. The residual pain had left my legs and everything felt a little easier, a little looser. As I chugged easily up the two and a half mile trail to Blackcap I realised who I reminded myself of; Moyleman. Chris had this terrifically tidy running style, no superfluous movement, just a steady tread, relaxed arms, straight back and eyes fixed on the horizon. I smiled wryly to myself, wondering if the old boy had decided to join me.
The homeward leg saw more of the same. The pace, fast and loose, was as good as anything from me since March. I fair flew over the dusty flint track, my soundtrack - courtesy of Planet Rock - offering encouragement through the Stranglers. Is there a better number for fast hilltop flying than No More Heroes? Burnel's boistrous basslines bounced me joyously down through the rutted paths and over the twisted, partially exposed tree roots. I felt light (though the sweaty, wobbling mass beneath my heaving chest offered evidence to the contrary), this unusual turn of speed both welcome and, apparently, effortless. I slowed a little in the last half mile, my lack of training catching up with me as if I'd deliberately given it the slip at the summit.
Next week offers a tough challenge. Away in the city of Bremen (for work) I'll face ample temptation from a range of fine regional beers, enthusiastic drinking partners and lashings of cream-laden hearty food. I've packed my runners; let's see who wins out.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
It's all gone a bit Rattle & Flem in the chest department, and there goes any chance of a decent showing at Bewl. Alien putty-layers have invaded my pipes, vast quantities of viscous foulness erupting at regular intervals from my upper orifices.
C'est la vie; it's an annual penance, albeit a couple of months early this year. I won't panic but neither will I run for a while. Instead I plan to dig out my best cheer-leader's uniform and a nice pair of pom-poms to support Team Moyleman on July 5th.
Goooooooooooo Moyleman!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Forgive me Running Brothers and Sisters, for I have sinned.
It’s been far too long since my last confession …
So it’s come to this. A mere fistful of days away from the Moyleman memorial run at Bewl and a squadron of mean-faced chickens takes residence in my flowering pear tree. My good intentions lay along side others on that celebrated road to hell whilst my burgeoning belly sits smug, content and lead-heavy beneath an under-worked, flabby chest. Wither those summer evening runs of yore? The Firle 20 (demoted this year I see to a mere 10K), that fabulous parade across the western reaches of Alfriston and up the back-breaking Ridge of Firle? Jacksonian Sussex view-scapes and the promise of a keen pint of Harvey’s at the local hostelry when all good sweat’s expended …memories, memories.
Alas, and, indeed, alack. I sit, slothful, Jabba-like at my messy desk. Twittering, working, catching up with global sporting events between mouthfuls of Japanese crackers and doleful swigs of ale. If I choose to carry on they’ll have to retrieve my purple bloated carcass from a swamp of junk food wrappers, biscuit packets and plastic ale jugs, shaking their heads as they struggle past the faded race numbers on the wall …
Ah, but I sense you’ve sussed me, dear reader.
The stench of self-pity, last refuge of the Yellowbellied Cur.
‘Get out there!’ You cry, 'Strap on your runners and embrace your earth-bound passion!’
In truth I do feel a little sorry for myself, but only in part. Injury had her say, and Summer’s heat has scuppered more than one attempted recovery plod. What strikes fear into my very core though is the readiness of my acceptance of unfortunate circumstance, my capitulation. It must be the heat. In the past I’d’ve found some way to keep going; swimming perhaps, long walks, drastic dietary measures, even – gasp – a turn or two on the wagon. Instead I’ve let out a barely audible sigh, slumped back in my chair and said to myself ‘don’t worry; we’ll get this sorted out soon enough’ just before reaching for another packet of peanuts and clicking on the BBCi Player.
El Gordo, great exponent of the against-the-odds comeback, the man whose mantra, Running Is The Answer, resonates with so many of us here, assures me this is a temporary blip. He’s been in this saddle; bought the ticket, took the ride, confident no matter what misshapen devilment should come his way he’ll cross swords with vigour when the time is right. He has a point; the very act of this confession suggests reconciliation may be closer at hand than I'm prepared to admit. Perhaps a cool evening run, on the cusp of dusk, might offer the spark needed to ignite my dormant inner flame. To dance precariously around the rabbit holes and across random flint-traps as the downs-baking sun flees over the horizon is about as much fun as I can have with my clothes on.
Who knows? If the light is sufficiently diffused perhaps …
… but no. You don’t deserve the mental scarring that comes free with such gratuitous, horrifying imagery. We’ll see. I feel like I’ve chided a much-loved mistress only to now to seek forgiveness, desperate to win her back as the true cost of her departure starts to burn.
Will she have me? Perhaps if I lost a few pounds …
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
I am similarly splodged out at present, and indeed probably a fair bit worse in shape, fitness, weight, diet -- you name it.
Admittedly, Bewl this weekend is something of an inconvenience for a man in your position, but putting that aside for one moment, I think it best to just regard this as downtime. If footballers can have a close season -- a time to holiday, party, rest, recharge the batteries, BBQ, drink too much beer, and eat all those things that athletes are warned against -- then why can't we?
June and July is the close season for runners as far as I'm concerned. Not that anyone who is so inclined (like the admirable Glaconman, and the 10K-running Marathon Dan) should be dissuaded. If you find running in the heat of summer not just possible but enjoyable, then go right ahead. But for many of us, there are few things worse in the running universe than to plod aimlessly around the lanes under a cruel sun, lips like sandpaper, throat like a drainpipe abandoned in the desert, scorched by desperate breath, eyes filled with stinging sweat. Oh god -- need I go on? Which funnily enough, is what I say to myself if I try going for a run in these conditions.
So my solution is simply to regard it as earned downtime, and not to fret about it. In fact, coaches recommend it.
My experience in the gym leading up to Boston has given me a useful insight into the benefits of alternative cardio-vascular exercise, so from next week, I plan to ease myself back onto the rails with a couple of gentle weekly workouts, and perhaps a bike-ride or two, in the hope that when I finally feel able to get out on the road again, it won't be too much of a shock, and my weight will have started to come down again.
In summary -- it doesn't matter. Enjoy your break. If you're missing the hills, I'm sure the dogs would appreciate a long walk a couple of times a week early in the day, before the sun climbs too high.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
It's a pity though, what with the weather over there being almost warm for a change... you could possibly even leave your leggings behind and strip down to just two top layers.
Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote:It's a pity though, what with the weather over there being almost warm for a change... you could possibly even leave your leggings behind and strip down to just two top layers.
:RFLMAO:
He's baaaaa-ak ...
Physician, heal thyself.
I did venture out around 8pm for what was in truth an uncomfortable flog, a wobbling rage against the dying of the light (or at least the setting of the merciless sun). And my thoughts were very much with MLCMan as I tuned in to 5Live's 2005 Ashes retrospective. Guests included the then Aussie coach John Buchanan, a typically prickly yet candid character who offered unique insight to the emotions in that visitor's dressing room.
I especially enjoyed the introduction of Gary Pratt, that sub fielder (who, much to the very public chagrin of the Australian skipper, so brilliantly ran him out). Mr Pratt appeared as if by magic on the telephone whereupon a cordial and amusing exchange took place. Hoggard was also on hand, recounting his and Ashley Giles's mutual astonishment that Ponting had, having clipped a shot straight at the fielder, decided to run anyway, presumably as Pratt was 'just a sub'. Buchanan conceded much of the wailing and gnashing of antipodean teeth eminated from their inability to crush the Poms rather than Vaughan's perceived gamesmanship. Ironically that excellent England captain formally hung up his gloves yesterday, his ailing body and uncertain mind convincing him to call time. For the record, and despite the protestations of the disgruntled (but surely never whinging) World Champs, Simon Jones was not only really injured but had left the ground to go to hospital for an x-ray.
The 2006/7 series was, um, touched upon. Buchanan marvelled at the remarkable imprudence of Duncan Fletcher publishing his post-2005 Ashes memoirs, including intricate detail of his coaching and tactical planning, just in time for the return battle. There was much deep Aussie chortling at this point, though it was hard to hear more over the terrible rasp eminating from my heaving chest.
My mood lifted by these witty and frank exchanges I followed the dusty trail to Blackcap and, after a brief pause to douse the milestone with freshly-squeezed Swederjuice, home.
It won't go down as my finest run, but it was in it's way quite beautiful.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There's your problem, guv. That's way too early for this time of year. I went out at 10 last night, and still returned looking like I'd been for a swim rather than a run.
Great to see you out there again though. The hills are alive with the sound of Sweder...
Don't you feel that you need some kind of structure though, a goal, a pathway, to give meaning to your running? Like, I don't know.... training for, say, a marathon or something?
marathondan Wrote:Don't you feel that you need some kind of structure though, a goal, a pathway, to give meaning to your running? Like, I don't know.... training for, say, a marathon or something?
Get thee behind me, Satan
You know it's been quite a while since I covered the ole 26.2.
I have been wondering if I'll ever reach those giddy heights again ... right now there's Bewltastic on Sunday Almeria (Jan 10) and Conemara (March 10) on the radar. Late Autumn brings it's own relief for the lardbucket runners so if I can survive Bewl I may take EG's sound advice and hang 'em up for a month or two.
Met up with an old 5-a-side adversary at the weekend. He said they still played every Wednesday and missed my lumbering, posthumous challenges. That's just teasing, isn't it?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:if I can survive Bewl I may take EG's sound advice and hang 'em up for a month or two.
Is that yer runners or yer moobs? :RFLMAO:
Sweder Wrote:Met up with an old 5-a-side adversary at the weekend. He said they still played every Wednesday and missed my lumbering, posthumous challenges. That's just teasing, isn't it?
Sounds like a splendid form of summer cross-training, if your aerobic mojo needs a bit of distraction. Be careful though - remember what those vicious pensioners did to you at badminton...
marathondan Wrote:Sounds like a splendid form of summer cross-training, if your aerobic mojo needs a bit of distraction. Be careful though - remember what those vicious pensioners did to you at badminton...
Clearly you've not seen Gran Torino (shudder)
Runners, though with a decent body wax I could have some fun with these bad boys ...
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
glaconman Wrote:What about the RC weekend of Yorkshire Fell running ???!?!? I suppose that will have to wait as well
Not at all old chap. I'd like to be fitter before trying those fells on for size, but life is short - name the day sir! I'll be your Huckleberry ... hopefully EG's up for a waddle too
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:Not at all old chap. I'd like to be fitter before trying those fells on for size, but life is short - name the day sir! I'll be your Huckleberry ... hopefully EG's up for a waddle too
The devil is in the detail....
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
![[Image: Jabba.jpg]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-KDCTffK0Jg/SXSnWVXetnI/AAAAAAAAAaU/Ysvrl5Nj7bo/s400/Jabba.jpg)
Almeria (Jan 10) and Conemara (March 10) on the radar. Late Autumn brings it's own relief for the lardbucket runners so if I can survive Bewl I may take EG's sound advice and hang 'em up for a month or two.
I was looking for a satanic smiley actually...
