We're a week into the new month and there's little running to relate.
After kicking off Assault Japan 2013, a weekend of fine Metal music, I returned home decidedly under-cooked, running-wise. A short plod yesterday reassured me that I've not forgotten how. So much for small mercies.
P2P looms large. That feeling of the Earth spinning me inexorably towards Hobart is palpable, the shadow of the mountain creeping across Asia. I'll hit the local mud this weekend. Nothing too taxing, just a hilly five miler with some hill reps tossed in for good measure. I strap myself to an A380 on Tuesday, pop up in Sydney on Thursday and hop to Hobart on Friday. Race-day is Sunday. A (sports) massage may be required to iron out some of the inevitable creases.
As for Tokyo, there hangs a fine collection of tales.
I'll leave you with this shot of the last train home, surrounded by bemused business people.
I can't believe they didn't recognise Sully ...
Sully is one of the main characters in the Disney animated motion picture, Monsters, Inc.
The hat, replete with arms and 'paws', was a gift purchased (for Phoebe) in Disneyland. Got a bit chilly heading home on the last train (close to midnight) which was rammed with half-cut 'suits' heading home.
Bon voyage, and good luck for the PtoP. I'm interested to know if your strategy will change for your second running of this, now you know what to expect.
If my sums are right, you'll be starting at 9 pm on the Saturday in real money. By contrast, at 10 the following morning, I and others will be on the flattest 10k known to man, the Brighton. Have fond memories of lunch after that race with you and El Gordo a few years ago.
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In the lap of the gods
Hi Tom, yes, Alfresco's, a good post-B10K venue. Happy days.
My P2P strategy has changed significantly, mostly because, as ever, training has not panned out as hoped. PB plans are on the shelf, completion and survival are now key. The weather is rumoured to be less than helpful, too.
Without giving too much away I plan to run the race in two sections. Perceived run-walk wisdom is one should pick a tempo - 1 minute per mile, 1 minute in every 10 minutes, or in every 8, or whatever - and start this from the off. P2P 2011 taught me that, whatever my intentions, there WILL be walking, so best be ready for it. I was inclined to go hell-for-leather until my legs seized up and run-walk from that point. Sadly 'that point' is likely to arrive much earlier this time, given my lack of preparation. So ... a hybrid it will be.
Steady from the off up to around the 10k marker, thence a walk-break of one minute per mile. This will degenerate into every kilometer, every few minutes and, finally, every pot-hole as the road twists towards its zenith and the lactic acid fills my battered legs. A controlled flounder is inevitable, for this is war of the cruelest kind. Unscientific? Perhaps, but as I found out today, run-walk does not compromise overall time and offers more than simple respite.
This morning I set off on the Moyleman climb to Blackcap, taking on the rivers of chalk flowing off the downs, wading through Somme-like conditions and claiming a spectacular 'bootie' in the first 300 yards. Whilst conditions under foot were challenging, overhead the winter sun shone unabashed, wobbling, watery-white, in a clear blue sky. A headwind kept my pace modest.
2.5 miles in I turned at the Trig Point, heading for home via the field where we start the Lewes Downland Ten. Here I conducted a short experiment. I set a new lap on my Garmin and ran off down the hill, turning uphill along the trail between the shrubs. I struggled manfully on the climb, into a now quite strong headwind. Back at the top I hit the lap button: 8:05 minutes for just shy of a mile. Without pause I repeated the loop, this time taking a 60 second walk break halfway up the hill. I walked slowly, slowing my breathing and checking out a few niggles. Exactly a minute later I set off on a plod to the top. 8:07. So, the walk break had actually cost me 2 seconds on that loop.
A third circuit, again with a one minute stroll, bagged 8:22. I was struggling at this point. A trapped nerve in my lower back, an uninvited guest since my recent visit to Japan, sent shooting pains through my right gluteus maximus down to a worryingly tight Achilles. I turned for home, wrapping up just under nine miles in eighty seven minutes.
What I learned was this. Walk breaks, for me, in an 8:1 ratio, don't impact overall pace on a given section. The recovered breathing and re-set posture are physically beneficial and provide welcome distraction. I like the feeling of starting again with renewed focus on gait and stance. I know the latter stages next Sunday will feature desperate, ugly scuttling, yet I may be able to break up those hard yards using these props.
There again it might all be for nought. It will be a slog, that much is certain.
Almost time to start packing.
Brief update from DXB, where I've just learned my connection is actually a bus, calling at Bangkok, Sydney and Christchurch. I shall be mailing parts of myself to MLCMMan from all points East in the hope that they can be assembled in time for Friday's flight to Hobart.
Bangkok. 1 hour stop-over. Off plane (compulsory), half mile hike to security, empty bags, remove belt etc & so forth, hike back to same gate one floor up, wait to board same aircraft (same seat). What a big wet bag of wobbly arse, Emirates.
News of the Rooks going down 2-1 at Bury not lifting my mood. Lino chalked an away goal off (at 1-1) from fully 45 yards behind the action* apparently.
Muppet.
Still, on, on ... just the 8 hours to Sydney to go ...
To Newcastle, New South Wales, and a nice early beach and cliff-top run with Soft Al. Rolling breakers, surfers, joggers, dog-walkers, roller-bladers, cyclists, meanderers, all human life was here. Twenty six degrees, a cool breeze out of the south, heaven on Earth.
We knocked out an easy 14k, chatting about Cam's recent visit, the P2P and, of course, The Moyleman. Chris brought us together, and here we were, bouncing easily along a sand-strewn promenade in south eastern Australia. Who'd a thunk it? The big fella would approve.
My legs felt weary, calves tight, glutes a genuine pain in the arse. My right achillies needs a bit of attention, but all in all I was pleased with 1 hour 20 for the out-and-back. Al's lost half his body weight since coming out here. He looks horribly fit, clearly content with life in the New World. It was tough keeping up with him.
Now for the night train from Sydney to Melbourne and part three of my journey. Long days walking hard show floors. I'm definitely booking a sports massage ASAP. On, on ...
After a long working day and an evening hurridly catching up with e-mails, I reached a crossroads. Go to the pub, eat food, drink beer and feel dreadful about adding even more flubber since P2P, or go for a run. As the sun sank below the Melbourne skyline I realised there was no choice at all.
Half an hour later I'm on the fabled Tan Track, the cinder trail sweeping around Queen's Park and alongside the lazy Yarra River. There are plenty of folk about. Plodders, walkers, lovers, runners, dawdlers and i-pod meanderers, wobbling about across the running line. I chuff along, heavy tread pounding loose gravel. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
A flying pony-tail bobbles past, owner all tight white lycra and honed, tanned shoulders, elbows set to jaunty, feet high-kicking as she bounds away. I sigh, feeling even heavier. I put a bit more into it but that dreadful lumbering sounds as laboured and slow as ever. Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Less people now. The foliage to my right is thick and colourful. I'm not wearing headphones so pick up the sound of following footsteps. Almost perfectly in time with my own, they belong to a big beast. Loud and solid, like a large hammer smashing into sand. I need no further prod. I set my sail and push hard, meeting a long incline at a decent clip. He's still there or there abouts (I've decided it's a he based on nothing more than the larger women on the trail are all walking). Damn. I push again, determined not to give the satisfaction of a backward glance. We crest the hill and I heave for breath. The night air is clammy, hard to suck down, but I see the path drop, curving away around the hedgerow, so I give it the gun once more. Take that, night stalker!
But he does. He pours it on, closer than ever. Bloody hell. Crunch, crunch, CRUNCH.
I'm all but done. My shirt swims in hot sweat, legs and glutes scream for mercy. I'll let him past. I spy a water fountain ahead, use this as my 'excuse' for slowing. He slows with me. Now I have to look. I slow to a walk and turn my head ... but there's no-one there. I squint into the half-light to catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows. Nothing. Bemused, I start to jog. He's back! I spin round. But of course, he's not there. He is me. I am he. The pathside plants have given dull reflection of my footfall, chased me round this track like a frightened rabbit with nothing more than echoes.
I pad home, pushing hard, embarassed. The last half mile, bobbing and weaving through shiny, happy Southbank revellers, in well under four minutes. Nightowls make way for the sweaty man as he dashes back to his lair, shirt stained dark, face beet-red, bleary eyes set on the near-distance and the cool pint on offer just beyond.
