RackOfftober

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Choctober? Seriously??

OK, well this comes with apologies to anyone who is actually giving up chocolate for the month in order to raise funds for charity. A noble cause, I am sure. Never the less I have to bemoan the fact that, not content with the Ocsober campaign urging us to forsake alcohol for a good cause, we are now being urged to give chocolate the flick as well. I fear someone will soon invent a witty slogan designed to have us abstain from caffeine too in October and the tenth month will suddenly become the month of death. The thought of inhabiting the earth with sullen, desperate, 'deprived of all the fun stuff' fund-raisers, or worse, the gloating, radiant-faced types who insist that it's all completely wonderful (and who shortly thereafter suffer agonising death at the hands of enraged onlookers), well, it's all too much for this humble beer-swilling, chocolate munching, caffeine-mainlining heathen to take.

So fear not, for there is no way I am giving up any of those things. In fact, quite probably the opposite will happen, as instead I ramp up my running which of course only serves to give one a raging thirst and a need for carbohydrate-loading. A slight advantageous boost can also be acquired through judicious caffeine intake, and so ... well, I think you can see where I am going with this.

This does rather require a reasonable base mileage of course to justify such an indulgence of restorative goodies, but this is actually happening. In fact I'm feeling rather good about my running just at the moment. Week two of my Almeria campaign has just completed with a third run for the week, a nice tempo session which followed a hill climb run two days prior. Whilst my total mileage for the week still sits at a modest 23km, they were honest-enough workouts and the percentage increase in weekly kilometres run is in keeping with the recommended 10% or so which prevents overuse injuries. And with plenty of time in the bag before the big race, I am confident of a steady increase in form and fitness in the coming weeks. Indeed I am really enjoying it, hence the refusal to participate in anything designed to restrict my enjoyment of such necessities of life as alcohol and chocolate.

So anyway, October is off to a good start with a steady, solid tempo run. I'm still a few weeks away from my goal of regularly running 35 - 40km per week, but well over 100km is the goal for October. After that I should have a solid base from which to start hitting those higher targets.

Touch wood, of course.

And pass me that Kit Kat, please.

[Bierzo Baggie]

100k a month used to be my target, don't hit it very often although I'm rarely far off... October's a good running month, it's getting cooller and the autumn colours are nice. Keep it up mate!

[marathondan]

Yep, a major benefit of running is being able to eat what you like. Ramp on!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Music Lover

To my mind, one of the regrettable and not as insignificant as it at first may seem consequences of the otherwise modern brilliance of cheap and simple online accessibility to all forms of music is the death of the album. Perhaps that’s overstating things a little, but as music industry big wigs have frequently noted, fans are no longer willing to buy an entire album for the one or two tracks that they actually want to regularly hear. Album sales have as a consequence plummeted in direct proportion to the rise of online and downloadable music. In fact I predict that within a few years the term ‘album’ will be as meaningless as ‘wax cylinder’. The dominance of music streaming services such as Spotify, Pandora and a plethora of others only exacerbate the problem and rubber stamp the album’s inevitable demise.  

Of course, on the positive side of things I entirely agree that for years we paid too much for albums, and that too many of those albums had far too many ‘filler’ tracks of no great musical worth. That however was the sacrifice one made in order to experience what appears to be rapidly disappearing from the industry; and that of course is the classic album. A classic album is, as the name suggests, a collection of tracks that is greater than the sum of its parts, and which epitomises that which made popular music so important for me, if not for everyone of my generation, during the three decades spanning the ‘60s, ‘70s and ‘80s.

I’m not talking here only of concept albums, although perhaps that is the greater tragedy of the current trend in music. After all it’s hard to imagine how an album such as Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon or Mike Oldfield’s Tubular Bells could ever be conceived or recorded in this day and age, except perhaps for a niche market with far fewer sales and little to no air play.

No, I believe some albums are just a product of their time and the greatness of the bands that made them. Think, for example, of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours, one of the greatest selling albums of all time. This was not a concept album at all, yet it remains a perfect package from a band at the height of their musical powers, all the while disintegrating under the strain of multiple relationship collapses with the band members only barely being able to remain in the recording studio together. And while virtually all of the tracks on that album were hits, still there is an extra measure of gob-smacking, ‘beat me about the head with a wet fish’ greatness about sitting down with a bottle of something nice and just listening to the entire album all the way through. If you are really taking the process to heart and maximising the nostalgic thrill of it all, you’ll also have to get out of your armchair half way through to flip the record over to side B, a musical tea ceremony that too few music lovers get to appreciate these days. There’s perhaps something shameful, and certainly at the very least disappointing for people of my age about reducing music to a tea bag in a mug; it’s surely better by far to choose music carefully and prepare its execution; to actually make the time to go through the ritual of cleaning the record; to read and appreciate the liner notes and to give the record the undivided attention it warrants. Sadly, it appears that life is too frantic these days to allow such prescribed rites and ceremonies. Rather, unless we go to an actual concert it’s rare that we get the chance at all to give music our full attention anymore.

For the runner however, there is a chance at least to absorb music whilst on the move, the two activities being mutually symbiotic, a little or perhaps a lot like dancing, maybe. This opportunity to focus on the music also lends itself brilliantly to the playing of whole albums, with the rhythmic nature of running enabling one to more properly appreciate the greatness of an album without all the other distractions of everyday life.

Specifically, for the purposes of running, there are many outstanding album choices that inspire, cajole and just plain motivate you to get through a difficult training session with enthusiasm and aplomb, whilst the physicality of the run also rewards the auditory senses by simultaneously enhancing the music.

Of course there are many great albums worthy of our attention whilst running, but today I want to mention just one band in particular that has done more for my running than any other artist: Deep Purple. If I had to limit my musical catalogue for running purposes to just one band it would be this one. In particular there are three Purple albums that have helped shape me and kept me on my feet for the last 13 or 14 years since I took up this life-extending and life-enhancing activity we call running.

Having finally been inducted into the Rock Hall of Fame this year, 2016, with their long exclusion being described by many as one of the greatest musical injustices ever, it seems appropriate to make mention of them at length, as they have influenced me heavily throughout my time as a runner.

It will be of no surprise to anyone who knows anything about Deep Purple that one of those three great albums that have influenced me so much is their 1971 release, Machine Head. For good reason this is their most successful album. Recorded in just three and half weeks (yes, three and half weeks), and featuring what many consider to be the classic Deep Purple line up of Ian Gillan on vocals, the indefatigable Ritchie Blackmore on guitar, the astonishing Ian Paice on drums, the unmatchable (and now sadly deceased) Jon Lord on keyboards, and bassist and lyricist Roger Glover on bass.

The sequence of events which led to this album is a fittingly tangled web of the weird, the wonderful  and the frankly unbelievable, which includes the Montreaux Jazz Festival, the Rolling Stones and Frank Zappa, the complete story of which is too long to tell here, but which is an astonishingly perfect storm of consequence and coincidence which is well worth discovering for yourself in an idle hour or two sometime.

Machine Head is one of those near-perfect albums for lovers of hard rock and heavy metal. Like the previously mentioned Fleetwood Mac album Rumours, it is the rare coming together of talent, circumstance and karma which defies explanation at the rational level, yet which, if you connect with it at a deeper, subconscious level, will leave you humming with an inner satisfaction like nothing else can. And for the running fan, this is deeply significant for reasons I can’t properly explain without first subjecting you to a big gob of athletic pain and suffering, and tinged perhaps with a melancholic, deep, yearning nostalgia.

There are also some surprising things about the band and this album which help the fan and the runner, and especially the fan who also runs, to appreciate just how important this album is. The first, and perhaps most surprising element is that Ritchie Blackmore, the lead guitarist for one of the most successful and certainly one of the most influential heavy metal bands in the history of music, is in fact deeply shy. Influenced heavily by Mozart and with a massive collection of renaissance music he nowadays shuns the limelight and is relatively rarely seen in public. Despite these renaissance influences and his shyness, Blackmore likes to play ‘vicious’ guitar and left Purple because he saw ‘too much funk’ infiltrating the band.

It frequently absorbs my mind as I run as to how he and Ian Gillan, surely one of the most flamboyant of heavy rock front lines, ever actually hit it off and worked so well together. Yet, clearly they did. Their symbiosis is near-perfect on Machine Head, as oddly unlikely as that may seem in hindsight. Eventually, and inevitably perhaps, that union had to crack and it did (although Blackmore denies this), but not before they recorded the second album which also quite literally changed my life, which was Made In Japan, their live album recorded in Osaka and Budokan at the end of 1972 and still considered by myself and a great many others as the greatest live album ever made, and by some distance. Even now, over four decades since its recording it stands alone as a prime example of what live music can achieve. It absorbs the listener in a way no other live album manages to through the sheer majesty of their performance; it sounds easy and natural and utterly engrossing. If I should one day, somewhere, somehow, actually meet someone who was there at the actual performance I fear that I will likely kill them in an insane fit of jealous rage.

The odd thing about this album is that Ian Gillan was already completely fed up with the band and where it was headed, not that you would ever know that from his performance which is as great as it gets. As great as he was and still remains as a singer, his time with Deep Purple in the early part of the 1970s marked his zenith, perhaps never so great as on Made In Japan.

For some bands, greatness seems to come at a price, and so it was with Deep Purple, and by the mid 1970s their two most prominent members, Blackmore and Gillan had quit the band, Gillan joining Black Sabbath for a spell, and Blackmore leaving to form Rainbow.

Much in the same manner that Brian Johnson replaced Bon Scott as lead singer for AC/DC, so the virtually unknown David Coverdale, as great a singer as he was struggled to be quite the same member of the band. When Ritchie Blackmore finally pulled the plug and walked away from the band, Deep Purple seemed about spent, and yet somehow out of the mess came the third of the albums which mean so much to me. Roger Glover, the bass player and lyricist had also left by this time, replaced by Glenn Hughes, and now in place of the seemingly irreplaceable Blackmore, with the persuasion of Coverdale came the genius and sadly short-lived wunderkind guitarist Tommy Bolin, tragically soon to die of a heroin overdose not long after joining the band at the age of just 25.

There are, in anyone’s musical life, undoubtedly a few albums the first hearing of which lives on in the memory, with a very clear recall of where you were at the time, in the same way that people remember where they were at the time of some great event such as the moon landings or the 9/11 World Trade Centre attacks. I have a very vivid memory of eagerly listening to a cassette tape (this is way back in 1975) a friend had sent me of side one of the then newly-released Deep Purple album Come Taste The Band. It is not one of their greatest selling albums to be sure, but to my mind, it is one of their most impressive if only for the opening track Coming Home, having as it does all the heart, soul and musicality that Coverdale and Bolin could thrust into it. It was a  cry, if you like, that said Purple was not finished and indeed were very far from it. To put not too fine a point on it, it was a revelation to me, and I still love that track, and indeed the entire album to this day.

And on that point, it is entirely appropriate that such albums for me also spell out the notion that I am not spent, and that my days are not numbered. I may be slower (but not that much) and perhaps a little less confident as aches and pains serve to illicit a little caution against doing too much at too great a pace, but the music keeps me going, and without it I suspect the running may have dried up long ago.

Anytime I waver, I only need to plug in Space Trucking and I’m off again. It’s infectious, it’s wonderful and impossible not to run well to.

Maybe Deep Purple isn’t your bag, but there’ll be some other artist that is. Get into it. It might just save your life, and can certainly save your sanity.

And buy the album. On vinyl, for when you’re not running.

Yep, make the effort and just play the damned record!  
 
 

[glaconman]

Good to hear you've kept your passion for this band MLCMM. I don't listen to as much Rock as I used to. But the track I often come back to is No Quarter from Led Zeppelin's live album (The Song Remains The Same) recorded in New York. My mum had the album when I was a kid.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Good to hear you've kept your passion for this band MLCMM. I don't listen to as much Rock as I used to. But the track I often come back to is No Quarter from Led Zeppelin's live album (The Song Remains The Same) recorded in New York. My mum had the album when I was a kid.

I'm certain I have another 'purple prose' piece (sorry) in me yet about Led Zep, as well. In fact, I'm sure I do. I'll give you all some breathing space first, though.

Happy running!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

When the Sandman doesn't show...

Week three of the Almeria campaign comes to a close, with just three of the scheduled four runs completed, thanks to the return of insomnia and three nights of little to no sleep.

Despite the loss of a run I still completed my target of 26kms for the week, continuing the gradual increase of weekly mileage in this base-building phase. The third run was, by necessity, doubled in length to ensure I reached the mileage goal. It was however, also by necessity a slow and easy run, rather than two, shorter but tougher work outs. At this early stage of proceedings it doesn't really matter so much; time on my feet and miles logged is the key for the moment, so I'm not unhappy to have at least logged the miles. In fact, I'm very happy to have covered the requisite distance in spite of the absence of Sandman, who I can only imagine skived off to the pub somewhere in a wanton and reprehensible dereliction of duty.

Having caught up on some sleep with one decent night's kip, I now have a weekend of night shifts (ending at 6 a.m.) to contend with, followed by the tricky transition to early shift (starting at 6 a.m.) next week. This is always the toughest part for me: combining a tough, body-slamming transition of nights to early mornings with a race training schedule. Regardless, it is worth pursuing, as the increased general fitness thanks to regular running does definitely help me cope with the demands of shift work.

Four challenging runs are on the cards for next week: it's going to be a tough one, but if I can get through it well enough, then I have a step-back week after that to catch my breath and recover some sanity.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Gateway to heaven.

It's 7:25 p.m., Sunday evening. Mrs MLCMM and I are at the front gate, or rather, we're standing at the point where the front gate would be if we had one. We probably should have a front gate, but we don't. Given that there is a sturdy stone wall completely surrounding our front garden except for where the portal to our front garden meets the public footpath, it would make sense, otherwise, what's a stone wall for? But we don't have a gate, and we've accepted its strangeness so unquestioningly, that now that I've come to notice it, it makes me feel a little uncomfortable.

But I digress. As I say, it's a Sunday evening and even more oddly than the missing front gate, we are outside the house bidding each other goodnight. I am leaving for work, and the incongruity of the scene confuses me, as it often does, only this time amplified by my noticing that damned absent gate. It seems I'm always at odds with normal, civilised society. Well, at least that's what my mother always told me, but now the idea is sharpened by an unexplained absence that I've never really noticed until this evening.

I puzzle over this all the more on the train into work. The train is largely empty, because while Sunday night appears to be the new Saturday night for the young and hip, it's still a little too early in the evening for them to be travelling to their hipster bars and trendy themed restaurants in town and the now vibrant, inner western suburbs. So I enjoy a quiet train ride whilst pondering deep, metaphysical mysteries such as why we don't have a front gate, and whether I'd packed enough food to get me through the night shift or not.

Night shifts are generally quiet but can be hellish when something goes significantly wrong. Tonight is one of the quiet ones, and I'm delighted to be able to leave one of the TVs on ESPN which has live coverage of this year's Chicago marathon. I switch it on about 55 minutes into the race, and at this early stage there is a lead pack of about a dozen runners, mainly Kenyans plus an Ethiopian, but notably also keeping up are two Japanese and two U.S. runners. The pace is noticeably slow, but also a little chaotic. They seem to be all over the place, but the commentators explain this is due to the heat, this apparently being one of the hottest Chicago marathons in many years. Also contributing is the lack of any pacemakers this year. The combination of heat and no pace-making means they are on track for one of the slowest Chicago marathons in years, but there's no doubting the effort the athletes are putting in.

Among the leaders and the only one looking truly comfortable is last year's winner Dickson Chumba, seeking to become only the second person ever to win back-to-back Chicago crowns.

As typically happens in these races, one by one the leading pack dwindles until by 35km there are only two runners left: Chumba, who is still looking extremely relaxed and confident, and the older, taller fellow Kenyan Abel Kirui. Kirui has twice been crowned world marathon champion, but has seen no success since 2012 and is generally regarded to be in his decline. Certainly, he is struggling to keep pace with Chumba who still looks very comfortable, but each time he surges Kirui digs deep and matches him. This is turning into a ding-dong battle; Chumba determined to shake Kirui and win his second successive title, while Kirui looks to be running with the realisation that he can resurrect his career here on the (it must be said) largely deserted streets of Chicago.

There are, of course, pockets of spectators, but by and large, the lack of cheering crowds is a bit of a shock, but it is early morning in Chicago, and the heat is probably playing its part in keeping the spectators away.

The commentators are making a big deal about the last hill, a fairly nasty climb just short of the finish line which looks set to be the death knell for whichever of these two runners is struggling the most when they arrive there. My money is on Chumba, who still looks calm and comfortable, whilst Kirui is battling hard and staying with Chumba but clearly having to work harder.

Of course, this writer's kiss of death ensures that just short of the last hill, with less than a kilometre to run, Kirui manages to break clear of Chumba and holds a three-second lead up the hill and on to the finish line. Chumba is so disappointed he doesn't even shake Kirui's hand but immediately leaves the finish area. A little unsporting perhaps, but I think it was the gross disappointment he felt rather than any ill-feeling toward Kirui.

The final time of 2:11:23 was indeed a slow time, but what a race! A real battle and something of a fairytale finish. It just shows that circumstance, rather than time, are what makes a great race. The conditions were very hard for even seasoned professionals, but this made for a classic battle and absorbing finish.
 
Conditions were similarly unhelpful for my own little 5km training run today. The night shift of course meant it was well into the afternoon before I was able to tie up the shoelaces, and apart from the detrimental effects of circadian cycle disruption, we had our first big day of summer here, with the temperature reaching 33 degrees C as I contemplated how I was to tackle the scheduled 5km, now looking like a bit of a marathon of its own given the circumstances.

I took off at a gentle pace on the treadmill, our biggest fan blowing full in my face to offset the heat a little. Whether it was the inspiring run of Kirui and Chumba, a better adaptation by myself to the impact of working the night shift, an improving general fitness, or more likely, a combination of all three, I soon found myself trundling along feeling as comfortable as Chumba looked during the race, albeit at rather less than half the pace he ran.

In fact, I felt so surprisingly good that I quickly decided to turn the run into a brisk little tempo session, upping the pace every half kilometre and finishing what turned out to be my fastest 5km tempo run in over three and a half years! Quite where that came from I can't say, but a beaut little burst of endorphins and a nice entry in the running log spreadsheet had me humming happily through the rest of the day.

It still wasn't what I would call a fast 5km, being a long way outside my 5km PB, but in those conditions, it certainly amounts to one of my best runs in a very long time.

Things are looking up. Like Kirui, my running 'career' ain't over yet, either. Not by a long way!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

This one's for you, Steve.

Three years ago one of my best mates, Steve, a supremely fit cyclist who is the same age as I, went through the hell of bowel cancer. Coming out the other side, and just two short years later, he suffered secondary liver cancer. Surviving that nightmare as well, he then rode his bicycle 900 kilometres from Melbourne to Sydney raising funds for kids with cancer. And did I mention he is also a diabetic? An astonishing effort from a brave man I am proud to call my mate.

But it doesn't end there.

Only a couple of weeks ago he had a routine scan and the cruel results that were returned showed another, rather advanced secondary liver cancer. Having already suffered life-changing consequences from his earlier treatment, and being (as he put it) in the strongest, fittest form of his life, he in one more brutal stroke had his strength and confidence cut from under him, and even for a while considered forgoing the surgery to enjoy life to the full for a few months before the inevitable end.

Yesterday however, to the relief of his loved ones he had major surgery to remove the growth. The surgery went as well as could be expected, but he faces yet more challenges as the changes to his liver also affect his pancreas, which of course has a huge impact on his diabetes, his strength and energy and so on, and which stands to dramatically impact his life in numerous ways I can't bear to contemplate. It's a cruel, cruel thing to happen, and all we can do to make sense of it is to focus on the positive fact that early intervention has undoubtedly saved his life. Less than a generation ago I strongly suspect  it would have been a death sentence.

As insignificant as my own efforts are by comparison to Steve's struggles, I dedicated this morning's run to him. Every day we are alive and well, I think it's fair to say we've dodged the random bullets of illness, accident and circumstance that unfairly impact so many people for so many unfathomable, apparently random reasons, such as bad genetics,  an unhealthy environment or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As I've said before many times, and will keep saying until I die; every day that we get to live and breathe, and every day in which we enjoy good health (even if only in a relative sense) we owe it to those who have suffered and are suffering to make the most of what we have. And of course we also owe it to ourselves, as no-one goes through life completely unscathed, and once through our struggles, and even during our difficult times, we need to make the most of what remains, good health particularly so.

And so I'll keep running for a while yet.

So here's to Steve. Cheers, mate.

[glaconman]

Damn straight. So easy to forget. Like you say, whilst we can we have it to do.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

His Bobness, Nobel Laureate

After a summerish 33 degrees C a few days ago, this morning winter returned like the salesman who just won't give up with one last (we hope) free sample of wintry weather and we were reduced to a miserable 4 degrees for my early plod, which, I can tell you, made for an unpleasant time of it. Still, duty done, I was able to return home for a hot shower, after which smug mode was once again engaged and I ploughed through the rest of the day with that feeling of strength and well-being that only comes from an early outing in the running kit.

It wasn't until after my run that I heard the news of Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, and I for one was very pleased with the decision. I've long been impressed by Dylan's writing, and he's been one of the very few artists who influenced me both musically and ideologically in my youth. The first Dylan albums I bought were his Greatest Hits volumes I and II, and whilst these were excellent, it wasn't until I bought his 1975 masterpiece Blood On The Tracks that I properly realised what a lyrical genius he is.

Over the years many other Dylan albums found their way into my collection of course, but it was that first startling discovery of Blood On The Tracks that cemented it as my all-time favourite Dylan album. His ability to write lyrics that seem profound, musical and sheer genius all at once, even in songs you may not particularly like, is a rare, rare quality, and the Nobel Prize is an award very well deserved, and I congratulate the Nobel Prize committee in making what must have seemed a courageous decision at the time, but which I am sure will in time be thought of as obvious and logical if not long overdue.

On ya, Bob.

Early one mornin’ the sun was shinin’
I was layin’ in bed
Wond’rin’ if she’d changed at all
If her hair was still red
Her folks they said our lives together
Sure was gonna be rough
They never did like Mama’s homemade dress
Papa’s bankbook wasn’t big enough
And I was standin’ on the side of the road
Rain fallin’ on my shoes
Heading out for the East Coast
Lord knows I’ve paid some dues gettin’ through
Tangled up in blue

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A tricky week comes to an end with all four of my scheduled runs completed as required, the final run this morning being the weekly long run, now stretched to 15km, and my longest run since the Sydney half marathon five months ago! Had I run that half marathon at today's pace, it would have taken me a full 2 hours and 15 minutes, but I'm honouring the training guru's edict that the long, slow runs be completed at an easy, 'conversational' pace.

I managed a slight strain to my left calf despite the gentle pace, but application of recovery compression skins and that miraculous piece of plastic known as The Stick are quickly putting things right again. The Stick is a bit like having your own masseur, but far cheaper, on tap whenever you need it, and self-regulating in terms of how much pain you subject yourself too. For finding and teasing out those difficult knotted bits of muscle, it is brilliant.

Since my last post there has been a wave of opinion about Bob Dylan's Nobel Prize for Literature awash throughout the media, much of it derisory. Comments such as Nobel Prize being reduced to something akin 'Sweden's Got Talent' or that the selection committee comprised 'senile, gibbering hippies' have to my mind just proven how much elitist bullshit there is surrounding the subject.

Quite some years ago, a good friend of mine and I decided to read as many Nobel and Booker Prize-winning author's tomes as we could to try and dispel our impression of the time that those particular books were in fact, rubbish. Between us, we read over a dozen and it only cemented our belief that there was something fundamentally wrong with the allocation of literature prizes, at least at that elite level. Now that Dylan has won the big one, I hope that the pendulum has swung and that major awards will be given again to authors on the basis of genius alone, and not their ability to talk the elitist nonsense that judges apparently wanted to read, to the detriment of actual, approachable, masterful art.

A step-back week now appears on the calendar for me, and probably just at the right time. The training is going well, tremendously hard at times, to be sure, but eminently worthwhile.

Not so worthwhile, it seems, is my entry each year into the London Marathon ballot. Once again I have received the standard rejection email that I get every year:

      Dear Graham,

      We regret that we have to advise you that your application to run in the 2017 Virgin Money London Marathon has not been successful due to massive
      over-subscription.
      Yours Sincerely

      Hugh Brasher
      Event Director

Oh well. Such is life. Never-the-less, I shall still have some choice words to share with Mr Brasher when we meet ...

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Calf Way Round The World

It's a fine line between caution and paranoia, and I've never really worked out the tolerances of navigating that fine line inasmuch as it relates to running injuries. It's fair to say however that I'm becoming far more cautious as I age, and I like to think of that as simple and effective wisdom, but maybe, perhaps, tinged with a small side dish of not entirely misplaced paranoia as well.

So it was that I found myself today carefully circumnavigating my neighbourhood in the pre-dawn gloom, paying strict attention to the whingeing of my recalcitrant left calf. My muscles, joints and tendons frequently nag at me on these early outings, and more usually I'd simply ignore them until they give up and leave me alone. The soreness I felt in my left calf after my last plodaganza (the 15km long slow run)  did, however, turn out somewhat worse than I feared, requiring an extra day's rest. And while it felt OK this morning, after only a few minutes of cautious jogging, the dull ache with a centre point of slight, but steadily worsening stabbing pain returned. Having tried to run it off during my long run the other day, which succeeded only in making it worse, caution pushed paranoia aside and wisely, I think, I called it quits and took the calf home.

Somewhat disappointed, but relieved at least to have made a sensible decision, and glad that this is in any case, a step-back week, I used the extra time available to me to catch an earlier train to work and enjoyed a half hour walk along the harbourside, hopefully stretching out the troublesome calf muscle and precipitating a full return to some decent running distances as soon as possible.

Prior experience with these sort of injuries has shown that alcohol-based antioxidant remedies are quite effective as muscle relaxants and blood thinning agents if taken orally and which aid recovery.

So I shall get on with that, then.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Well, this is annoying. Another test run yesterday to check out the calf went rather less well than I hoped. Feeling fine at the start I ran carefully, of course, but after two kilometres the pain returned, severe enough to throw in the towel a little short of three kilometres. The rest of the day and now, the next day, the calf is sore and tight. Clearly, I am going to have to give this complete rest to recover fully.

This is really frustrating, as my running was going well and it was only a slight strain, yet it seems to want to take days and days to recover.

It seems I am going to need to be far more cautious than I ever thought necessary before. Lucky, therefore, that I started this campaign nice and early. It's a setback, but only a temporary one.

[Antonio247]

It's a pity that injuries usually come when you feel better and more motivated. Hope you get better soon, MLCMM.

Saludos desde Almería

[Sweder]

Sorry to have been a stranger of late. I was put off by the stone wall, having only just noticed the lack of a gate.
Your mate Steve seems the sort of chap that the Moyleman was set up to commemorate. Not that he's going anywhere any time soon. Bullets seem to bounce of the fellow. Speaking of your injuries, I've done little enough to warrant any, yet I cannot ignore a niggling tightness in my right hamstring. It's right up in there, as I would say to the physio if I had the time and sense to see one. I noticed it on yesterday's Twitten run (the 48th edition). Like you, I shall proceed with caution.

Good luck with the calf. Being one more comfortable with serving rather than taking advice, see a sports physio and get some iron fingers into that bad boy.
It'll help.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

It's a pity that injuries usually come when you feel better and more motivated. Hope you get better soon, MLCMM.

Saludos desde Almería

Gracias, Antonio. I am slowly getting better - am about to try another short run, so news about that soon. Cheers!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Good luck with the calf. Being one more comfortable with serving rather than taking advice, see a sports physio and get some iron fingers into that bad boy.

What's galling is that such a slight injury is taking so long to heal. Instead of 2-3 days, it's more like 8-10 days to recover. I mean, I'm not old, I'm only 55, young and supple and full of the vibrancy of youth.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Born and bread.

The bad news does not let up. A super-slow, cautious plod was aborted after just 1.2km and the calf pain continues. Treatment just seems to make it worse, so I'm going to leave it alone and let it mend in its own time, as it seems I have no choice.

This, and other niggling ailments of varying kinds have got me thinking about my health in general and why everything is slowing down so much. I don't believe it's age. Well, while age might be at the heart of the matter, the rate of recovery has now slowed to a crawl, a change that is surely out of all proportion to the actual ageing process. 

So, after a lot of careful analysis and a bit of research I have decided to go back on my 'NBNB' diet; i.e. 'No Bread No Booze'. Well, let's be clear, there will be booze, but reduced significantly, as I've been promising myself for some weeks now. The main problem is the bread, which I've found for a long time to be disharmonious with my health in general. This is sad, because in general I love bread and bread products. However, there's little doubt in my mind that wheat is not good for me, and I'm subscribing to the theory that for an endurance runner carbohydrate is, in fact, our enemy, not our friend as was widely believed for so long.

While I'm at it, and for this reason, I figure I may as well cut back all carbs (including the starchy stuff) for a couple of weeks, and then slowly reintroduce them, and see if I can't work out what it is that's causing me so much needless grief. It may not be the booze and bread, but I aim to find out, and past experience tells me I need this, as a few weeks off the bread (in particular) and a general reduction of alcohol and carbohydrate intake always does me a power of good. 

This decision has in part come about because I've been reading Christopher McDougall's book, Natural Born Heroes, the follow-up to the phenomenal Born To Run, and in which in turn led me to investigate The Maffetone Method, essentially a means of turning the body to fat-burning rather than depending on carbohydrate, and thus of great benefit to the endurance athlete. Fascinating, thought-provoking, and I must say, logical-sounding stuff.

Once this calf heals, I'll let you know how it goes.

              Typical response to the 'NBNB' diet.

[Sweder]

The age-recovery vector is most assuredly a Thing.
I need at least a day, if not two, between modest plods. Niggles and strains linger, like guests who've overstayed their welcome and are starting to like it here.

I've also noticed, thanks to Mr Stacey's Twittens shots, that my David Beckham's Legs (knee surgeon's words, not mine), become more acutely bowed under pressure. I need to consciously adjust my gait to avoid going Full Gumby. The joys of ageing.

A new Chris McDougal book, you say?
I'm in.