Jumpin' Januaries!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

A brace of good runs has bracketed the New Year and reawakened within me some vestige of confidence ahead of Almeria, now not so very many weeks away. And this is despite some wicked weather, being hot and worse, very humid with it, the humidity being for me the real killer of any training schedule. Despite this the running continues, albeit with a necessarily rubbery schedule that must rapidly change and accommodate extremes of weather, seasonal festivities and work requirements.

As an additional impost on my training, one of the admonishments of the Maffetone Method is to always ensure you do a sufficient warm up before running, and an equivalent cooldown at the end. These can be as simple as walking, but the good Dr Maffetone's emphasis on it is significant. This, I have been doing, and the difference it makes is definitely noticeable. The only drawback is, of course, the extra time required to complete a run. For me, this extra half hour (15 minutes before and after) has largely meant an end to my early morning runs, as there simply isn't time to squeeze in the run together with the requisite warm up and cool down before I have to choof off to work.

For my final run of 2016, however, the forecast maximum of 37C meant I had little choice but to arise even earlier than usual and complete the scheduled run before the heat of the day really kicked in. Despite the early hour it was still warm and seriously muggy even at 4:30 a.m. but it felt great to be running the pre-dawn streets again, and although I had to cut the warm up/cool down walks in about half to get it all done before heading off to work, it was a largely successful outing, and beautifully helped assuage the awfulness which is working on a public holiday.

To kick in the New Year a long slow run was just the ticket to get the year off to a positive start. Still muggy, but thankfully without the blistering heat, I completed a solid 90-minute run and entered the details into the running log with an unusually large gob of smugness, which has been missing in recent times. Looking back over the last three years of running log entries was not especially gratifying, although I was pleased that 2016 was a substantial improvement on the previous two years. The task ahead is to make 2017 the best running year for some time, and maybe cross off a few more of those running bucket list items. The first of those is, of course, Almeria, and now close enough to almost taste the tapas and cerveza.

Speaking of Almeria, it was good to have a chat the other day with fellow RCer, forumite and 2017 Almerian Charlie Cat 5, currently in this part of the world for some intensive hot-weather training prior to the big race. I say he's in this part of the world, and it's true he's in Australia, but he's still over 3,400 kilometres distant in Western Australia, so not quite able to pop over here to Sydney for a quick beer, for example. Still, it's nice to see fellow RCers down here on the far side of the planet. 

So, with 2017 off to a good start, and the first major race looming, it looks set to be a good year in the running shoes.

Happy New Year, everyone!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Of cicadas and currawongs - a Sydney summer sonnet.

It's time I began writing properly again: the warm embrace of a sunny Sydney summer, coincident as it of course always is with the festive time of year has rather overtaken my running diaries, and if truth be told, the running too. As quickly as it arrives, the Christmas/New Year period seems to fade just as fast, and with it the wistfulness that comes from having shared the bounty with family and friends, whilst toasting those that are absent, some temporarily, others more permanently so.  The Christmas tunes have been removed for another year from the iPod (yes, we still use such an amazingly primitive device), and the festive placemats and left-over Christmas crackers have been put away until next season.

Without the Michael Buble and Johnny Mathis' Christmas albums to jolly along our household vibe,  we've returned to more standard fare, albeit with a summerish touch: Taylor Swift somehow works, as does the generally ignored Billy Joel, one track from his 1976 album Turnstiles so frighteningly relevant just now:

We’re going wrong, we’re gaining weight
We’re sleeping long and far too late
And so it’s time to change our ways
But I’ve loved these days

The sentiment is doubly true for me just now. Although it's an exaggeration to say I've gained weight (miraculously, I've not) there is always a certain frustration for me at this time of year. With the weather and hours of daylight perfect for running, the training schedule always takes a back seat to the planning, shopping, cooking, travelling, eating, drinking and general mayhem of festivities that is Christmas and New Year. And, as Billy Joel suggests (even taken out of context), you really can't complain or get upset about it because it was just such great fun. I approach Christmas every year with trepidation, and yet leave more than just a little regretful at its passing.

But as the recycling truck empties our bin full of vanquished bottles of Pol Roger NV Brut and Rockford's excellent Alicante Bouchet, and the ham and turkey bones have been reduced to stock, it's time once again to turn to the spreadsheet of my running log.

The soundtrack for my running at this time of year is the seasonal song of cicadas and currawongs, their summer chorale as invasive as the heat and humidity (especially the humidity) yet as enticing for the runner as the cold beer that I know is sitting in my fridge. But whereas the cicadas and currawongs give their song freely, now that the Santa season is over I have to earn the beer through sweat, grit and miles actually run.

Yes, the season of hard graft is upon me. I have kept up enough gentle jogging throughout to still be able to pull off a (very) slow, but steady two-hour long run on occasion, but much remains to be done before I can truly declare myself half-marathon ready. It's true also that this gentle return to the running discipline too often gets derailed by the steady stream of televised cricket and tennis that remains compulsory viewing throughout the Aussie summer. And so the transformation from gluttonous, slightly sozzled turkey and Christmas-pudding eater to lithe, abstemious athlete is more akin to the slow, painful removal of a band-aid than to any miraculous transubstantiation.

With Almeria now knocking at the door, it's time to pull out all stops and perhaps move the treadmill in front of the telly (in order to better watch all that cricket and tennis) to get a few more decent training sessions under my water belt. And here's the bonus: sharing the experience of Almeria with so many good running friends will be so much like a second Christmas that it's truly, frighteningly inspiring. See you there!

So before we end and then begin
We’ll drink a toast to how it’s been
A few more hours to be complete
A few more nights on satin sheets
A few more times that I can say
I’ve loved these days

Almeria doesn't know what's coming..!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Your Daily No-Bread

Some years ago (2009 to be precise) comedian Eddie Izzard generated some excitement when he embarked on an epic run around Britain, essentially running a marathon or more every day, six days a week for eight weeks to get the job done. He did this on the back of only five weeks training and no history (at all) of running. He also for most of the time ignored pretty much all the advise given to him by the team of experts he took with him or had available on tap, yet still managed to complete one of the great feats of endurance by an 'average' non-sporting person. Although I was of course aware of the feat at the time, I've only just today watched the first two and a bit instalments of the three-part documentary of the run this morning, during my scheduled two-hour long, slow treadmill run.

A couple of things really stood out for me about this, perhaps the main one being that he ran each day very slowly, which of course ties in very neatly with my own, current Maffetone-method training of low heart-rate running. In recent times much of my running has been conducted in what I long considered the no-go zone; that region of pace between a fast walk and what I had until recently considered a very slow jog. There is however, a considerable region of pacing there that I had fervently avoided on the basis that it was so slow as to be a waste of time. Since reading Dr Maffetone's book however, I've come to realise that my thinking on this was completely wrong, and for true endurance running, this appeared to be the best speed at which to train. Izzard's jaunt around Britain seems to have in part, at least, proven this idea correct. Although he of course suffered considerably, he did manage to finish the feat, and I think a combination of his sheer bloody-minded determination to see it through and the very low pace at which he ran helped to make the accomplishment possible.

I may not have the brutal determination he has to run ridiculously long endurance events, but I can run as slowly as him, and have been doing so. Whilst not sticking precisely to Maffetone's strictures on low-heart rate training, I am finding surprising results from my greatly reduced pace. This morning's two-hour effort, for example, was almost ridiculously easy, despite my undisciplined on-again-off-again approach to festive season training. To be sure, I'll probably run Almeria in a personal worst time, but I've always hankered more for finishing a race in good form rather than setting a good time, and if Maffetone has given me hope in any area at all, it's to be able to finish an event feeling good and suffering few, if any, ill effects from the effort.

The other thing that has been helping me is finally having found a solution to my cramping problems, now almost completely vanquished. In the end it was a very simple matter. It was, or so it now seems, a basic question of sodium deficiency. I have been supplementing my diet over the years with potassium and magnesium, the latter in particular having worked wonders for me in avoiding cramps in the past. But in recent months it hasn't helped at all. I have never added salt to my diet, as I don't particularly like it, and everything I have ever read on the subject says we consume far too much salt from processed foods anyhow, so adding more salt seemed unnecessary. However, removing bread from my diet three months ago seems to have been the trigger which caused my cramping problems, and I've concluded that bread has perhaps for a long time been my main source of daily salt. Removing it from my diet (we've not bought a loaf of bread since last October) caused serious cramps, the likes of which I'd not previously experienced, and which created considerable gaps in my training schedule as I recovered from strained and constantly sore calf muscles (in particular). Since adding a small amount of table salt to one of my daily meals, the cramps have all but ceased, hence the conclusion that the problem was a mere sodium deficiency.

The other benefit of removing bread from, or at least severely restricting it in my diet, has been the ease with which I've lost weight and kept it off, being now very close to my ideal running weight despite in all other respects eating a reasonably typical and gluttonous festive fare (including the booze) in recent weeks. Which is great, because it means I can modify my strict NBNB (No Bread No Booze) diet to more of a relaxed NBnb (No Bread notquitesomuch booze) arrangement.

The lack of bread also makes me a little feisty, I think. And feistiness is of course good for endurance running. If not, in fact, essential; rather like salt!

[Seafront Plodder]

Of cicadas and currawongs - a Sydney summer sonnet.

and perhaps move the treadmill in front of the telly (in order to better watch all that cricket and tennis)

With your back??

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Of cicadas and currawongs - a Sydney summer sonnet.

and perhaps move the treadmill in front of the telly (in order to better watch all that cricket and tennis)

With your back??

The treadmill has wheels, SP.

Besides, the back episode was over five years ago. I got better!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Of tourists and temperance.

I'm walking across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, sharing the walkway with a squillion gawking, selfie-taking tourists, probably the majority of them recently disembarked from the live sheep transport, Carnival Legend which I can see berthed at the overseas passenger terminal in Circular Quay. Well, forgive my excessive cynicism, but my description of such modern cruise ships as those of the Carnival line (and many others) in such terms is because they remind me of the rectangular, boxy and gigantic freighters used to send our animals overseas for slaughter in nations fussy about doing such things themselves. Call me a romantic, but when it comes to cruise ships, I much, much prefer the classic elegance of vessels long gone such as the SS Normandie or the QE2, not these monstrosities resembling giant shipping containers with amusement parks perched in top.

It's very hot today, and many of the tourists are pausing here on the bridge not just to take photos but to seek some relief from the heat. A breeze is ripping through the harbour, and unimpeded up here, nearly 50 metres above the waters below, it does provide some relief from the blistering heat in which most of Sydney is baking. I'm not sightseeing however; I'm on my way to work, and dressed inappropriately in my work clothes of dark trousers and a dark business shirt. I'm only about a quarter of an hour into my 70 or so minutes walk, and already I'm drenched in sweat, and it promises to get only significantly hotter once I'm off the bridge and walking back down at street level again.

The views of Sydney, its harbour and iconic buildings is of course superb, which is what draws the tourists out here. Most just walk across the bridge, but some pay the $15 to climb to one of the pylon lookouts, while others fork out up to twenty times that much to don light grey overalls attached to a life line and 'do' the Bridge Climb with a guide, which takes them to the very top of the bridge itself, 134 metres above the harbour. Despite the rip off cost, this is one of Sydney's biggest attractions, and continues day and night all year round, and in all but the most dangerous of weather. Whenever I walk across the bridge, no matter the time of day or night, there is always a group overhead clambering their way to the top, and today is no exception in spite of the heat.

But here at the midpoint of the Bridge what suddenly strikes me today; more than the tourists and summer heat, is that from my vantage point I can see three of Sydney's great architectural wonders, each of them built about 40 years apart. The first of them is of course the bridge itself, opened nearly 85 years ago after six years of construction. It seems almost like another time and another age long gone, but both my mother-in-law and her sister and both still very much alive were there as young girls for the official opening, a notorious affair in which the official ribbon cutting was interrupted by one Captain De Groot, a member of a para-military group who slashed the ribbon with his sword and thus found his way into the history books.

The second masterpiece is the Sydney Opera House. This was officially opened in 1973, and what I find incredible about this building is not just the originality of the design, but the fact that the very conservative government of the day actually had the boldness and vision to choose such a futuristic design and construct it. My first visit to Sydney as a spotty youth was at about this time, and was in part at least prompted by the chance to see this astonishing building for ourselves. Although we must have toured the building, I have only vague recollections of it, whereas I have a very clear memory of visiting the observation deck of Australia Square, then Sydney's tallest building. I can see it now from my vantage point here on the Harbour Bridge, but these days it looks rather forlorn, surrounded as it is by many other, far taller towers. Australia Square's observation deck is now long gone, replaced by a revolving restaurant, apparently of no great note. How times change.

One, or should I say three of the buildings that dwarf Australia Square by comparison is in fact the third of Sydney's architectural triumphs, the triple towers of Barangaroo, which are just part of the billion-dollar project still underway and which has so radically re-shaped the Sydney skyline and foreshore. And it's this 40+ year gap between these three icons of Sydney that strikes me now and makes me wonder what it is that requires a whole generational gap between significant developments in this town.  

Well, whatever the reason for it is, as I reach the end of the bridge and climb down the steps, I am deposited into my favourite part of Sydney, which is the oldest part known as The Rocks, and which contains Sydney's oldest buildings and most importantly, its quaintest pubs. It's also where my wife's great grandfather Isaac owned a house about 120 years ago, and still standing much in its original state on Lower Fort Street. I will walk past it past shortly, and it's this tangible connection with the past, and the largely unaltered state of the dwellings and public houses of three and four generations ago which create this generational tension between this area, and the surrounding business district towering overhead with all of its steel and glass.

The first of five of its quaintest pubs which I walk reluctantly past is immediately across the road as I come off the bridge. The Glenmore Hotel is four-storey wedged shaped construction on one of The Rocks awkward corners. Like a miniature version of New York's famous Flatiron Building, it grabs your attention, has loads of charm and character and a brilliant rooftop bar. This rooftop watering hole is clearly viewed from the walkway of the Harbour Bridge, and on my walks to work for night shift on Friday and Saturday evenings, it breaks my heart to walk past here, with its rooftop full of happy workers beginning their weekend in grand fashion at a grand location. Just now though it's Tuesday lunchtime, and the clientele are far fewer in number and boisterousness.

Soon I turn left and walk under the 50-metre width of the Harbour Bridge and onto Lower Fort Street. As I walk past the second pub of my Rocks walk, The Harbour View Hotel, I can see my great-grandfather-in-law's former home directly across the road, and despite more than a century of time passing, it's hard to imagine it looking much different to the way it does today. Isaac was a vintner and vigneron amongst other things, and so it's easy to imagine him popping across the road here for a sociable tipple or two and perhaps chastising the owner for not stocking enough of Isaac's own wines.

That strong connection with the past is just about enough to bring a tear to my eye, but it's so damned hot just now that the only forms of moisture emanating from me are rapidly multiplying rivulets of sweat. It's hot enough now to send a Bedouin camel handler into the shade, and as I walk along Lower Fort Street I am beguiled by the third pub I approach on my walk through The Rocks, The Hero of Waterloo, shimmering through the heat haze. This is another wedge-shaped building on another awkward corner, and the cruel gaffer there has put an enticing 'Cold Beer Inside!' notice board on the footpath, and which nearly breaks my resolve. Worse still, through the open door as I draw alongside I can see Willy Nelson's identical twin behind the bar pouring the sandwich-board-promised cold beers. I flirt briefly with the idea of popping in for a singular cold one, then cutting short my walk and catching the train the rest of the way to work. In reality though, there isn't enough time to enjoy it, and dragging myself away would be harsh and cruel, so I plod on, around the corner and past the equally enticing Lord Nelson Hotel and brewery (Sydney's oldest pub, or so they claim), and then The Palisade, with its beer garden and views of Darling Harbour. It's almost too much to take, and as if to rub salt into the wound, as I descend from The Rocks and into Barangaroo, temporary stalls with 'Middle Eastern' street food have been set up to cater for the Sydney Festival crowds, the mingling smells of Lebanese kibbeh and Turkish menemen further reducing me to a weeping, sweaty bundle of outrageous cravings.

Despite it all, I don't give in. I sternly remind myself that I am in training, and not only is it important to supplement my running with these bonus walks, but to resist the enticement of additional and unnecessary beer or food. My legs and waistline will thank me, or so I assure myself, and I trudge on, further telling myself that I would in any case be too embarrassed to order anything with my shirt dark and dripping with sweat like this.

I shan't subject you to, or torment myself with the rest of the walk. I don't need reminding of the up-market eateries of the Barangaroo towers, or the long line of open-aired cafes, bars and restaurants that line Darling Harbour and past which I must walk. It is simultaneously a fantastic way to commute to work, and a tormenting Siren, luring you into its gastronomic, alcoholic glory and which requires an iron will to pass by.

I like to think there's an analogy here to running, but the best connection that I can arrive at is that by denying myself these pleasures and maintaining the pursuit of health through this chosen sport, I will ultimately reap the benefits through longer life and greater opportunities to enjoy the delights that I am currently denying myself... typically drooling of mouth and growling of stomach though these deprivations may be as I skulk past.

Doubtless no such deprivations will be observed in Almeria after the race in three or so weeks. And after all, aren't delayed gratifications the most enjoyable? Well, you have to believe so, otherwise days like today are that much harder to take.

Oh yes.

[Seafront Plodder]

So what's the itinerary for your Almeria trip old man?

[Charliecat5]

So what's the itinerary for your Almeria trip old man?

I was wondering that as well...

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Time is limited my friends. I arrive at Gatwick on Friday 3rd @ 1140. I think I'm spending the evening drinking "soda water" in Lewes or thereabouts. On Saturday we fly to Almeria, drink more soda water, then run the race, drink some actual beer, eat some unhealthy food, and lose all memory. On Tuesday I return to London for a couple of days with son Chris and daughter-in-law Tash, then Thursday fly home via Sri Lanka for a quick holiday.

If you can squeeze in a lemonade on the Friday evening before we fly to Almeria, I'll be about the place. The following Wednesday night we might be going to a Championship League match if we can find one if you're interested. There may be beer involved.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

On heat ... so to speak.

A stinking hot night in Sydney sets the tone for the rest of the day. Getting up at 7, I knew it was warm, but when I opened the front door to retrieve the newspaper I was shocked to stillness by a blast of furnace heat. I wasn't alone in feeling it. Across the road at the train station, early commuters were already seeking out the shadiest parts of the platform, whilst those who were running late for their train did not in fact break into a run at all, instead walking languidly to the station, having resigned themselves to waiting for the next train in deference to the heat.

Even at this early hour it was 31C and humid with it, and here's me with a scheduled hill climb to look forward to. I therefore put it off as long as possible, watching the thermometer rise in arrogant impudence, the weather Gods clearly unimpressed with the fact of my having an important race to run in less than three weeks on the far side of the planet and needing to get this training done.

Mrs MLCMM likewise languishes in the heat, waking slowly from her restless night and putting off her own, inevitable visit to the nirvana world of fitness at her gym. Meanwhile, the nobler traits of humanity melt in the heat: patience, endurance, and enthusiasm, all gone. Somehow in spite of the heat's attack on basic decency I manage to remain civil, which is quite an achievement in the circumstance, but as the heat intensifies so does my impatience, my temper not so much frayed, as completely unravelled. I need to get moving, to do something constructive, but then television coverage of the Australian Open grand slam tennis begins, and my attention is too easily distracted by the idiot box, further delaying the donning of running kit.

Through the morning the heat continues its murderous rampage, unchecked and relentless until three hours later, when, still with not as much as a cup of coffee to break my fast, I finally drag myself away from Roger Federer's second round battle with the young American Noah Rubin* and change into my running kit. I put our biggest floor-standing fan in front of the treadmill and set off for a slow, steady, sweat-soaked 45 minutes of constant hill climb. A Niagara of sweat threatens to flood the house, but this run must be done. And somewhat surprisingly, given the conditions, it is. In point of fact the run goes really quite well and I allow myself, cautiously, to begin thinking those thoughts that typically come with the dawn of realisation when training is successful beyond expectation that just maybe I'm beginning to be a runner again. Those thoughts then expand into a cornucopia of ideas about races and goals which resolve further still into calendars and spreadsheets, maps and training schedules, and so another round of athletic, obsessive compulsion begins until... well, let's not go there just yet.

Actually, there are two things working in my favour just now that might make this part of the enthusiastic training cycle go better and last longer than usual. The first is the Maffetone Method of which I have written much in recent weeks. The irony of this scheme is that whilst I by necessity run far slower for several months whilst the Method works its magic, the upshot is that I run for longer, and therefore further, with far less difficulty and far fewer injuries than normal. The positive impact this has on motivation levels is extraordinary, and gives cause for much quiet confidence.

The second positively influencing factor is a major breakthrough at work. When I return from Almeria, I begin a new shift work cycle of just two weeks, unchanging. That is, while I still work a mix of early mornings, night shifts, weekends and so forth, I work exactly the same fortnightly cycle each and every fortnight. I can't tell you the difference this makes to one's life. Knowing for months in advance what I will be working means I can, for the first time in years, find a routine, at least on a fortnightly basis, and be able to plan ahead, and do things on a regular basis. Currently, the uncertainty of what I'll be working from week to week has made life one big question mark, with no routine, no planning ahead and no certainty. And, as an aside, this outcome proves the worth of persevering through the courts, as this stems from nearly three years of legal battles with our management. It's a compromise, but one that has great promise and in which both sides have gained some positives. And it's a slap in the face for the nay-sayers and fence-sitters who would have just allowed our rights to be buried in the mud alongside our trampled bodies, had not a few of us stood up for basic principles and justice.

So yes, you could say things are looking up a tad. It's not the environment nor the time for overt optimism by any stretch, but at least as far as training and racing is concerned, I think the glass half full perspective is definitely justified.

So, on with it, then. Albeit, of course, slowly. Thank you, Dr Maffetone.

*Federer won in straight sets,  7-6  6-3  7-6

[Antonio247]

I'm glad you've managed to train for Almería half in spite of the heat. Here it's just the opposite since there's a cold wave all over Spain. It has snowed even in some Mediterranean beaches, something really unusual. Yesterday we reached in Almería +7 C ( minimum ) and +10 C ( maximum ), which is very cold in this part of the world.Actually, there's snow at the mountains in Sierra de Alhamilla, just forty km away from here.

Best of luck with your training!

Looking forward to meeting you soon.

Saludos desde Almería

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I'm glad you've managed to train for Almería half in spite of the heat. Here it's just the opposite since there's a cold wave all over Spain. It has snowed even in some Mediterranean beaches, something really unusual. Yesterday we reached in Almería +7 C ( minimum ) and +10 C ( maximum ), which is very cold in this part of the world.Actually, there's snow at the mountains in Sierra de Alhamilla, just forty km away from here.

Best of luck with your training!

Looking forward to meeting you soon.

Saludos desde Almería

Yes, not long now! Much looking forward to catching up with you again! Saludos!

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

No border, no fill ... a runner and his spreadsheet.

George Orwell said that writers are an unenterprising lot and that at the bottom of their list of motives there lies an unexplained and unresolved mystery. This mystery I think is also true of why some runners (such as myself) run, and if extrapolated logically, suggests that runners who also like to write have perhaps an even greater unknown something at the core of their athletic being. It's likely that this is the same sort of drive that forces us out into the rain, say, or to sit on a wild coastline listening to the waves; or to perhaps just drink a few too many Coopers Sparkling Ales in the downstairs bar of the pub across the road. Yes, we can to a certain extent rationally justify our urge to run, but beyond or beneath those obvious explanations such as fitness and general health lies a powerful, yet intangible, indescribable and largely unfathomable motivating force. We can sense it, often strongly so, and yet on the few occasions when we do get a clear glimpse of the enigma, it defies our attempts to describe it. Am I making sense here? Never mind, let's press on...

Some runners - typically those of us confined to urban road, track or treadmill running - may turn to numbers to add interest and in which we, if even unconsciously, continue the search for meaning. That's the way to explain it all, surely, with numbers; let's quantify the mystery! Maybe we can unlock and unravel the code by creating a spreadsheet? So there's a good idea then: log every run; the distance covered, pace, percentage improvements, repetitions, weekly and monthly totals, and so on. Then, when the numbers become overwhelming, as they soon must, add some colour through the 'conditional formatting' tool and dazzle yourself with varying auto-generated shades of red and green to assess your performance. The spreadsheet becomes a performance analysis tool and de facto coach. Heck, we may as well even give it a name (so far, I've resisted). Doubtless the next version of the software will come complete with Deep Blue-style artificial intelligence and do some actual, genuine coaching (with the addition of an extra i-coaching module for a modest fee, of course).

And so despite its intent, the spreadsheet actually reveals little to nothing about the underlying mystery that is our reason for running, and for writing about running. Buried under a sea of running numbers; hiding within the ribbons of our finishers' medals; and hopelessly lost in the words of our running diaries and blogs, the unknown 'it' continues to elude. Some successful writers such as Richard Askwith and Christopher MacDougall believe they have the answer, and maybe they do, for them, but ultimately the significance of our endeavours is different for each one of us. Our running and the way we go about it is as uniquely personal as a fingerprint. Embedded in our DNA it stays with us, customised to our personality such that no two runners will ever approach their sport in precisely the same way. Or, at least, that's my hypothesis. As hypotheses go it's not as startling or as significant as say, the string theory of quantum gravity, but it's slightly more approachable, perhaps.

Anyway, that's perhaps just a clumsy and needlessly long-winded way of saying that despite the lack of clear metaphysical answers to the deeper mysteries, I really like my spreadsheet 'logbook' and cherish the numbers it stores for me; the charts it draws and the analysis of performance it provides. And perhaps one of ways in which it does begin to approach the deeper mystery within is that it forces me to be honest with myself about my running. When I think it's been 'a while' since I did something or achieved something with my running, I typically find when I check my log that the truth is further from my perceived reality than I care to admit. A rough example: I thought today's training run may well have been my longest run for a year or so. On checking, it turns out that it was in fact my longest run in three years and four months.

Oh yes, in data there is truth (et data est veritatis?). Data isn't just a useful memory aide however; it actually tells me something significant about my running habits that I clearly hadn't wanted to be frank with myself about. It doesn't just keep me honest; it also provides seriously useful data that perhaps I hadn't properly considered. This is extremely motivating and of course, a great boost to my confidence. Again, using today's run as an example, on examination I find it was not only my longest run in over three years, but it's the only time I've run that sort of distance in the middle of a string of night shifts, and it was also one of my longest runs in warm, muggy weather, as well. This all makes it far more significant than I had fully appreciated. And that is a good thing. These are useful pieces of information that help run the motivation flag up the mast. 

I've banged on enough about the perils of shift work already, but let me just say this because today was different on several levels: I normally don't run very much at all when working the night shift, as the old body just takes such a hammering that running is difficult. Very difficult.

Or is it?

A great many people have said that running is largely a mental game, and I believe that to be true once you have surmounted the obvious, basic physical hurdles of elemental fitness, of course. As numerous people prove time and time again, it is astonishing what the human body is capable of once you put your mind to a specific task. If you want to achieve a goal badly enough, you will somehow find a way to get there. The main problem for me is that when tired, I have a great deal of trouble even remembering what the goal was, and why it was supposed to be significant, let alone set about brewing a fresh pot of enthusiasm.

Sometimes the goal is just unavoidably big and obvious however, and with only a very short amount of time left until the Almeria half, and desperately wanting to arrive there in reasonable condition, it has become vitally important to me to get as many training runs completed as possible in the short time remaining. If that means completing long runs whilst working the night shift, then so be it. And that is how today's effort came about.

Now that doesn't change the external factors at all: the body is still hammered from working through the night. The brain still fails to fire the right sort of synapses and motivation is low. Extremely low. It's important therefore to focus as firmly on the goal as possible and aid the process by having everything organised the day/night before and to get on with it without having to expend very much brain power. 

Due to the heat of the afternoon (the only time available today for me to run), the treadmill was the only option today. Even if I had felt capable of running outdoors in the heat, the brain being so befogged makes mixing with the traffic and even other pedestrians a dubious option, at best.

Fortunately, the treadmill's electronic brain can be pre-programmed, and this I did a day prior, ensuring that the time, distance, and importantly, the pace of my run was already thought out in advance and I could just get on with the business of putting one foot in front of the other without thinking too much about it. So with the treadmill programmed and my running kit all organised, I headed off for the night knowing that on my return all I needed to do was crash for a few hours and all would be ready when I awoke.

I had set my alarm clock for 1:30 pm, and having arrived home at 7:15 am I was in bed asleep by 7:30. Six hours sleep is not really enough in this situation, but that's all the time I had available if I was to squeeze in a three-hour session, which was the plan. As it happened, I was wide awake and out of bed an hour earlier than that and decided to just get on with it.

The plan included running on empty, i.e. no breakfast, which is all part of training the body to primarily burn fat rather than carbohydrate, and which thus far is working well for me. This also means hydrating with water only - no sports drinks and no gels. It's a very simple nutrition plan in that regard. The run itself was a straight-forward affair: a 15 minute walking warm up, two and a half hours of continuous running, the pace gradually building in the first hour, remaining constant for forty minutes and then easing back before a 15-minute cool down walk at the end. In all, nearly 24 kilometres were covered. It wasn't fast, certainly, but it was comfortable, and it was accomplished at a low-heart rate, and so in theory burned way more fat than carbohydrate. The full benefit of this style of running won't be realised until I push the distance up yet further. Beyond 30 kilometres, if I follow the programme properly, I expect the pattern to continue with easy, fat-burning running that pushes back the 'hitting the wall' phenomenon of glycogen depletion ever further, hopefully beyond the 42.2 km point, which is the goal.

That's the theory, and I'm not there yet, but already I am running further and more frequently without discomfort. For example, and again I'm consulting my spreadsheet to confirm this, but so far this week I've already covered over 50 kilometres with still one run to come; which is my best week of running since March last year and it has been completed with seemingly ridiculous ease, despite the heat and despite the perils of night shift. To say I'm well pleased would be to understate the fact considerably.

I must of course pay tribute to Dr Phil for this. No, not that Dr Phil, but Dr Phil Maffetone of whom I have written much already. Running has never felt this easy, and it's entirely due to his simple method of improving endurance by training in a low heart rate zone, and removing excess carbs from your diet.

Anyway, with today's run complete I finally had a high-protein, low-carb breakfast of nuts, eggs and cheese at 4:30 pm. An hour later, I allowed myself a chocolate biscuit with my first coffee of the day (black, no sugar of course). The biscuit was consumed in mere milliseconds and doubtless, had he some psycho-telepathic powers and some inexplicable desire to observe my actions, Dr Maffetone would probably have face-palmed in disbelief. Never mind, the biscuit was consumed with that wonderful, piquant relish of satisfaction that invariably follows a long and well-executed run and which will doubtless mitigate any harmful effects of the junk calories consumed. Just as one run does not undo a week of gluttony, nor does one biscuit negate the benefits of a three-hour workout.

So, it's time to declare myself half-marathon ready. It'll only be a training run - there's no chance of anything like sub-2 hour pace this time around, but the important thing is I'll be there, I'll get round the course, and there'll be a large contingent of running comrades to share the moment.

After that? What of future goals?

Well, more on that topic soon.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The antepenultimate week.

The week before the week before the week of the Almeria half marathon has concluded well, with another good run rounding out a 60km week for this would-be running Energiser bunny. That sort of distance covered over seven days a year or two ago would have raised eyebrows for anyone in the MLCMM training camp, should such an enclave of coaching professionals exist (it does not). However - and this is the last time I shall bang on about it - the Maffetone method has breathed new life into this ageing bod and revitalised all the aims and goals that had evaporated, disappearing over the last couple of seasons like that half dozen bottles of Clare Valley cabernet we thought we'd put down for 20 years, but which have now vanished. That, and circumstance neatly coinciding with the opportunities that have recently presented themselves has breathed new life and enthusiasm into me, and gratefully I am embracing it.

I'm a firm believer that you make your own luck*, and that with the right attitude, good fortune will surely follow, at least at a certain everyday level. A positive mental attitude won't stop you being hit by a truck necessarily, but it will help you spot an open door when you most need one, whereas a black, befogged mindset will blind you to any silver lining. When the noggin is right, even the inauguration of Donald Trump throws up some positive possibilities**.

So, how do I feel after my biggest running week in a very long time? To be honest, I feel fantastic! Being able to run long distances comfortably is a very liberating experience, even if those distances are covered only at slow pace. I'm not aiming to win anything here except the hugest challenge of all, the big battle with my own mortality. The time taken to cover a set distance therefore is not nearly so important as the simple fact of being able to do so. That I should cover 60km in a week with barely a niggle really does say something in favour of the tortoise and the hare fable. Slowing down works well on so many levels that it really is a revelation. Super simple it may be, but it seems to work. Run slow, run further. Too easy.

Tonight, I work another night shift. Then tomorrow the forecast maximum temperature is 38C, and I have another hill session scheduled at the height of it. And you know what? I'm actually looking forward to it...

Somebody pinch me.


*Note, this does not translate well to gambling luck and you should not take this as advice to gamble away your earnings. I am talking here about circumstantial fortune, not doubling up on Noble Nag in the 7th at Randwick.
** Although admittedly, in the case of Trump, not that many.

[Sweder]

I just wrapped Natural Born Heroes. The book cuts to the chase in regard to the Dr Phil jargon, too. I shall redouble my efforts, as well as setting an even lower Max HR for the next sessions. 180 - 55 = 125. No bonus points, no pack-drill.

All too late for Almeria, sadly. C'est la Vie. I'll plod round as best I can.
The main thing is, I believe in the method. I'll re-set my eating sights, too. Beer is the hardest loss, next to bread, but go they must, along with all sugary demons, including (and I had not appreciated this fully) fruit. I've developed a passion for watermelon, but fruit of all kinds are out. Natural sugars, I guess.

Kale is in, though. Mmm. Kale.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

I just wrapped Natural Born Heroes. The book cuts to the chase in regard to the Dr Phil jargon, too.  I shall redouble my efforts, as well as setting an even lower Max HR for the next sessions. 180 - 55 = 125. No bonus points, no pack-drill.

All too late for Almeria, sadly. C'est la Vie. I'll plod round as best I can.
The main thing is, I believe in the method. I'll re-set my eating sights, too. Beer is the hardest loss, next to bread, but go they must, along with all sugary demons, including (and I had not appreciated this fully) fruit. I've developed a passion for watermelon, but fruit of all kinds are out. Natural sugars, I guess.

Kale is in, though. Mmm. Kale.

Is there a Kale Ale?

Good work, Sweder. The good Dr Maffetone's book is sitting beside me right now, and shortly I'll be dipping into it again to see how to further my success of recent weeks. More on that, soon*.

I have found ditching the bread the easy part of the process. The beer, less so, although I am generally happy enough to substitute wine (which is carb-free), but fruit has been an issue. In the end I just forgot about it and eat a modest amount of fruit anyhow, and it doesn't seem to be so much of a problem. I'm hardly being a Maffetone purist, and maybe that'll slow my progress, but everything is a compromise. Thus far, a more than acceptable one for me.

Keep at it!

*Although, oops, I just realised I said I wouldn't do that. Maybe we can open another thread somewhere. Or just mull over it during a few beers - I mean kale smoothies - in Almeria.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Got the jump on Trump...

As the world starts to foam at the mouth as the reality of Trump in Power seeps into the collective consciousness, I've tried to think of something smart to say about the situation. But I don't think I've ever been more flabbergasted by any political circumstance, to be honest, although the sacking of the Australian prime minister, Gough Whitlam, by the Governor General in 1975 comes close, but hardly as significant on the global scale. In hindsight and given the choice of candidates, perhaps the outcome is not so surprising, but it is still incredible to think America and therefore the planet has somehow found itself in this position. It makes Brexit look almost inconsequential by comparison, at least from this vantage point on the far side of the planet (and I assure you it is of no particular comfort to be at a significant geographical distance from both Brexit and Trump).

I watched Trump's inauguration speech as it happened only because I had to help ensure it went to air here from the government broadcast centre for all Australians to see and hear. Well, being 4 a.m. local time I doubt the audience was that great, the majority I'm certain being sensible enough to opt for sleeping through it and making do with a summary in the morning news service.

The inauguration surprised me with its old world formality, and in seeing the Trump entourage going through the motions with respect, certainly, but clearly just wanting to get on with the business of transforming the planet into a kind of spherical Trump Tower. That the Obamas and the Clintons endured the process with the grace they did actually made me sad: I don't know what they could possibly have done differently, but  to my mind they seemed as vanquished, brutally overrun former leaders, and the process more akin to a bloody, enforced transfer of political supremacy rather than anything in the true, democratic sense. If the heads of the former presidents all turned up on the ends of pikes on display as a warning on the White House lawn it would hardly be surprising.

But perhaps that's just me and my overactive imagination. There's no way Trump would cut their heads off. I'm sure hanging is much more his style. And maybe Bush would get away with banishment to one of those small islands in the South China Sea?

Whatever the consequence of a Trump presidency, there's little doubt 2017 will be, at the very least, an interesting and memorable year. For me, it's going to be significant for reasons other than political ones, and is already off to a flying start, quite literally as it happens. My flight to Almeria is now only a little over a week away... crumbs, I'd better get cracking. I don't travel that much, so organising all those squillions of little things that need to be taken care before leaving the comfort of your own home base can be rather daunting, and now I'm almost out of time.

A little disorganised in terms of travel arrangements I may be, but where I have been soldiering on quite well is with my running, and today I really surprised myself. But let me set the scene...

Summer here just at the moment has gone a little overboard with the heat and humidity. When I left work this morning at 06:15 following another night shift, the outside temperature was 31C. It had fallen to an overnight low just a few degrees less than that at 01:00 and perversely had been steadily rising through the night, and heading for a forecast maximum of 38C. On the streets people were going to work looking already haggard and uncertain about the day ahead. Many, out of habit, were walking along with a take-away coffee in hand, but seemed less interested than usual in drinking them. There was one exception: a youngish man in a dark business suit, striding along with great purpose, a coffee in his right hand and one of those black-glazed doughnuts that are all the rage here at present in his left, happily munching and slurping his way through both and seemingly quite unaware of the boiler-room conditions.

I oozed my way through what has lately become a standard half-hour walk for me from work through Darling Harbour and Barangaroo to Wynyard station where I catch my train home, but this morning was a muggy affair, and I walked slower than usual, but still glad for the bonus effort. Every little bit helps, and this early morning walk is usually an excellent one, conditions more typically being cool and quiet at that hour.

Today however conditions were horrid, but I was amazed to see a larger than usual number of runners thumbing their noses at the weather, or perhaps in desperation getting their morning exercise completed earlier than usual before things became too impossible.

For myself, I was looking at having to complete today's scheduled hill-climb session in the heat of the afternoon. And that, my friends, is exactly what happened. Running is going so well for me just now that even night shifts and extreme heat are not dissuading me from the training schedule. I fell into bed about 07:30 and was up again less than six hours later. The temperature thankfully had not risen to the expected 38C, but it was only two degrees less, and in my groggy state hot enough to necessitate the implementation of plan 'B'. Well, in fact I didn't have a plan B, so I had to wing it a bit. Instead, I repeated my previous hot-day delay tactic of a quiet couple of cups of coffee with Mrs MLCMM, before finally changing into the running togs, placing a fan in front of the treadmill and just getting on with it. Once again the running was pre-programmed and all I had to do was keep putting one foot in front of the other until the machine said I'd done enough. This happened some 90 minutes later, having in the meantime completed an entirely uphill session, with the middle 60 minutes being non-stop running. To my great delight and surprise, it wasn't even brutal. Tough and sweaty, yes, but not especially difficult, and given that up until even just a few months ago I simply wouldn't countenance such a run in these circumstances, it was pleasing in the extreme.

It's strange now to think that already in 2017 I have covered nearly half the distance that I managed in all of 2015, my worst year of running since I took up the sport back in 2003. And while last year wasn't too bad overall, it was hardly an outrageous success, either. The spur of Almeria has been just what I need to kick-start my 2017, and already it's looking like a mighty year of running to come. Whether it's the planets that have aligned themselves, or my biorhythms are in sync, I don't know, but I'm aiming to make the most of it, and thus far, it's all green lights.

And after today's hot, muggy, uphill effort, I don't think even Donald Trump's plan to play the climate change denial card will stop me.

Outta my way, Mr President. I've a mountain to climb.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Meditativeness down under.

Today is our national day, Australia Day, a public holiday of course and also my last chance to squeeze in one more long run before race day in Almeria. I decided to replicate my last long outing of a week ago: three hours in total, with two and half hours of continuous running, and pushing it somewhat above the low heart rate zone I've been concentrating on just to ensure there's some wriggle room should I need to crank the pace a little in Spain. After a long week of night shifts and much running, however, I thought this might be a lot harder than last time, and so it proved. This time it was not so easy, nor as comfortable, but the job was, of course, done.

Interestingly, for the first half hour I listened to a runners' guided meditation that I had found online. Meditation is not something I've ever found easy, but I wondered if it might be useful for long runs. In fact, it didn't really help me much initially, although some of the music was really nice, but as part of the exercise it told me to form a mantra of one or a few positive running words to focus the mind. This I did find helpful later when the run got much tougher. I had chosen "run all day" as my mantra, and repeating this to myself certainly helped overcome the desire to stop during those difficult periods. Whether or not I did this in a true meditative way I don't know, but it certainly helped shift my attention from the discomfort and negativity to seeing a positive, clear way ahead. I don't really understand the process, but hey, it helped.

Once Almeria is run I'll be able to focus more properly on slower running again, concentrating more on time spent on my feet rather than pace or distance, the idea being that these two factors will sort themselves out as I increase the time spent running and lowering my heart rate in doing so. A few more weeks of that, at the sorts of hours I've spent on my feet this month, and who knows what might lie ahead?

Well, I can guess. But one step at a time...

[Antonio247]

Congratulations,MLCMM! You seem to be very fit for Almería half. All your training, sacrifice and effort will produce results in my local half.

Have a safe journey!

Looking forward to meeting you all!

Saludos desde Almería

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Congratulations,MLCMM! You seem to be very fit for Almería half. All your training, sacrifice and effort will produce results in my local half.

Have a safe journey!

Looking forward to meeting you all!

Saludos desde Almería

It's going to be great, Antonio. Just a week to go now!