Here comes summer - the British 10K

[Sweder]

Allegedly. Not much evidence over the past few days here in 'sunny' Sussex. Still, in the spirit of a new season, time to get back into some running.

Having successfully avoided the Seaford Half last weekend (a combination of poor health and lapsed lifestyle meaning I didn't even enter the race), I have signed up for the British 10K. Well, OK, I signed up for it last month, let's not split hairs.

This takes place in Central London on Sunday 3rd July, in the week of the 60th anniversary of VE Day and three days before the announcement by the IOC of the host City for the 2012 Olympics. Pretty exciting times, huh?

London will be decked out in full RW+B finery in recognition and anticipation.
I've been fairly ambivalent towards the Olympic effort, but I confess to a growing sense of excitement as O-Day approaches. I would love to see the Olympics in London; moreover, I would love to see my children experience a 'home' Olympiad. My daughter will be 16 in 2012 and I'd like to think (based on her current enthusiasm for sport and competition) still actively involved in some form of athletics. I can think of no greater inspiration for young athletes.

Of course the jury is far from in, and Paris are in the box seat; but I know we'd do it better. Look at the Athens games; Great Britain drew the largest traveling support of any nation (hosts notwithstanding). We love our sport. It's fair to say we're slow starters - the pollsters claim the Paris bid enjoys an 85% approval rating from Mnsr and Mdme Paris, whilst Londons' numbers hover modestly in the seventies.

That's all well and good, but what the IOC needs to take into account is natural British reticence. A substantial tranche of the populace in this green and pleasant land are reluctant to nail their colours to the mast all the while there's a chance our bid will fall short. There's a little voice in all of us just dying to bleat on about the obscene cost of the bid alone. Imagine! All that money wasted and we didn't even get the damned Games . . .

Well, as popular culture reminds us daily, you gotta be in it to win it, and I for one am pleased as punch that Lord Coe and his impressive band of Olympians are giving it their best shot. Should we prevail in Singapore one month hence just watch those approval ratings climb.

So, the British 10k then. Doing my bit for the 2012 effort?
Not really. I needed a race and 10K sounds pretty short and 'do-able', so I'm in. Hats off to Peterward who drew this race to my attention; we'll certainly meet up for a glass or two of medicinal recovery juice.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 7pm
Distance: appx 4 miles
Duration: 33 minutes
Terrain: off-road/ downland
Conditions: warm, dry, lovely

I wasn't looking forward to this, but it's time to get back on that horse - oh, you know what I mean. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned: it's been two weeks since my last run.

Two weeks. Blimey. There are mitigating circumstances - like Andy I drank heavily from the barrel of end-of-term football, accompanied as ever by Guinness and other fine ales. I also achieved a fairly decent result over 26.2 miles 6 weeks ago . . . frankly these excuses all seem fairly pathetic when committed to the published page. Time to move on.

So how was it tonight? It was OK, it was alright. I was fat, sluggish, had trouble getting into a rhythm, breathing all over the place, got far too hot in no time and generally felt crappy most of the way. Good, it's no less than I deserve. I had vague notions of scaling Black Cap but they faded like East Anglian playoff hopes as I climbed the downland slopes on the outward leg. I glanced to the south west. The Big W leered from across the A27, contempt shimmering off the chalk tracks that scar the steep green slopes. I blushed - well, actually I was pretty much Sweder Thermidore by this point as I struggled to suck O2 into my startled lungs.

I stopped half a mile short of Black Cap. This sounds like I ran most of the circuit, and of course in mileage terms this is true; but the final 800 metres is pure climb and by far the toughest section of the route, so I was taking it pretty easy.

I chugged back to the house in a shade over 33 minutes, happy to have got any miles under my expanded belt. Several hours later I feel pretty good, resolved to shake off this feeling of sloth that has wrapped around me like one of Mottie's old sheepskins this past fortnight.

Oh Sweder-boy, the slopes, the slopes are callin' . . .

[El Gordo]

Yeah, I've had several of these "back to work" runs over the past few weeks, including one tonight.

The secret of course, is to get 3 or 4 under your belt in successive days, or near-successive days. This seems to blow the worst feelings of unfitness out of the system.

[Sweder]

Sadly the chances of getting even one run under my (rapidly expanding) belt are, ironically, slim to none. Antwerp is yet another delightful playground for the weak of will and the thirsty. Guinness jostles for position as top brew with the impressive Duvel; the cobbled, tree lined streets with thier Rubenesque sculpted rooftops and fascias are blessed with a plethora of fine drinking establishments, matched handsomely with equally good eateries.

I'm developing new layers of blubber by the day, and loving every moment!
Back to my Brighton hills on Sunday, honest.

___________________
Sweder, Hillside Porker

[Peterward2]

On the subject of beer while in Antwerp as well as Duvel:

Golden Draak (Gold Dragon, 13.5%) - Nice but only once!
Burgogne Des Flandres - Caramelly and nice and smooth.
Rodenbach - Just nice on draught and in a bottle
Hoegaarden/Rodenbach Grand Cru - Mmmmmm
DeKonick on draught - light and hoppy

Then you could try a nice fruit beer and then move on to some of the trappist beers or the local brew (that escapes me).

I love Belgian beer. Best in the world and there are literally hundreds. Westmalle also good (try the 8 not the 10).

Was doing an English Civil War do in Ostend and found a bar that did over 140 beers and in the sake of research and as we were there for four days we tried quiet a few of them. Fruit beers like banana are cool. I am not such a fan of those beers (Frambosen). But banana and pineapple are worth a look. The guy at our bar made sure each beer came in its own glass. A pleasant way to spend an evening, then walk into the air and feel your legs give way :-).

Pete

[Sweder]

It's taken a while for me to stray from the Dark side - I can't see me indulging in fruit beer (?) anytime soon . . .

Speaking of indulging, my colleague raised the subjet last night. I questioned his lack of willpower - if he wants to avoid sore heads, just lay off for a bit.

'Willppower? I've got boat-loads of willpower' he groaned.
'It's won't power I ain't got'.

As another long and fun-packed night around the Grote Market looms, I'm still searching for my own stash of won't power.

[Peterward2]

Know that feeling only too well. I've also plenty of will power. I have a stag do at the Kingston Beer Fest a week Saturday. Will be messy. Messy enough for me to change my training week to start from the long and down to a short crawl the day after the night before. Already talk of perrys etc being drunk. I have only had drinks in two weeks out of six. So am justifiably worried.

do try Burgogne de Flandres its a dark beer a bit bitter and burnt tasting but nice.Closest the belgians get to stout!!!

Pete

[Sweder]

The Sunday Mariners have re-formed post FLM.
I got an e-mail from Nigel whilst I was in Belgium last week saying that Terry, Remy and Jill had joined him to re-launch Sunday morning Snake action.

I have woken to a blistering day, Fathers' Day.
I am fat, slothful, lured by the Sirens of ODI Aussie-bating and US OPen Golf action. A mound of paperwork requires diligence. I have not run so much as a yard for nearly two weeks.

I have donned my gear, filled my water bottle, and now it's time to depart.
Trepidation. That's the word.

[El Gordo]

Wonder if we'll ever hear from Sweder again? Sounds like a bit of a suicide mission in this heat.

Anyway, I'm going on one myself in a few moments, though I've been even more stupid, and waited till the midday sun. Hark, the mad dogs await me.

Farewell all....

Andy

[El Gordo]

It hasn't happened yet, and I can sense myself moving into cop-out mode.

[Sweder]

I'm sorry to say, Dear Reader, that the story you are about to read is extremely unpleasant. It tells the unhappy tale about a most unfortunate individual who had delusions of ability beyond his physical reach . . .

So might begin the latest Lemony Snicket tome, had the teller of sorry tales been privy to my morning efforts. I’d ‘ummed’ and ‘arred’ about the wisdom of tackling a Sunday morning lope following what was in truth a fairly debauched week in Antwerp. Finally, spurred on my the sight of my daughter heading off in the early hours for a big dance comp I decided to go for it.

Brighton Marina basked in fabulous morning sunshine as I met up with Remy, Nigel, Jill and Terry. The merest hint of a breeze provided respite from the glaring sun as we debated routes and distances. I said I’d have to see how things went, harboring secret hopes of meeting my old friend the snake, albeit on more leisurely terms, on a gentle 12 mile lope.

Three miles in I felt comfortable, if a little heavier than my last outing. Our pace was indeed modest, yet we averaged sub-10 minute miles into the cooling draught of the sea breeze. Inland and up Telscombe tye, the three-quarter mile climb, and I set my pace at the front, chugging easily up the dusty slopes. Our Bovine gallery flicked tails in greeting, unmoved by these odd bipeds puffing through their gathering. Nigel and Jill had slipped back, so Remy, Terry and I took a breather behind the small church. Once again the landscape took our collective breath away. Sunlight sparkled on a calm ocean, the flotilla of dinghys and small yachts bright white flecks against the blue. Tall grasses swayed lazily, the silver seed-heads bobbing on straw-pale stems.

Rejoined, our band of five headed west, the easterly zephyr undetectable at our backs. I chugged a few mouthfuls of Lucozade HydroActive, conscious that hydration would be imperative to survival this morning. Jill and Nigel announced that they would cut the run short, detouring through the Telscombe residences for a total loop of 9 miles. I thought about joining them, but feeling good with plenty of fuel to hand elected to push on with Remy and Terry. The temperature rose quickly as the light wind at our backs failed to cool us. I felt a good deal less comfortable.

As Jill and Nigel disappeared down the slopes towards the town we pushed on across the downlands. Thousands of scarlet poppies waved as we jogged, skylarks twittering and darting in and out of the grass. 6 miles in we approached a familiar landmark. The dusty trail, set along the edge of farmland, plummets at a perilous pace for 200 metres, only to climb immediately another 100 where the trail meets a more substantial track. I let my bodyweight build the momentum as I focused on the ground rushing up to meet me. One ill-placed foot here and it’s a long hobble back to any sort of road.

At the junction of trail and stony path we stopped again to take on fluids. Another self-assessment revealed nothing untoward. Terry started us off again, and I immediately struggled to keep pace. Confused, I tried to relax and let the road rise to meet my steady pace, but to no avail; I was running out of gas.

I considered something then that I’m none too proud of. I needed a longer breather, and the idea of appearing feeble and asking for more rest did not appeal. So the idea of a feigned injury – a twisted ankle, a sore knee – flashed across my mind. Almost as swiftly I dismissed the notion, horrified; feigning injury to gain a rest was akin to moving your ball to a better lie in golf; cheating. I slowed to walking pace without a sound, watching as my companions moved easily away. At the next gate they waited, despite my dismissive wave.

‘I’m going to walk for a bit’ I panted. ‘You guys go on’. They nodded and pressed on into the foothills of the snake. I sauntered along, still unsure of what was wrong. The gentle incline caused me to puff and pant, and I accepted that a more concerted rest was needed. At the start of the Snake proper I embraced the shade of a small tree, sitting down slowly and finally stretched out on my back. I sucked slowly at the hot air, a landed carp seeking oxygen. Finally my heart-rate slowed and I thought things through. There was nothing to be gained by pushing on, so I stood up, stretched, and began the long walk up the Snake. I sipped gently at my drink, calculating that I had enough shrapnel in my drinks belt to purchase more at the shops in Woodingdean.

I tried a gentle lope half way up the ascent, managing an honest pace for around 10 minutes. Back in the full glare of the sun I felt my regained strength begin to wane once more, and returned to strolling mode. Using a combination of walk/run/walk/run I covered the final 4 miles in just about an hour, picking up more fluids and a Mars bar en route.

In hindsight I’m sure the heat played a part, less so perhaps than a week of late nights, heavy meals and large amounts of beer. That and the lack of mid-week runs (or any runs in the past two weeks).

Still, some lessons learned, 12 miles covered (8 run, 4 walk/run) in 2 hours 40 minutes. Time to settle down and hope our boys can bring some cheer by continuing Australia’s miserable tour. Where’s MLCMan when you need him?

[Seafront Plodder]

Man that's sheer madness!! 12 miles in this heat? You need your 'ead seeing to.

[El Gordo]

Sweder, you've broken so many rules of the running road there that I think you should just be glad that you're still alive and uninjured.

That said, well done for grasping the nettle and getting out there. Let's hope it doesn't put you off. But 'little and often' for the first 2 or 3 weeks, please.

Me? I never made it. High noon came and went, and the scorching heat kept me saying: later, later....

In the end, around 7pm, when it was still unbearably hot and humid, I just went to the pub instead.

Life's like that sometimes.

[Sweder]

I should've checked the schedules.
Not the weather forecast, you understand, but the televised sports schedules. Had I done so I'd have saved my long run for today, the first day of Wimbledon 05, where, true to form, the covers are on as the rainclouds gather to greet the players. Like clockwork, as Mr Geldof once wrote.

Feeling a lot less sorry for myself today. Bouyed by Pieterson's Herculean efforts at Bristol yesterday and the sight of Gillespie, a world-class frontline bowler, cricking his neck to watch another on-the-spot delivery dissapear over the sight screen and into the car park. Pure magic.

[Sweder]

Distance: a tad over 4 miles
Terrain: offroad/ hilly
Time of day: 9pm
Conditions: Fabulous

Following my foolhardy outing on Sunday morning I elected to 'rest up' during the early part of this week. Finally, after a day trudging from meeting to meeting in central London, my shirt soaked, suit dampened with sweat, I'd had enough. I left home this monring at just after 6 am, returning a good 5 years older at just after 8.30 pm. Time to run.

I plugged in the headphones and tuned in to FiveLive at Wimbledon. 'Our' Greg (he's not now and never will be 'my' Greg) was manfully trading exocets with a Swedish gent (apparently ranked 11th). I know little about professional tennis (or any other sort of tennis really), as I'm sure SP will verify; however, I know that this particular brand of the sport is so very much like mid-season basketball; watch the start, catch the last 5 minutes, and do something worthwhile (like watching paint dry) in the three hours in between.

Rusedski seemed to realise that he was boring the pants of the nation, and contrived to stumble a la Tim. His heroic comeback fell flat as the unsportsmanlike, far superior Scando blasted him off the court. All the while (well, for half an hour or so) this 'drama' unfolded in my ears as I plodded sedately over the downs towards Black Cap.

'Get back on the horse' is as over-used a cliché as you could wish for, yet it was this thought that drove me out into the rapidly cooling evening. Legs heavy and lifeless, lungs most put out at the urgent demands for O2, I plodded on, covering just over 4 miles. Sulking whilst running is not a well-known sport, but tonight I gave it a darned good shot. I was crap - again - sluggish, heavy, slow . . . but in the last mile as I headed for home through the sheep fields above the town, I felt a hint of form return. My breathing eased to a light wheeze, the serious complaint in my knees and ankles faded to a polite murmur; I was taking in the (stunning) views (always a good sign).

So, a step (or two) back on the road to supreme fitness.
Or at least, in preparation for the British 10K.

[Sweder]

Sunday 3rd July
London
10 K
Time: 52:55
Conditions: weather: warm Sweder: fat and unfit

I could hardly believe it. For the second time in less than 6 months one of the world's finest athletes would once again line up alongside Haile Gebrselassie. Ha.

My running number, received in another lifetime when I was high on the FLM and (relatively) fit as a flea, seemed to hint this would be a well-subscribed event; 22455. Of course this can be misleading. Some races only allocate one number in 5 to give the impression of a larger race. Not so the British 10K – there were in excess of 22,000 people lining up for this one.

The official start is located at the east end of Piccadilly (right outside the Hard Rock Cafe), with a pre-assembly point near St James' Palace. The idea was to assemble most of the runners a quarter mile away and escort them along Piccadilly to the start.

Sod that. I was desperate to release a little of the excess fluid imbibed both this morning in a belated effort to hydrate and last night in an equally determined assault on Newhavens' supply of Guinness. I dodged the faithful and slipped into Green Park, seeking a quiet spot to conclude my business. This was impossible, as any number of people wandered in all corners. I finally bit the bullet and wedged myself up against a large tree, just the park side of the hedge bordering Piccadilly. Aware that others were strolling not 15 metres from me, I endeavored to pee whilst keeping any potentially offensive flesh hidden from view. The result, dear reader, was indeed tragic. I succeeded in not flashing any number of Japanese tourists and American children. Sadly the right leg of my running shorts did not fare so well, for I had doused it liberally in urine.

Resplendent in my new two-tone shorts, which seemed to attract the attention of every (and I mean every) female passer-by, I strode manfully toward the start. The riff-raff (non-elite) remained in an east-bound queue whilst the great and the good gathered on the doorstep of the Hard Rock. Haile said a few words via the (impressive) PA along the lines of London will win the 2012 Olympics (so best cancel all that nonsense in Singapore on Wednesday - the Great man has spoken). The crowd then offered warm and unanimous welcome to our honorary starter, Michael Watson, former boxer and current champion of the world on so many more important levels.

Watsons' presence added spice to the already charged atmosphere. A mere 500 yards away the huge stage and tented VIP village that had hosted the finest gig the world has ever seen (did you see Pink Floyd? Unbelievable!) awaited the dismantle crew. Not 10 hours after Sir Paul had bid us take the Long and Winding Road to Edinburgh the operation to remove all physical evidence of this marvelous event was in full swing. Smoky tendrils of Live 8 Love lingered in the air like the scent of recently departed lover. All too soon, with almost indecent haste, the phenomenal gathering of last night had been replaced by 25,000 runners. And so it goes.

And to the off, 09:35, a blaring recorded rendition of the National Anthem (all verses) and the elite were away, scampering back down Piccadilly into the arms of the waiting Eros. ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ boomed out as I passed the start (09:38) and I realised with no small pleasure that I had usurped the majority of the riff-raff – only three and a half minutes behind Haile! I loped easily amongst the hoards, grinning inanely at the legions of waiting runners stretching all the way back to the Ritz and beyond.

We banked right into St James’s, the stirring chords fading behind us as we swooped on towards the embankment. How funny to be running this particular stretch, albeit in the opposite direction, with a full tank of gas. Not 2 months ago I dragged my failing carcass through these very streets, 23 grueling miles behind me, desperately seeking the Mall and the sanctuary of Horse Guards’ Parade.

Along the embankment, modest (in comparison to the Big One) yet welcome crowds cheered lustily. I marveled at the number of walkers (on the route) at this early (3K) stage. OK, there’s bound to be those who will walk-run a 10K, but why head for the front of a half-mile starting line-up? Sweder-watchers will recall my gripes about this in previous posts, so I’ll stop whining. I’m planning to carry a Tazer next time to clear a path, so it's a non-issue.

The Great Gebrselassie, in a ruthless repeat of the Almeria Half, sped by in the opposite direction. 24 minutes in and he was into his last 2K. I greeting him with a cheery wave and a toothy grin, certain he would remember me from that Spanish trail. Ha. 2 for 2, Haile old son; I’ll get you next time.

Our circuit continued through the embankment tunnel, did some loops and windy stuff and before we knew it we were at 5K and headed back toward Westminster. By this stage the euphoria of the start had left my legs and my breathing, hampered by an alarming number of roll-ups over recent weeks, laboured as that of a man 10 years my senior. Hmm, best slow down a tad. By this stage the wheat had been well and truly sorted from the chaff. As I eased my foot off the pedal I was swallowed by the chasing pack. I smiled to myself, resigned to the fate my lack of training and physical neglect in recent weeks deserved. I eased through 6, 7 and 8 Ks at a comfortable pace, enjoying the sight of some truly remarkable lycra-clad bottoms moving smoothly past. To parliament, and a left turn onto Westminster bridge. The on-rushing human traffic to our right suggested we would soon do a ‘U-ey’ and return across the river, and so it proved.

Past the Two Houses, another right-handed reverse and . . . back onto the embankment. This is getting a little tiresome . . . until a left turn towards Waterloo Place, our early morning bag-drop location, the run for home. As we entered what I assumed was the final straight (until I spied the finish on the opposite side of the road, which, yes, meant another U-turn any time now . . .), my ears caught a familiar refrain, growing in volume as we approached the large speakers that lined the final 500 meters: Vangellis – Chariots of Fire! At the same moment I spied another recent addition to the street furniture . . . a full sized replica (or was it the real thing?) Spitfire in full WWII battledress, nose cocked proudly above our bobbing heads. All this under blue skies laced with wispy white clouds – pure Battle of Britain stuff - Huzzah!

It’s sad to admit but one can’t help one’s natural response: I straightened my back, puffed out my chest and ran to the finish, head thrown back, grinning like a loon and loving every mad, jingoistic, Rule Britannia minute of it.

However good or bad 52:55 (calculated time) is for 10K, as this was a first outing over the distance it’s officially a PB, so I’m happy. My problems begin next week as I calculate the weeks left before the Jog Shop Jog and realise just how high my personal fitness mountain is going to be.

[El Gordo]

Hey Sweder, well done. I hadn't realised this race was today. Wonder how Peter got on?

Great report, thanks. I must admit this isn't a race that's ever appealed to me, partly because 2 or 3 years ago it was beset with organisational difficulties and had a lot of bad publicity on the Runner's World forums, and partly because of the size of the field. You did the right thing by getting away reasonably close to the start. I'm told that if you're at the back you never really get a clear run, I suppose because a 10K just doesn't last long enough to stretch the field out.

But well done on a decent time. It's still 9 minutes faster than I got yesterday in the Dorney Dash 10K (report in progress).

[Sweder]

Vanity knows no bounds, so when the organisers of the British 10K offered me the chance to spend a fairly large sum of money on three mediocre photos of me plodding around the streets of London last June, I leapt at the chance.

Here's the best of them.

[El Gordo]

Oh, what wouldn't I give for a race photo of me that looks like I'm actually *running*.

[Sweder]

Get yourself Adobe Photoshop - I did!







(just kidding).