February

[marathondan]

All fairly tickety-boo here; not much blogworthy drama going on. The month kicked off with the customary short fartlek, then an unconventional (for me) 6 am, 6 mile tempo session. Sunday night saw a long slow run about 50m shy of the half marathon, by my online measurements.

I tend to avoid early morning runs, having settled into a late night routine. I'm normally up at 5.30 anyway, so that doesn't leave much time for running, and I'm convinced that the rest / elevation benefits of running directly before bedtime are great. I made it round with the minimal of mental duress, but I noted that the total time was only 2 minutes quicker than when I ran the route back in November, at a supposedly easy pace. I need to remain focussed during the shorter tempo and fartlek sessions, to extract maximum quality from them. There's no place for junk miles in the less-is-more programme.

The almost-half-marathon was equally satisfactory. My post-Christmas cold has lingered on for a month or more, so I avoided the ski mask et al; it would just have been too unpleasant. Slipping into the zone on dark and lonely streets, at a time when otherwise I'd be curled up with a book or heading for an early night to prepare for the week ahead, my battery of Radio 4 podcasts took me into an almost meditative state. From first-hand accounts of the daily struggle to live in places like Nicaragua and Yemen, to pioneering new approaches to cancer treatment, to contrasting the respective impacts of Presidents Obama and Lyndon B. Johnson, to speculating on the possibility of extra-terrestrial intelligence, our complex and confusing world was laid out before my ears, and my mind was sent spinning.

But the miles were clocking up, home was drawing near, and saving the world would have wait for another day (how convenient). With a couple of miles to go, I flicked over to a selection of 80s hits to see me home. Katrina and the Waves fuelled a sprint finish up the home straight in inimitable fashion (the choice of song somewhat ironic given the lateness of the hour), but it was Michael Stipe's plaintive cries (does he have any other style?) which seemed to best capture the lonely reflections of the long-distance plodder:

This one goes out to the one I love
This one goes out to the one I've left behind
A simple prop to occupy my time
This one goes out to the one I love

I came in comfortably under the 2 hour mark (1 minute faster than last year, consistency fans). There were a few back twinges, but not as noticeable as last week. My spreadsheet tells me that the 500 mile light has come on on my current Asics, so I guess it's time to get the next pair down from the loft. Seems such a waste. I think the project for summer '10 might be to try and remodel my gait, and join the growing band of flat-fans. But there's the small matter of a marathon before that.

Step-back this weekend - 10 miles. Nice.