Feb-bluary 2012

[Sweder]

Step back or set back? I'm not sure yet.

Whatever label you want to apply to this morning's aborted seafront run and the subsequent painful flog to Ditchling and back it didn't/ doesn't feel great. It might have been Sam Snead who said 'to quit between tee and green is more habit-forming than drinking a highball before breakfast'. OK so I'm still on the wagon but I know what he means; giving up quickly becomes a habit. Half the battle we face when we 'don't fancy it' is getting out the door. I'd spent much of my week worrying about tightening legs, pounding them around the town on Thursday night, dragging them over an extremely hilly golf course on Friday and pushing them as hard as I could at Hove ParkRun. I'd built a handy catalogue of excuses to wave at my conscience should I choose to pull the plug.

I got up, completed my pre-run rituals - wash, brush teeth, scoff breakfast, feed dogs, brew strong coffee, prep water bottle, pack snack, grab clean t-shirt - but the usual thrum of anticipation just didn't materialise. I drove to Brighton, pulling up opposite the marina as a much-reduced group (due to today's Brighton Half Marathon) set off. I sat and watched them go, put the car into gear and drove home.

I'd planned to run a 'shorter long run' (oxymoron? probably) last Sunday but ended up adding four miles. Today was to be the step-back session, a 12.5 mile snake run and no more. Now it would be even shorter, a ten mile slog across the downs from home to Ditchling Beacon and back. The dogs were thrilled as this meant they could come with me. An hour later I watched them trotting some way behind, heads down, tongues lolling, a mirror to their master. Not such a great idea now, eh?

We were treated to a glorious Sussex morning, all radiant sunshine and high, puffy white clouds. Skylarks frolicked above the battlefields, tiny Kamikazes swooping into the thick clumps of tough grass. Moody, Bieber-haired cattle munched silently, offering no more than a cursory glance as we plodded by. We passed plenty of fellow downlanders, walkers, cyclists and other runners, most clad in bright colours, wrapped up against a surprisingly cold westerly wind. I'd gone for shorts and favourite Two Oceans shirt but even the bite of cruel cold on bare flesh failed to fire my rockets. I'd not really expected that feeling of euphoria that can sometimes show up on a reluctant run yet I was disappointed when it didn't arrive. There was a resurgence of sorts as I turned for home, rough wind bullying me across the slippery slopes, mud splashing my calves as I rumbled through ice-laced puddles. Despite dipping under eight-minute mile pace for a while I felt lethargic, devoid of energy. Finishing was a blessed relief, my glutes, hamstrings, quads, knees and hips forming an ugly choir to wail their discontent. The pleasure I took from my hot shower felt fraudulent, un-earned. Yet I'd got out there, banked some miles, albeit shame that shoved me through that door.

Ten miles in around 90 minutes. Good miles on a bad running day.