If not fear then at least apprehension lurked menacingly before this morning’s constitutional. A brace of restorative midweek plods had massaged my confidence, but I’m still painfully mindful that the rebuilding process after a marathon is by necessity a long and steady one.
I’ve played a bit of golf lately; a couple of rounds in Houston and one last Friday at the exquisite Knole Park near Sevenoaks. Knole Park is a National Trust site, home to some 700 deer (indigenous fallow and latterly the darker, stockier Japanese Sika) who roam unrestricted across the property. It’s one of the few courses that retains the ‘preferred lies’ rule in the warmer months. This is to compensate for some unusual hazards; hoof prints pepper the greens whilst ubiquitous deer droppings add texture and fragrance to the fairways. For all that the place has a wonderful, timeless charm. It was, as Wallace would say, a grand day out.
I’ve never found golf lessons terribly helpful. Most pro's seem hell-bent on deconstructing the cumbersome collection of movements I’ve strung together over the years in an effort to build a swing of beauty. This is pointless as I’m likely to play a few times only to leave the game for months, returning once more to ‘find my game’ anew. My customary ungainly slashing at the ball has served me well and I’ll not give it up for the sake of aesthetics. Of much greater help is to delve into my priceless collection of adages and teachings, many dictated in his dotage by the incomparable (and, sadly, late) Harvey Pennick. A half hour's contemplation with Mr Pennick can get my head back in the game.
Of equal comfort in these times of struggle is Randy Voorhees’ ‘
As Hogan Said . . . The 389 Best Things Ever Said About How To Play Golf.’ This well-thumbed tome offers pearls of wisdom from the great and the good from Hogan, Bobby Jones and other fine exponents of the game. One such morsel got me thinking about running, and this was in my mind today as I set off with Chris, Ade and Steve along the Sussex cliff-tops under slate-grey skies into a boisterous headwind. The quote is from Annette Thompson and is perfect for anyone guilty of putting themselves under unfair or unnecessary pressure.
‘
There’s a Japanese phrase I like to use that says
“A bridge was not built to take its life’s load all in one day.”
What we often try to do is pack the needs of a whole round into a very small set of circumstances. “On this hole maybe I can . . . I really need a . . .Next hole I gotta . . . “
I need-a, I gotta . . . well, the Needas and Gottas can’t play golf. They self-destruct.
Remember this:
A single bridge. A moment’s load. Here and now.’
I thought this through on the climbs above Rottingdean and Saltdean. I really don’t need to push things just now – I simply have to get some hilly miles banked and come through unscathed. This is one step on a gradual return to distance running. Happily the lads revealed that last weeks’ plod over the same 11 mile circuit had been at a brutal pace. The consensus was today to take things a little easier and enjoy it - suits me sir!
The ‘famous residences’ handle refers to a section at around mile six or seven where we leave the downs behind Telscombe and run through the built-up area between the village and Rottingdean. One of the original Ultra runners (of the Sam Lambourne/ Lycra Tony era) named the circuit. Why the
famous residences? he was asked. 'Coz I live there'. The streets run flat for a while before a harsh concrete climb back to the top of the downs, the road rising to meet you as your hamstrings tighten and, in my case, your groin squeaks in protest.
From the summit we returned to the downland trail, running easily into Rottingdean, past the duck pond and through the allotments to the foot of Windmill hill. This very short but no less brutal climb has many a runner walking from half way up; not today.
‘We’ll Mountain Goat it today lads’ offered Chris. With that we four proceeded to ‘bounce' up the rutted track, heels never touching the floor as our hamstrings and calves worked double-time to launch us onwards and upwards. A breathless recovery lasted too few seconds and we pushed on across the top, the pitch 'n' putt course to our left, St Dunstans dead ahead. Down the steep descent behind the modern building, Chris and Steve running full tilt, Ade and I a good deal more circumspect. By the time we reached the tunnel under the main road that leads back to the cliff-tops the gap was over 200 metres. I hung on, determined not to push too hard but not wanting to fall any further behind. I ran on breaths; that is, I let the rhythm of my breathing dictate my maximum pace. I suspect this is similar to Andy’s HR training (without the technological confirmation) and it worked; I recovered sufficiently to be able to step up the pace gradually over the last two miles, reeling in the leaders 500 metres before the finish.
Breathing hard, considerably more damp than my comrades, I nonetheless felt happy with my work. 'Shows you had something in the tank' offered Chris, looking horribly fit and fully recovered. 11 hilly miles in around 1:45 – Seaford Half could yet be within my compass, albeit only 3 weeks away.
Later, over coffee in Mac’s café, Chris and I discussed the recovery time needed after a marathon. Some reckon you need a day off for every mile run; others plough straight back into their routine. My own view is you’re susceptible to injury and illness having put your body through such a rare and extraordinary experience, so it’s best to take things easy if you can. I feel I've got my rate of return more or less right, given the interruptions of work and all that.
With that in mind I head for home and a leisurely lunch in front of the sofa before boarding another 'plane, this time Glasgow-bound for the Fishing show. Runners safely packed, of course
May . . . the farce be with you . . .
