(17-12-2009, 10:16 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: Better put on a growth spurt mate - you've got a <2 hour half marathon to run in a few weeks!
Actually that won't make much difference.
Apart from Paris in 2006 & TOM in 2007 when I 'slimmed down' to 13 stone 6 I've been 190 - 200 lbs for most of my races.
Sub 2 hour in Almeria is, injuries notwithstanding, assured. There's something to said for the might of momentum!
Speaking of injuries, no golf for me this morning - or running come to that. We have 6 inches of delightfully fluffy snow covering everything; even I'm not dumb enough to strap my runners on in this lot. It'll be a major achievement just to get to the pub, though I have a feeling we'll make it.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(17-12-2009, 12:28 PM)Sweder Wrote: An arbritrary post-run visit to the bathroom scales revealed a rater less pleasing, much bigger number; 200.8 lbs, or 14 stone 5 in old currency.
What's that in new currency? Oh don't worry, I'll work it out ... [taps unconvincingly at calculator] ... let's see now, hmm... 200.8, oh let's call it 201 ... multiplied by, um, 0.45 ... equals ... oh, gosh! That many kilos?!
...Er, how tall are you exactly?
200.8 would suit me very nicely at the moment. I was about 7 pounds north of that last week, though after my gluttonous week, this has now risen by another 6.
Oh, and one other thing. I'm afraid, Sweder, that weighing yourself after a run is never a good idea as you would easily lose a couple of pounds in sweat. Uugh. Not a nice thought. First thing in the morning is best. Before breakfast.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
We come from the land of the ice and snow,
From the midnight sun where the hot springs blow.
Temperatures below zero, hills smothered in hard, crisp snow and the sour residue of a monstrous night out with the Mighty Plodder clinging to my digestive tract.
There was nothing for it but to venture out for a gutsy run in the East Brighton hills.
Our ranks were understandably depleted on this beautiful Sunday morning. Just eleven hardy souls (including Lycra Tony and bike-mounted Sam) shivered in a wind-chill I'm going to say was about minus ten. With a pre-departure reading of minus three I donned three layers; a long-sleeved body-top, one of those new-fangled torso huggers replete with optimistically sculpted muscle-enhancers. My enhancers were stretched to dimensions unintended by the clever designers as they struggled to contain my Guinness -and-curry-bolstered bulk. Next my ever-present Running Commentary technical shirt, still mysteriously bobble-free, and on top an old, thin Adidas wind-cheater zipped up to the neck. I doubled up on socks; Thurlos beneath my old ref's black knee-length football stockings, all tightly wrapped in my tattered Lycra leggings. I forced an Almeria open-ended head-wrap over my ears before completing my armament with gloves. And still it felt like taking on a savage beast with a stick of rhubarb.
I'd pre-determined that this would be a Snake run, around twelve and a quarter miles. Two minutes in I pondered the wisdom of this wildly confident premeditation. Running on the grass was relatively simple; the crusty ice-snow skin yielding to my heavy tread offering just enough grip for assured forward motion. Any foray onto the pavements, coated in the most beautifully random, highly-polished glass, produced a bizarre series of arm-waggles, dislocating shoulder spins and jerking leg movements not out of place in a Mr Bean special. Keep on the grass was my thought for the day.
Despite the inherent dangers of running on ice in a stiff, cruel wind we soldiered on. Some of the newbies truncated their session, the scheduled eleven mile Famous Residencies route being mostly paved and therefore potentially lethal. Four of the Quicks, including the waif-like Natalie and a rather sweaty, late-arriving (really? Surely not!) yet grinning Chris ‘Austin Powers’ Mallinson, hared off to meet the Serpent. There's no way I can keep pace with them so I lingered at the three-mile rendezvous to see if anyone fancied a more leisurely assault on the route. Happily there were two takers; Cecelia and Jack. I'd not run with either before, but having seen them moving easily over the early miles I knew they'd have no trouble keeping up; if anything I'd be likely to slow them down. In these tricky conditions that was perhaps not such a bad thing.
Running on the downland trails was quite an experience. In places the snow had been trampled to a rock-hard icy coat; treacherous at the most compacted sections, passable wherever a light dusting of snow offered a hint of grip. Several stretches had been devoured by greedy snow-drifts. The random mini-cave foot-holes of our predecessors revealed the depth of the snow - knee-deep in places - yet as every high-kicking step met, broke the surface and plunged into the frozen deep I wondered if one of these might yield completely to send me plunging into some hitherto unknown chasm. The experience brought to mind that wonderful book (also a compelling docu-drama)Touching the Void, Joe Simpson’s harrowing account of his nightmare shared with Simon Yates in the Peruvian Andes. In the unlikely event that you've not encountered this story I urge you to do so without delay.
The Snake proved challenging but less impassable than when heavy rain turns the path into a mud-slide, making every second footstep a sideways lunge. It was tough enough; the wind howling out of the north ripping reluctant tears from my eyes, the warm fluid drying cold on my pink cheeks. Blessed relief came as the winding ascent turned us westward, out of the headwind. My lungs burned as I gulped frozen air at every other step and I endured an impressive coughing fit at the summit, bent over the 5-bar gate as my ravaged pipes protested loudly.
I eschewed the wine gums today, relying on a smidgeon of Robinsons Apple & Blackcurrant mixed with my drinking water for added sustenance. The last couple of miles, despite being mostly downhill, proved tougher than usual, my hips and thighs aching with every carefully mapped, heavier-than’s-good-for-me step. Cecilia and Jack coped admirably, the former on her first visit to Ole Snakey.
‘It’ll get easier’ I promised, leant against my car, steam pluming from my back as frozen sausage-fingers fumbled for my keys.
‘Wasn’t too bad’ she grinned, jogging off towards the marina. ‘Merry Christmas!’
Brighton marathon will be a doddle for her come April. Merry Christmas indeed.
Round in 2 hours 10, 8 minutes longer than last week. Wholly acceptable given our caution along the route; my advanced scanning software was cranked to the max all the way, seeking that potential ankle-snapper. The double-sock-age worked like a charm. My shoes were soaked, yet my feet remained warm; that is to say I could still feel my toes without squeezing them. I may need new gloves though; this pair, comfy enough, have developed holes that today left my fingers tingling on the edge of numb. That was soon put right thanks to a stinging hot shower followed by an hour in front of our wood-burning stove, steaming cup of coffee clasped in my steadily-thawing mits. Bliss.
And when I get home cold and tired,
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Typically evocative report, and a great effort. Makes my own capitulation to the weather seem even more pitiful. I have a mild excuse, that the pavements are ultra treacherous round here, but if I was determined enough I could probably have made it the mile to the canal towpath where the trail underfoot would probably have been less icy. Must try to get out tomorrow.
Hope we've all pencilled in a Christmas Day run. One of my favourite outings of the year.
Edit -- and another endorsement for the great Touching The Void. One of my favourite books/movies. I met Joe Simpson once. Have I mentioned this? I asked him to roll up his trouser leg so that I could touch his knee. Anyone who doesn't know the story will think that's a very weird thing to ask someone. But anyway, he chuckled, and did it. It's a great knee to have grasped. One of the most interesting in the world, I'd say.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(20-12-2009, 09:22 PM)Mid Life Crisis Man Wrote: Good run Sweder! Frankly I'm amazed you didn't break, tear or strain something running in those conditions. Well done.
Re Touching The Void, yep, read the book, seen the movie, heard Joe Simpson tell his story at a seminar - bloody amazing. Terrifyingly amazing.
EG, I'm up for a Christmas Day run, (provided we don't do our usual trick of wrapping presents until 2 in the morning) ... should be a hoot.
Simpson describes Australia as his favourite holiday destination, calling it "God's own country". He must have taken a good knock to the head in that fall.
Excellent news re Xmas Day run. I'm at the relatives in Warminster for the early part of the day, and plan to get out for a good 4 or 5 miles if possible. If logistics were slightly kinder, I would have made it over to Basingstoke for the 5K parkrun which a bunch of volunteers are admirably organising for Christmas Day.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Well, you can't tear up the record books every time you go out.
Or, to put it another way, that was a pretty lack-lustre effort. 5 chilly, hilly miles to Blackcap and back. Not really a recovery run - it's been 2 days since my long run - but it kinda felt like one, all stiff-legged and sluggish. By the time I'd thought of invoking Dan's rule about mixing things up I'd hit the final ascent on the outward stretch, my mind as muddled as the slush-snow cocktail coating the hills.
I can't blame Yuletide festivities for my sloth. Southern trains conspired with Jadis, Narnian conditions reducing transport options into London to sideshow freakery. That put the kaibosh on a fabulous tear-up in Islington last night where Totally Tidy Tours hosted their annual all-night debauch, and tonight on my cherished appearance at the very last (and, tonight, public) broadcast of Richard Bacon's 5Live late-night show. The thought of getting stranded in the wee small hours in the middle of a sub-zero London, to use the vernacular, left me cold.
No, it's just one of those (hopefully) temporary dips in form that plague us all. It wasn't even dreadfully slow, just lacked any kind of bounce or spark. Chugging home, the picturebook town of Lewes languishing in the snow-speckled Ouse valley, steam-train clouds billowing along the coast edged with smudged purple bruises, a faint crescent moon hung high in the cold blue sky overhead, I sighed wearily as I dodged the hundredth half-melted mud puddle. This really was a most beautiful day. I'm truly grateful for the chance to get out in it, whatever my running condition.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(22-12-2009, 06:19 PM)Sweder Wrote: No, it's just one of those (hopefully) temporary dips in form that plague us all. It wasn't even dreadfully slow, just lacked any kind of bounce or spark.
Are you sure those 10-pint Guinness sessions with SP didn't have something to do with it?
(20-12-2009, 10:41 PM)El Gordo Wrote: Excellent news re Xmas Day run. I'm at the relatives in Warminster for the early part of the day, and plan to get out for a good 4 or 5 miles if possible.
Right, I've booked in an 8km early Christmas morning run. Should be interesting to compare notes.
It's a great disappointment to me too -- I was due to meet up with the great Sweder in London tonight for the very final Richard Bacon show, but the elements have ambushed us. I'm indebted to Sweder for inviting me, and such a shame that the pleasure cannot be fullly consummated.
It's a bizarre situation. We are not allowed to tell you why it would have been such a Special experience. You have to be a listener to the show to truly understand the constraints. If people see this message before midnight GMT tonight, they can tune in, or catch it on the web. No more than that can be said at this time. But I will say that it's been an honour and a privilege to have shared this year-long experience with certain others here in the UK, and around the globe. It proved to me that it is still possible to be mildly anarchic in the middle of it all.
Beyond that, my lips are sealed.
4 miles for me today. Slow too, but I didn't care. To run through rural England in ankle-deep snow, in December sunshine, is to know that you have triumphed in the lottery of life.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A very happy Humbug to you, dear reader, the RC family and assorted lurkers and liggers.
I shall be joining EG, MLCMan et al for a Christmas morning blunder across the moors.
Here's to a new year filled with happiness, health peace and soulful prosperity to all. And to the Boxing Day test! Salute!
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
In constrast to my Antipodean Friend's happy excursion I had a Christmas Day shocker. The weather didn't help; dour, drizzly, cold and dreadfully gloomy, the hills offered an ominous welcome for Yuletide visitors. I started slowly and, to be honest, got slower. The melted snow conspired with sodden mud to suck at my every step, draining my will to go on. When I reached the gate at the foot of Wicker Man Hill I packed it in, turning tail for home for a pedestrian total 5.5 kilometres.
Something important happened that afternoon. My daughter was the lucky recipient of a Wii Fit gizmotron. As our gargantuan organic, free-range, carbon-neutral bird roasted in the oven the family engaged in various games, including a Wii fitness assessment. Obviously these things are far from clinically accurate, yet my heart sank as a squeeky Japanese Animé informed me that my BMI score was far from happy and I should set about losing weight without delay. My 'Wii Fit' age was 53 - some 5 years older. The validity of this chirpilly delivered statement was called into question when Cap'n Tom, a heavy smoker bordering on obesity and well past his half century, was awarded the age of 32.
Having established that anything Wii Fit says is clearly bollocks I ruminated on my stodgy outing and vowed to take action before sit down to demonlish a Mattahorn of Christmas veg, falling misrably short of the summit as my conscience strangled my appetite.
I've crossed another Roman river.
The fight-back starts here.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(26-12-2009, 10:34 AM)Sweder Wrote: I've crossed another Roman river.
The fight-back starts here.
I'm with you.
And incidentally, you have unwittingly earned yourself a very well-deserved distinction with the previous post. All your RC colleagues will no doubt join me in a warm round of applause:
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
(26-12-2009, 10:34 AM)Sweder Wrote: Something important happened that afternoon... My 'Wii Fit' age was 53 - some 5 years older. The validity of this chirpilly delivered statement was called into question when Cap'n Tom, a heavy smoker bordering on obesity and well past his half century, was awarded the age of 32.
My eldest son's fiancee's mother (there has to be a nicer way of saying that, but be buggered if I know what it is) has the same story to tell... a 'Wii Fit' Christmas present telling everyone who tried it that their "real" age was something approaching utter bollocks. Clearly a random numer generator is at the heart of the Wii's programming.
I have a simpler, and better method of calculating your real age:
Real Age = Calendar Age - (Weekly Miles Ran - Weekly Standard Drinks Consumed)
Clearly this is bollocks as well: if you run 40 - 50 miles in a week and drink no beer, your real age will be about 3, so this algorithm can only apply to the blokes and will vary week to week. But still, I contend this is more accurate than the Wii Fit bullshit machine which in any case, is only taken seriously by women.
(26-12-2009, 02:26 PM)El Gordo Wrote: And incidentally, you have unwittingly earned yourself a very well-deserved distinction with the previous post. All your RC colleagues will no doubt join me in a warm round of applause:
Indeed. In fact I've just consumed 20,000 kilojoules of beer to celebrate the fact.
Aahhhhh ... that sigh of relief echoes through the windswept Sussex hills even as I rest, hands on knees, sweat dripping onto the chilled tarmac above the marina, gulping restorative ice-cold air as my tender hamstrings gently stretch.
Eight miles, twelve cliff-top kilometres, one for each day of a Christmas that's seen my running ambition soar and dive in crazy fashion. Following my ugly Christmas Day lumber I rested my battered, weary legs, taking the traditional car journey north for Boxing day with my family. Several helpings of Ma's delicious turkey curry later I drove back, hunched over my straining food baby, praying for clear roads and an early night.
This morning I rolled out of bed and squeezed into my newly-gifted Canterbury ‘cold’ microweave under-garments. The industrial waistband on those shorts strove manfully to restrain my burgeoning midriff; I may have to invest in more of these for everyday wear. Outside the cold wind raged, treetops dancing as if taunting me, daring me to set foot outside my lovely warm house. Dare I did, splendidly attired in RC vest and purple shorts, a seasonal salute to my old running partner. Despite the storm's cruel intentions I felt remarkably snug in my tight fabric layers, a veritable Lycra Lasagne.
On the cliff-tops that cold harsh wind drove out of the west, shoving us on as we fought to hold a steady pace. Again numbers were diminished, though with most of the snow and ice melted Ade and Simon had at last emerged from their winter lairs. Before I left the house I'd enjoyed Glaconman's tales of beasting across the wild north moors. Stevio, our own Beast-master General, was left languishing at home this morning, all the good work of his warm-weather Cuban training camp undone when he blew a calf muscle at Preston Park. Get well soon mate. I’d pre-selected the Wire, a 6k out, 6k back route, as my track du jour. Leaving water, wine gums and anything else that might encourage me to go further at home was a smart move. I’m easy prey to the likes of Ade who smile charmingly when suggesting a Snake run might be just the thing on a bright, chilly December day. Mindful of my Friday sluggery I needed a morale-booster; less would on this occassion be more.
As things turned out the return run was plenty tough enough. A lively force 6 howled into our faces as we set off from the eponymous halfway fence. It took three times the effort and a good deal longer to cover the same distance, accompanied by plenty of noisy huffing and puffing as I flogged my corpulence westward against the storm. As I struggled I reflected on the solitary nature of running, especially, paradoxically, when running in a group, stretched out along the cliffs by a variety of fitness levels and body sizes. I could see the leaders on the horizon, a full-bloodied drive to the WACA fence ahead of the next fellow, himself half that distance in front of me. Behind us a string of runners followed, each meeting the challenging conditions in their own way, finding those mental diversions that allow the body to grind out the miles when every fibre of an untrammelled mind would surely scream ‘stop!’. My own distractions today included these very ruminations and the fact that this disparate band of brothers and sisters, alone and apart yet striving to attain a common goal, once again underpinned George Livingston Seagull Sheehan’s time-honoured creed concerning the experiment of … (see page 92).
I’m happy to relate that, in the words of Billy Bob Thornton’s spikey Love Actually US president, we got what we came for. At least I did; an uplifting run that left me knackered but happy with something in the tank. I can build on this; I just need to regulate my intake, marry up regular running with other healthy activities and – gulp – lay off the beer. I know, I know, it goes against everything I’ve espoused over the years, but the scales have tilted horribly into the red lately; drastic measures are called for. I’m on the wagon from here on in – no waiting for New Years’ Day, it’s a pointless nonsense that I simply don’t hold with – and that’s that. For how long very much depends on the results, but I’d like to think I’ll be back in business by the end of January, for reasons that will be fairly obvious to regular visitors here.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(27-12-2009, 04:12 PM)Sweder Wrote: I’m on the wagon from here on in – no waiting for New Years’ Day, it’s a pointless nonsense that I simply don’t hold with – and that’s that.
Don't do it Sweder! Return to theDark Side... think of all that Guinness going to waste!
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