Movember 2012

[Sweder]

Ah, the fresh slap of November's chill. Just what I need as I look to ramp up the mileage and the real work begins.

First, the Children with Diabetes Friends For Life conference in Old Windsor. It's a full-on weekend of mirth and mayhem. See the full schedule here. Once I've recovered from that I can chow down on some heavy hills, push the long runs out towards that magical 21k mark and feel the fitness flood back.

One last tale from October, a month to look back on as a perfect base-builder. On Thursday night I sat on my sofa bemoaning the parade of banality trudging across my tv screen. Then I remembered that the Young Rooks were taking on Maidstone in a Kent Invitational Under 18s cup competition. I went, and was rewarded with the finest 120 minutes of competitive football it has been my privilege to witness at the Dripping Pan.
Read all about it here.

On, on!

[Sweder]

I hit a nasty pothole on my road to recovery this weekend. On Saturday I took a series of outdoor sessions with the CWD kids, yelling for all I was worth for about two hours, trying to referee the most anarchic football match since the days of Bremner and Keegan.

Yesterday I woke barely able to breathe, throat swollen and sore, snot-lava bubbling hideously. I am the world's worst patient - quite the oxymoron - Mrs S ignoring my feeble wailing to shove me out to 'get on with it, man'. With the playing fields under water I spent Sunday checking room set-ups, microphones, speaker laptop/ projection interfaces and making sure sessions ended on time so that the childcare staff, Mrs S amongst them, got a decent break. The conference has been a triumph. We closed last night, a procession of parents hugging their tearful goodbyes, telling us what a difference this weekend makes to them and their children. That is truly humbling, all I need to bring me back again next year.

I'd planned to work out and run whilst here in Windsor but shall now do neither until much later in the week. My chest is notoriously fragile, though I'm bound to say much stronger since I took up distance running. Used to be that every year I would break down with an ugly infection, laid low for weeks, the result, I'm told, of severe bronchitis when I was two years old. Even now, sat here in the pre-dawn, coughing up putty into a drinking glass, I know this will pass soon enough. Donning my rose-coloured spectacles my body is getting a timely rest and I am at least eating well and not drinking. It does rather bugger up my twelve week fat loss/ fitness plan. C'est la vie.

Horrible news over at MLCMMan's diary, and some good advice re: personal health checks. Mine are long overdue. Time to book in for a service.

[Sweder]

At last, a plod. 2.75 gentle miles in strong November sunshine. Whisps of bonfire smoke, the last breaths of last night's revelry, drifted across the hills. Rooks cawed their greeting as I lumbered by, hawking up the remains of my lurghie by way of rude riposte. My still-tight chest told me I'm not yet over this bout. No matter, it's an outing of sorts, enough to know I'll be back out there tomorrow.

My legs were tight, surprising after four days off running. Nothing to worry about, but I've planned a gentle stretching session later.

[Sweder]

A couple more outings to report. Yesterday a horribly weary two-point-eight miles. Quite why my legs should feel so tired after all this lazing about I'm not sure, but there it is.

Today saw a better effort, five undulating miles in the mid morning sunshine. I'm still doing my best Bob Flemming, coughing up lung butter as I go, yet my legs responded and around halfway I started to run. Kill or cure is possibly not the best approach. Mrs S implores me to 'steam' - to hold my head over a basin of boiled water infused with Olbas Oil. It's a horrible experience, one I'll avoid until organs start to detach from my ribs.

I feel better, well on that recovery road. I can't wait to clear the lungs so I can open up on the muddy Sussex byways and get stuck into November as I'd hoped.

Track du jour, Budgie's Breadfan, as covered by those wags at Metallica.
Get in.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

... Mrs S implores me to 'steam' - to hold my head over a basin of boiled water infused with Olbas Oil. It's a horrible experience, one I'll avoid until organs start to detach from my ribs.

I had to Google that one. Looks like it's melaleuca oil, closely related to the local remedy, eucalytpus oil. I remember my mum giving me that as a kid, too. I loved the smell of it though, still do, but it is very strong. Not for the meek.

[Sweder]

It's been a horrible week. The chest returned on Friday to kick my arse for even thinking about a run before the last of the lurghie had left. So nothing this weekend, a good night's kip last night and I'm feeling better. This morning will see the gentlest of jogs, two miles in the frosty hills. The hard work re-starts tomorrow.

[glaconman]

You need to be cautious with a bad chest. Cold air can exacerbate things certainly. Slow tempo stuff might clear out some gunge though.

[Sweder]

Quite right, Mr G. Lots of gunk-clearing this morning.
On the down side I got caught in a weird bought of drifting hill mizzle. I'm now thoroughly soaked to the skin, something I'd rather have avoided. In the plus column I banked 3 un-troubled miles. The residual coughing is bearable, a sign that I'm finally on the mend.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

What you need is a good hot curry and a sauna to clear the last of it from your pores. And then a decent Scotch and a great night's sleep. Doctor's order. You hearing me?

Dr. MLCM.

[Sweder]

The good night's sleep was wrecked by events at the Gabba.
Check your diary for more on that.

[Sweder]

An encouraging session without slimy repercussions.
I'd planned another short run, around three miles. On the out lap I felt spritely enough to consider charging up BlackCap. G-man's words of warning rang out so I cut across the apron of Wicker Man Hill, avoiding the lung-busting climbs beyond.

By the time I'd looped back to the stables I fancied adding a bit so dropped into the Borough Bonfire field, home of the Downland 10 start. I covered the gentle descent at a decent clip, around 7'40 pace, breathing shallow and easy. The climb back up tested everything, leaving me breathless and happy not to have taken on the tougher route. A systems check revealed a brace of tight achilles, tremulous knees and a dull ache in each calf, all pretty standard.

4.7 miles in 50 minutes. Today's track du jour saw a dead heat between two classics. Skynyrd's Tuesday's Gone With The Wind sang out as I took off and the trees released their copper and gold to dance across the hills. Jefferson Airplane's sublime White Rabbit, a song I could never tire of hearing, brought me home. The ghosts of Haight-Ashbury, from the Summer of Love to the autumnal Sussex hills.

Now it's back to the training schedule. I'll not get a half in this month as I'd hoped, but there's no rush. I may return to Parkrun in December to add hard-top miles and to work on my 'speed'. It'll be interesting to see how I get on. Some way short of my PB I'll wager, but if I can clock under 25 minutes I'll be chuffed.

[Sweder]

No, Not really. I certainly wasn't 'feeling it' out there today. Lack-lustre, as devoid of passion as the Mighty Rooks last night during their tepid 0-0 draw with low-flying Hendon. Oh well, you can't produce world-conquering performances every day, sometimes you just have to suck up the dross.

I managed to flog myself wearily across 2.9 miles of damp hills. The sun did its' best to cheer me up, beaming from behind a large lone cloud that hung over the Ouse valley, blossoming like the signature of a recent nuclear strike. My dark mood was mirrored in my music, Tom Petty's Breakdown, my track du jour, haunting the last half-mile.

   

Onwards and upwards. Parkrun on Saturday, time to find out where I am on the road to Almeria. I'm apprehensive. I know it's going to hurt and I probably won't like the outcome, but it needs to be done and it'll be good to catch up with few old faces in the Après Cafe. On, on.

[Sweder]

And all you joggers
Who go round an round an round an round ...

Parklife, Blur

A return to Hove Park, home of Park Run, where joggers, runners, sprinters and walkers do indeed go round and round. 2.5 laps, 5 kilometres, 3 miles, 400 cheerful souls, an apparently infinite stream of sweaty humanity. I enjoyed myself, opting for a comfortably challenged yet not 'pushing it' pace. The result (by Garmin) was 24:01. Respectable. I say 'by Garmin' as my gun time will be around 20 seconds slower. That's how long it took to reach and cross the start line.

The Après Cafe hosted a cluster of familiars. Ladyrunner, Two Simons, both of whom have joined us on recent expeditions to Almeria, Mike Bannister, recent sub 3 hour (Amsterdam) marathoner and soon-to-be author, and Steve 'Stevio' Scott, recent convert to Ultra running. I spoke with Mike about a possible interview for The Plodcast. He seemed reluctant until I mentioned a free plug for his book. He's finished it - that is, written down, long-hand on note pads as he recovered on the beaches of Thailand.

I noticed a couple of twinges today. First up, before the run, a dull ache between the ball and heel of my right sole. Yes, 'PF' was my first thought, too. I'll keep tabs on that. Just as I reached the finish line my right hamstring klaxon sounded, fading soon after I reached the cafe and a healing bowl of delicious Mocha.

[Sweder]

Two runs to report since Saturday's fast laps. Yesterday, as thousands flogged themselves along the Brighton seafront in the Brooks 10k, I took on my own Downland version. My hamstrings hummed from Parkrun, ever on the edge of whinging. I covered the course in a shade under 59 minutes, starting slowly, turning up the gas on the run for home, clocking 6'40" pace in the last few hundred metres.

After a hurried shower and foolishly failing to eat, I dashed off to the Pan Siro. My second stint as Ass Man (Assistant Manager) saw the Rookettes host Chichester City in a Sussex Challenge Cup quarter final. A tricky tie on paper, this. CCLFC have been flying in the South East Combination league, right in the mix for promotion. Lewes Ladies have been on the end of miserable misfortune, losing back-to-back fixtures they really should have won. As someone once said it's a good job football is played on grass, not paper. After a fiery briefing about 'letting the visitors know where they are' and 'giving no quarter' the ladies raced to a 4-0 half-time lead. England's Naomi Cole opened the scoring with a cool finish from 25 yards, lobbing the stranded keeper with aplomb.

I paced up and down, bellowing instructions, mostly quality cliches like 'squeeze!' 'No time, no space!' and 'switch on!' at set pieces. The second half saw more of the same and another three goals, leaving me with a record of played two, won two, 21 goals for, none against. My next appearance on the touchline will be in February for the semi-final against Crawley.
Can't wait.

This morning I nipped out for a swift three miler. Strong sunshine had half-set the mud into a sticky mash, sucking away at my Mizunos as I hauled my tired limbs up the hills. November has a firm, icy grip, the breeze cutting up from the town to chill my flesh. Not yet cold enough for leggings but by all accounts a proper freeze is on the way.

At today's pre-run weigh-in I clocked 90.4 kilos, a loss for the week of over half a kilo. Pleasing, especially as I'm still in recovery. I hope to echo that this week and finally dip below the magic 90 marker before heading off to Amsterdam for Intermodal. That'll test my mettle, all that creamy Dutch food and enticements to imbibe. Get thee behind me, Cloggies.

On, on.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Good to see you getting out there Sweder. Take care of your various bits and pieces though. One thing I've discovered recently which helps with hammies is the spray-on ice. The secret is to spray it on liberally and then put on your comrpession skins/tights. It's far more effective that way than just spraying on the bare skin.

[glaconman]

Indeed. Your weight could soar in Amshterdam. Dat is jammer.

[Sweder]

The secret is to spray it on liberally and then put on your comrpession skins/tights.

I'm not wearing 'tights' at the moment. For one thing it's not Panto season just yet (Oh yes it is ... Oh no it isn't), for another it's still, just, shorts weather. I've not used this ice spray of which you speak. Do please tell me more.

[Sweder]

A maelstrom whips around the Lewes hills. November's dance has reached it's climax, leaves cavorting through head-banging hedgerows. I think of the birds on a night like this. How do they cope? Their tiny, frail bodies must be slaves to the wind. I imagine them piled up against the sides of sheds, stunned, feathers all akimbo.

I love this weather. Heading out from the house knowing full well you're going to get a good pasting is life-affirming. I grin and revel in it. Following a fabulous lower limb workout on Tuesday night I hit the hills on Wednesday, hamstrings humming, glutes aglow. Far from slowing me down I fair flew around my three mile circuit, enjoying the solid feel of my hardening core, the drive coming from the engineroom of my refurbished hindquarters. I must keep this up, the benefits are coming.

This morning everything was a good deal tighter. My legs felt sore after Tuesday's medieval procedures, squats, lunges and leg-raises that threatened to snap sinew. Still, a reasonable effort. I'm out again in a few hours before heading off to Amsterdam.

My weight has levelled off at 90.5 or so. This is partly thanks to my sneaking a bowl of nuts and raisins laced with dark chocolate chunks to share with Newsnight's lovely Maitlis of an evening. It's cheating, and of course the scales lie in wait to read the riot act each day. A week away will help and hinder. I'm determined to side-step the Guinness Sirens, yet the food on offer will be tasty and plentiful.

Our lady of blessed self-restraint don't fail me now.

[Sweder]

Work is the curse of the running classes.
Three days of hard graft in the Dam have left no room for plodding, something I hope to put right tomorrow. The weather is foul, which makes the lack of opportunities all the more galling. I do like a good flog into a maelstrom.

Diet-wise I'm doing well, dodging the stodgier fare, opting for soups, salads and, of a lunchtime, something we will refer to as 'Fork Lift Driver's Stew'.
'What's in it?'
'Don't ask.'
I have tried a couple of Weiss biers but not much more than a thimble-full. I see this as not so much falling off the wagon as allowing my foot to drag in the dust. The problem I face is going to the pub after work and knowing what to order (apart from beer). There's only so much sparkling water with lime a man can look at in an evening. One solution would be to get out for a late night run. Easier said than done after a 14 hour day walking the halls of the Amsterdam RAI.

I've received my latest set of workout instructions from Julia, my fat burning guru. These look positively medieval but I shall get stuck in from tonight. There's no point in wasting the good work of the past five weeks.

On, on.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

The secret is to spray it on liberally and then put on your comrpession skins/tights.

I've not used this ice spray of which you speak. Do please tell me more.

This is the stuff I use, Sweder. I get it at the supermarket. Shouldn't be too hard to track down in your part of the world (or an equivalent). Great for hammies, quads and calfs/calves. Also for spraying on errant daughters-in-law when they get too cheeky.