No smoking
No (heavy) drinking
No skimping on stretching
No whimping out on frozen mornings
No missed long runs
No staying in bed
No excuses
November
The hard yards start here, Bubba.
Now it gets ugly. After a week - this week - of kicking back and taking it easy, culminating in a gentle eight mile Sunday cliff top plod with the JS newbies it'll be time to crank things up. The mid-week fives will become eights and then tens; the Sunday runs must build in distance and intensity.
Three runs a week, maybe four if I'm feeling keen. Less is still, after all, more.
But the mileage must increase. Moylesey's already way ahead in the run-in to TOM; he's got a full 26.2 under his belt, and a tough one at that. I'm kicking the month off with a deep muscle massage tomorrow, a quality pummeling at the (iron) hands of the woman who saved my hamstring. Injuries are the only enemy; nothing else can stop me. Not wind, not rain, not freezing, biting cold. That's it; the sum total of my training plan for the next five months. Run hard, stretch well, stay healthy.
The hills await.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
There's 160 days, er... 23 weeks, to the TOM. Don't go crazy just yet. I'd have thought just building up fitness till the new year with max easy 10/12 milers would be fine, with the longer runs then starting in the new year.
I'm envious of where you are in fitness, but do have a serious think about pacing yourself properly. You don't want to get to Jan/February having wrecked yourself on weekly 20/25 milers. It's too early for that IMO.
There again would you trust my opinion on race training? I wouldn't.
-------------------------
Remember the rule - max 10% increase in weekly mileage. 15% at a push. Beyond lies injury and burn-out.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
See, you had me there for a moment.
Then you had to mention 'rules'. And there I was thinking you actually read the rubbish I write . . .
I hear you. Like I say, it's all good but protection from injury is paramount.
The thing about 'less is more' is it can only work if I don't have long layoffs. I can expect trouble from my fallable chest at least once between now and then, and I can live with that. Anything else could be damage I might not walk away from.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
A visit to the lovely Nikki this morning confirmed one or two things.
First up my post-run stretching has improved. She measured my 'front to back' stretch - the one where you stick one foot out in front and one behind, in parallel, bending the front knee and forcing the back heel flat to the floor. An improvement on my last visit (eighteen months ago) but still, we agreed, crap. Toe-touching was slightly improved. I've reached 'socks' level - last time, my notes reveal, I was 'just below knees'. I should point out that today I was wearing Thurlo ankle socks, so for all you smartie-pantses about to point out that socks can be just below the knee, bog off.
Hammies checked out OK. My right still harbours a rogue 'nodule' - a bunched area that may cause trouble if not properly nurtured - and my calves are fair to middling but in need of more work.
All in all I was quite chuffed.
We talked (and this is why I rate Nikki so highly) about running boots, future plans, training schedules and races. She was delighted to hear about the TOM, and suggested that as it's a road race I incorporate at least one hardtop plod per week to 'aclimatise' to roadwork. I'm going to heed this advice under protest; I hate road-running, mostly because I love the hills so much. C'est la vie. Read what is says on the month's intro - no whining.
Nikki's Sweder dossier records my spring 2005 problems as due to 'poor stretching regime and over training'. So a point in support of Andy's comments there. She liked the idea of 'less is more' but cautioned (and its a fair point) that this makes gradual increases in distance a little more difficult. Finally it was agreed that my plan, albeit flawed and 'far from perfect', is at least that; a plan. Better than none at all, but only just.
That's good enough for me.
Last but far from least I followed up the session (which included some rather lovely hamstring and calf massage) with a round of golf with Captain Tom and SP at the breathtaking Seaford Head muni. I'll not say too much about the standard of play (bleugh) but here are a few snaps to give you an idea of how beautiful it was out there.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Can I just say that I had no idea he was taking that. Otherwise I'd have turned the hips just that little bit more....:o
Truth was, I've had serious 'puter problems for the last few days and work has been stacking up badly. As Sweder will attest as he was unfortunate enough to peer into my office this morning and will bear witness to the mounds of work just sitting there.
Suffice to say I could have done with spending time today working on the backlog. He had other ideas and dragged me kicking and screaming up the golf course for a marvellous few hours. Bloody glad he did.
Might even buy him a Guinness tomorrow night when we all indulge in a bit of Lewes Bonfire
A routine five under heavenly skies. Crisp, frosted fields, strong autumnal sunshine, a steady westerly adding a cruel edge to this cold snap. 48 minutes, a nice steady plod.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
The inevitable verdict is in; burn the Witch.
Saddam Hussain, undoubtedly a modern-day monster, the so-called Butcher of Baghdad and our favourite pantomime villain (after Christano Ronaldo) was sentenced to death this morning for ‘crimes against humanity’. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Unlike Guy Fawkes, admonished as much for his failure as for his attempt to blow up parliament, the former Iraqi leader is destined to follow Mussolini to end his Dictatorial days at the end of a rope. Can it ever be right to take a life? Is there ever justification to commit murder, albeit in the name of Good or Right, albeit perhaps revenge for the hundreds (thousands) of voiceless, chemically cleansed Iraqis? I guess it all depends on your point of view.
The hanging of Saddam Hussain will do little for those who died on his orders. It will do nothing to calm the gathering storm in his former country, a land so riven by civil war we can expect to read and hear about the horror for years to come. It will add belief to those who continue to fight in his name and resolve to those who would wire themselves with explosives and walk into the streets of their enemies to maim and kill.
Last night in Lewes we paid our own special homage to the self-styled leader of the Free World, a man who many say prosecuted the war in Iraq as a gift to his father, to 'finish the job'. A thirty foot high effigy of George Dubbya Bush leaning on the UN building, ‘Poodle’ Blair in his lap, was dragged through the town last night before being set alight at the Commercial Square site to the ringing cheers of thousands of Lewesians and our bonfire guests. Lewes bonfire effigies are constructed in such a way that first a series of fireworks go off from various parts of the anatomy before the whole thing catches fire and finally explodes, a carefully prepared charge of Semtex at it’s heart to finish it off in grand style. The explosion sends shockwaves through your chest and your ears ring for several minutes afterwards. It's great - just like a Motorhead gig.
Unlike many of the torch-bearing townsfolk I awoke with a clear head to watch the sun rise on another fabulous November morning. I’d resolved to limit my Sunday run to The Wire – an eight mile gentle out-and-back along the cliff tops above Brighton and Rottingdean. As often happens with my plans to take it easy it all went the shape of the pear rather quickly. First up I met up with Barry, a fellow JSJ-er who had recently taken part in the Reykjavik marathon. Andy, this sounds like one for the calendar. During our easy outward lope he told me all about the fabulous moonscapes of Iceland and the many unique attractions, echoing your enthusiasm for the place. After ten minutes I was mentally googling for next years' sign-up page.
We chortled as some of the newbies hared off over the first couple of hills, knowing the fun that awaits them in the weeks and months to come. We were then joined by Barry’s mate Glen. Glen it turns out took part in the Marathon of Britain, a one hundred and seventy five mile epic crossing the Malverns and the Cottswolds on route to the finish in Nottingham. Glen was ‘looking for a hilly trail’. I should have realised that Glen was actually an emissary of Satan but sucker that I am I swallowed the bait.
‘Well, I suppose I could manage an easy Snake run.’
I could almost hear the deep rumble of Beelzebub’s laughter as he ticked off the capture of my immortal soul. I looked across at Glen and realised what had just transpired. The poor fellow was horribly deformed; he had no stomach! That is to say, where his stomach should have been (as was clearly evident to look at Barry and myself) there was nothing but a ghastly washboard flatness. Oh shit.
We bade farewell to Barry, Lycra Tony and his Hilltop Virgins at the top of Saltdean Hill, turning landward to stomp up Telscombe Tye. The sun beamed down on rolling hills, our panting breath invisible in the rapidly warming air. The tough climb ensured our silence until we reached the farmhouse at the summit.
‘Fabulous views’ breathed Glen, looking across the downs towards Lewes. The town nestled in a peaceful veil of mist, the chalk walls of The Cliff gleaming white in the sunshine. Fabulous indeed.
We chatted about past runs, marathons and Glen’s exploits. His recent challenge had demanded a fifty-mile day, one he managed in fourteen hours. We share a marathon PB – 3:52 – his gained in Rotterdam, mine in Paris. Despite his obvious fitness advantage Glen’s running pace matched mine stride for stride and we ran and talked easily into the foothills of the Snake. I cautioned him about the ubiquitous badger-made man-traps and the series of false ‘last corners’ on the two mile climb. Glen seemed undeterred, glad of the hill practice absent from his usual roadwork. We fair flew up the sleepy serpent as she dozed in the warm sun. Her scales, dry and rutted, offered fair purchase to our flying feet. There was no danger of her tightening her coils or nipping at our heels today. The last straight appeared and I gunned it to the top full of pep, imagining a cheeky bounce off her sleepy head as I reached the summit. She’ll have her revenge one of these days, but without the debilitating North Face and YBR to sap the strength from my legs today there was no contest.
Glen arrived moments later, puffing and grinning in equal measure.
‘Whoo! That was tough – I was hanging in there for a bit.’
That’s as maybe, but within a few seconds he was off again, fully recovered.
We crossed the Woodingdean road and detoured through the residences to the racecourse, crossing the track to bound through East Brighton Park to the finish.
Goodness knows how far we went – somewhere around thirteen miles – in around two hours. Time and distance are irrelevant really; it was just a fabulous morning to be out in the hills.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
If Blair is Dubya's lapdog, then the Aussie PM John Howard would be his arse-wiper. Howard had the audacity to say today that Hussein's death sentence was a "victory for Iraq", yet he is the first to plead for clemency whenever Aussie drug dealers and drug couriers are sentenced to death in Asian countries. The hypocrisy of applauding capital punishment in a country you've invaded whilst outlawing it in your own is enough to make me cynical!
Personally I think a far more fitting sentence would be to let him (Hussein, not Howard ... although then again ...) sit in one of his own dungeons and contemplate his navel for the rest of his days.
I suppose the danger of letting Saddam live out his days exiled in the US is he'd end up on Jay Leno or Letterman taking cat-calls and curtain-calls for big bucks. There has to be a more appropriate sentence; death's just too quick and easy. Answers on a postcard please . . .
Ooh, I know - how about official carrier to Arsene Wenger's bottom lip?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
... another particularly fine bit of shirt-abuse delivered by Marlon Harewood after his goal to beat the Gooners last night, I thought. Not to mention all that fist-pumping from Alan Pardew.
... neither of which may have been entirely in the spirit of the game, but then again, the Whinger's volcanic displeasure made the whole episode so much more enjoyable, don'cha think ?
[this special 6.06 contribution brought to you by 'Unbiased of the Boleyn Ground']
How Lord Ferg's eyes must've sparkled as he lounged back in his favorite armchair, a glass of something richly red and fruity nestled in his hand, watching Pardew achieve what he himself has failed to do in ten years of relentless Wenger-baiting.
That and Chelski slipping up at Tottingham put the icing on his anniversary cake and no mistake.
The Hammers fully deserved their good fortune yesterday.
The Upton Park crowd was magnificent - it sounded like a cup final - and the team's efforts were personified by Gabidon, the defender-warrior hassling the oft-celebrated Ces out of his normally impressive stride. I scoured the Arse website this afternoon looking for their spin on the spat, but aside from a deadpan match report (with no mention of the Professor's pram clearance) there's nowt to be found.
Perhaps Arsene didn't see the incident . . .
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Sweder Wrote:I suppose the danger of letting Saddam live out his days exiled in the US is he'd end up on Jay Leno or Letterman taking cat-calls and curtain-calls for big bucks. There has to be a more appropriate sentence; death's just too quick and easy. Answers on a postcard please . . .
I haven't yet heard this confirmed, but an Iraqi caller on 5 Live this morning claimed that the constitution forbids the execution of anyone over 70 in Iraq. Apparently Saddam is about 6 months short of that age. One could foresee an appeal, followed by a decision to continue with his other trial, taking him well past that stage, thus possibly neatly avoiding the danger of martyring him. On the other hand, the information might have been bogus...
I've always been against the death penalty, even for dictators.
On the subject of cynicism, I'm sure you've all heard the suggestion that the trial verdict was scheduled to be delivered just a couple of days before the US mid-term congressional elections. I'm not a conspiracy theorist by nature, but in this case I'm making an exception.
There's been some fascinating stuff from the US recently. It's heartening to hear that so many Americans feel the same as pretty much everyone else in the world about Bush. The nation is truly divided. Read a really interesting article in the International Herald Tribune about how Bush had polarised the US. Families no longer talking to each other. Interviewed a guy who'd been a member of the same bridge or poker school for 30 years. Last week, he and another member resigned because they could no longer stand being in the same room as the Republicans that they'd always previously rubbed along with, through thick and thin. Arguments in PTAs. Fascinating stuff.
Praise the Lord.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Sweder Wrote:First up I met up with Barry, a fellow JSJ-er who had recently taken part in the Reykjavik marathon. Andy, this sounds like one for the calendar. During our easy outward lope he told me all about the fabulous moonscapes of Iceland and the many unique attractions, echoing your enthusiasm for the place. After ten minutes I was mentally googling for next years' sign-up page.
I think Reykjavik is in August. Arguably, a more fascinating one is Myvatn, around the lake, in June This is relatively remote and the landscape is just bizarre. I think they have about 100 entrants a year, about 30 of whom are English women from some club or other. They have a thing about it.
Mind you, post-race beer wouldn't be cheap.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
A hurried five snatched in the middle of a busy working week.
Lamenting the lack of opportunity for evening hill runs I took off into thick fog to emerge ten minutes later on a hilltop island in a sea of heavy mist. Quilted waves of thick cloud smothered the landscape, pierced by the occasional cluster of treetops or hillock. Blackcap loomed in the distance as I loped westward, cursing the decision to leave my cam-phone behind. I realised in the same moment that the puny lense could never do justice to this heavenly vista.
A utilitarian run in the company of Alice Cooper and Janice Joplin. No major niggles, the occasional twinge from both knees and a bit of soreness in the quads, otherwise five miles safely banked.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
andy Wrote:I think Reykjavik is in August. Arguably, a more fascinating one is Myvatn, around the lake, in June This is relatively remote and the landscape is just bizarre. I think they have about 100 entrants a year, about 30 of whom are English women from some club or other. They have a thing about it.
Mind you, post-race beer wouldn't be cheap.
I'll contribute ten quid toward the beer if you do it.
Really I will. Dunno why... I just have this thing for Iceland. Ever since I saw "Running Blind" on telly. Gosh, yonks ago.
Slipped out for a silent five this morning, heavy skies adding to my gloomy mood. I’d spent the first waking hour of my day listening to the madness that is our modern world. I'm seriously thinking about junking Five Live for anything other than sport; the political coverage is at best tabloid and at worst hysterical.
Peter Snow, Channel Four newsman and respected journo, has elected not to wear a commemorative poppy whilst reading the news. He wears one in private, but in keeping with his policy not to support other institutions (such as breast cancer charities or NSPCC) he has resisted pressures from his C4 bosses to brandish the flower on screen.
There is of course a furore breaking out amongst the chattering classes.
Is it PC to wear a poppy, or to not wear one?
Does wearing a poppy indicate that you support war, that you condone slaughter?
Are those ‘non-wearers’ disrespectful to our fallen countrymen and women?
Will we offend visitors and the immigrant populace by our acknowledgement of our military, both past and present?
Frankly I don’t give two hoots.
All I know is that millions of men, many of them barely old enough to vote, were sent to fight and die in the muddy trenches of Belgium and France in WWI. In the blood-soaked fields of Flanders, Ypres and the Somme poppies grew, becoming a symbol for new life after appalling death, of remembrance for the fallen and hope for those left to mourn. Many of my countrymen wear poppies at this time of year not to glorify or condone warfare, but to remember friends and family who died in the service of our nation. It’s a personal choice. But whether you agree of disagree with this public show of remembrance, don’t let the ubiquitous PC hounds twist its meaning to further demean our traditional values.
As often happens the run this morning cleared my head. The blood pumped through my veins, the cold air nipping at my ears as I bounded homeward through the very fields where centuries ago men fought for the liberties we enjoy today.
The world wasn't made in a day
And Eve didn't ride on a 'bus
But most of the world's in a sandbag
The rest of it's plastered on us
[SIZE="1"]Anon. First published in 'Wipers Times', 12th February 1916[/SIZE]
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Not forgetting all this tosh about whether it should be a red or a white one.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Private William Martin and Emily Chitticks were engaged to be married when he was killed in action on 27 March 1917.
While he was fighting in France with the Battalion Devonshire Regiment, the couple wrote to each other as often as possible.
Emily was devastated by her fiance's death and never married. After she died in 1974 a note among her papers was found requesting that William's letters be buried with her.
France, 24 March, 1917
My dearest Emily
Just a few lines dear to tell you I am still in the land of the living and keeping well, trusting you are the same dear, I have just received your letter dear and was very pleased to get it. It came rather more punctual this time for it only took five days. We are not in the same place dear, in fact we don't stay in the same place very long... we are having very nice weather at present dear and I hope it continues... Fondest love and kisses from your
loving Sweetheart
Will
xxxxxxxxxxx
Three days after this letter William Martin was killed in action.
