April Week 2 - Here we go . . .

[Sweder]

7 days from the big day and I'm feeling pretty relaxed.
I've trained hard at times, been frustrated by injury and travel arrangements that conspired to throw me off track, but as we enter the final stretch I know I've prepared better for this race than any other.

OK, that may not mean much when you look back at my record.
2003 FLM saw me rise from the couch in January and hobble painfully through the last 8 miles in April, dragged to the finish by pure stubborn will and the thought that my beautiful Daughter, my inspiration, waited for me at the finish, some 4 hours 31 after the start.

2004 FLM brought a more concerted effort, with some serious training in February and March. I ran the race all the way, knocked 13 minutes off my previous time and felt a million dollars within 10 minutes of the finish.

For 2005 when asked I've said that 4:10 would be a respectable target.
But since then my Wife has told me that this will be my last full marathon, at least for a while.
That changes things. Weather factors aside (if it's a scorcher all bets are off) I want to give this run the full works, to, as the tacky American Army recruitment TV ads say, 'be all I can be'.

Time the Avenger and the Mall waits, with inexorable patience, for me.

[Sweder]

Time of day: 09:10 hours
Course: Brighton marina/ Telscombe Tye/ The Snake/ Wilson’s Avenue/ Marina
Distance: 12.5 miles
Duration: 1:54
Conditions: cool, sunny, light breeze

I felt so good, like anything was possible.
Hit the cruise control, rubbed my eyes.

As I rolled on, the sky grew dark.
I put the pedal down, to make some time.
There's somethin' good, waiting down this road.
I'm pickin' up whatever's mine.

Tom Petty, Running Down a Dream

I listen to this song quite a bit. It pops up on Planet Rock from time to time, and now and again it happens as I reach a fast section of my offroad mid-week lope to Black Cap. It’s one of those songs I really like to listen to but I’d never considered the lyrics. I checked them out when I got home today, and they seem appropriate, in part, for how I feel about things just now.

Today’s run was what last weekend was supposed to be – a gentle 12 miler, cutting off the gruelling climbs of the downland 20, leaving just my old friend the Snake to challenge us on our way.

We offered a communal Runner’s Prayer for our friends in Paris, envious that they were lining up in that Lover’s City, ready to embrace the mistress that had kept them from their loved ones these past three months or so.

Off we loped, pausing in the gathering sunshine after 30 minutes for a stretch session, some idle banter about post-Marathon hostelries, and on, on, up the Tye. I felt marvellous, everything I’d hoped for. Energised, fit, whole, ready to take it on. I’d elected to miss out the energy gels today. I figured I’d loaded enough carbs over the past couple of days to traverse the Arctic Tundra, gels not required on voyage.

My companions, as we turned our backs to the sun and headed West towards the foot of Death Valley, included Remy and Terry, the two who had so easily left me for the flounderer that I clearly was last week. No chance of that happening today as we bounced easily along the rutted paths of the downs, hailing sheep and sun drenched fields as we chatted idly of this and that.

From the outset Sam had announced that there was to be ‘no racing’ today. At the time I thought this a strange thing to say – we generally don’t race, rather form clusters of similar-paced runners. But half way into today’s run I understood his meaning; I felt like I could sprint the last 6 miles. Reality tapped me on the shoulder as we ascended the Snake, Remy cruising ahead, apparently without effort, up the Serpent's gentle gradient. Terry and I held fast, resisting the temptation to follow him. We exchanged views on running for charities, the pleasure of training in this fabulous countryside and swapped concerns over a possible heat wave on the 17th.

To the top then, and a slurp of Hyro Active. We watched as the rest of our merry band approached the head of the Snake. Everyone seemed comfortable. I turned to my partners.
‘Come on, I'm getting a bit chilly - Lets push on.’

Our route back to the Marina was simple, direct. Along the horse-trek past the stables to the Racecourse and on to Wilson’s Avenue, the ½ mile drop to the Marina. I hate the track section. I recalled February, when I’d struggled for breath and form, sloshing through thick mud laced with slurry, slipping and sliding, bouncing from wire fence to rutted field looking for a safe footing. Conditions today were much kinder, but memories refused to let me relax. A small, perfectly-formed Satanic figure appeared on my left shoulder.
’Come on, you HATE this bit. Put your foot down, lets get out of here!’ he hissed.
I waited for the miniature Angel to appear to my right to offer opposing, sensible council. But all I got was a whinny from a passing racehorse, and the rasp of the breeze in my ear.

I pushed on, letting the speed come as it may. A quarter mile at this pace and I glanced back. Blimey! Only Nige (the artist formerly referred to here as White Hair Lycra) was in touch, puffing and blowing. OK, he was nursing a dodgy hamstring from two weeks ago, but even so he would usually have seen me off easily.

Across the road and the path through the racecourse rails and onto Wilson’s Avenue. Full bore, no holes barred, hammer time! As SP likes to say in tribute to the incomparable David Coleman, I opened my legs and showed my class! No thoughts of looking back, just head down, no nonsense, mindless boogie.*

Sam fizzed past on the road, free-wheeling down the hill.
‘Go on Ash!’ he roared. ‘Give it some!’
And I did, a maniacal grin spreading across my face.
I was flying! Heaven knows what speed I reached. I don’t really care. I felt strong, fast, unstoppable. Into the dip, up the incline, right at the lights. Sam waited, his bike leaning on a flint wall, as I crossed the road.
‘Good, good strength, keep it going’ he growled.
He cycled alongside me as I turned left onto the rough track behind the houses heading for the Marina. He started to speed up. I knew what he was doing, and I took the bait, pumping my arms, gritting my teeth and gunning my legs. They responded, and I pulled alongside him.
‘That’s good strength’ he growled. ‘Excellent. You’re ready.’

And I am.
The others came in, happy, energised and looking like they could happily run all day.
‘Blimey, what happened down Wilson's, Ash?’ grinned Remy.

What did happen?
Well, I’ve had an easy week. One 3 ½ mile flat plod with SP, a couple of beers, plenty of good food, healthy snacking . . .
To be honest, I have no idea. And I don’t really care.
I’ve had enough fitness worries and injury scares this past two months. I want to bottle this feeling and wrap it up, affix a label ‘Do Not Open Before 17th April’.

One of the guys came in with a Garmin and confirmed the stats. He checked the pace and reckoned we (he had gunned it down Wilson’s too) had run the last mile under 6:30 pace. I have no idea what that means, but it sounds OK.

Here’s to another week of fine dining and gentle loping.
There's somethin' good, waiting down this road.
I'm pickin' up whatever's mine . . .

* Alberto Y Lost Trios Paranoias 1978

[Sweder]

You'd think I'd be pleased. The hard miles are in the bank, I'm well into my second week of face-stuffing and foot elevation. But I'm a bit grumpy, irritable, and I think I know why.

I miss my training.
There's no getting away from it. I fancy going out to run off the rust creeping through my legs, get the lungs expanded, feel the blood pounding in my temples. It's not that I can't - I could go out for a light run most evenings this week if I felt so inclined. But that would be like nipping down to the corner shop for a bag of sweets when what you really want is steak and chips.

It'll pass. I'm playing Doom 3, listening to the Champions League on 5 Live, tweaking some hand-outs for tomorrows' meeting, making sure my Registration Form is safely in the briefcase for my visit to ExCeL tomorrow. Fiddling About, as Keith Moon so eloquently demonstrated in Tommy, can be fun; but it's all distraction, 21st Century whittling, before Sunday.

I took a moment to read Nigel's excellent piece on Geology tonight - see General Running - FLM Energy & Hysteria or go direct to the source at http://www.runningcommentary.co.uk/forum....php?t=367 . For those out there with a desparate need for distraction, it's Nirvana.

[suzieq]

I may be away from my computer for the next couple of days so wanted to be sure to wish you all the best for the run on Sunday. It sounds like you're totally prepared - now you just need the planets to align Sunday morning and away you go! Having run London I know what the crowds will be like and all the excitement for the race. Plus, you get to run with Haile G. again! Pretty exciting.

Have fun, enjoy the crowds and do your best! I'll be cheering for you from here.

Suzie

[Sweder]

Thanks Suzie. It means a lot to know you guys are out there knowing what we're going through. Sadly Mr G heard I was in the race and he withdrew. Some people just can't stand the heat . . .

[Sweder]

Time of day: Morning
Ditance: appx 4 miles
Duration: appx 40 minues
Conditions: Steady rain, muddy, lovely!

Following an ill-advised session on the Guinness last night I decided to take my last pre-FLM saunter up to Black Cap. I set out to run most of the way, missing out the toughest climbs up Mount Harry and the Cap itself - no need to risk busting a gut at this stage.

I set off with the dogs, Willow (Cocker Spaniel) thrilled at the conditons, cavorting in puddles and long wet grass. The two longdogs loped along with me, not bothering to conceal their disgust at this undignified behaviour. Lewes cowered in her valley beneath low, dark clouds, the lush green of the golf course contrasted sharply with the dirty white chalk cliffs below.

I looked to the South West and spotted the Big W from my Sunday long runs. Tough as old boots to negotiate it looked no less daunting from a mile distant, and I shook my head, grinning, at the thought of tackling the slippery ascents in these conditions. We plodded on past the dew pond and the racing stables. Tess (Whippet) perked up at this point - we were entering Rabbitville. Sure enough a cotton-tailed bottom twitched as its owner took refuge in the thorn bushes. Tess launched across the field, a four-legged exocet bent on destruction. As with most assaults of this nature, she returned sans kill but energised, ready for action. The hounds love this run; there's sheep poo, rabbits, horses, puddles, mud, long grass, thickets, gorse . . . so much to sniff, so little time.

I reached the gate at the foot of Mount Harry, glanced up at the misty peak and bade farewell, turning back down the flint track towards home. Rivulets of mud/chalk stained rain ran alongside me. I splashed through them, delighting in the sensation of muddy water spraying up my legs. I love these conditions, sloppy, dirty, messy terrain, the muddier I get the better I feel. Just a little boy at heart.

My legs felt good, although my stomache complained bitterly at being heaved across the downs so soon after I'd filled it with Guinness. No untoward aches or pains, no hamstring twinges or alarming bruises revealed themsleves. I returned home, satisfied that everything was in working order.

Time now to relax and enjoy the mounting tension, to prepare my speech for the JDRF Pasta Party and to anticipate what I hope will be a fantastic day on Sunday.

[Mid Life Crisis Marathon Man]

Just dropped in briefly to say best of luck for the biggun. Doubtles you'll do everyone proud, and I await your report with much anticipation...!

I'll be having a Guinness for you

MLC Man

[Sweder]

Cheers MLC Man. Enjoy that Black Stuff.