(08-02-2012, 05:09 PM)Sweder Wrote: What are others doing in these testing conditions?
I like running in snow but when it keeps melting and refreezing into black ice I suspect you need more than Norman Walshes. Something with metal studs no doubt.
Ladyrunner has some of these. Relatively inexpensive I'm told.
LR rates them highly
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Yes, I suddenly remembered Mrs G bought some of these last winter. But she can't find them. Anyhow, I braved a run into work this morning in my Walshes. It was a corker. Canal, woods, packhorse trail, riverbank path and road. A really good mixed-bag from Shipley up to Yeadon. Only trouble is I forgot my headtorch, so it'll have to be pavement on the way home.
Despite leaving my running togs at home (I'd planned a seafront plod straight after work) I didn't let myself off the hook last night. I drove home in sub zero darkness, entered a deliciously warm house, bade good eveningo to the family & hounds all gathered around the glowing woodburner before pulling on shorts and vest and heading out into the icey, inky black. I won't forget my kit again, that's for sure.
Something else I forgot was my 'good' garmin (the one without a chewed screen). I fired up the old (chewed) version, listening to the bleeps to determine when satellites had located and resetting the clock. I had to hope it would record proceedings but for certain I'd not be able to check my pace as I ran. As this was supposed to be a measure of my current race pace this was a blow; however, downloading the data (happily intact and well recorded) this morning I can see the unpalatable truth clearly enough.
6.2 miles at 8 minutes 40 pace. It felt so much better, at least on the ourward leg with a slight breeze at my back. Ah well. Under 10k in 54 minutes is OK but I'd be lying if I said I ran 'within my comfort zone'. I don't usually do tempo runs but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to run at a 'relaxed race pace'. Work to do then. The run itself was ugly; a flat, soul-less dirge, sporting chat in the headphones, occasional Shearers with passing runners and a spritely skip around a queue of homeless people at the charitable food outlet next to the Peace Statue. Seeing those figures wrapped in balaclavas and old scarves, hunched against the harsh prom street lights, I realised there are much worse things than running long flat tempo sessions in the depths of winter.
That said I didn't enjoy it at all. I felt no sense of acheivement when I finished, nor do I now. And for that reason alone I shall return next week and so on and so forth until I either come to love it or at least maintain a similar if not better pace in a genuinely comfortable manner. Here endeth the lesson.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Late again, the story of my life this year. Ah well ...
Yesterday saw a season's best Parkrun, 22:47 with the temperature guage nudging a bone-chilling minus six celcius. It took two big cups of coffee to thaw me out. Still a long way off my overall PB but progress, dear boy, progress.
This morning I sat on my sofa as the sun peeped over the eastern cliffe, scoffing granola and watching Match of the Day as I tried not to think about how cold it was outside. I'd happily have stayed there, firing my hard-boiled opinions into the ether, but there were tough miles to bank. My windcreen resembled that of a gangster's after a mob hit, seemingly riddled with spiderweb cracks and frosty bullet holes.
I could see the main group setting off along the cliff tops as I pulled up at the parking spot. By the time I'd thrown on a few layers, tied my shoe laces and wriggled into two sets of gloves (the top layer Fagin's fingerless), the bobbing lycra conga was out of sight. No matter. A nice steady start would set me up for a strong run and there were plenty of miles in which to close the gap.
Saltdean looking east; Top of the Tye; Lycra Lad
I caught them at saltdean, three miles gone, but with nature calling most urgently I ducked into the gents. Once again I had to reel them in, catching them at the top of Telscombe Tye. Today would be, I'd decided, a 'step-back' session. Last week's brutal run, just shy of fourteen miles, had felt like an Ultra. My legs still smarted at the thought of wading through deep snow so I'd chosen to run a straight snake, around 12.4 miles. Mercifully there's been no fresh snow, last weeks' fluffy carpet now compacted into a much more runner-friendly, albeit a little glassy in places, surface. We did get bombarded with 'super-cooled rain drops' (used to call it sleet in my day but, like, whatever), cruel shards of ice falling into our faces as we ran, but even that couldn't upset my feeling that this was going to be a good one.
Chugging up the snake I felt pretty comfortable. A couple of young lads bounded past me and I let them go, lost in my thoughts. Newborn lambs bleated their first address into the crisp cold air. What a way to enter the world, born into a frozen field, spiteful wind nipping at your fresh pink flesh, jostling with your siblings for sustainance and warmth. I passed the Moyleman gorse bush, whispering my greeting as my feet slip and slid on the polished snow.
Old Snakey; Moyleman's Rest
At the top I took stock. A bunch of eager young people wanted to add mileage by doubling back through Rottingdean via Windmill Hill. Two girls wanted to head straight on and I elected to go with them. I didn't fancy trying to run up the inevitable luge run that would be Windmill Hill but I was starting to feel like perhaps 12.4 miles might not quite be enough. There's no doubt not having to wade through knee-deep tundra had left a fair bit in the tank. By the time we were scampering down through East Brighton park I'd made my mind up.
I left the girls at the marina and set off along the cycle path, dropping down onto Madeira Drive, starting point for the city Half and 10K. The Brighton Wheel, a poor man's version of London's more celebrated South Bank Ferris, loomed out of the murky near-distance. I didn't have a number in mind, just decided to run for a bit to see how I felt. After a mile at nine minute pace I upped my workrate, running the second mile at around eight minutes fifteen.
I stopped when I reached Alfrescos, home of several past post-10k RC meet-ups. I took a long hit from my water bottle (three parts water, one part Bundaburg ginger beer, surprisingly tasty and refreshing) and set off back to the marina. I pushed myself to run at a shade under eight minute pace. It took a fair effort. My legs whined and my lungs pumped, great plumes of steamy breath whipping over my shoulder. It hurt but I didn't let up, even when I veered left at the Aquarium to take on the long climb along the rising road above the seafront. Keeping an eye on my watch I crunched out the last mile all but flat out, reeling in a couple of leisurely waddlers before I reached home base.
Elevation ... with a flat end!
16.54 miles in 2:40-odd, the last four at or better than race pace. I'm delighted, rewarding myself with a deliciously hot shower and a pile of toast as I re-visted MotD.
I'm delighted that Liverpool FC have issed a strong statement re: yesterday's debacle at OT. LFC are a top side with a glorious history. Recent events have been unedifying and, in my opinion, besmirch the reputation of the club. It may well be that the US owners may have clocked this report in the New York Times and picked up the phone. Equally my lot seem ta have seen sense issuing a brief thank you for the statement and calling for both sides to embrace their heritage and move on.
Please God let that be an end to it so I can get on with enjoying what was, after all, an excellent win for the Rowdies.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Great run Sweder, but can you do me a favour and reduce the size of that running shoe pic? Because it's so large (1083p wide!), your blog no longer fits in my screen, making it impossible to read without using the slider bar or copying and pasting into another app.
I can but I linked it from a url - otherwise it'll be a thumbnail. That bugs the life out of me as I'd just like to post moderate size files to display as they are without all that 'do you want to open/ save/ shoot yourself' bullshit each time. Sigh.
OK, how's that?
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Just belatedly catching up with more breathless episodes in this remarkable epic. What would this place be without these frantic Sweder tales? Always amazing, always inspiring.
And don't forget to post your JustGiving page at some point.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
Today's recovery run turned out to be another extended effort, though this time music rather than stored energy drove me on. I strapped on my portable DAB for some Planet Rock love and was rewarded with the following 'Connection' playlist:
Call Me The Breeze, Lynyrd Skynyrd Junior's Wailing, Steamhammer
As The Crow Flies, Rory Gallagher
The Weaver's Answer, Family
Soul On Fire, St Jude
Throw Down Your Sword, Wishbone Ash Dallas 1pm, Saxon
The Rain Song, Led Zeppelin
I singularly failed to pick the connection, kicking myself when the DJ revealed the answer. They all contain character names from the Alien quadrilogy, the odd one out being, yes, (Sigourney) Weaver of Life. Sigh.
I should have turned back somewhere around the Rory Gallagher track but that live, cranked, driving blues kept me bouncing along and before I knew it I was halfway up BlackCap. I'd convinced myself I'd seen enough snow this year but my inner child still let out a whoop as I plunged ankle-deep into the crisp crust lying sheltered from the cruel sun behind thick hedgerows. Elsewhere warm fingers had spread their healing touch, white TinTin tufts turned translucent grey. In places only puddles marked their passing.
I don't listen to much Wishbone Ash but always enjoy their stuff when it pops up on the radio. This track has a real epic feel. It built to a crescendo just as I crested the slush covered rise heading back to the stables, the patchy white fields rolling out before me framed by distant white-capped hills. I storyboarded a film clip in my head as the music swelled, a close-up on a runner's back on this very section, camera dollied back to reveal the sweeping vista, finally (presumably on some kind of giant boom arm) arcing up above the scene to show the extent of the trail and the countryside beyond. One day, when I win a modest sum on the lottery or some distant, obscenely wealthy ascendant is revealed, I'll film that. I know just the couple to help me too
As good as Rory & Wishbone Ash were my track du jour was the Rain Song. It's Jason Bonham's favourite Zep track and it's certainly in my top three. What a beautiful piece of music. Goosebumps.
In terms of recovery the only twinge of note was the usual one; my right calf. Ever since the 2007 Steyning Stinger, a race I prize as my best, yet undoubtedly responsible for everlasting calf-knack, this errant muscle kicks up on occasion, reminding me of my vulnerability and the need to stretch. I was one of those nagging voices banging on at EG to get a deep tissue massage, blah blah blah. Well, physician, heal thyself. Time to call the mighty Bridge and nip that bastard in the bud.
5.9 miles in a shade over an hour.
Next: More Seafront Plodding.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
(14-02-2012, 10:40 AM)Sweder Wrote: I was one of those nagging voices banging on at EG to get a deep tissue massage, blah blah blah.
The advice wasn't ungratefully received, but I did have several massages some time ago from Phil the sports therapist. It probably did/does give some temporary relief, but it's not solving the underlying issue. That's just me. "Every runner is an experiment of one" and all that.
That said, in a fit of desperation I did try to arrange a pre-Almeria massage at the gym but they couldn't do it at the time I wanted.
El Gordo
Great things are done when men and mountains meet.
I seem to remember a whole avalanche of remedies tumbling down upon you at one point. All well-meant but, if the injury persists, ultimately frustrating. For my part a visit to Kader (he of the iron pincers) sorted me out after I'd 'blown a hole in my leg' in Cape Town. And yet ... it's still here, 5 years later. There again I do sod all with it for ages then wonder why it flares up.
A lot of the Quicks at ParkRun talk about their weekly visits to the physio. Perhaps when we ramp up the training even we plodders should think about a series of treatments during our schedule. Just a thought.
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
Without a "Bishop" song there's no way I would have picked that connection either!
As for the "remedies", as the groups unofficial master of injuries, can I once again prescribe perserverence? Out there somewhere, someone is waiting for you who can work out what is wrong and what to do about it. You just gotta find 'em. At least, that's what I did.
Thursday nights are pavement nights. I opted for Mizuno Wave Harrier 3's, an offroad shoe with minimal cushioning to help keep my landings honest. I didn't fancy driving to Brighton so, with the snow having moved on at last I hit the streets around Lewes. It's been quite a while since I did this. One reason is the lack of DAB radio signal in town, so for the first time in months I strapped on my iPhone and hit an old run playlist. I couldn't remember what was on this particular list so I was pleasantly surprised by each new song.
Muse, Motorhead, ACDC, The Damned, Talking Heads, even War's Low Rider ... some great stuff, good running beats to push me along. First and second place went to the Doors. Roadhouse Blues got me bouncing along but LA Woman really lit my fire, driving me up the hills with such verve that I added a fourth lap to the session.
7.15 hardtop miles in 63 minutes.
Tomorrow: cross-training (OK, golf).
The harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph
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