RunningCommentary

This morning was so cold, there was barely enough blood in my fingers to capture Kumudith Guruge. Ethereal voice: Who? Kumudith Guruge. Last entry: I’m in a much better position than this time last year. The weight is about the same, but it was on Boxing Day 2008 that I yanked my calf muscle for the first of three times in quick succession. It meant a long break, and a cautious, anxious winter and spring. Touch wood, there’s not been a repeat, even though the longer runs, like yesterday’s 9 miler do always jangle a few tendons in that area, just to keep me awake to the possibility. Let me tell you now, that touching wood stuff doesn’t work.… …

Things are trying to get back to normal. The old normal. The post-mid-September normal. The new enemy has been the skies. Most runners like a bit of rough in the weather department. Rain is to running what vinegar is to chips: greater than the sum of the parts. We can even embrace the stage or two beyond mere rain, but there’s a limit to this pain-pleasure principle. Snow is usually good, but ice is pushing things just a little. Too much of a good thing. Here in Berkshire, the festive cascade began the day after the last entry. I’d been out for a dogged, and very cold, 4 miles. Within minutes of reclaiming the warmth, and emerging from the shower, … …

It had to happen. After 13 exemplary weeks, along comes Christmas. In terms of training and healthy eating, a very bad week to report. Six days of alcohol and fine dining. And not so fine dining: pizza, curry, ice cream, cheese, chocolate… the old enemies have breached the defences. And later today, we’re off to a wedding reception, so there is no immediate sign of rescue from all this pleasure. The mouldy icing on this bad news cake is that I’ve done no running and no exercise whatever, unless walking to the pub can somehow be counted as a positive. I could more easily write off this aberration if my race and weight targets were all in March and April, … …

Hangovers are rare beasts around these parts, but one has come a-prowling today. Not a desperately savage example, but enough to keep me subdued. It’s prompted the usual self-interrogation, and taken me through the drinker’s faulty arithmetic in which two parts of pleasure somehow have to be shown to equal the three parts of pain that follow. The proposition never quite works out. It seemed such a good idea at the time. A post-race reward. Liverpool v Arsenal on the TV on the pub, and a few pints of London Pride. Exchanging manly small-talk about the referee. Then home to cook and eat the pork, swilling it down with a glass or two of Aldi’s reliable Chianti. And all very … …

At last, after many weeks of trudging through a dense jungle of commitments, the weary traveller reached a small clearing. He marvelled at the sudden sense of light, and clarity. “I have been unable to see, and thus I have been invisible”, he mused. It’s been an eventful few weeks, with so much to write about that I’ve not had the time to log it. Now, finally, I seem to have arrived at a natural break between one list of overpowering assignments and the next. Best grab the chance to skim off and serve up the more newsworthy bits. We were off to a health spa last time I passed this way. At Ragdale Hall, I found that relaxation can … …

Well done M. I usually moan at her for wasting time entering competitions (“It’s just a marketing scam”), but occasionally I’m glad she ignores my advice. She’s managed to nab a 2-night stay in a suite at Ragdale Hall, a ‘health hydro’ in Leicestershire. Melton Mowbray in fact, so if the weight of healthy living becomes too burdensome, I can escape to the local town and seek solace in one of their famous pork pies. We go today. As well as a raft of ominous-sounding treatments, I’ve booked a range of fitness activities that I hope will re-ignite my flickering commitment to core exercise. As mentioned previously, a floppy, bulbous core is one of my long list of … …

Nothing wrong with a spot of mild iconoclasm. From time to time, we need to take our prejudices off the shelf, blow the dust off them, and give them a good examination. Are they still fit for purpose? Or are they just being kept for sentimental reasons? Recently, I’ve been ambushed by two long-standing prejudices. One delivered an unexpected kiss; the other, a painful bruise. I’ve long been an admirer and advocate of Julie Welch. Her book on a bunch of random characters preparing for the London Marathon, “26.2”, was one of the first running books I read. In my wide-eyed naivety, its pages provided a deceptively cosy entrance to the possibility of an unfit, middle-aged person running long distances … …

It seems to have been quite a lucky day. How does this happen? I set off after lunch, intending to zip round the block for 4 miles, but ended up banking 10.25 of the slippery buggers. The day was a beaut; mid-November, but it was actually warm out there this afternoon. Perhaps this persuaded me to eke out another mile. Then another. And another…. The run took me through the goose-coated deer park, past the lake, along my recently discovered secret path, up a mercilessly steep hill, through a forest via a bridleway that had me up to my ankles in liquid mud, down a tarmacked hill, over the level crossing, and along the canal towpath, eventually surfacing at the … …

Running is hard work. So why make it even harder for myself? This was my line of questioning as I entered the 3rd kilometre of the Brighton 10K. It was the point where I found myself struggling, or even floundering, at the realisation that I’d started too quickly. Pre-race saw the usual eye-bulging dash from the in-laws in Crawley to Brighton, followed by the Bullitt-style driving round the town, trying to find a parking place. As usual, I ended up in some sort of boutique parkery where they are pleased to swap your parking stress for financial anxiety. While M was adjusting her shopping goggles and disappearing into the Lanes, I padded down to the seafront and along to the … …

With the Brighton 10K just 2 days away, the inevitable doubts have been descending along with the grey clouds that are traditional at this event. We are in for an almighty maelstrom if the Met men are to be believed. The radio reports that the plucky population of Haywards Heath are being evacuated by boat at this very moment. One imagines a ruddy-faced Sir Bufton Tufton invoking the spirit of wartime Britain as he notionally directs operations from the saloon bar of the Dog and Duck. My reservations haven’t concerned the weather, but my perceived lack of preparation this week. It feels as if it’s been a lazy few days, though my spreadsheet records that I’ve managed 146 sweaty minutes … …