Copenhagen on May 16th is looking increasingly like the American plan to hand over power to the Iraqis at the end of June. We all know it isn’t going to happen, but keep saying that it is. Last Sunday (race day minus 2 weeks), I opened the back door and sort of oozed into the belated final 20 miler. The first four or five miles were OK. Not quite comfortable but tolerable. Then I started to feel that ache in my right calf again. If I ignored it perhaps it would go away, I reasoned. It got sharper instead, till I had to slow right down. I ran-walked for the next 4 miles or so, till even that seemed too … …
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A spot of misery always cheers me up. I’m not a pessimistic sort of chap by nature, so when a cloud descends, I’m always fascinated. Perhaps it’s a defence mechanism; a way of detaching oneself from it. Stepping outside and giving it a prod here and there to see what it’s all about. Interesting times. Something has happened recently. The flicking of an internal switch. It came suddenly and without warning. People complain about demotivation as though it’s the problem. Surely it’s a symptom of another problem? My running appetite hasn’t been lost, but something isn’t right. I no longer seem to think I can do it. Bizarre. I need to hunt this one down and squash it before I … …
Quote of the day: “When it’s brown it’s cooked, when it’s black it’s fooked”. This gem appeared on a TV programme about a failing Yorkshire restaurant this evening, and I feel duty-bound to pass the wisdom on to all chefs in need of a guiding rule. Back to business. Yesterday’s entry wasn’t intended to be so gloomy, but I’ve had enough encouraging messages today to tell me that it must have come across like that. I was a bit fed up, but was trying to sound determined to get back on track rather than unhappy about being a bit behind. Anyway, a good 5 miles before breakfast this morning made the world seem a brighter place than it was … …
I had too much to dream last night. Here I am, marooned in a motel on a gargantuan business park in remotest Dartford. It feels like the First Preliminary Qualifying Round of the War of the Worlds has just finished. Plucky underdog Earth has been trounced by the much-fancied planet XXor6on-D92. As a particularly fine specimen of earthling, I’ve been warehoused in some inter-galactic, prisoner-of-war holding camp, waiting to be shipped off for re-programming and redeployment to the crimson salt mines of BigDave, a remote moon of XXor6on-D92. Bleak and soulless, with no company but the distant whine of the M25 snaking its way through the air, high above me, on its way to the marshlands of Essex, on the … …
Things are getting worse. I set out on my 20 mile run yesterday morning, but decided to stop after less than a mile after an ache appeared in my right calf. It wasn’t a pull, just the start of a pain that I guessed would get worse. Instead of my long run, I pottered in the garden before going to the pub to get drunk and watch Arsenal beat Tottenham to take the Premiership. What to do? It’s another long run missed, and with three weeks to the big day, I’m now feeling chronically undertrained. I’ve got to stay calm and calculate my best option. It’s out of the question to pull out of the marathon. I stopped yesterday as … …
Less than four weeks to go to Copenhagen, and at last – the start of some good old dry-mouthed terror to report. Saturday’s droopy 18 miler seemed like a gloomy portent, and marshalling at the London marathon on Sunday was another – at times. If I shut one eye it was a joyful experience. If I opened it and shut the other… well, it was like peering from the shadows at my own funeral. On the positive side, I had an unexpectedly good 5 mile run this evening. Learning to appreciate the special quality of early morning outings proved to be a long and painful apprenticeship. Since then I’ve rarely run in the evening. Tonight I did, and it reminded … …
So you thought that running a marathon was tough, huh? Well try applauding for 5 hours. I now know the origin of the expression "clapped out". Marshalling at the London Marathon turns out to be formidable cross-training. Our group assembled, and split again, in Trafalgar Square after a brief, matey breakfast. Those with a haunted look vanished into Charing Cross station to join the queue for the train to Blackheath. The rest of us filed down to the Embankment to begin the long march along the Thames to the Tower of London. The morning was bleak and wet, but nothing could dilute the excitement on the streets. London is a great marathon and a great city. Evidence of the operation’s … …
Another long, painful run today. 18 miles. My preparation was better than it had been for my 16 miles on Monday, and I suspect this explains why I got to about 10 miles this time before exhaustion dragged me to a stop. From that point on, I was alternating a mile or so of plodding with a couple of minutes of walking. By the final mile I was limping badly with a pain in my right foot, just above my ankle. Summary? Delighted to have put in the miles, and pleased to have had a less bad run than the last long one. But with 4 weeks to go till race day, this performance doesn’t fill me with a lot … …
Quote of the day, from an article in The Guardian newspaper about Sunday’s London marathon: One of the plodders on Sunday will be Michael Ward, a 46-year-old antique dealer from Bromley, Kent. Ward is unusual in that he has done absolutely no training for the event. "I haven’t even tried on a pair of shorts yet," he says. "I just haven’t had any time to train. I start work at three or four in the morning, have a young family, there just aren’t enough hours in the day. All I’ve done is to make sure I eat a fried breakfast every day." So why bother? "It’s something that I’ve always wanted to do," says Ward, "a bit like climbing a … …
It’s been a deflating week so far. Bank holiday Monday: I went out for a languid 16 miler but just ground to a painful halt after about 7 miles, overwhelmed by fatigue and a sense of foreboding about the way my training is fizzling out. Got home to find that some kids had set fire to the trees at the bottom of my garden. Tuesday: No run, but someone broke into our shed and nicked enough tools to give me a great excuse not to do any gardening for a while. The only good news of the week. Wednesday morning: Set off for a nippy 4 miler before breakfast. Gave up after 100 metres, strangely exhausted. Wednesday … …