It’s usually easy to work out where motivation comes from, but a loss of motivation can be more mysterious. Eight days now without a run, and it’s baffling. I can’t even get enthusiastic about the idea of feeling depressed about it. Curiosity and a spirit of keen enquiry seem like better options, though no conclusions have yet appeared. A good way of dealing with it would seem to be to lie about it. With all those races coming up next month, it’s psychologically beneficial to take a week off at this key time. De-stressing. Wiping the slate clean. Re-energising. Refocussing. Gathering my energy. Yeah, that’s it. But whatever it is, it must end, and it will end tomorrow. In 13 … …
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What a disastrous running week it’s been. Nothing since Saturday. Five useless days. Why? [Shrugs languidly. Gazes through the window at the snow. But is that expression wistfulness, or indifference?] I don’t know why. Sometimes it happens. Last time the weather was this atrocious, early in the month, I delighted in stripping off and plunging into the frozen world. This time it’s less appealing. Things will get better.… …
Twelve miles along the canal today, and it was tough. Perhaps it was last night’s bottle of Southern French Viognier (£4.99 from the Co-Op, good stuff). Or was it those two fried egg sandwiches I had for breakfast? It was a pleasant enough day. Patchy sun, and fairly warm. There were a few swans about, and a heron on the weir. Quite a few walkers but no one else running. The run wasn’t a disaster. Far from it. But it got tiring after 6 miles or so, and there were a few brief walk-breaks through the second half. It doesn’t matter. Ihave to keep reminding myself that I’m not training for a marathon, even though I am following Hal Higdon’s … …
Despite a few pints after work last night, and the odd glass of rustic French merlot while knocking up our chow mein, I didn’t feel too bad today, and decided to chalk up another four miles before it got dark. It felt like a struggle, so I was shocked when I returned home to discover that I’d managed four miles in less than 41 minutes. It didn’t feel like it, but this kind of pace, and ideally a bit faster, should be a matter of course if I’m to have any hope of reaching my targets this year. I’m aiming for a 2 hours 10 minute half marathon, which shakes down to a shade under 10 minutes a mile – … …
Another strangely blank run this lunchtime. Yesterday’s disturbing trend is continuing. What else isn’t happening? What’s not going on around here? Six miles today. Six miles. I felt tired and heavy. I’ve lost weight this week, but this was a different kind of heaviness. It was a lack of enthusiasm; no interest. It was a spiritual ponderousness. Why? It struck me after a couple of these long, lethargic miles that I’d had no liquid for 15 hours, apart from a cup of coffee. That was it, I’m sure. Talked about holidays this evening. We seem to be specialising in international pariahs, past and present. In October it was the USA, the current monster on the international stage. This year … …
A pedestrian, three mile plod before work. I waved expectantly to the postman. He didn’t wave back. Apart from that, nothing else didn’t happen.… …
The rain falls down on last year’s man…. It poured all morning. At one o’clock I got up from my chair and went running for five miles in the most hostile conditions I’ve yet encountered on a run. It took, I suppose, a minute or two for the torrent to penetrate my jacket, and to seep through my hat. From that point on I felt completely liberated by the pain of it. Adversity can be exhilarating if you choose to spit in its eye. I ran for two miles along the wild A4. It was a maelstrom. The rain came down in buckets, the wind and the traffic whistled around my ears. Every ten seconds an articulated lorry appeared like … …
What goes up must come down, they say. This is certainly true of the runner’s self esteem. It’s been a truly dreadful week. I’m writing it off and starting again. Tuesday’s rapid three miles was a good start, but it stuttered from then on. I missed my 5 miler on Wednesday, for no very good reason, and struggled to a sweaty, flabby, panting 3 miles early on Thursday. The plan was to rescue Wednesday’s 5 miles by doing them on Friday but no, this didn’t happen either. Instead, they popped up yesterday morning, Saturday. This was a grey and listless run along the canal. It was a foggy and strangely blank morning. I kept telling myself that I would get … …
Yesterday I had some hot cross buns and cereal for breakfast. Lunch was a french stick with a lump of paté the size of a house brick. Supper began with a couple of beers while I fried up a panful of liver and onions and bacon, which we ate with thick gravy, mashed potatoes and sprouts. I polished off a bottle of Cape Pinotage, then a tub of ice cream and a wedge of stilton, with a bar of chocolate as a nightcap. This morning I appear to be four pounds heavier than I was yesterday. Very curious. A quick three miles this afternoon. And by my standards, I do mean quick. I think this might be one of the … …
It must be a sign of my age. My wife goes off to work, and what do I do? Slip out to the pub? Invite my mistress round? Fill a frying pan with lard and sizzling pig parts? Get my dusty Fender Stratocaster out of the loft? No, I dress up like a schoolboy and run around the countryside for ten miles. But it was a good run. I never quite recaptured the euphoria of last Sunday (over the same route), but the jaunt had its moments today, and overall, this was a splendid way to spend 107 minutes on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was out again, but weaker and cooler than last weekend. The first half mile was … …