9 miles before breakfast. The first morning run I’ve managed without early retirement through injury or profound misery.
It was still tough going. Like all crack-of-dawn runs there was something raw and bleak and high-resolution monochrome about it. Creaking out of bed in the cold half-light, pulling on shivering synthetics and finding yourself on the streets. Deeply unnatural. How you long for the warmth of the womb.
It’s like one of those nightmares where you find yourself standing naked at a bus-stop, or walking into the office with no trousers on. Everyone else is scarved and gloved against the cold but I’m attired as though I’m sitting in a beer garden on a sweltering Sunday afternoon in July. Worse still, instead of keeping a low profile, I’m pounding along the pavements past these bemused commuters to make absolutely certain they see me.
At least today I knew after a minute or two I was going to be alright. Previously I’ve known as soon as I’d stepped outside that it wasn’t going to work out. Why was this one different? Perhaps I’m just that bit more adept than I was; perhaps mentally tougher. Or did I just manage to have more sleep this time? More determination? A greater sense of urgency now that the race is less than six weeks away? Or are the brighter, frost-free seven o’clocks less intimidating? Who knows. Perhaps I could try the same thing tomorrow and fail horribly. Despite the clocks and the pacemakers and the precise distances and the heart rate monitors, running remains a fascinatingly anarchic and unpredictable and disorganised activity.
Last time I ran in the morning I was consumed with rage about George Bush’s ‘axis of evil’ speech. Today I woke to the news that the US was unilaterally imposing trade tariffs in contravention of the WTO rules, and felt just as fired up. I’m planning to be in Chicago in October, but I almost feel that cancelling the trip is the only way I can protest. The USA seems to be still punch drunk after September 11th, and is in danger of becoming some sort of rogue state, withdrawing into itself in a cloud of suspicious hostility. A respectable member of the club who have suddenly started to act strangely. We try to be sympathetic because we know they recently suffered some personal tragedy, but eventually you suspect that they are taking advantage of the situation. How is it that Americans are so decent and humble and helpful and personable, yet the political layer above them is precisely the opposite?
I ran the same route as last Sunday, doing one and a half circuits rather than the three I did then. The first leg seemed harder than the first one on Sunday, though I might be imagining that. You quickly forget how hard running is. By the end of it, and particularly after a bath and food, almost all you feel is relief and elation. You’ve already started to haemorrhage reality.
Tough yes, but this was a long distance for the time of day, and I’m delighted that it worked out. There was never any serious danger of not finishing. I felt quite strong and focussed from the start. I’ve continued the carbo-loading in recent days, and perhaps this was another reason I felt on top of it.
The only negative is that my toes ached by the end. Last week’s blisters are still very much in evidence, and though their volcanic qualities seem to have been disengaged at last, they are still painful weaknesses. With the Reading Half coming up in four days time, I’m thinking of swapping tomorrow’s scheduled 4 mile run for the exercise bike, to ensure that I still have some toes available for Sunday.
