Walking is for cissies. I couldn’t hold back any longer. I wanted to join the big boys’ game again.
So before lunch today I got togged up, and went out for the mildest of jogs. A very easy pace indeed. The seven or so weeks since the marathon have reduced me to… no, have enlarged me to some grotesque, misshapen version of the elfin athlete who graced the streets of Chicago. It’s been humiliating, lumbering round the local streets like Frankenstein’s monster, the gasping villagers prodding my blubber with sticks. I hear them whisper to their incredulous children: “Some folk say he once ran a marathon, you know. Never believed it myself, mind…”
It was time to act. It felt odd, putting on my New Balance 854s for the first time since the morning of the race. As I creaked along the pavement, it all seemed like a very long time ago.
The plan was to do my usual 3.67 miles. Beyond that, I had no target. I was going to have a leisurely run, and see what happened.
And what did happen? Not a great deal, it has to be said. I took it very easily indeed, jogging at a stately 12 minutes a mile. If I had an unofficial target, it was just to complete the distance without stopping or walking, and that I managed without a lot of trouble.
This must sound strange to a non-runner. I completed a marathon just a few weeks ago (albeit at the fun-runner level), yet here I am talking about trying to run for three and a half miles without having to stop and walk. The oft-quoted wisdom is that you can have a break of about 4 days from running before your fitness starts to suffer. More than a week and the effects are quite noticeable. So seven weeks, particularly combined with the Beer and Cheese and Chocolate Diet that’s all the rage in this household, can have quite a dramatic impact.
The reason for this is that I haven’t yet adopted running as a daily lifestyle thing. It’s still a target-oriented activity. Running London, then Chicago, then a clutch of half marathons next Spring. Nothing wrong with having goals. They’re an important motivational mechanism; they get you out there in the dark and the cold, when even Emmerdale or the washing-up can seem a preferable option. The downside is the sense of anticlimax after the goal is reached, and the lapse into slothfulness and celebratory overeating and drinking. Perhaps the more I do this, the more it will become a natural part of my routine, and I’ll see fewer peaks and troughs.
Talking of goals, today I found another race for next March that looks tempting. The ‘Connemarathon’, as the name suggests, is a marathon in Connemara, one of the most picturesque corners of Ireland, and not far from where I have family. I’ve no plans to run the marathon, but there is a half marathon on the same day, over the second half of the marathon course. A small affair: 2002 was the first one, and only 12 people did the marathon and 60 the half. The race is so secluded that they have to bus all the competitors into the mountains for the start.
The bad news is that I already have 3 halfs booked for that month, so this might be biting off a little more than I can chew.
But did that ever stop me before?
