More than 1% of the way through this marathon campaign already. Must be time for a run, and for the first outing with this new Garmin Forerunner GPS gadget. When I did the London marathon two years ago, I remember approaching that first day with dread and anxiety. Today was different. It must sound pitiful to more rational ears than mine, but I woke this morning feeling excited and happy. Not quite like a kid on Christmas morning, which is the simile within easiest temporal reach, but I was unusually reluctant to loiter in bed once the alarm clock reached 5:40.
I left the house with the GPS, realising with some bewilderment that I didn’t know how to start the thing. I could turn on the unit, but how to start the timer? Would it just spark into life once I started to run? Evidently not. This wasn’t a morning to stand around doing nothing. It wasn’t quite freezing, and it wasn’t quite pouring with rain, but for someone who’d been unconscious and cocooned only seven minutes earlier, the world seemed aggressively black and cold, and the drizzle was robust enough to produce a fan of chilly rivulets down my back within seconds. In the end I just poked all the buttons repeatedly till the law of averages delivered the goods, and we were off.
This run felt good. Why? Same answer as why sometimes a run doesn’t feel so good. Namely that I’ve no bloody idea.
Some guesses might include: the loss of a few pounds recently, which has made me feel stronger and fitter. I’m still 210 pounds, or 15 stone, but if you’ve recently been 220 pounds, you feel the difference. But I suspect most of the extra energy and adrenaline just came from the excitement of starting to unwrap this new marathon package. I’ve got a rough idea of the shape and the weight, but I can’t be certain what’s actually in there yet till I get well into the schedule.
The temptation to discuss pace and split times is normally a resistible option; it’s not a topic that holds me in thrall, so it must be inconceivably dull to everyone else. And if it isn’t, you should seek urgent help, even if anyone who voluntarily goes to a psychiatrist really does need their head examining.
But just a brief mention of a long-term suspicion: if I could permanently screw my average pace down to below 10 minutes a mile, I’d be as happy as a pig in Dover, or whatever that expression is. And I’m not too far off it. This will still sound mighty slow to some, but it should be remembered that on that tear-stained evening, two years ago now, when I first plodded for 3 miles without stopping, my pace (if that’s the right word) was something over 14 minutes a mile.
The new toy is splendid. I didn’t customise the monitor quite right, thus missing out on the sight of my digital alter ego beating the virtual challenger into a cocked hat. It was also pitch black, which meant a lot of hopeful, exploratory fumbling, sporadic illumination and extended confusion as the barely-conscious eye tried to assimilate a ton of foreign data. The Timex is a good gadget, but this one definitely nudges ahead. Let’s throw technology into a ditch for a moment: the important stuff went to plan. I hate a run without any animals, but eventually, in the flash of a puddle I see an unseasonal rabbit dash across the lane, and later, turning into the park, hear the fabulous panic of the invisible deer fleeing through the invisible leaves.
Hello World.
