Katy. A nice sort of name, I’ve always thought. This was borne out by an email I received this morning from someone with that chummy designation, allowing me a late entry to the ingeniously named “Oracle To Oracle” 10K race (and just as craftily shortened to O2O10K in the blurb), a week on Sunday.
I’d been thinking about what I’d said yesterday about the kick-start, and decided that a shortish race would be a good one. This one fitted the bill nicely but the last entry date had passed. I mailed the organisers and good egg Katy replied with a dispensation. Hurrah!
The race is localish and gives me 10 days to lose a few pounds and rediscover some kind of elementary fitness, at least enough to run 6 miles without stopping. If I can manage that, the world of athletics is mine for the taking.
Words are arresting things. I was speaking to someone yesterday and used the word Chechnya. The moment I said it, I knew it was the first time I’d ever spoken it, despite hearing it a thousand times in the past year or two. Just now, the word Austerlitz came into my head, for no obviously good reason. It must have some significance for me, but I don’t know why just at the moment. I’m sure Mister Google will be able to assist, but until then I’m going to dwell in this deliciously irritating state, trying to recall what this word means and why I should care.
[Later that day…]
A remarkably good run this evening. In the strange vocabulary of the runner, this can be translated as: this evening I had a very hard and unpleasant run. Describing it as “good” is something you can do later, after it’s over.
It was only 3.5 miles, but after 3 weeks of almost total inactivity, and being 4 pounds heavier than I was when a few weeks ago I trumpeted the start of a new, serious health campaign, it was enough. No stops, and bizarrely, the fastest pace I’ve run in almost 3 months. I won’t humiliate myself by saying what that pace was, but I was pleased.
I used to think that living next door to a pub that’s in the Good Beer Guide represented the final piece in the jigsaw. All aspirations satisfied. Then I discovered running. I haven’t forgotten what I said a few months ago, that I want to attack all my PBs in the coming months. I’d been weighing up the pros and cons of an easy running life, comparing it with a more competitive approach. It’s a persistent and pertinent question for all inhabitants of Plodderama. Do we just run to feel better? To collect a few smug also-ran medals? Or do we keep trying to raise the bar, even if the bar might not be very high? Perhaps because the bar isn’t very high. There’s no right and wrong answer to that, and the answer won’t stay the same even for one person. I’m still learning this stuff, and one mistake I made was to presume that because I’d started from such a low base, I was bound to keep on getting faster and fitter and lighter if I just kept on running. That didn’t happen, but it took a long time to realise it. When I did finally twig, I sort of shrugged my shoulders about it. I’d found a comfort zone. And for a while it was cosy enough not to question it. But eventually, I thought better of it, and decided to invite this extra, competitive dimension back in. I’ll never be competitive in the purest sense. I can’t ever see a time when I’ll be trying to win a race, unless they introduce a new Fat Bastard category.
All that remains, if you wish to accept it, is the battle against yourself. The urge to beat previous times. For a while, I even gave up on this. Then I had my spell of frank introspection, and decided it was worth getting serious again. Since then, I’ve blown hot and cold, but the intention remains. Up to and including next spring, I intend breaking my very modest PBs at all distances I’ev done so far: 10K, 10 miles, half marathon, 20 miles, marathon.
To have a hope, I need to get back to running standard 10 minute miles in training, then start to push below that for races. It will take a while, but this week’s been a promising new start.
