Some of the worst weather conditions of the winter said a cheery “Hi” when I woke this morning. I lay there for a while, listening to the rain sploshing in the gutter under the roof, and trickling down the walls. The windows trembled in their frames. At seven I got up to scoff a banana or two and a pint of orange squash. I stood in the kitchen looking out, thinking about December 11th 2001. The weatherman on Radio Four said go back to bed – so I did.
The truth is, the weather didn’t matter much. If anything, it made the prospect of a run more exciting. Better than dismal, neutral grey. More perplexing was the lethargy that I’d sensed creeping through the last week. I’ve just not been in the mood. Running 16 miles on a day like this when you really don’t feel like it, isn’t easy.
So I went back to bed to think about it, and to devise some ideas for running 16 miles without it really seeming as if I was running 16 miles.
A while later I got up again and mooched around for a bit. I did what I do sometimes when I have one foot in one universe and the other in some other universe. I stood on the landing halfway up the stairs and gazed out across our large, empty front garden. It’s a no man’s land that neatly matches my indecision. I envisage how it will look. One day.
I was in danger of talking myself out of a run. In desperation, I switched on this computer to scrape some inspiration from somewhere. Unexpectedly, it was here where I found it. This website. Sweder’s message on the forum, geeing himself for his own 16 miler gave me the focus I needed to get out there.
I left the house at nine wearing, unusually for me, a rain jacket. I’ve been running about 3½ years now, and this is probably only the 5th or 6th time I’ve worn more than a teeshirt on the top half of my body. I’ve been tee-shirted in conditions far worse than today, but I was concerned about the length of time I might be out. If I got anywhere near my target I could be out for 3 hours. Three sodden hours on a sharp winter morning didn’t seem advisable.
The wind was strong enough to send the rain swirling up the street ahead of me. It was sort of great. A bit like jogging through a cold water car-wash. Miserable, but what’s the point of feeling fed up with it? May as well enjoy the surreal nature of it all. So I laughed as heartily as you can do through gritted teeth.
I did the basic 3½ miles round the block then set off for the canal. The plan had been to join it further up than normal to miss out on two miles of viscous, slippery, towpath mud. But by now I was damp and loosened up and resigned to my fate. So I what-the-helled and headed off to my usual starting point.
There isn’t a lot I can say about the run. I ground it out. The anglers were unusually communicative. No bikes spotted whatsoever. Three or four other runners confronted and ‘Shearered’, as recently discussed on the forum. 
A couple of small trees blown down in the gales. The sound of shotguns across the fields.
6 miles in, the sun appeared, and I was almost enjoying myself. I reached the visitor centre and slurped a few mouthfuls of tap water. Instead of continuing up the canal I veered off and ran for a mile or two along a drab country lane with no pavements. This was no fun at all. Every few seconds a car appeared, forcing me to leap onto the bobbly grass verge.
Then the long haul back again. Trudge, splash, trudge, splash. A weird thought at 14 miles. I was feeling OK. I was feeling sufficiently OK to think about extending the run beyond 16 miles. What about 18? Or why not push it out to 20 and cross off one of those nasty buggers pencilled in for later in the training schedule?
In the end, I didn’t. Unfamiliar, sensible thoughts about not increasing the long run more than a mile or two at a time arrived. The dangers of overtraining, and of inviting strains and tears. Instead I decided to leave it at 16, and enjoy the thought that I could have tacked on more miles if I’d needed to.
Later, I discovered that Sweder had bailed out of his 16 miler with a hamstring problem. Oh, the irony. The news was bad, but it may cheer him up to know that he was the reason I was able to slay my own 16 mile monster.
This evening, at last, dry and warm again, I finally made it to what must be one of the best pubs on the planet: The Bell at Aldworth. We’d strayed across the Oxfordshire border to scavenge for some haute cuisine at the Swan in Streatley. Emerging from the village after our meal, I spied a narrow, meandering lane up the hillside opposite, and remembered the rumour I’d heard from Russ, a redoubtable local beersmith, that up this very track lay one of the area’s most worthy taverns. It was too good an opportunity to miss. A great pub. Tiny, ancient, quite unspoilt. Run by the same family since before the French Revolution.
I had a couple of pints and silently toasted a variety of things. The joy of an authentic country pub; the joy of a good run; and on our wedding anniversary, the joy of a good marriage. And a chance too, to commiserate with Sweder and others currently suffering from injury. They may be held back, but they should take comfort from knowing that they can still help and inspire others.
Cheers.
