Where did that Spring from?
A few months ago, I mentioned that there’s always a single identifiable point that divides summer from autumn. You wake up one morning, and there it is. Last year, it was the day I ran that 10K race in central Reading then flew off to Ireland. The game was up, I said. Months of icy darkness were on their way.
How hopeless it all seemed then. But if all things must pass, then even passings must pass, and this week, spring quite unexpectedly sprung. Just two weeks ago, the Reading Half was as cold as any race I’d ever done, barring the Chicago Marathon in 2002. We stood in a frozen field for an hour, cursing the weather. Even last weekend, Silverstone was windy and bleak, with just occasional glimpses of sunshine. But this week, it’s happened for real. Friday was mild and bright, and yesterday, the long weekend run was as hot and as draining as anything I did last summer.
I was up at 7 a.m. for a breakfast of dry toast, hot cross buns and bananas and black coffee. By 8:30 I was out.
The first hour was bright but misty. Just impossibly lovely, really. After the first half mile I enter one of the long, local lanes. It’s a bucolic vortex. The world beyond the tall hedges vanishes. I stride past a clump of thatched cottages and into the fields. Where did all the birds come from? And the rabbits? And look at all the stupid lambs pogoing around over there. And now, along the oak-lined avenue through the estate I see that the deer are back. Where have they been? As the sun starts to break through the mist, you remember what this running lark is all really about.
This dreamy overture lasted almost an hour. The big circle I drew around the flat, local countryside was closed as I arrived back home for a quick water stop. I was unusually thirsty, and eagerly drank most of the contents of the bottle I’d concealed in the hedge. This should have been a clue, but I didn’t notice it at the time. I just glugged, and carried on. Nearly 6 miles gone, and another 14 to go.
I headed for the canal. It was still misty along the water, but the sun was out strongly now. And so were the flies. I’d forgotten about the gauntlet of flies beneath the overhanging trees at the start of the canal. They filled my eyes and mouth for an entire half mile stretch. A carbo-loader’s dream. Simultaneous running and refuelling. I had to put my head down and leg it until I got out beyond the trees again. Horrible, and a reminder that warmth has nasty undercurrents.
Another three miles to the water tap at Aldermaston, but I didn’t mind. The weather was astounding, and as I chugged along through the rustic bliss of the Kennet and Avon Canal, I felt strangely content. An odd thing to feel perhaps, 11 miles into a run, but there are times when running offers so much joy and tranquility that for a while at least, you want for nothing.
And this, of course, was the point where it all started to go wrong.
I reached 13 miles easily enough. This was where I could turn round and head back. Tired, and still with 7 miles to go, but boosted by the knowledge that each stride was getting me nearer to home now, rather than further away. I marked the point with a minute of walking and another minute of stretching. And that was it. Suddenly I was exhausted. It was all over. Except that I had to cover those 7 miles. I jogged up to the 16 mile mark, but had to run-walk the final 4. To make it worse, the 4 miles became 5. I’d made a miscalculation somewhere. My GPS watch clicked past the 20 mile point, and I was still a mile from home.
15 miles good, 6 miles bad. Was this a crap run for the long, disastrous final stretch? Or was it a useful 15 miler followed by an extended warm-down?
And why did it go wrong? I can think of a couple of explanations. The unexpected heat and dehydration were obvious problems. But most of all, I think perhaps the two half marathons on the last two weekends just finally caught up with me.
The plan now is to have a fairly leisurely week before the Maidenhead Easter 10 on Good Friday. See you there.
