Today — as disturbing a run as I ever had. So many avoidable errors.
Here are a few random, snatched examples:
1) Too anal about my training schedule. Don’t I frequently remind
people new to marathon training plans that they mustn’t be a slave to
the schedule? Today folks, I was that slave.
The plan said 18 miles. Following a couple of hard running weeks I
should have laughed at it and spat in its eye. I should have jumped up
and down on the idea till it expired, then interred it in my garden and
carried on jumping up and down on the burial mound, singing The Red
Flag at the top of my voice.
But I didn’t.
2) Dehydration. I didn’t just leave myself open to the risk, I
personally crafted an invitation with a gold border and everything, and
hand-delivered it. This, despite the unusual step of taking some water
with me. But half a litre for 18 miles was never going to work. Indeed,
the irony is that it was the decision to take some fluid with me that
led me to ignore the bigger question of whether I had enough. I just
didn’t think hard enough about it.
3) I wasn’t in the right physical condition, or the right frame of
mind, to do any sort of long run. Yesterday (Friday), I ran a hard 6
miler. So in the first 5 miles today, I could feel the weight in my
legs, slowing me down. Yesterday’s happy lope was now like some
hangover; a pair of vigorous, brawny, bony hands, dragging me down into
the earth.
But I pressed on. I shouldn’t have run yesterday, or perhaps better,
should have pushed today’s run back to Sunday.
4) Nutrition problems again. After the nauseating gel last weekend, I
took a collection of dried fruits with me today. Apricots, figs,
cranberries. There was something satisfyingly romantic and medieval
about this collection of fruits. I think I got carried away. I was
hovering in a bucolic idyll, a character from A Midsummer
Night’s Dream, or one of Robin Hood’s Merrye Men, wandering
in the forest, grinning, aimless, occasionally reaching into the trees
for survival. Intoxicated by this pocketful of nature.
What a tragic way for a grown man to behave. And worse, to admit the
full grisly details.
5) Indecision. I set off, unsure of just how far I was going to run;
whether to do it all along the canal, or to branch off somewhere.
Approaching the decision point, I still hadn’t
decided. Even now, I can’t be certain what I did, or why.
6) Obstinacy. Running into the eye of the storm, all I could do was to
put my wrap-around shades on. I didn’t duck out when I could. A few
minutes into the hilly diversion, I started to have severe doubts, but
I kept going. Let the mountains move, not me.
7) Badly prepared. Everything was underestimated. I wasn’t sure where I
was going. I had no phone with me, no map. I just presumed that I…. I
just presumed I’d survive the darkness and the cold by default. I just
presumed.
So. Where do I start? This was a cock-up from start to finish.
I’ll start with the good news. I ran 15 miles. That’s what my
spreadsheet will show.
My GPS watch has been troublesome recently; I’ve lost the habit of
using it. Will pick it up again when the new Forerunner 305 appears, in
a few weeks. For the moment, I’m measuring routes on an OS map, just
like I used to. In theory, canal runs are easy to plot. You measure a
distance that marks 50% of your distance, then you do an out-and-back.
This only works if you remember exactly where to turn. Was it Lock 93,
or Lock 91? Or was 93 last week? No hang on, wasn’t it Bridge 40?
I trudged past Lock 93 and Bridge 42. Should I turn back here? Then
Bridges 41 and 40. Or here? Lock 92 came and went. At Lock 91 I did,
finally, stop and took my first slug of water. Dipping my head to look
at the ground, a cascade of sweat ran off the peak of my cap and
splashed my shoes. The weak sun was still out, but it was colder now
than when I’d set out. I could see my breath in front of me. I was
wearing only a short-sleeved teeshirt and a sleeveless gillet.
Leaning on my imaginary quarter-staff, I chomped on another fig and
apricot. Spent a minute stretching, then turned and headed back. Even a
one minute break like this disrupts the rhythm. For a hypnotic hour and
a half or more, I’d been ticking along, existing on the margins, a
minor character in someone else’s reverie.
At one point on the outward leg, where the railway line comes close to
the canal, I’d found myself chugging alongside a slow-moving goods
train. I’d glanced up at the driver and caught his eye. We’d swapped
waves. At the same time, on my other side, a variegated narrow-boat was
gliding sedately along the canal, like a lump of butter sliding across
a hot frying pan. The pipe-smoking pilot had smiled and nodded. For
perhaps 30 seconds or so, the three of us had moved slowly westward in
concert, while a driving blues from ZZ Top, courtesy of Planet Rock in
my headphones, had provided the soundtrack. For those brief moments I’d
felt a satisfying sense of purpose and direction. In our own different
ways, we were all on the same journey, but then the train sped up and
clanked off towards Newbury and beyond, and the bubble popped.
Stopping now at this halfway point was like waking from a dream. Trying
to recreate that sense of peace was like trying to fall asleep again to
re-enter the same dream. It can’t be done.
Heading back was a different sensation. Somehow the life had begun to
drain out of the run. If the first half was a dream, I was now lying
awake, psyching myself up for the task ahead. How far had I come? Was
it enough? What were my options? With four miles left to go along the
canal before I got home, I started to weigh up my options. Yes, I was
tired now. My quads and calfs were heavy and unresponsive. I was
plodding. Worse than plodding, I was beginning to shuffle. The quickest
way home was straight back the way I’d come, but if I turned off at the
next bridge and made my way over the A4 towards the villages of Tutts
Clump and Bradfield, I’d be adding a couple of miles at least,
therefore guaranteeing that I’d done the distance. It would be hard,
but worth it in the end, I reasoned.
A gentler voice was telling me: No. Continue along this path of least
resistance. With a tough half marathon next weekend, nothing would be
gained by taking the diversion. But this voice lost out, and at Ufton
Bridge, I turned north-west, away from the canal. I trotted over the
level crossing where all those people had died, just 14 months ago. Here’s
the story.
A couple of hundred yards later, I was at the main road, looking across
the A4 to the start of the road leading into the hilly woods beyond.
No, I told myself, this is stupid. I was already walking as much as I
was running. But I carried on, and carried on. Another half mile and I
could barely run at all. I was now walking, with occasional short
bursts of jogging.
And suddenly it was dark, too. And much colder.
Past a couple of farms till I came to Hill Number 1. Steep, but I had a
go at jogging up it. Gave up 50 yards later. Down the other side, and
straight into Hill Number 2. This is really steep, and long. The woods
closed in some more. By the time I was tottering down the other side, I
could barely see my hand in front of my face. Then another, smaller
hill. Then a short steep one. I didn’t remember this route being so
long, and so hilly. I encouraged myself by thinking what a good stretch
of road this would be to do some hilly intervals in the future. Drive
down to the start of the track; run one way for 2 miles or so, then
back the other. A total of 8 hills in 4 miles. A good workout. But not
after running for 3 hours or more.
For all our sakes, I’ll put this tale out of its misery now.
I walked for another 2 miles, till I finally conceded I was in trouble.
Black as pitch, freezing, and in the middle of a wood. Miserable. I
decided to throw in the towel — but how? No phone, no money, no ideas.
Another painful mile, then at last, a bit of luck. Turning a corner,
glowing gold in the distance, like a beacon for the traveller, a red
phonebox. Please let it work.
It did. A reverse-charge call home, and 15 minutes later, M turns up to
rescue me.
Here’s the lesson: hard runs deserve hard thinking.
Nature is bigger than we are. Modern living is so easy that we seem to
want to make it hard for ourselves. Sometimes, too hard.
And here’s the irony: when I got home and measured my route, I found
I’d already run 15 miles by the time I turned away from the canal. Had
I kept chugging along, I’d have managed 18 miles. When I finally called
my wife, I’d covered more than 19, and had I managed to finish the
route I was intending, it would have been almost 22 miles. Way, way too
far.
A cock-up. That’s it.
Changing the subject, here’s a piece of video I posted recently on the forum.
I’m posting it again in case people missed it:
