At 6:30 this morning, I opened my eyes and thought: “Thy will be done”.
My first pre-breakfast UK run since the early spring.
I don’t suppose I ever really enjoyed an early morning run but I tell
myself that I did. There is pleasure, but it’s deferred. It’s the
getting back home, like a carthorse after a day’s work, breath steaming
through your nostrils. The sudden roasting from the central heating as
you come in from the cold. All that clinging, dripping and gulping in
the kitchen. The pleasure is not in the running, but in the release
from the pain of running.
I wasn’t looking forward to this one. As I set off, I wondered how many
of these stop-start sessions I’d have to file away before I could get
back to proper running. Or my version of proper running, which might
not be the same as yours.
It’s getting cold out there now, though changing the clocks at the
weekend at least gave me some daylight. I began my forlorn totter,
marvelling at the memory of three full winters of running with no
jacket. Last year was the first time I started wearing one regularly.
Before that, it somehow never quite occurred to me that I needed
anything but short-sleeved teeshirt and shorts, even in sub-zero
temperatures. Running is a hairshirt activity, I reasoned. I shouldn’t
be seeking solace and mitigation, or I might as well have stayed at
home.
November 1st. After the summer that never ended, suddenly we’re at the
cliff edge of winter. What happened to autumn?
We’re not quite sub-zero yet. In fact it was a great morning to be out
there.
The first of the month is always a good day for a run. An excellent
opportunity for self-deception. It always feels like a fresh start,
even if you’re doing nothing different.
But today was different. Not just that it was my
first early morning outing for a long time. I was certain that it would
be another stop-start like Monday evening. Too plump and unfit at the
moment to avoid walking for at least half the 3.5 miles.
But a weird thing happened. As usual, I started my run with all the
velocity of a brick being launched from a child’s catapult. After
plodding a hundred metres or so, I waited for that lung-busting
sensation to kick in, forcing me to a panting halt.
But it never came. I carried on, and on, and on. It wasn’t a fast
session of course (somewhere over 11:30 minutes a mile), but apart from
an enforced 30 second stop when I had to cross a busy road, I managed
to keep going the entire way. Very odd. I’d assumed that my 5 week
lay-off had put me right back to where I had been before my brief
revival in September, but I may be a bit further along the track than I
thought.
A couple of thoughts. One is that I did too much too soon last time.
Looking back at my running log, I ran 6 days out of 7 before that
Saturday morning when I pulled up, followed a day or so later by the
worrying calf pains that spooked me. Even at my modest level, it’s
possible to overtrain, and I think that’s part of where I went wrong.
Just for the moment this can be an alternate-days activity.
I’ve also abandoned running with music for a while. My iPod habit
started in the run-up to Zurich, when I decided I needed a mental
diversion on my long runs. It then became a fixture, even on the short
ones. But I’m heading back the other way again now. It puts too much
distance between me and the activity — which of course was the idea.
But perhaps you should never try to take your mind off it completely.
Perhaps you need that awareness of running. Perhaps that’s the actual
point. Much as I love Jimi Hendrix, he was getting in the way. Fine for
the gym, and perhaps very long runs, but not for 4 or 5 miles in the
English countryside.
A decent start to the revival then. I’m still uncertain about the
possibility of doing the 56-kilometre ultra in South Africa in April.
It’s one step at a time. The Brighton 10K in a couple of weeks is an
important hurdle. Just 6 miles perhaps, but in confidence value, it’s
worth more than that. Then a couple of wintry favourites — the hilly
Cliveden Cross Country on New Year’s Eve, then a return to Almeria at
the end of January for the half marathon. (Read
about it here.)
That’s only 8 or 9 weeks from the ultra, so I’ll have a better idea by
then what my chances are. Last year, Almeria marked the end of a very
good running spell. The beer and the R ‘n’ R was itself fine, but it
punched a hole in my resolve that took a while to repair. There’s no
chance of not enjoying a few drinks next time either, but I need to
make sure that I get back to work straight away.
Perhaps a line from the Lard’s Prayer should be:
Do lead us into temptation
But not too far, please
