One track mind
Having discovered the secret of eternal youth, I’m feeling pleased with myself.
Last entry, I mentioned my success in running with the Kaiser Chiefs. This led me to try putting together a playlist of music of a similar pace, in the hope of extending the effect. But I couldn’t get it to work seamlessly enough. Then I remembered podrunner, a free service provided by DJ Steve Boyett. He mixes 60 minutes worth of beat-laden electronica into one continuous track but (and here’s the clever bit) each chunk of music is the same pace from start to finish. Today I plugged myself into ‘a churning urn of burning funk’ — a throbbing hour at 150 beats-per-minute (bpm) called Square One, followed by another at 152 bpm.
And it really worked. The first test was passed last Tuesday, with an unbroken 5 miles along the canal. Today I managed a barely-believable 9 miles around the rain-thrashed streets of suburban Reading, with just one brief walk-break after an hour or so to fiddle with my iPod and glug something wet and blackcurranty.
It’s been a patchy week on the running front. Monday to Thursday was good, with no enforced run-walks at last. A 3.5 miler on Monday was followed next day by the aforementioned 5.15 canal miles. Then another 4 on Thursday to set me up for something indecently long at the weekend. But tragedy struck in the shape of a pint glass. Yes, my promised 4-week abstinence was truncated to 3. There’s something about a holiday weekend that lures one into the pub, then drags you by the nose to the Chinese restaurant for a takeaway. Saturday was similarly written off.
The ship steadied itself again yesterday, but felt a shade too overladen to move from its cosy berth. Bad news. It meant three successive runless days, and the cardinal sin of no long run. The gurus preach that this is the one not to miss — but I missed it. Feeling ashamed and dirty, I sloped off to bed last night, resolved to run longish today.
This morning I woke to the sound of heavy rain drumming on the roof and splashing against the window. Sheesh. Had I run long yesterday, this would have been a rest day, and I could have I lain there, smug as an over-endowed mongrel. Instead, I listened to the wind whistling beneath the eaves and thought: “Oh dear”. Eventually I slipped out of bed and peered through the curtains. Before me, a typically grim spring bank holiday scene. I could see oceanic puddles forming on the pavement outside, and watched the fir trees along the main road bending in the wind. At least there would be no wintry chill to struggle against. I peered at the scene for a minute or so, until I suddenly realised there was no longer any dread. Instead, here was some kind of excitement at last.
I’ve been positive about running again recently, but it’s a long time since I reminded myself that running affords a pleasure that must be earned. Twenty minutes later, I was starting my shift.
The run was never fast, but it was tough enough. I eschewed the canal towpath this time and went for a road run that I’d found on MapMyRun. I wanted to try a new route, and this seemed as good as any at around the 8 mile mark — my target. I’d run on many of these roads before with the local running club, but had never stitched them together quite like this.
The route was interestingly unremarkable. The first two or three miles had me tracing the A4 into Reading — a cheerless stretch of road, only tolerable when you’re strapped into your MP3 player, with a high decibel disco mix pumping fitness propaganda into your brain. Not everyone will find the thought appealing, but try it and see. The mesmerising throb becomes strangely compelling after a short while, and it really does help to keep your feet moving. Indeed, I was in danger of entering some sort of profound trance-like state, but fortunately a souped-up Ford Fiesta filled with jeering chavs made a detour through a major puddle to ensure that I received a tsunami of gritty rainwater. Oh how we laughed.
The truth is that it was raining so heavily, I barely noticed the drenching.
The deluge continued as I turned into the road fringing Prospect Park. Shortly afterwards, I came up behind a couple standing at the rim of a pavement puddle, as though uncertain how, or if, to proceed. I called out a greeting and ploughed through the water, reminding myself of just how liberating and life-simplifying this whole running business can be. For an hour you are king of your own universe; and its legislature, allowed to shed rules and social norms that would only obstruct and inhibit you.
Around this point I came across the first modest hill, and briefly considered walking. I resolutely crushed and ejected the thought, resolving not to stop until the first hour of bone-quaking noise had expired. Then a second hill appeared, a little steeper than the first, but I kept the rhythm going and pressed on.
At last, there was no more pulsating electronica, and I was able to rediscover walking. My drink was in a foolishly non-resealable pack, so I had to drink it all, inflating my stomach to a state bordering on the non-viable. What to do? Would I ever run again? Only one thing for it — prod the iPod. Bring on the next hour of medicine and get going. Which I did, chugging on for another 4 miles without a pause.
Just over the 9 mile mark I turned off my watch and drifted to a halt, delicately doing a few calf stretches against a pillar box while an elderly lady stared open-mouth at me, clearly thinking I was trying to push it over. I completed my homeward journey with a warm-down walk, listening to a couple of Clannad tracks to add to the floaty sensation.
I’m genuinely astonished at the power of the podrunner tracks, though they pose two disconcerting questions: 1) How long can I continue to listen to this stuff without suffering a cataclysmic mental breakdown? and 2) Is it not some form of performance-enhancing drug? For training purposes, I don’t suppose it matters, but I wonder if this partly explains why some people get so panicky when the subject of banning MP3 players in races comes up? Is this what some people are listening to when they race, and have they become dependent on it as a performance aid?
Whatever the answers may be, I’m happy to have discovered another weapon to help with the struggle. It’s not a remedy for everyone, but a desperate man like me won’t ask too many questions. The bottom line is that I ran 9.1 continuous miles through a filthy torrent, and it feels good.
