Over yonder, in Twitterland, I’ve been trying to allocate a regular "Boston optimism" index to my daily disposition. A 60% score may not sound too good, but it has crept up from 45% a few days ago. I suppose the direction it’s heading is more important than the absolute value. So the important message is that hope is waxing, and the optostat is showing my mood moving from cool to tepid. Oh moderately happy days.
This isn’t the same as positive or negative thinking. I remain startlingly upbeat about my chances of getting through the Boston Marathon on April 20th (37 days from now), and am doing everything I can to maximise my chances. But I have to do what runners are constantly urged to do — listen to one’s body — and it’s the messages it’s transmitting that become the realistic measure of my chances. I have a feeling this weekend will mark a critical point, and Monday will see a significant movement in one direction or the other.
So. Why is the sight of the promised land in slightly sharper focus today? It’s not from running — though I did manage a pain-free 3½ mile jog around the block on Tuesday. The main source of hope comes from yesterday’s visit to Phil Chalmers, who I first went to see in the new year, following the shocking events of Boxing Day. Phil is a sports masseur and personal trainer. More than that, he’s a long distance runner in his late 40s, so I’m guaranteed a sympathetic hearing.
Sports massage is a masochistic treat, a bit like running itself. Although most of the session was spent chatting normally, there were times when I was rendered speechless by the pain as he buried his fingers deep into my muscles and tendons and sinews. Occasionally he would warn me. Did I detect the faintest of sadistic chuckles as he uttered those menacing words: "Right, I’m going in deep"?
But seriously, it feels as if it’s doing me good, and his thoughts and analysis make me feel more positive about my chances. That alone makes it worth the investment. When I arrived at midday, he was just back from a 25 miler along the A4. This is in preparation for the Stockholm Marathon at the end of May, which itself is preparation for (I think) the Mont Blanc Ultra, a 100-mile, 2-day race over the Alps. "I’ve asked a few friends if they fancy joining me, but for some reason, no one seems interested".
His view is that I have every chance of getting round Boston as long as the calf doesn’t go again, and I keep up the cardio-vascular training. Seven hours a week should do it, he reckons, ideally with an increasing proportion of road miles. I booked another half hour for next Friday, and hobbled away. In my head at least, I felt better.
A few hours later I was in the gym for 100 minutes of furious activity, starting with half an hour on the elliptical and 20 minutes on the treadmill. Phil is a keen cyclist, and tells me that low-resistance static biking is probably the best form of low-impact cross-training. So I managed 50 minutes of frenetic pedalling that left my legs feeling like sausage skins filled with lumpy custard. I think this is probably a good thing.
Tomorrow I’ll know more.
