This morning was so cold, there was barely enough blood in my fingers to capture Kumudith Guruge.
Ethereal voice: Who?
Kumudith Guruge.
Last entry: I’m in a much better position than this time last year. The weight is about the same, but it was on Boxing Day 2008 that I yanked my calf muscle for the first of three times in quick succession. It meant a long break, and a cautious, anxious winter and spring. Touch wood, there’s not been a repeat, even though the longer runs, like yesterday’s 9 miler do always jangle a few tendons in that area, just to keep me awake to the possibility.
Let me tell you now, that touching wood stuff doesn’t work.
If we’re talking superstition, let is be said: the omens were all over the place. As I picked up my race number from the help desk, I heard:
Ethereal Voice: Ooh, you’re number eleven.
Me: Is that good?
Ethereal Voice: It’s lucky. Legs eleven.
Me: Legs. Running. OK, but —
Ethereal Voice: And it’s the date as well. First of the first.
Me: Crikey. That’s better.
Ethereal Voice: Oh yes! And the race starts at eleven!
Me: This is creepy! Anything else?
Voice: It’s a win-win, or a one-one!
The plug was pulled on this fluffy autochat to prevent the X-Files music kicking in. Instead, I wondered why it might be assumed these omens were necessarily good.
I was already uneasy. My lucky yellow cap was at home, on the kitchen radiator. How did that happen? This was the first race since late 2002 I wouldn’t be wearing it. Bah! I’m not the superstitious type. And anyway, why do I call it a “lucky cap”? My race record over the past 7 or 8 years suggests the bestowal of few celestial benefits.
Still, 11 was my lowest ever race number, and auspiciousness aside, I thought it pretty damn cool. More than cool. Cold. It was freezing out there today. I even considered the rare wearing of gloves. As I jogged back to the car to search for these salvational yellow items that I had also, it would transpire, left at home, I encountered the man I would later come to know as Kumudith Guruge.
Hyde Park is a grand venue for a race, and for a running club. The Serpies, who organise this event, have 2330 members. It’s a great place for all sorts of things — but not ball games. In the 80s, in my wine trade years, I lived in Clapham. One of our friends arranged a huge rounders match in Hyde Park. Within 5 minutes or so of the contest getting underway, we were descended upon by half a dozen park police. “Put down your ball, you middle class bastards. Everybody raise your hands and take a step backwards. Into the seventies. Nah. Make it the fifties.”
Sorry, I digress. I am wittering today. Let me hope this is not a portent of what is to come.
As long as you have no ball concealed about your person, Hyde Park today is like Calcutta’s incredible Maidan, the so-called lungs of the city, or New York’s Central Park: the splash of scenery-greenery that reminds denizens of the core that there is some other world beyond.
The park today teemed with pensive walkers, families, and thought-provoking signage. Passing a kiosk selling food and drink, I saw a notice saying “Drink Good, Feel Good.”
Just past here, I came across a man trying to take a picture of himself. Being New Year’s Day, when determination to self-improve is at its zenith, I offered my services. Alas, as soon as my fingers touched his camera, the battery died, and no amount of taking it out and putting it back in again, which seemed to be the only implement in our troubleshooting toolbox, would restore it. A sudden loss of power. Was this an omen?
It was. But first.
I had an idea. I could take a picture of him with my camera, and email him the result. He gratefully agreed. There followed a period of faffing, as we considered what might make the most photogenic background. (Aside: Have I ever admitted to being the official photographer at my own wedding? Perhaps that’s a story for another day.) Once the snaps had been taken, we moved onto the email address stage. It was so cold, he had trouble opening his bag to find pen and paper. So I offered this service instead, but I had the same numb-finger trouble. Had I been wearing boxing gloves, the task might have been executed more quickly. We got there in the end, even though mining for the resources turned out to be simple compared with the task of him actually writing his email address in my notebook. Maybe this is why it’s a slightly different spelling from the rendition in the race results (assuming there was only one Kumudith Guruge taking part today. I didn’t think to look for a second), but I’ve opted for his version of his own name as it would seem to be a more authoritative source.
Finally arriving at the car, I realised that unless I set off back towards the start immediately, I was likely to miss it. It didn’t seem like it at the time, but the hurrying probably did me good, ensuring a warm-up of sorts. I reached the start just in time to join the back of the field, and to hear that characteristic local-race-specific-strangled-hooter sound. We all hurried away in search of who knows what.
My race strategy was to use the Garmin’s ‘virtual partner’ feature. I hadn’t given up hope of getting round in under an hour, even though recent weeks have seen me stray from the consistency that had given me the now-departed confidence.
The first kilometre had me at 30 metres ahead of schedule; the second 20 metres. After the third, I was still 20 metres ahead, and seemed to be coasting. Trying to keep bang on the pace was more relaxing than expected.
I was beginning to think I might actually do this, when bang, it happened: a sharp pain in my left knee, not dissimilar to the one that Dodds the Knee Man was assigned to in September of 2008. I carried on for a while but the pain then seemed to travel down to the left calf which rapidly sort of seized up. That’s the best way I can describe it. It wasn’t a pull, and didn’t immediately feel like a strain. It was as if all the internal workings of the calf had gummed up, and just stopped working. I stopped, not quite sure what to do at first. Then I continued, limping heavily, until I reached a bench, where I tried stretching it. Painful, but it seemed to help. I hobbled on for a bit, then stopped again for some more stretching.
What to do? I felt absolutely crushed by this. During the previous two runs, I did feel pain in my knee and calf, but regarded these as hollow threats. Now it had actually happened. After more hobbling and stretching, I decided the sensible thing would be to throw in the towel, and head back to race HQ, on the north side of the Serpentine. The most direct way of doing this was to carry on along the route of the race.
At least I was able to jog, and did so for the next mile or so, when I reached the fork where I had to decide which way to go. I stopped for a few seconds, not sure what to do. The leg hurt, but not intolerably. It wasn’t quite like the calf strains of last winter, when I pulled up, and found myself barely able to walk or put any weight on it. Here I was able to put some pressure on it, but not too much. I couldn’t use it to push hard against the ground, but I was able to jog lightly. After deliberating, I realised I just couldn’t quite bring myself to DNF. Instead, I might as well jog round and collect my medal or whatever.
And I did. The Garmin stats tell the story. The first two miles were around 9:30, while miles 3,4 and 5 were all well over 11 minutes apiece, not including the times I was stationary. Interestingly, the final mile was back under 10 minutes, as I realised, or believed, that I wasn’t going to do much more harm, and tried upping the pace again, despite the discomfort. The stats tell me I actually stopped still for 2 minutes 35 seconds in all. The final official chip time was 1:06:06, which put me 429th out of 458.
If I’m honest, in the circumstances, I was pleasantly surprised with that time. If I take away the time I stopped, I’m left with 63 minutes. Looking at the artificially slow middle miles, I have to conclude that I wouldn’t have been far off a PB if the leg had behaved.
Next day update: I’ve deliberately left 24 hours before saying anything too rash about the prognosis. Now, a day later, the left calf is still painful when I put weight on it, and stairs are proving a challenge. But I’m hopeful that it’s not a serious injury, and something that could be helped with some massage and gentle stretching, and plenty of rest, naturally. I can’t see myself running in the next week.
Much more intriguing is the question of why this has happened. Comparing this year with last, there is something they have in common. Both times, I’d had a spell of wearing different shoes – off-roaders – just before the calf trouble. These are much less cushioned than my normal road shoes, and on both occasions, they made my left leg ache before the injury, as though something wasn’t happy. I can’t be conclusive about this, but it could be significant. Also, it probably wasn’t a good idea to run the day after the 9 miler earlier in the week, especially as the twinges had appeared.
What now? I’m still fully intending running in Almeria at the end of the month, though my plans for at least three long hard weekend runs before then might have to be modified. It’s a wait-and-see job. But even though things could be worse, it’s not a great way to start off the year. Jokes aside, let’s hope this really isn’t an omen. It may mean I have to give more thought to footwear, and perhaps write off the idea of getting more into cross-country.
The leg trouble has dominated my thoughts of the race, but I don’t want that to obscure the fact that this is a good event, in a superb setting, and an excellent way of kicking off the year. It tends to curtail an evening of New Year’s Eve excess (we went to see the startling spectacle of Avatar3D instead of carousing), but this isn’t too big a price to pay.
Same time next year, I hope.
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