It’s official.
After a nervous few days, when I couldn’t be certain of not flunking this revival, I’m happy that the latest in a long chain of personal re-inventions is well underway. I’ve not ventured into the big wide running world yet, but I can report 8 days of exercise out of the last 9, including 7 gym trips, and that’s good prep for the real thing.
The results of this effort seem to be dribbling down to my midriff. Well, I can’t claim to have made a visible difference to my torso, but the scales are registering a dip of about 5 pounds over this opening week and a half. More important than this is the change in outlook. It takes sustained effort to turn the optimism tanker around, but once it starts gliding in the right direction it does drag a lot of other stuff along with it. I’m feeling excited and enthusiastic again, and am eating properly. No alcohol, no uncertainty. The world’s a different, and better, place.
The first day of this new life was also M’s birthday. We celebrated by travelling into London for lunch at Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant at Claridge’s. A bit posh by our normal standards, and all the more enjoyable for it. A blow-out at a top London restaurant might seem a strange way to launch a new age of asceticism, but it did the job surprisingly well, especially with no alcohol. As for the food, well, the dishes may be complex, but they manage to be generally healthy. And not too large, of course. When the magnificently well-trained waiting staff deposit the plates in front of us, I confess my chavvy instincts are to wonder if a trip to Burger King later on might be in order to fill my stomach properly. But after the grub is despatched, along with all the right noises and discussion, the amount feels just right. This tells me a lot about my normal eating habits. I don’t like the phrase “portion control”, which has a dictatorial tinge to it, but it’s probably the way to rein in the lard.
I’ve officially entered the ‘Connemarathon’ Half now, and Reading. Almeria looks set for January 31st. Three half marathons — 29, 26, and 19 weeks away respectively. Long enough to do well, if I’m able to stay injury-free, and keep away from the sauce bottle. Every year I say I’ll train to go under two hours for a half, but it never happens. This year, now in fact, I’ll say it again. I can feel my cheeks reddening as the words wobble on my lips, before appearing, one by one: Next… year… I… will run… a half marathon… in… … in… under… t-two… hours.
Reading is my best chance. Still 6 months away, and flat as a fritter i.e. just one or two small lumpy bits.
To help me get there, a new plan is called for. I’ve asked Phil the sports therapist to suggest a way of getting from here to there. Asking for help goes against the grain, as I am, of course, a supreme expert in the field of training plan design. This is borne out by my record… But seriously, even though the Boston performance was pedestrian, in both senses, it was largely down to his advice and encouragement that I got there at all, so it’s worth a go. I’m seeing him on Friday to discuss it.
No plan will bear fruit soon enough to make the Crawley 10K in 26 days time anything more than a mild training run, despite the jovial jousting with the esteemed Seafront Plodder, newly crowned as half of the Sussex tennis doubles champion. The Brighton 10K, 4 weeks further down the line, might offer an opportunity to exert myself, though I should err on the side of quivering paranoia when it comes to pulled calf muscles this winter. If I want to have a go at bettering my entirely modest 10K PB, the Hyde Park race on new year’s day could be a candidate. I’ve done the race twice, and was due to take part this year, before the calf pushed me off track. I wonder how my spring, and my Boston, might have differed without those miserable, static weeks?
