London Marathon 2015: The road goes ever on and on

It’s been a while, but let’s lift the latch and see what blows in.

It’s good to be sweating and feeling the heart-rate soar once again. I experienced this at the weekend, when studying my bank statement and working out how much I was paying for the gym that I rarely visit. And so, today, a rather ferocious lunchtime session — my first in a long while. In terms of time, I couldn’t afford more than 25 minutes on the cross-trainer and 25 on the treadmill, but it’s a start.

Nothing else resembling a run has occurred since the Berlin adventure last September — 317 days ago. It’s time to start thinking about the next, and almost certainly the last, marathon – London 2015. I know precisely what you’re thinking: that 26 April 2015 is still 258 days away. Well, you would be wrong. It’s only 257. (No leap year, suckers.)

We tend to believe, but ignore, best practices in most things – until the hammer of disaster arrives to bang the lesson home. I knew all the advice about good marathon training practices, but was content to ignore it, on the grounds that I was clearly an exception to the norm. Turns out that I wasn’t. Or not in this respect, anyway.

Through the several horizontal weeks that followed the post-Berlin herniated disc, I took a few decisions. One was that I couldn’t possibly pass up my guaranteed place in the 2015 London Marathon. This was my reward for five consecutive ballot failures. The rule no longer exists, but the organisers did the decent thing and agreed to honour the arrangement for those who’d already donated two or more purgatorial years to the cause. In my case, almost seven years if I include the deferred year and the nine months separating the original entry from the first race. After such a period, the length of which seems designed to encourage the desperate to die or to seek some alternative addiction, I was determined to show up — if only to annoy them.

The second horizontal decision was that I would do it properly next time. Apart from last year, I say this before every marathon: “I’m going to do it properly, and this time I mean it. Core strength and no missed runs.” But fine words butter no push-ups. History shows that I’ve never done it properly. This time, however, is different. This time I’m going to do it properly, and this time I mean it. Core strength and no missed runs.

Which is where those 257 days come in. The standard Higdonian 18-week schedule is less than half that, at 126. But I’ve only to recall two anguished voices to give me the motivation I need. One is my own, transmitted from a variety of padded tables around Lake Zurich last October/November, as the dutiful teutonic fingers got stuck into my lower back. The other belongs to my wife, who continues to protest that she isn’t going to wait on me hand and foot again if it all goes wrong. This was actually one of the few consolations during last year’s troubles, but probably not worth the painful admission.

As always, step one on this journey of a thousand miles involves a bit of corporeal decluttering. Being unable to get out of bed last October was a pretty decent excuse for revising my exercise schedule, but during the extended recuperation that followed, I became vigorously lazy. I even stopped walking to the pub, preferring to take the bus down the hill to my usual lakeside hangout – “just in case.” My self-administered education in fine wine, full-fat cheeses and paprika crisps blossomed during the period, and I have the physique to prove that I graduated with distinction. Finally, at the end of May, when the baggiest tee-shirts in my wardrobe had shrunk into skin-tight versions, and even the effort of pulling on a pair of socks was producing a sheen of sweat on my forehead, I knew it was time to act.

Different people take different approaches, but for me, alcohol is the key to deblubberisation.  Without it, the desire for trashy food evaporates. Far from being a gloomy duty, I approached it with a sense of relief and excitement.

On the last day of May, a Saturday, we drove over to Basel to visit the fine Tinguely Museum, after which we met up with an ex-colleague for a final, merry evening of beer, vino and traditional Swiss food. It was also the weekend of the annual Basel choral contest, and throughout the meal, we were entertained by spontaneous bursts of heavenly song from rival groups of diners. Conceptually, it was similar to the phenomenon I first encountered in those oppressive Irish boozers along the Kilburn High Road in the mid-70s – an environment admirably reproduced in the early scenes of Withnail & I. As the evenings darkened and the Guinness flowed through the wobbly community, some red-faced fellow would, inevitably, and with insufficient warning, stagger to his hind legs and, using the table to support himself, begin to warble a mournful tribute to his homeland. The quality of these performances was always strikingly poor, by which I mean that the singer would strike you if you complained within earshot. Indeed, “earshot” is quite a suitable word to describe the likely result.

The  choral exuberance experienced in Basel on May 31 was more sonorous, and continued after the meal, when we wandered up through the hilly Altstadt to take in the views. At the top of this small and surprisingly charming city, a large bunch of teenagers were hanging out. Being Switzerland, this is not a cause for concern, and after courteously greeting the oldies as they passed, as kids tend to do in this country, they linked arms and began singing their hearts out once more. It was really quite wonderful, and a memorable way of clambering onto the wagon for a while.

That was 73 days ago, and I’m still rolling along with all wheels intact. I’ve dispensed with 8% of myself, or 19 pounds (no, you do the maths). I’m happy enough with this progress, but there’s a long way to go. The figures in my new spreadsheet are startling. I should be aiming to shed a total of about 25% to get down to something like a roadworthy tonnage.

A smaller circumference and stronger core are prerequisites for a marathon training campaign, and I’m now finally at the level that I ordered myself to reach before venturing back into my plodding shoes. I’m taking a belt-and-braces approach. This isn’t a reference to the challenge of holding up my shorts as my waist diminishes, but to the need for minimising the risk of further injury. The plan is to remain broadly faithful to the Chi Running method, but to wrap it in a Galloway run-walk programme for extra insulation. The various Gallowegian plans last 26 weeks, giving me 10 and a half weeks of dither time. But thumb twiddling and desktop finger drumming are not going to assist much, so I’m donating my body to medical research with a period of pre-training training.

This actually started some weeks ago, soon after the farm shop became my new hang out. Early on, I ventured into the hills for a strenuous hike, but very nearly came a cropper on a sun-scorched mountainside when the water ran out. So I scaled back to local outings of varying difficulty on the many gentler hills that surround me here. I’ve discovered plenty of new paths and possibilities, and with the blubber needle starting to point in the right direction at last, I reckon I’m about ready to get the running shoes on again.