The distance, 6.17 miles, looks good, but it hides the truth. This was an uncomfortable jaunt along the canal towpath. Here’s a tip for newbie runners: have everything ready for your run in one place. All your kit, plus any of those optional extras you might use: watch, HRM strap, charged-up iPod, headphones, cap, hi-viz vest, calf/knee strap, arm wallet, phone, gels, water bottle… and so on. It means that when you decide to run, you can go to one place, get changed and be out the door within minutes. I devised this excellent advice in the winter of 2001/02, when I started running regularly. Tragically, I’ve never been able to persuade myself to adopt it. Today was a classic … …
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For the bawling baby athlete within, it’s been a disorderly, ill-fitting sort of week. With Tuesday to Thursday blocked out with day trips to London and Luton, I had high aerobic hopes for Monday — but as previously noted, Sunday’s prolonged activity prodded my ticker into mild panic. Unusually for me, I took the sensible option, the well-worn advice of coaches everywhere, professional and amateur, and I listened to my body. What I heard was the agitated flapping of the white flag. So I booked an unexpected rest day. And yesterday, my day in london was too long and too annoying to consider going out again in the late evening, so it was another green R on the spreadsheet. Eyes … …
The heart crept back into its box today, though I still didn’t fancy a run this evening. Instead, an hour of towpath cycling. At the end of it, my legs let it be known they’d had a decent workout, though I hadn’t produced quite enough of the salty wet stuff for my liking. The first of two days in London today. On the train in, the plump blonde lady next to me answered her phone and tutted impatiently, before answering the question she’d been posed: “Up in the bedroom in the pink handbag. Otherwise, there are some in the big pot in the cupboard with the cereals….” I was keen to know what sort of item would be at home … …
Not a good day. I woke this morning with both heart rate and blood pressure about 20 percent above the norm, and feeling lethargic. It looks like a simple case of overdoing it. So no exertion today, and an early night.… …
Phew! It’s good to sit down for a breather. I’m pleasantly knackered. Not felt like this since… probably since the marathon, 23 weeks ago. Does gardening count as cardiovascular exercise? If so, I’ve racked up 4½ hours today, including the 2:25 of biking and gymwork this morning. Even without the two hours of mowing and chopping, I’ve attained nine hours of cardio this week, which I have to be pleased with. In lard-melting mode, an hour’s exercise a day is a good target, and anything above that, a bonus. Including the garden toil (and it certainly feels like a workout), I’m running at about 1½ hours a day this week. The dividend on this investment has already arrived. According to … …
Some men, it is said, pay prostitutes just to have a conversation with them. I have a similar relationship with Phil Chalmers, the sports therapist who tortured my calf into obedience in the lead-up to the Boston Marathon. Like, I suspect, a tart’s recreation room, Phil’s studio is lined with equipment, offering varying degrees of cardiovascular menace: rowing machine, bike, medicine balls, fitballs, weights, and other instruments I don’t dare enquire about in case he invites me to get off my arse and do something with them. An appalling thought. Mercifully, I’m never required to do anything active. We just sit and talk, then I give him some money and leave, feeling suitably relieved. When he writes his memoirs, he … …
Something very odd has happened. A run. It’s been 5 months since the Boston Marathon, since when I’ve plodded a total of 9 miles. Two miles a month isn’t ideal preparation for the coming campaign. Including the 5 minute walk to warm down, the 3.64 miles this evening took me 48 minutes. That’s not very good. The positive spin is that it’s not quite as bad as it might have been. After 22 weeks out of action, I was fearing being forced into some pitiful, alternating 2 minutes run – 2 minutes walk routine. There were three brief walk breaks, but a total of about 40 plodding minutes. I can’t bring myself to call it “running” but even mild jogging … …
Another 65 minutes or so of very sweaty cardiovascular exertion in the gym this evening, bouncing around on the treadmill, fuelled by an unsettling cocktail of upliftingly earnest Sussex folk music (courtesy of SP), and the throb of high velocity, wild electronic dance. I liked the folky stuff, but I may have to concede that its congruity with the gym is limited. I came away with aching legs and a deep sense of smugness. Adjacent to the gym is an Asda supermarket. I spend half an hour here, filling a trolley with fresh fruit and vegetables, muesli, low-fat dairy items and dried fruit. I should have saved the folk music for this section of the evening. More tomorrow.… …
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. … …
Would they ever do it? They did. In 1995, Blackburn Rovers finally won the Premier League, after several seasons of just missing out on the top prize. But that was their only modern moment of glory. The following season they dropped to 7th, and the year after that, to 13th. They never regained the title, and seem unlikely to over the next several years. It was as if the focus and effort required to reach their goal finished them off. What else was there after that? This is the Blackburn Rovers syndrome. It’s very similar to what runners call the marathon blues — the sense of anti-climax that follows the event they’ve trained so long for. After a gruelling journey … …