Within hours of gloomily tucking up the previous entry in bed, and retiring, head bowed, I feel obliged to rush back up this glittering celebrity staircase to announce these better tidings. It’s a small gain, but at the moment, any gain is something to be snatched and shown off. It was nothing more than 3.5 miles around the block at lunchtime, but for the first time since Boxing Day, I managed it without feeling any calf twinges of note. Even better, it wasn’t a desperately slow, damage-limitation plod, but a jog of medium intensity at around 10:30 minutes per mile. Not exactly a sprint, but enough effort to feel as though I was testing the bloody-minded tendons. It’s tempting fate, … …
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Perhaps I imagined that by not writing about my troubles, they would somehow go away. They haven’t, and I’m still very fed up. To pick up the story from last time, I did indeed set off on my “stately 3 or 4 miler” the following day, but got no further than 100 metres before the calf went again. Not as sharply as it had the previous week, but I couldn’t run on it. The only consolation about it happening so shortly into the run was that I didn’t have far to hobble back home. The Hyde Park 10K was out of the question. Since then, I have managed two fairly normal, if short, outings of around 4 miles each time, … …
Here is the news — good and bad. Hold on while I switch on the dry ice machine and play a few arpeggios on the harp to set the mood… Look into my eyes, look into my eyes, the eyes, the eyes, not around the eyes, don’t look around my eyes, look into my eyes, you’re under… It is Boxing Day 2008 — just 3 days ago. The sun is smiling on all runners this afternoon. Free from worldly cares for a precious hour or two, I set off for a brisk post-Christmas 10 miler along the canal. The kids beam at me from their new bikes; the normally grumpy grandpas radiate contentment from behind their Christmas scarves and outlandish … …
I got up early this morning and ate a banana and some Marmite toast, washing them down with a small black coffee. In my life, this signals only one thing: the long run. OK, or a race. Even a shortish one. But today, it was the long run. The clue is not so much what’s on this menu, but what’s omitted. Apart from special occasions, breakfast is the greatest meal of my day. Over the past half century, the content has evolved. I no longer care so much for Ready Brek, or cigarettes, or even newspapers. These days, my perfect early morning is: ( (muesli OR porridge) AND banana AND ((raisins OR blueberries) AND (chopped prunes OR clementine)) AND… …
The end of Week 19 (counting back from Boston). I got the 3 key runs in, and the 3 cross-training gym sessions. Sounds great, yet the week didn’t go quite as planned. With M away Monday and Tuesday, I managed to resist the lure of alcohol the first night, but slipped out to the pub on Tuesday, hoping in vain to see Chelsea chased out of the Champions League by a bunch of plucky Transylvanians. The London Pride never tasted richer or more satisfying, but I didn’t overdo it. Yet it was still enough to disrupt my routine, and presented me with the first week in 2 months when my weight didn’t dip to a new low. This shameful statistic … …
It’s been quite a 24 hours. It started on such a gentle note, too, in the Asics shop in Argyll Street, just opposite the London Palladium. I went to have my feet analysed. The smiling Japanese girl was a delight, and just giggled at my very English embarrassment at not having cut my toenails in a while. She carried on attaching tiny black stickers to a selection of my pedal protruberances without any outward sign of disgust. I then had to put each foot into a sort of box, before a lid was attached and locked down so securely that I had to wonder if I’d ever be reunited with the far end of my body. This is what appeared … …
Items for perusal on the agenda for today’s gathering: Wednesday1: Puzzled by apparently contradictory guidance on the eligibility of the elliptical cross-trainer as a cross-training option in the celebrated Furman FIRST marathon plan, I write a speculative email to Furman University, asking for clarification. I get a detailed reply within 20 minutes from Professor Bill Pierce, who wrote the book. The reply is copied to Ray Moss and Scott Murr, the co-developers of the program. I’m impressed by this; and pleased that the advice on the elliptical is just ambiguous enough to let me sneak the machine into my plan. Wednesday2: I celebrate Wednesday1 by making my 15 elliptical minutes especially cocky. Another 15 each on the stepper, … …
When does marathon training begin? Perhaps the very first day you start running. But when do you start running? Before you’re born? This isn’t a helpful line of enquiry. Adopting a more prosaic perspective, I suppose the usual answer would be “When the training schedule says you begin”, and that could be anything: 16 or 18 or 20 or 26 weeks. The plan I’m using says 16 or 18 weeks, depending on which version is cooing more seductively at any given moment. But I’m still 20 weeks out from Boston, and I’m impatient. I’ve done 9 weeks of base training; lost twenty pounds; pushed my long run into double figures; sorted out my approach to training, and even cleared a … …
Loads of stuff to babble about. Here’s an interesting read: How Oprah ruined the marathon. It made me think – perhaps too much. I was even tempted to allow it to depress me slightly, but I read some of the responses, and was once again cheered. My week followed a faintly similar pattern. After the boost of last Saturday’s run, and a hearty hour in the gym the next day, I was once again drawn, moth-like, to the flaming pub on Monday night, and to the well-concealed thrills of Wigan v Everton. Later, at home, I sought contemplative solace in the cheeseboard and wine rack. Fun while it was lasted, but it was always going to be For One … …
A perfect running day in late autumn: bright and sunny, but cold. No run is ever flawless, but today’s was as good as I’ve had in a long time. Like Brighton last weekend, I set out with low expectations, but arrived home feeling pleasantly surprised. This could become a good habit. If you stick at it, there seems to come a time in almost any repetitive activity when suddenly you start to get it, and pass from self-conscious, frustrated neophyte into some other identity; some interim stage on the road to expertise. As a fledgeling marathoner, I entered this happy state once or twice, though I never pushed on from there onto a higher level, preferring to adopt the behaviour … …