RunningCommentary

I’m approaching that ethereal period, that no-man’s-land that is the marathon taper. The final obstacle, a 20 miler on Saturday morning, has to be cleared first, and then all I must do is toast my self-confidence on three weeks of psychosomatic illness, virtual calf twinges and moments of arbitrary derangement. The Americans call it taper madness. Here’s a useful article on the subject: www.runnersworld.com/article/0,5033,s6-51-56-0-5958-1-1X2X3X4X5-6,00.html This evening I took myself off for a 4 mile splosh through the grey, misty drizzle. I saw three other runners who looked like they were off on some Arctic expedition. Covered from head to foot in plastic and wool. Looked wretched. Bunch of idiots really. In trying so hard to protect themselves, they end up … …

Just a quickie to report on a successful 17.5 miler today. Coming just a couple of days after that slightly flawed experience at Maidenhead, this was a welcome tonic. Deciding where to go on these long runs is a problem. The simplest solution is up the canal for (long_run_mileage/2), then back again. The setting is always tranquil and arresting, but an out-and-back route is never ideal, and the longer the run the less ideal it becomes. Today I threw in a variation to avoid repetition, though it meant a long slog up the turbulent, clangorous A4. That bit wasn’t fun, but after such an awful starter, the main course – back along the canal – tasted better than ever. A … …

It seemed like several days since I’d done a race. I was getting twitchy. There’s something satisfyingly to-the-point about a race called the Maidenhead Easter 10. Where, when and how far. A pair of running shoes and those three words. What else do you need? How about a urination strategy? The more genteel runner prefers to describe it as “hydration strategy”, but it amounts to the same thing. Yes, I spent the entire ten miles thinking of my bladder, or thinking of ways of not thinking about it. But all these paths were cul-de-sacs — I was conscious of forcing my thoughts into some direction so bizarre that I couldn’t help arousing my own curiosity. What is it I’m not … …

Where did that Spring from? A few months ago, I mentioned that there’s always a single identifiable point that divides summer from autumn. You wake up one morning, and there it is. Last year, it was the day I ran that 10K race in central Reading then flew off to Ireland. The game was up, I said. Months of icy darkness were on their way. How hopeless it all seemed then. But if all things must pass, then even passings must pass, and this week, spring quite unexpectedly sprung. Just two weeks ago, the Reading Half was as cold as any race I’d ever done, barring the Chicago Marathon in 2002. We stood in a frozen field for an … …

I’m getting anxious about the mile to kilometre exchange rate. We’ve been a bit complacent about the 1.61 rate that’s held for a few years now. The Hamburg Marathon next month is measured in kilometres of course. But I’ve been nervously reading about the recent running boom in Germany. Demand for kilometres is increasing all the time, and there’s a rumour that there may have to be a “readjustment”. This won’t affect the Germans of course, but for anyone (like me) running in miles, it could be bad news. Looks like next year’s German marathons may be pushed out to the 27 or 28 mile mark for British and American runners. Let’s hope they keep it stable for the next … …

There’s a point in the Silverstone Half where the course seems suddenly thrown into uncertainty, and you become part of an eternal snake, looping up and down and back on yourself. You lose sight of where you are. Those people over there – are they faster or slower than you? Are they the fat bastards or the fast bastards…? And as far as the eye can see, ahead and behind, nothing but long lines of pensive runners. One serpent with ten thousand heads and ten thousand tales. Last year, I remember someone posting a message on the Runners World forum saying that, as he surveyed this scene, he was struck by the utter futility of running. I knew what he … …

“Thank God I’m an atheist….”, as Dave Allen once said. I met him once. He turned up one Saturday morning to buy a case of Champagne when I worked in a wine warehouse in Battersea. Crikey. Must be twenty years ago. 1985. It was a brief meeting, but there was something interesting that I’ll mention. We chatted for a minute or two, as you do. Buying wine makes people loquacious. As was customary, I carried his case of Taittinger (if I remember rightly) out to his car. He had a lovely old Rolls Royce parked outside. He opened the boot and I had to plonk the wine in where I could. There was a lot of junk in there – … …

Middling to wobbling. That’s a Huddersfield expression. Or at least, I knew a guy in the town who used to say it when asked how he was. I thought of it this evening as I plodded round Tilehurst with the local running group. We’re the middle group. The middling to wobbling group. Only four people from the middle group turned up for this jaunt, which was probably a good thing. We took it easy. My calfs were grateful. And I was grateful that they were happy. Yeah, I’m on calf alert. I can feel them smirking at me. The buggers know. And to make it worse, they know that I know they know. I’m feeling calmer about the Silverstone coach. … …

I’m taking no chances. After yesterday’s plod around the block, the remote calf twinge of the previous evening had shuffled a little closer. Not quite a wave at me, but definitely a sort of waggle of the little finger. So tonight I cancelled my run and went for a walk instead. To the pub. I needed a break. It’s been a tough week. Yesterday morning I discovered by chance that a stretch of the Central Line will be closed at the weekend, including White City. This is the station next to the meeting point for the coaches to Silverstone on Sunday, and would have been the means of travel for nearly all of the 80 or so people coming with … …

It’s too quiet. Eerily quiet. I’m talking about my body. After yesterday’s half marathon, I expected an ache or two. Nothing. The best I could manage was the faintest of calf twinges as I stepped out this evening for a recuperative 4 miler. Not even a real twinge. More of a yawn than a “hello”. What can this all mean? Either I’m fitter than I thought I was, or I’m heading for a dastardly fall. Crunch. Was that me stepping on a plastic cup? Or the sound of my knee disintegrating? Phew. The former.… …