I realised that I am not blogging much lately (OK, at all) and so I've just signed up for Janathon
If anyone out there fancies running every day in January and blogging the experience, sign up and join in! Mileage doesn't matter, just run as far as comfortable and blog it!
The winner is, of course, whoever runs the furthest. That won't be me, but it will get me out and running when it's 5 degrees below, rather than saying "sod it" and making a coffee...
Monday, 12 December 2011
Thursday, 18 August 2011
So what happened?? - Part 2 of 2
Training between Fleet and London
No maps, they've been lost to the ages
So, when last we met I was talking about the disappointment of Fleet. I now had 4 weeks to get ready for London. The plus point was that I seemed to be on the right track in terms of pacing, and the fitness was fine. All I had to do now was maintain this level and keep going with the training.
The problem here was that the fiancée was now pregnant and our first trimester wasn't going according to plan. Without going into detail, there were illnesses, fevers, scans for ectopic pregnancy and then hospital stays. All of this required the 2 boys to be cared for and I would have been failing in my duty if I didn't take time out of the schedule to help with the house and the boys.
The next few weeks, therefore, were a case of snatching runs here and there and maintaining fitness, rather than increasing it. With that in mind, it made sense to reduce expectations and so I went into the day itself thinking that I'd take a time under, say, 4hrs 15.
And so to...
The London Marathon
No map - Garmin wasn't working so well in the tall buildings
The kids were with their dad for the weekend and so we drove up to Basingstoke train station on our own. We managed to find a free parking space right outside the station, which was lucky, and strolled across the road in a fine warm sunny morning. I was a little apprehensive at how warm it was, since it was about half 6 in the morning, but wrote that off as mere nerves and nothing to be concerned with, although they weren't helped by the train being delayed by about 15-20 mins.
You could tell how big this day was going to be when we pulled into Waterloo - hundreds of people got off our train in trainers and had bags over their shoulders. Hundreds more were coming off the other trains, and we all went down into the tube station heading for Black Heath.
One of the lesser known benefits of running the marathon is that on the day itself you get free transport on the tube. This helped, since I was high on energy drinks and didn't think myself capable of pushing a ticket through a slot even if there'd been a cash prize for doing so.
The tube journey was uneventful and we emerged at the other end to find the sun had done what the sun does best and warmed the place up nicely for us. I wasn't pleased with this - I'd spent 4 months slogging through the snows and rains of winter and suddenly the temperature was 10 degrees centigrade hotter than I was used to running in. What was needed here was a running top designed specifically for running in hot weather; I had the standard-issue cotton t-shirt from my charity - not even the sleeveless one.
We walked up the hill from the station to Greenwich Park. This took slightly longer than anticipated as the (now pregnant) fiancée required a toilet break and I needed to change.
My sister and her friend met us at the corner of Greenwich Park, and from there we all walked up to the big entrance section in the park itself.
I bid goodbye to everyone and headed through the entrance area while they went to camp the start line. I wandered around in a half mile circle to get to the toilets and then down to the appropriate part of the start line (itself about half a mile long). I walked a good few hundred yards back down the order and then parked up near where I was meant to be starting. Then heard yelling and looked up to see my fiancée, my sister and her friend. My starting point was about 100 yards from where I'd waved a cheery buh-bye to them.
Due to what I can only assume was a form-filling cock up on my part, I was put at the back of the grid. So far back, in fact, that the comedy runners were directly behind me; people dressed as animals, teams of runners tied together, that sort of thing. I was actually sat at the point of the queue where people were expected to just get round at some point, rather than go for any sort of time.
With the sun shining and the masses milling, then the gun gunned. (sorry, couldn't think of anything alliterative there.) Or, at least, I assume it did, since half a mile up the road, people started to cheer. Finally, with the classic mid-pack runner's start of a shuffle, then a walk, then a jog, then a run, with a few jumps and wiggles of the legs for good measure, off I went.
The first 2 miles were spent running into, around - and in the case of a gentleman that fell over in front of me, over - the other runners. This was necessary in order to get up to speed, since people around me were running at over 12mins per mile, which is 3mins per mile slower than I wanted to run.
The problem with this approach is that it does start to tire you, as you never hit a rhythm. You're constantly hopping, dodging and generally elbowing people out of the way in a bid to get in front. Then, when you're in front of them, 3 others will block your path. With no weapons to speak of, I had no choice but to continue dodging.
One of the things I never knew about the marathon, until a few weeks beforehand, is that the groups actually set off in 3 waves, from 2 locations. One of the waves takes account of the special groups (elites, wheelchairs, etc) and the other 2 waves are used to release the general masses from 2 locations, which is logistically the only way they'd be able to get everyone going without resorting to a 3 mile start line.
One of the more amusing parts of the marathon was the point at which the 2 routes converged, about a mile or 2 down the road. At the pinch point, the 2 routes run down the same road, but they do so along a dual carriageway, separated by a verge. Convergence at this part of the course was the cue for both routes to loudly boo each other as we ran alongside. After a few hundred yards, we were truly joined into one group and the marathon began in earnest.
Things calmed down a little while after the convergence once room had been made, and so I settled down into approx. 9min miles. It had taken about 4 miles for this to happen, though, and I'd started to feel a minor twinge in my calf from all the bouncing and avoiding. I wasn't running anywhere near maximum, though, so I carried on and sure enough, the pain started to fade.
Between 5 miles and 13 miles, I was really starting to enjoy the run. The sun was out, but the shade from the taller buildings ensured that I never boiled over (although God knows I would have traded my cotton t-shirt for anything else.)
The route went through some narrow parts of South London, and as you can imagine, the locals were out in force, on the roofs, on pub terraces, on the corners playing music and my personal favourite, a preacher outside his church, praying to the lord to give us strength as we ran past. I have no violent objection to people believing in God, but I'll be damned (literally, I guess, if I'm wrong) if I'll have some mystical being claiming the glory for my effort in finishing.
At length (13 miles to be precise) we crossed Tower Bridge. I'd agreed with the group that I'd see them here, and they knew to be on the bridge for about 2 hours after the start if they wanted to see me. I turned the corner to enter the approach to the bridge and started looking around. As luck would have it, just before I got onto the bridge proper, I saw Amy and the girls on the left hand side. We waved, and I flashed them a smile to show that I was in fine form and enjoying it (which at that point I was) and then, after a few seconds, I was off on the bridge and away.
After the bridge, we turned right. There is a point here in which you pass by the runners coming the other way. At the point that I'd done 13 miles, there were people coming past on the other side of the road that had done 20, which was inspiring stuff. Or at least, it would have been if one of them wasn't walking up the hill looking like he was about to expire.
It is at almost exactly that point that my left knee began to hurt. Every step caused pain to rattle through it akin to someone jamming a nail underneath the knee cap. A mile or so more (somewhere around 15miles in, I believe) I had to pull over for a second and try to stretch out the knee - folding the leg back until the trainers are touching the bum, that sort of thing. It took a couple of minutes to massage some of the pain out, but a few tentative jumps suggested that it was holding up and so I headed back into the swarm of people.
My head was still thinking about the 4hr 15 at this point and the next half a mile or so was spent trying to make up the time I'd missed by some more dodging around people in a bid to find some space to run in. Unfortunately, all this darting around was starting to kill my calf and Achilles, both of which had decided to join my knee in registering their discontent. Same leg, too.
A short period of time later (probably no more than a couple of hundred yards, I'd imagine) I had to stop again, this time with a more serious issue: my Achilles was now knackered. I had essentially busted my flush and was at the point where even putting mild pressure on my left foot caused pain spikes to shoot up the leg.
A member of the St John's Ambulance group saw me hanging around on the side of the road clutching my ankle and came over to check up on me. She was worried, too, about dehydration,since even before the halfway point there had been quite a few people passed out at the side of the road whilst several fluorescent jackets hovered close by, supplying electrolytes.
I took a swig of water, then explained that my Achilles was shot and she asked me if I had anyone I'd like to inform so they could come and get me. It was only as she was saying it that I realised she was trying to pull me out. At that point, I knew any hope of a half-decent time was gone, but I was here now, and wanted to at least cross the bloody line. So I figuratively shrugged my shoulders and thought the one thought that has simultaneously supplied both my greatest and worst moments in life: "Sod it."
I said that I'd carry on to see how it went and she gave me a bottle of water and told me to take it easy. She needn't have worried - I only had one good leg and my hopes of a 4hr 15 had gone, so all that remained was to finish.
I set off again at what can be best described as a half limp, half hop, half skip (yes, I am aware of the mathematical impossibility, but I'm comfortable with it) that surprised me by still being quicker than quite a few of the runners! Not faster than a man in a huge rubber rhino outfit, though. He came past me and carried on into the distance. Now, although I had one good leg and had no right to be offended by this, I was. After all, my chance at a decent time had gone and I'd reconciled myself to that, but I'd just been overtaken by a man in a fucking rhino suit!
I sped up and tried to stay with him, but a couple of miles later I had to back off a little bit as my other leg was starting to get sore. Since it was the only one of the two working with any degree of acceptability, this was A Bad Thing and so I bade a sad farewell to Mr Rhino and slowed down again.
To be honest, from 15 to 24 miles is a painful blur of canary wharf and the limehouse link. Then we went down on to the embankment and passed the 24 mile mark and everything got a little better: Several thousand people were spread out on both sides as we looked ahead for almost a clear mile, the major London sights were there to be seen as we ran past, and a breeze came off the Thames to help cool us down. The leg was numb by this point, and I started to enjoy the run again, albeit at a much reduced pace.
The second point at which I'd be able to see the girls was at around the 25 mile mark, where I Can had their stand. I saw the orange I Can sign in the distance on the left hand side and, with a quick mirror-signal-manoeuvre, I was over on the side of the road.
As I approached, I saw the girls in amongst the general melee of the stand, applauding the runners. So enamoured were they with this task that they didn't see me approach until I was upon them like a bright orange great white shark out hunting seals. (Shut up - The metaphor fits, if the shark has a damaged fin.)
I kissed Amy, waved hello to the others and was told that I was 3rd of the I Can runners. This was an unexpected bonus - I was on the podium of their charity runners! And how bad must the others have been? Annoyingly, as I was about to set off, a lady from the charity with a camera asked me to back up a bit and run past again so they could get some action shots.
Eventually, after assuming some Chariots of Fire-style poses, I was on my way for the final chukka.
Ordinarily, I find it difficult to do the final mile of a longish race. It's as if my brain, knowing that there's a mile to go, subconsciously sends a message to my legs to say "stand down, chaps, we're almost done" and it becomes almost impossible to drag any extra effort out of them.
This time, however, after 25 miles of running (11 of which were in painful circumstances) the usual subconscious winding-down order was never sent (or at least waylaid by a rogue bodypart acting as a double-agent) and in fact the inverse was true: I sped up.
This was probably because my nemesis, Mr Rhino, was just ahead of me. (It was probably another rhino, in actuality, but what what the hell, I needed a nemesis at that point in my life and how often do you get 2 rhinos running down a London street?) I caught up with him on the red tarmac almost exactly as we got to the "386 yards to go" sign, before hopping/limping around the final bend and accelerating up to the finish.
My final time was 4hr 49 and something seconds. A piece of me was happy that, even though my time was way off what I'd wanted (originally a 3hr 45!) I was at least finally under a time by a few seconds. I think if I'd have finished in 4hr 50 and 6 seconds, I'd have killed someone.
It was a strange feeling, crossing the line. I was expecting elation, pride, the usual suspects. Instead, it was more a case of relief and numbness. After all the effort and training, it was done, and that was all. The prevailing thought in my mind, if asked to summon one up, was: “Thank God that’s over.”
Now, the next part was painful. I'd run myself to a stop by storming the last mile and couldn't walk at anything more than crawling pace. In fact, it took 2 goes to get up the 2 steps to where some guy cuts your chip off your foot. I'd finished, but what they don't tell you is it's not just the 26 miles. Once you're done running, you've got about another kilometre of walking, during which you pick up your bag from the bag collection point and then wander off, dazed and confused, into an area with letters in the air for you to die under while your loved ones come to scrape you off the tarmac.
I texted Amy to tell her I was sitting next to a cannon under the 'G'. It was relatively quiet where I was, compared to some letters. Most people called ‘Smith’, for example, were under the letter ‘X’, all of them having the same plan of choosing one of the infrequently-used first letters in names in a bid to avoid the other Smiths.
Finally, the girls arrived and there were hugs and kisses and a walk to the train station. It was busy and hot, but it didn't actually take as long as I thought it would. Less than an hour after finishing, we'd said our goodbyes and me and Amy were on the train at Waterloo, awaiting departure to Basingstoke.
Once back home, I promised myself I'd never run a marathon again and went to bed with my seized legs. A week or so later, I signed up for the Basingstoke half marathon (2nd October 2010) and the Brighton marathon (15th April 2012).
So I now have 6 weeks to get ready for Basingstoke, having done nothing of any merit in the intervening 4 months aside from a few runs around work.
I'll start posting my training runs up here just in case anyone is interested in doing half/full marathons and wants to know what to avoid doing, for I am nothing if not an example of how not to do it!
No maps, they've been lost to the ages
So, when last we met I was talking about the disappointment of Fleet. I now had 4 weeks to get ready for London. The plus point was that I seemed to be on the right track in terms of pacing, and the fitness was fine. All I had to do now was maintain this level and keep going with the training.
The problem here was that the fiancée was now pregnant and our first trimester wasn't going according to plan. Without going into detail, there were illnesses, fevers, scans for ectopic pregnancy and then hospital stays. All of this required the 2 boys to be cared for and I would have been failing in my duty if I didn't take time out of the schedule to help with the house and the boys.
The next few weeks, therefore, were a case of snatching runs here and there and maintaining fitness, rather than increasing it. With that in mind, it made sense to reduce expectations and so I went into the day itself thinking that I'd take a time under, say, 4hrs 15.
And so to...
The London Marathon
No map - Garmin wasn't working so well in the tall buildings
The kids were with their dad for the weekend and so we drove up to Basingstoke train station on our own. We managed to find a free parking space right outside the station, which was lucky, and strolled across the road in a fine warm sunny morning. I was a little apprehensive at how warm it was, since it was about half 6 in the morning, but wrote that off as mere nerves and nothing to be concerned with, although they weren't helped by the train being delayed by about 15-20 mins.
You could tell how big this day was going to be when we pulled into Waterloo - hundreds of people got off our train in trainers and had bags over their shoulders. Hundreds more were coming off the other trains, and we all went down into the tube station heading for Black Heath.
One of the lesser known benefits of running the marathon is that on the day itself you get free transport on the tube. This helped, since I was high on energy drinks and didn't think myself capable of pushing a ticket through a slot even if there'd been a cash prize for doing so.
The tube journey was uneventful and we emerged at the other end to find the sun had done what the sun does best and warmed the place up nicely for us. I wasn't pleased with this - I'd spent 4 months slogging through the snows and rains of winter and suddenly the temperature was 10 degrees centigrade hotter than I was used to running in. What was needed here was a running top designed specifically for running in hot weather; I had the standard-issue cotton t-shirt from my charity - not even the sleeveless one.
We walked up the hill from the station to Greenwich Park. This took slightly longer than anticipated as the (now pregnant) fiancée required a toilet break and I needed to change.
My sister and her friend met us at the corner of Greenwich Park, and from there we all walked up to the big entrance section in the park itself.
I bid goodbye to everyone and headed through the entrance area while they went to camp the start line. I wandered around in a half mile circle to get to the toilets and then down to the appropriate part of the start line (itself about half a mile long). I walked a good few hundred yards back down the order and then parked up near where I was meant to be starting. Then heard yelling and looked up to see my fiancée, my sister and her friend. My starting point was about 100 yards from where I'd waved a cheery buh-bye to them.
Due to what I can only assume was a form-filling cock up on my part, I was put at the back of the grid. So far back, in fact, that the comedy runners were directly behind me; people dressed as animals, teams of runners tied together, that sort of thing. I was actually sat at the point of the queue where people were expected to just get round at some point, rather than go for any sort of time.
With the sun shining and the masses milling, then the gun gunned. (sorry, couldn't think of anything alliterative there.) Or, at least, I assume it did, since half a mile up the road, people started to cheer. Finally, with the classic mid-pack runner's start of a shuffle, then a walk, then a jog, then a run, with a few jumps and wiggles of the legs for good measure, off I went.
The first 2 miles were spent running into, around - and in the case of a gentleman that fell over in front of me, over - the other runners. This was necessary in order to get up to speed, since people around me were running at over 12mins per mile, which is 3mins per mile slower than I wanted to run.
The problem with this approach is that it does start to tire you, as you never hit a rhythm. You're constantly hopping, dodging and generally elbowing people out of the way in a bid to get in front. Then, when you're in front of them, 3 others will block your path. With no weapons to speak of, I had no choice but to continue dodging.
One of the things I never knew about the marathon, until a few weeks beforehand, is that the groups actually set off in 3 waves, from 2 locations. One of the waves takes account of the special groups (elites, wheelchairs, etc) and the other 2 waves are used to release the general masses from 2 locations, which is logistically the only way they'd be able to get everyone going without resorting to a 3 mile start line.
One of the more amusing parts of the marathon was the point at which the 2 routes converged, about a mile or 2 down the road. At the pinch point, the 2 routes run down the same road, but they do so along a dual carriageway, separated by a verge. Convergence at this part of the course was the cue for both routes to loudly boo each other as we ran alongside. After a few hundred yards, we were truly joined into one group and the marathon began in earnest.
Things calmed down a little while after the convergence once room had been made, and so I settled down into approx. 9min miles. It had taken about 4 miles for this to happen, though, and I'd started to feel a minor twinge in my calf from all the bouncing and avoiding. I wasn't running anywhere near maximum, though, so I carried on and sure enough, the pain started to fade.
Between 5 miles and 13 miles, I was really starting to enjoy the run. The sun was out, but the shade from the taller buildings ensured that I never boiled over (although God knows I would have traded my cotton t-shirt for anything else.)
The route went through some narrow parts of South London, and as you can imagine, the locals were out in force, on the roofs, on pub terraces, on the corners playing music and my personal favourite, a preacher outside his church, praying to the lord to give us strength as we ran past. I have no violent objection to people believing in God, but I'll be damned (literally, I guess, if I'm wrong) if I'll have some mystical being claiming the glory for my effort in finishing.
At length (13 miles to be precise) we crossed Tower Bridge. I'd agreed with the group that I'd see them here, and they knew to be on the bridge for about 2 hours after the start if they wanted to see me. I turned the corner to enter the approach to the bridge and started looking around. As luck would have it, just before I got onto the bridge proper, I saw Amy and the girls on the left hand side. We waved, and I flashed them a smile to show that I was in fine form and enjoying it (which at that point I was) and then, after a few seconds, I was off on the bridge and away.
After the bridge, we turned right. There is a point here in which you pass by the runners coming the other way. At the point that I'd done 13 miles, there were people coming past on the other side of the road that had done 20, which was inspiring stuff. Or at least, it would have been if one of them wasn't walking up the hill looking like he was about to expire.
It is at almost exactly that point that my left knee began to hurt. Every step caused pain to rattle through it akin to someone jamming a nail underneath the knee cap. A mile or so more (somewhere around 15miles in, I believe) I had to pull over for a second and try to stretch out the knee - folding the leg back until the trainers are touching the bum, that sort of thing. It took a couple of minutes to massage some of the pain out, but a few tentative jumps suggested that it was holding up and so I headed back into the swarm of people.
My head was still thinking about the 4hr 15 at this point and the next half a mile or so was spent trying to make up the time I'd missed by some more dodging around people in a bid to find some space to run in. Unfortunately, all this darting around was starting to kill my calf and Achilles, both of which had decided to join my knee in registering their discontent. Same leg, too.
A short period of time later (probably no more than a couple of hundred yards, I'd imagine) I had to stop again, this time with a more serious issue: my Achilles was now knackered. I had essentially busted my flush and was at the point where even putting mild pressure on my left foot caused pain spikes to shoot up the leg.
A member of the St John's Ambulance group saw me hanging around on the side of the road clutching my ankle and came over to check up on me. She was worried, too, about dehydration,since even before the halfway point there had been quite a few people passed out at the side of the road whilst several fluorescent jackets hovered close by, supplying electrolytes.
I took a swig of water, then explained that my Achilles was shot and she asked me if I had anyone I'd like to inform so they could come and get me. It was only as she was saying it that I realised she was trying to pull me out. At that point, I knew any hope of a half-decent time was gone, but I was here now, and wanted to at least cross the bloody line. So I figuratively shrugged my shoulders and thought the one thought that has simultaneously supplied both my greatest and worst moments in life: "Sod it."
I said that I'd carry on to see how it went and she gave me a bottle of water and told me to take it easy. She needn't have worried - I only had one good leg and my hopes of a 4hr 15 had gone, so all that remained was to finish.
I set off again at what can be best described as a half limp, half hop, half skip (yes, I am aware of the mathematical impossibility, but I'm comfortable with it) that surprised me by still being quicker than quite a few of the runners! Not faster than a man in a huge rubber rhino outfit, though. He came past me and carried on into the distance. Now, although I had one good leg and had no right to be offended by this, I was. After all, my chance at a decent time had gone and I'd reconciled myself to that, but I'd just been overtaken by a man in a fucking rhino suit!
I sped up and tried to stay with him, but a couple of miles later I had to back off a little bit as my other leg was starting to get sore. Since it was the only one of the two working with any degree of acceptability, this was A Bad Thing and so I bade a sad farewell to Mr Rhino and slowed down again.
To be honest, from 15 to 24 miles is a painful blur of canary wharf and the limehouse link. Then we went down on to the embankment and passed the 24 mile mark and everything got a little better: Several thousand people were spread out on both sides as we looked ahead for almost a clear mile, the major London sights were there to be seen as we ran past, and a breeze came off the Thames to help cool us down. The leg was numb by this point, and I started to enjoy the run again, albeit at a much reduced pace.
The second point at which I'd be able to see the girls was at around the 25 mile mark, where I Can had their stand. I saw the orange I Can sign in the distance on the left hand side and, with a quick mirror-signal-manoeuvre, I was over on the side of the road.
As I approached, I saw the girls in amongst the general melee of the stand, applauding the runners. So enamoured were they with this task that they didn't see me approach until I was upon them like a bright orange great white shark out hunting seals. (Shut up - The metaphor fits, if the shark has a damaged fin.)
I kissed Amy, waved hello to the others and was told that I was 3rd of the I Can runners. This was an unexpected bonus - I was on the podium of their charity runners! And how bad must the others have been? Annoyingly, as I was about to set off, a lady from the charity with a camera asked me to back up a bit and run past again so they could get some action shots.
Eventually, after assuming some Chariots of Fire-style poses, I was on my way for the final chukka.
Ordinarily, I find it difficult to do the final mile of a longish race. It's as if my brain, knowing that there's a mile to go, subconsciously sends a message to my legs to say "stand down, chaps, we're almost done" and it becomes almost impossible to drag any extra effort out of them.
This time, however, after 25 miles of running (11 of which were in painful circumstances) the usual subconscious winding-down order was never sent (or at least waylaid by a rogue bodypart acting as a double-agent) and in fact the inverse was true: I sped up.
This was probably because my nemesis, Mr Rhino, was just ahead of me. (It was probably another rhino, in actuality, but what what the hell, I needed a nemesis at that point in my life and how often do you get 2 rhinos running down a London street?) I caught up with him on the red tarmac almost exactly as we got to the "386 yards to go" sign, before hopping/limping around the final bend and accelerating up to the finish.
My final time was 4hr 49 and something seconds. A piece of me was happy that, even though my time was way off what I'd wanted (originally a 3hr 45!) I was at least finally under a time by a few seconds. I think if I'd have finished in 4hr 50 and 6 seconds, I'd have killed someone.
It was a strange feeling, crossing the line. I was expecting elation, pride, the usual suspects. Instead, it was more a case of relief and numbness. After all the effort and training, it was done, and that was all. The prevailing thought in my mind, if asked to summon one up, was: “Thank God that’s over.”
Now, the next part was painful. I'd run myself to a stop by storming the last mile and couldn't walk at anything more than crawling pace. In fact, it took 2 goes to get up the 2 steps to where some guy cuts your chip off your foot. I'd finished, but what they don't tell you is it's not just the 26 miles. Once you're done running, you've got about another kilometre of walking, during which you pick up your bag from the bag collection point and then wander off, dazed and confused, into an area with letters in the air for you to die under while your loved ones come to scrape you off the tarmac.
I texted Amy to tell her I was sitting next to a cannon under the 'G'. It was relatively quiet where I was, compared to some letters. Most people called ‘Smith’, for example, were under the letter ‘X’, all of them having the same plan of choosing one of the infrequently-used first letters in names in a bid to avoid the other Smiths.
Finally, the girls arrived and there were hugs and kisses and a walk to the train station. It was busy and hot, but it didn't actually take as long as I thought it would. Less than an hour after finishing, we'd said our goodbyes and me and Amy were on the train at Waterloo, awaiting departure to Basingstoke.
Once back home, I promised myself I'd never run a marathon again and went to bed with my seized legs. A week or so later, I signed up for the Basingstoke half marathon (2nd October 2010) and the Brighton marathon (15th April 2012).
So I now have 6 weeks to get ready for Basingstoke, having done nothing of any merit in the intervening 4 months aside from a few runs around work.
I'll start posting my training runs up here just in case anyone is interested in doing half/full marathons and wants to know what to avoid doing, for I am nothing if not an example of how not to do it!
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
So what happened?? - Part 1 of 2
Blimey has it been 5 months??
Right, well, that was quite a hiatus, but I'm back now and training for something else (I'll go into that in a later post).
So, what of the marathon I was training for, I hear you cry. At least, those of you that can remember me having one to train for; It was quite some time ago.
Well, there are 2 parts to this.
Part one reads thus:
The Fleet Half Marathon
Show me the map!
This was my first race and a real waypoint with which to judge my speed and my fitness up to now. So far, I had been following the schedule to the letter, where possible, working hard and feeling the benefits, with the exception of my week off for achilles damage.
Did it pay off?
In short, yes.
And no.
The Fleet Half proved to be my greatest success and, simultaneously, my greatest failure as a runner. Now, to explain that requires a little background:
Before Fleet, my fastest half marathon had been a 1:50:07 in the Reading Half Marathon in, I believe, 2008. I had been desperate to break the 1:50 barrier, but was 7 seconds over due to an injury I picked up in the last mile. I remember being a little downhearted at the time at missing out on my target by just 7 seconds, but figured: what the hell. Injuries can't be accounted for, it was only 7 seconds and it's not like it'd happen again, right?
Now, fast forward to my current training effort to complete the London Marathon, where, in order to get the marathon time I wanted, I would be expected to come in at under 1:45 for the Fleet Half Marathon a month beforehand. (Well, actually, dead on 1:45, if we're being picky, but under would be better.) That's a whole 5 mins (or approx. 24 seconds per mile) faster than I'd ever gone before over the distance and, as anyone who's done it will tell you, knocking the better part of 30 seconds per mile off your pace takes a sodding huge amount of effort.
Still - I'd been training harder than ever before. Never again would I fail to achieve a target by mere seconds.
On the day of Fleet, me and the prettier half had got there in what we thought was plenty of time, but we hadn't accounted for Fleet's double yellow lines EVERYWHERE. So, 25mins later, having finally found a place to park, we rounded the corner at the high street to find everyone already lined up and ready to go. A quick kiss goodbye and off I ran, down the hill to the start line. 10 seconds later (literally 10 seconds later; I'd made it by the skin of my teeth) the gun went off and everyone started to move. I spent the first mile dancing around people and moving up the order until, eventually, I was in a position to settle back and use my Garmin 405 to monitor my pace.
To complete the race in my target time of 1:45, I had performed a quick calculation. 105 minutes over 13 miles = pretty much dead-on 8mins per mile. That's what I'd drummed into my head for the last month of training and so that's what I ran. When I felt bad, I stuck it out at 8mins. When I felt good, I hung back and carried on at 8mins. 8mins, 8mins, 8mins. Always.
So 13 miles later, feeling better than I had a right to, I came down the final hill and saw a sign saying 200yds to go. I looked down at the watch and then it dawned on me: I was going to go over! How could I have cocked my time up so badly?! And so, after 13 miles of relatively quick (for me, at least) running, I put my head down and sprinted the last hundred yards or so in a desperate attempt to get under 1:45. It wasn't enough: I came in at 1:45:05. 5 seconds over. After 13 miles, I was 5 seconds over my target time. Half a second per mile quicker, and I'd have done it. (The watch said I'd done it in 1:45:06, but I must have clicked the start before crossing the start line as my official chip time was 1:45:05.)
So I'd completed my fastest ever half marathon and yet I'd failed. The reason for this failure is simple: All of my training and pacing was done to reach 13 miles at almost dead-on 1:45. And I'd done it. I crossed 13 miles at slightly under 1:45.
The thing I'd forgotten, however, the fly in the ointment that I really should have known, is that a true half marathon is NOT 13 miles. A true half marathon is 13 miles AND 193 FUCKING YARDS.
In less than 2 hours, I'd gone from optimistic and genuinely excited to furious. With myself; with the plan; with the people who wouldn't get out of the way on the way back to the car and were going to get a Phil & Ted's buggy up their arse if they didn't move.
Still, after a little while (a matter of hours - I'm not generally despondent for long) I picked myself up with the knowledge that it was still faster than I'd ever gone before and by quite a pace differential as well. And 5 seconds? I could easily have made that up. it wouldn't affect the marathon - I'd adjust and move on. No mental scars here.
5 seconds, though... Even now, 4 and a half months later, I really can't put into words just how much that still burns. I'd been the fittest I'd ever been and yet again I'd missed out on a target by 5 seconds.
Part 2 of the catchup will come later, and includes the marathon itself! For now, leave me with my Fleet-ing tears. (That last pun was for Nicholas J. Coumbe.)
Right, well, that was quite a hiatus, but I'm back now and training for something else (I'll go into that in a later post).
So, what of the marathon I was training for, I hear you cry. At least, those of you that can remember me having one to train for; It was quite some time ago.
Well, there are 2 parts to this.
Part one reads thus:
The Fleet Half Marathon
Show me the map!
This was my first race and a real waypoint with which to judge my speed and my fitness up to now. So far, I had been following the schedule to the letter, where possible, working hard and feeling the benefits, with the exception of my week off for achilles damage.
Did it pay off?
In short, yes.
And no.
The Fleet Half proved to be my greatest success and, simultaneously, my greatest failure as a runner. Now, to explain that requires a little background:
Before Fleet, my fastest half marathon had been a 1:50:07 in the Reading Half Marathon in, I believe, 2008. I had been desperate to break the 1:50 barrier, but was 7 seconds over due to an injury I picked up in the last mile. I remember being a little downhearted at the time at missing out on my target by just 7 seconds, but figured: what the hell. Injuries can't be accounted for, it was only 7 seconds and it's not like it'd happen again, right?
Now, fast forward to my current training effort to complete the London Marathon, where, in order to get the marathon time I wanted, I would be expected to come in at under 1:45 for the Fleet Half Marathon a month beforehand. (Well, actually, dead on 1:45, if we're being picky, but under would be better.) That's a whole 5 mins (or approx. 24 seconds per mile) faster than I'd ever gone before over the distance and, as anyone who's done it will tell you, knocking the better part of 30 seconds per mile off your pace takes a sodding huge amount of effort.
Still - I'd been training harder than ever before. Never again would I fail to achieve a target by mere seconds.
On the day of Fleet, me and the prettier half had got there in what we thought was plenty of time, but we hadn't accounted for Fleet's double yellow lines EVERYWHERE. So, 25mins later, having finally found a place to park, we rounded the corner at the high street to find everyone already lined up and ready to go. A quick kiss goodbye and off I ran, down the hill to the start line. 10 seconds later (literally 10 seconds later; I'd made it by the skin of my teeth) the gun went off and everyone started to move. I spent the first mile dancing around people and moving up the order until, eventually, I was in a position to settle back and use my Garmin 405 to monitor my pace.
To complete the race in my target time of 1:45, I had performed a quick calculation. 105 minutes over 13 miles = pretty much dead-on 8mins per mile. That's what I'd drummed into my head for the last month of training and so that's what I ran. When I felt bad, I stuck it out at 8mins. When I felt good, I hung back and carried on at 8mins. 8mins, 8mins, 8mins. Always.
So 13 miles later, feeling better than I had a right to, I came down the final hill and saw a sign saying 200yds to go. I looked down at the watch and then it dawned on me: I was going to go over! How could I have cocked my time up so badly?! And so, after 13 miles of relatively quick (for me, at least) running, I put my head down and sprinted the last hundred yards or so in a desperate attempt to get under 1:45. It wasn't enough: I came in at 1:45:05. 5 seconds over. After 13 miles, I was 5 seconds over my target time. Half a second per mile quicker, and I'd have done it. (The watch said I'd done it in 1:45:06, but I must have clicked the start before crossing the start line as my official chip time was 1:45:05.)
So I'd completed my fastest ever half marathon and yet I'd failed. The reason for this failure is simple: All of my training and pacing was done to reach 13 miles at almost dead-on 1:45. And I'd done it. I crossed 13 miles at slightly under 1:45.
The thing I'd forgotten, however, the fly in the ointment that I really should have known, is that a true half marathon is NOT 13 miles. A true half marathon is 13 miles AND 193 FUCKING YARDS.
In less than 2 hours, I'd gone from optimistic and genuinely excited to furious. With myself; with the plan; with the people who wouldn't get out of the way on the way back to the car and were going to get a Phil & Ted's buggy up their arse if they didn't move.
Still, after a little while (a matter of hours - I'm not generally despondent for long) I picked myself up with the knowledge that it was still faster than I'd ever gone before and by quite a pace differential as well. And 5 seconds? I could easily have made that up. it wouldn't affect the marathon - I'd adjust and move on. No mental scars here.
5 seconds, though... Even now, 4 and a half months later, I really can't put into words just how much that still burns. I'd been the fittest I'd ever been and yet again I'd missed out on a target by 5 seconds.
Part 2 of the catchup will come later, and includes the marathon itself! For now, leave me with my Fleet-ing tears. (That last pun was for Nicholas J. Coumbe.)
Monday, 21 February 2011
Week 7 - In which Thursdays are recommended for disposal
Miles so far this week: 7
TOTAL MILES: 172
TOTAL MILES: 172
Wednesday 16th Feb – Interval day! (1mile warmup, 4x 1m at 7m30 pace, 1 mile warmdown)
This run should have been yesterday, since Tuesday is interval day. However, due to the fact that I am now happily affianced, some celebration was in order.
Wiser men than me would declare that drinking alcohol the day before a hard run is a bad idea. Happily, I am not among these men.
The run itself was safely dispatched well within the times allowed, continuing my run of over-performing. The hope for this is to put something in the bank, as it were, for the marathon itself. We’ll see how well that works in a month or two when the training gets even more “fun” than it is now, but for now I’m happy to do it.
It’s actually a nice run, this, as it incorporates quite a hilly section of Chineham Business Park as well as some flats. A good mix, there, which will hopefully pay off further down the line.
Nothing of note to mention, with regard to the left leg. The Achilles is still grumbling, but not seriously so, and the calf is still performing perfectly well. I’m beginning to think that it was more the temperatures of a couple of weeks ago that played a part in the eventual problems rather than anything more serious. I still treat it gently for the first half a mile or so, but I suspect that this is more mental than physical. Certainly, tonight when I sped up, there was no pain.
Miles so far this week: 18
TOTAL MILES: 183
TOTAL MILES: 183
Thursday 17th Feb – 11 miles at 9m30 pace
In terms of the runs over the last couple of weeks, this rates as the worst of them in terms of pain. I started the run late (9pm, in fact) and hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Couple that to a 2 hour shopping trip beforehand, which affected the legs more than I’d realised, and it’s clear to see that there are perfectly good reasons as to why this run did not go according to plan.
Now, that said, it’s worth noting that I finished this run at an average of 8m37. That’s nearly a minute-per-mile quicker than the designated schedule pace for tonight, so despite the pain caused, I can’t really complain. Yes, it hurt, but despite it hurting, I was, pretty much, at my marathon pace for 11 miles in which the preparation had been, for want of a better word, crap.
Clearly I’m trying to put a positive spin on what was an unpleasant run, here, but ultimately I finished it and in a pretty decent pace, so it’s hard to knock it too much.
Miles so far this week: 23
TOTAL MILES: 188
TOTAL MILES: 188
Friday 18th Feb – 1 mile warmup, 3 miles at 8m00 pace, 1 mile warmdown
I’m beginning to dislike Thursdays. Thursday is the new Tuesday, and I don’t like it. Yes, this is Friday, but it’s a day late and so it is, in reality, a Thursday in Friday’s clothing.
I think my problem with Thursday is that it is – or appears to be - eminently useless. Tuesday is interval day, Wednesday is a longish run at close to race pace and Sunday is the Very Long Run. Thursday is the fly in the ointment; the irritating younger brother ripping the last page out of your books for the hell of it; the 25-stone man in Greggs that took the last 6 sausage rolls when you were behind him and in desperate need of a pastry-wrapped piggy.
Or, if you’re Alanis Morissette, it’s ironic for some completely non-ironic reason like dying on your first plane flight. Either way, it ain’t irony, and I’m still starving thanks to the fast bastard in Greggs.
And what of the run itself? What of this completely non-ironic irritant of a day? Well, it went very well indeed. I was significantly quicker than needed, and finished strongly, with enough energy to have kept going if necessary. I didn’t, though. 15 miles were coming up again on Sunday and I didn’t want to push any harder than I had.
Miles so far this week: 38
TOTAL MILES: 203
TOTAL MILES: 203
Sunday 20th Feb – 15 miles (first 7 miles in 9m30, remaining 8 miles in 8m30)
I enjoyed this run. It was hard, since I’d been drinking the night before and felt ever so slightly hungover, but nonetheless, I was out of bed at 8am and ready to run by 9am.
The beautiful fiancée had made my drink for me and supplied the gels that were to get me through the day and so, with a fond farewell, I stepped into the cold, crisp Basingstoke morning and, with the merest wisp of rain in my face, set off towards Chineham Business Park.
From the house, it is approx. 3 miles to the top of Chineham Business Park, where you can pick up a road that takes you out and left, into the wilderness towards Bramley.
Interestingly enough, almost all the way to Bramley is uphill. I was quicker than the time expected, but not by a great deal, due to the uphill nature of the thing. Once in Bramley proper, I headed West and toward The Vyne.
The halfway point was reached, and I duly turned around and came back. Surprisingly, a lot of the way back was uphill; Escher would have been proud.
At any rate, I got back to Chineham Business Park at the accelerated rate with a slight problem – I’d managed to forget that it was 8 miles on the way back, leaving me with a surplus mile. What to do? Well, luckily, there is a partial loop of the CBP that is approximately one mile around.
The not-so-lucky part of this tale is that half of this loop is quite steeply uphill and there I was at the near-on 13 mile mark feeling a little leggy. Still, heroics were performed, crowds gathered, men nodded approvingly, children watched with hushed awe and women openly wept at the manliness on display.
The upshot of placing this hill in the last few miles was that the final flat mile was one of the easiest in the whole run, since my legs were just thankful not to be going uphill for once.
The calf continues to be no problem at all, and the Achilles, while slightly painful, is grumbling less and less as the miles go by. My knee cap now hurts on my left leg, but since it is neither muscle nor tendon, I really don’t care at this point, since it isn’t hurting enough to bother me.
Good times!
Week 6 - In which I bounce back again and learn about the Highway Code
Miles so far this week: 4.5
TOTAL MILES: 131
TOTAL MILES: 131
Tuesday 8th Feb – Interval day! (1mile warmup, 15 x 200m at 7m30 pace, 1 mile warmdown)
Right! A week’s break, some much needed rest for the poor li’l left peg and a positive attitude. What could possibly go wrong today? Well, intervals, for a start. They aren’t the most gentle of activities on the legs, and here’s me with a dodgy one. Still, I was once told that you have to be in it to win it, so I dutifully got my trainers on and stepped outside once more. (In the interests of disclosure, I should point out that I was also once told when I was about 7 that if you dreamed that you’d died in your sleep, you died in real life. I accepted this without hesitation and spent the next 5 years of my tiny life terrified of dreaming about falling. Eventually my dad, that all-conquering hero of common sense, pointed out that if this really were the case, how would anyone ever know?)
So, back to the run. Glorious. Fearless. Heroic. Triumphant. All good words, none of which could be used as an adjective to aptly describe how I approached this run. Tentative, on the other hand, is perfect – more specifically, its sibling adverb. I tentatively set out, and then I tentatively did my warmup mile, before tentatively testing the water with the first couple of sprints. There was a little strain on the calf, but no real pain. Certainly not the razor-sharp pain of last week, at any rate.
Feeling slightly more confident, I sped up a bit – sprinting a little faster, jogging between sprints rather than walking, that sort of thing - and bit by bit I got back up to full pace.
At the end, walking through the front door, the Achilles felt a little sore, but nothing like as much as the previous week. The calf, on the other hand, was not grumbling at all, and so the week off did what it had needed to do.
Still, this was only the first run back. Tomorrow would give us more information on how that leg was going to hold up.
Miles so far this week: 14.5
TOTAL MILES: 141
TOTAL MILES: 141
Wednesday 9th Feb – 10 miles, 9m30 pace
During my enforced absence, I’d managed to miss a 13 mile at pace run. This essentially meant a 13 mile run at around the 8 minutes per mile pace.
That would have been a tough test, and so I decided to emulate it here. True, it’s only 10 miles, rather than 13, but it’s the pace that would count. Could I maintain an average of around 8 minutes a mile over the (almost full) distance?
I planned this in advance, and so the iPod contained naught but inspiring music today. It was time to Feel the Steel.
So I set off and immediately got down to sub-8m miles. The first mile felt fine, and so did the second. It was only then that I realised I was following my “short runs” path. Having left the house without any real plan or direction, I’d simply started following my faster route on auto pilot, leading me to the precarious position of being perched on the Chineham Business Park roundabout without a destination!
As always in these situations, the answer was found by utilising an inspirational phrase (quote: “sod it”) and randomly choosing a direction. And that’s how I found myself running the wrong way up the A33 in pitch black darkness, without a torch.
I was wearing my fluorescent vest, though, which was causing difficulty for oncoming cars. Several of them took a couple of seconds to realise that yes, there was an idiot coming towards them with nothing more significant in the lights department than a fluorescent vest.
Finally, in a late nod to safety, I illuminated the fascia on my Garmin. That 2 inches of blue light made a difference, but not in a good way. Instead of drivers noticing me at the last minute before swerving, I was now seemingly hypnotising them with my rhythmically swaying blue light into coming closer. The effect was much like waving one of those blue donut-fly-killing thingies and finding a 2-ton mosquito heading in for a closer look.
It could well be that this heightened level of danger is what caused me to finish the 10 miles in an average of 7m58. That, or the week off.
Either way, the important part is that I finished strongly and could easily have done another 3 miles at this pace.
I learned a lot in this run. I learned that, despite my misgivings and self-doubt, I am actually able to do the pace I need to do at this point of the training. I also learned to plan ahead. More importantly, though, I learned that major A roads are not the place to be without a torch.
Miles so far this week: 20.5
TOTAL MILES: 147
TOTAL MILES: 147
Thursday 10th Feb – 1 mile warmup, 4 miles at 8m30 pace, 1 mile warmdown
A nice, easy run, this.
For starters, I looked at a map. And lo, there was a road that ran in a roughly parallel direction to the A33 but with a slightly Western flavour. (the direction, I mean. It’s not like the road was herding cattle whilst nodding to passers-by with a friendly “howdy.”)
The road was certainly safer at night, by dint of the presence of street lights and paving. It did get much darker further on, at the point where civilisation had seemingly deemed itself content and packed up and gone home. But up to that isolated point, it was a perfectly good road to run on.
The run went well, and all times were easily achieved. The leg started to complain today, but to be fair, it had stood up to a hard-ish week admirably well and it’s no surprise to find that it was finally starting to grumble. This was the last run before a rest day, though, so it would have its wish of a rest.
Miles so far this week: 23.5
TOTAL MILES: 150
TOTAL MILES: 150
Saturday 12th Feb – 3 miles at 9m30 pace
Can’t find the map for this one
Not much to say about this really, other than that since I started this schedule, this is the first run I had outside of Basingstoke City Limits.
The reason for this was because I needed to find a hill that was at least 2 minutes of running time long, with a reasonable degree of difficulty. Luckily, I knew one near to where I work, so off I did trot and came back an hour later completely knackered. Hill training is fun, but NOT FOR KIDS!
Miles so far this week: 38.5
TOTAL MILES: 165
TOTAL MILES: 165
Sunday 13th Feb – 15 miles at 8m56 pace
Today was the second 15 mile run in my running career. Considering the damage the first one had done (Achilles and calf) I wasn’t looking forward to it. I did, however, have a secret weapon...
An ankle support! With this puppy in my armoury how could I possibly fail?!
So I had an idea of where I wanted to go, since me and the beautiful fiancée had gone to a carvery a couple of weeks back. I wasn’t planning on stopping for a meal at the halfway point, but I did like that the road seemed to be more “country” than “town”, in terms of the view and since I like to look at the countryside, I figured I’d give it a go.
If you look at the map, though, you’ll see that to get to the countryside, I had to go through Basingstoke town centre. I’d liken it to Dante’s trip from hell (Basingstoke town centre), through purgatory (Worting), to heaven (the countryside!) but I saw no sign of the devil munching on Judas at Festival Place which, for men at least, is surely the 9th level of hell.
By the time Worting was disposed of, I only really had about 3 miles of countryside to go, before having to turn around and come back. It did, however, allow me to get to the pub, as, by happy coincidence, the halfway point of my run was approximately 200yds from its door.
There was a moment of debate as both hemispheres of my brain discussed the merits of a halfway pint. The legs (who weren’t invited to the discussion but popped in anyway to voice their dissent) were of the opinion that a pint would make the 7 and a half mile journey back home somewhat more painful than they needed to be. Also, the idiot in charge had forgotten his wallet and so the argument was moot.
So, having been insulted by my own legs, the journey home continued.
Nothing of note happened on the way back health-wise, but I did manage to pass by a police car in the process of blocking off a piece of pavement with nothing of note in it. Another couple of men stood nearby, chatting. They were plainclothes, but had the walkie-talkies, so I assume that these guys were essentially CSI: Basingstoke. They weren’t doing much, though, so I carried on home.
So after the injury fears of last week, this week was fine. Things hurt at various stages, but nothing felt anywhere near as bad as it had the week before. I’m not sure if the pain will return, but for now I’ll stay quietly confident.
Week 5 - In which injury strikes!
Miles so far this week: 6.4
TOTAL MILES: 126
TOTAL MILES: 126
Tuesday 1st Feb – Interval day! (1mile warmup, 3x 2km at 7m30 pace, 1 mile warmdown)
So back we come to interval day. Strangely, my previous disaffection for interval day has become lukewarm of late, since I can actually feel myself getting fitter. (Actually, that’s not true. I can’t feel myself getting fitter; no Popeye am I. I can, however, notice over the weeks that I am finding the pain threshold appearing further (or at faster running pace) than it did before. So maybe I can’t actually feel my muscles and stamina growing, but certainly I can see the benefits. And I should have just said that to begin with, but what the hell, parentheses are the rambler’s best friend.)
At any rate, I went into this run having experienced a lot of pain in my left calf and Achilles after Sunday’s efforts. This is an unusual position for me to be in, as I am usually pain-free. I’ve not really suffered from injuries, recurring or otherwise, over the years, and felt a bit unfortunate to be feeling it now, since I’m training for what is (at least up to now) the race of my life.
Anyway, despite these misgivings, I went out with my standard positive attitude and got the run done. I was under the times given by the schedule, again, which is all I ask, but it did come at a price. At the point I stopped running, I was immediately in pain and unable to do much more than limp.
I crawled into bed that night thinking a good night’s sleep would put the world to rights.
Miles so far this week: 6.9
TOTAL MILES: 126.5
TOTAL MILES: 126.5
Wednesday 2nd Feb – 9 miles in approx. 9m45 pace
Not much really to say about this one. I was still experiencing pain, but decided to get out and see what it felt like anyway. The answer, inevitably, was that it felt like someone repeatedly stabbing my leg with a knife whilst forcing me to run. As a torture device, it works. As a training device, it fails in its remit.
Half a mile after starting the run, I was back at the house. The rest of the week was written off; the leg needed more time to heal and coming back early would have served no purpose other than delay the healing.
After the joy of last week, this was a bit of a comedown. I’m keeping the spirits up, though. No one goes through 3 months of training with no injury worries. I’m keeping the fingers crossed that they are nothing more than strains.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Week 4 - In which I bounce back!
Miles this week: 5.4
TOTAL MILES: 89.4
TOTAL MILES: 89.4
Tuesday 25th Jan – Interval day!
(1 mile warmup, then 12 x 400 mtrs at 7m 10 pace followed by 200m recovery, then 1 mile warmdown)
Today something quite alarming happened. Joe, the 3yr old son of the beautiful girlfriend, ran up to me and shouted “Gary Gay!” before departing with a smug look that suggested he felt his work here was done.
Now, this obviously hurt. It was a bad week, last week, one of the worst I’ve had since starting running, but insults from a 3 year old are surely a bridge too far! What we had here was a clear-cut case of the need to reassert my authority.
However, he is a big lad for his age, with mean fists and a penchant for violence, and I wasn’t feeling particularly good about myself. In this situation, the double humiliation of not only failing to knock down a 3yr old with the first hit, but then having to rely on my superior footwork to fend the youngster off as he moved in for the kill would have been enough to see me give up completely and join a monastery.
So instead, I decided to redouble my efforts in the hope that maybe I could once more gain his respect. Luckily, Joe’s brother remains on my side as long as regular doses of Justin (http://www.bbc.co.uk/cbeebies/somethingspecial/) are received.
Unfortunately, I only ended up doing 9 of the expected 12 reps today, since my watch wouldn’t actually go up to the 12 reps. This is not an excuse, but a true story! In any event, the session went well and I easily spent most of the 400 mtr sessions in the 6 minute bracket, which is somewhere I have spent little time in of late.
Today was a good day, so hopefully we’re on the up again!
Miles this week: 13
TOTAL MILES: 97
TOTAL MILES: 97
Wednesday 26th Jan – 8 miles easy pace (9m 30)
I am back on the up! Today’s run was dispatched in 1hr 07, at an average of 8m 42, well inside the expected time for the run.
It felt good today, even with the hills of Basingstoke trying their best to dampen my ardour.
The heart and lungs were coping well, the legs were a little sore but generally happy with things and the most important part of all was that I was under the expected time by some distance.
I am back on track! If the rest of the week goes as well, I’ll consider myself over the bad spell for now..
Miles this week: 18
TOTAL MILES: 102
TOTAL MILES: 102
Thursday 27th Jan – 1 mile warmup, 3 miles at half-marathon pace, 1 mile warmdown
This is more like it - I'm starting to get into my stride now.
A nice flat-ish run, in which I managed the middle 3 miles at an average pace of under 8m per mile. The entire thing, with 2 slow miles, was an average of 8m 16, which basically means that even with the warmup/warmdown miles, I averaged my half mile pace for the whole thing.
Tomorrow is a day off before hostilities resume on Saturday, but so far I'm feeling good and it's starting to come together!
Miles this week: 21
TOTAL MILES: 105
TOTAL MILES: 105
Saturday 29th Jan – Parkrun
Now here's the thing. Today called for an easy parkrun of 3 miles in 28 minutes; a little over 9 minutes a mile. I understood this and I was happy to obey. After all, tomorrow's run was looming and it was a long one.
And with that in mind, I set off, with the key aim of taking it easy and basically mooching round. I didn't complain when the lady with the pushchair came past. I uttered not a single word of complaint when the group of schoolkids half my height came past. In fact, at no point did I feel the need to accelerate, happy as I was at the pace that my schedule had dictated.
And then it happened. 20 stones of tubby, sweaty, heart-attack-waiting-to-happen lycra came past and looked at me as he did so. If he hadn't have looked, I'd have enjoyed my slow pace and carried on. But now it was personal. He may as well have insulted my mother.
My head said "forget it, you've got your pace, stick to it." My heart, however, said "he's mocking you. Make him pay by going past him at speed. That'll show him." And so, finally obeying a 20 yr old request from Roxette, I listened to my heart and accelerated.
I looked straight into his eyes as I went past, trying desperately to convey that I had meant to speed up all along as part of some sick plan involving toying with the emotions of an overweight runner, and that now I was going to kick sand in his face by effortlessly disappearing into the distance.
Then, just ahead, I saw the group of schoolkids. Again, my head said "don't worry, fat boy has been taken care of, you've proved your point." My heart screamed "little bastards deserve to be overtaken!" As a result, my pace quickened, my rage increased and I flew past them with all the speed of a cheetah that had just been kicked square in the nuts.
That pattern continued for the next 2 miles, with me overtaking people downhill, uphill, and with a steadily increasing fury that meant that I came out of the final corner like a bat out of hell and finished in a little over 24 minutes. So I was about half a minute off my Parkrun personal best despite starting at a ridiculously slow pace for the first mile. So much for a slow, relaxed run...
Miles this week: 36
TOTAL MILES: 120
TOTAL MILES: 120
Sunday 30th Jan – 15 miles slow pace (2hrs 22m)
I’ve been simultaneously looking forward to, and dreading, this run for weeks, ever since I saw it on the schedule. Now, clearly I’m training for a marathon, but this run here represents the first and only time in my short running career in which I have run further than 13 miles.
I’ve always been a half-marathoner. This is basically because I generally have a boredom threshold of 2 hours. Anything that can be done in 2 hours is fine by me. Once over that, my interest rapidly diminishes.
I knew that it wouldn’t be that difficult; I’ve run 11 miles for 3 consecutive weeks and coped. The last of these was a horrible experience and yet I still met the time requirement, so I knew I would be fine.
But still, this was the first time that I had stepped over the line from half to full marathon and I did so with a fair bit of trepidation.
As a result, I started pretty much on the nail in terms of expected speed. I felt so good after a mile, though, that I started to wind the pace up a little bit. The expected pace was 9m 45 per mile, and so I tried to maintain it under 9m.
The iPod was on shuffle, the air was cold, but I felt good and had gels, isotonic juice and gloves. And a buff. And tights. But manly tights, not those girly ones that other runners wear. These tights, were they to become self-aware, would rob a bank, such is their manliness. So not girly at all. Just getting that straight.
In spite of being wrapped up, the temperature was in the minus degrees Celsius and it was a struggle to maintain heat, leaving me with little option but to keep the pace up, even when I would occasionally want to back off a little bit for a breather.
I also managed to get lost going over a bridge straddling the Basingstoke ringroad. Not my proudest moment, since it was technically a single direction thing, as bridges tend to be.
Still, I got back, got in, got a bath and a Lucozade and felt good. I felt drained, and my legs were hurting, but I felt good. Monday is a rest day, before the joys of intervals hit me once again, but after feeling completely demoralised and miserable after last Sunday's run, this week has been a revelation.
As a result, I'm feeling good about next week.
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