Everything Will Flow

Everything Will Flow
 
 
'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a m...
 
...Just a minute, that's not true, not in my case, because late on Christmas Eve I was indeed stirring - I was stirring my cranberries (and that's not a euphemism), hoping they would somehow, with the aid of brown sugar and orange juice, turn into cranberry sauce. And to their credit, they did. 
 
It's been a funny old Christmas. I have to say it was rather conditioned from the word go by my antics on the night of the 23rd, when I met some friends from work for what was going to be a couple of beers to celebrate the start of the holidays. Instead I found myself staggering home at 2:15 a.m. after being on the receiving end of the best part of a dozen bottles of Mahou. Worse still, as became horribly clear when I woke up at about 5, feeling vile, I had been persuaded to smoke various cigarettes.
 
This, clearly, is not the sort of behaviour likely to land you a good time in your chosen spring marathon. In the short term, it was also going to ruin my Christmas, as the hangover was cruel and dirty. In the morning I somehow got out and did the last bit of shopping necessary for Christmas, and then went back to bed. By late lunchtime, mercifully, I felt well enough to get up and start with the preparations for my Christmas dinner the following day.

I even forced down a couple of Belgian beers (was this wise? It was certainly fun) and apart from the nasty after-effects of tobacco, began to feel actually pretty chirpy. By the evening I was more or less fine and managed to get an early night.

 
So it was that I woke up early on Christmas morning in good spirits, stuffed the turkey and got it ready to put in the oven, and went out for my now-traditional Christmas Day Run.

 

They were right, you dick

In previous years I had done this wearing a Father Christmas hat, but to be honest, every time I encountered someone as I tore round the city centre, far from wishing me a Merry Christmas, they just looked at me as if I was a bit of a dick. Which I suppose is fair enough, but I wasn't going to repeat the experience this year. Instead I went out bare-headed, and actually it was so mild I didn't bother with gloves either - in fact I was dressed as I would have been had it been a summer's day. Amazing. Anyway I bagged 5.5 miles round the city, with the last couple at a fairly decent clip (6:45mm / 4:10/km), principally because the clock was ticking and I had to get that turkey in the oven. 

 
After a jolly acceptable recovery snack, the morning passed most agreeably with music and a nice bottle of Cava to help along the peeling and chopping of vegetables.

Fuel recovery is an essential part of any runner's trainng, luckily

I even had time to sit down and watch National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation (again).
 
In the end the time came and everything was ready. The turkey, the pigs in blankets, the stuffing, the roast potatoes, the sprouts, the red cabbage, the roasted, caramelised shallots, the gravy...a pity, then, that I had totally lost interest in the whole affair by this point. Oh, I went through the motions: I set everything out nicely, I lit the candles and I served myself a good plateful of everything...

 

 

Yes, it was very nice - just as I'd hoped, in fact - but I couldn't enjoy it, and sank into a depression I couldn't shake off. If you ever have the misfortune to spend Christmas day on your own (and I sincerely hope you never do), you will understand why.
 
I've always loved Christmas, and spent it in the company of friends and family who were generally always just as excited about it as I was. It's not without its melancholy aspect, as inevitably you remember loved ones who are no longer with us, but equally you rejoice in the promise of the future, as you see (well, I do) your nephews grow up, just as thrilled with Christmas as you have always been. 
 
So to go from that, to getting to 50 and finding yourself alone at this most sociable and heartwarmingly friendly time of year is a very humbling experience, to say the very least.

Curiously, though, once I'd got everything washed up and tidied away and I'd gone to sit in my lounge I began to see things in a different light. I have reached this low point in my life, it's true, but it's also the start of a new era for me, replete with enormous possibilities. And I intend to take them and start to live life to the full again.
 
Of course, any runners reading this will have grasped the metaphors, but in any case I went out on another unseasonably warm and sunny morning early this week, and  found that my lungs had forgiven me my indiscretions, my knee felt ok and I just felt fantastic in general. I did 7 miles which included 8 x 450m at 6-minute mile pace (3:45/km), and came away knowing I could have pushed it a lot harder.
 
I must just accept the situation I am now in. As soon as I have fully come to terms with it then who knows what I may be capable of in the future? And here I don't just mean in terms of running -  although that too - but also in terms of finding peace, happiness and new inspiration. I fully believe that if I just let go and allow myself to live life, then only good things can come of it.
 
New Year's Eve for the Spanish means watching the King's Christmas Message on television, having a big family dinner of seafood chowder, langoustines and lamb, and then at midnight, eating a grape for every chime of the bells in La Puerta del Sol in Madrid. For the younger generation it then means going out dressed up to the nines and not coming home until gone 10 or 11 o'clock. My PB in this regard was 3:45 p.m., achieved some years ago. That was not big, and it was most certainly not clever...
 
But 31st December in Spain is also synonymous with the San Silvestre, a race which takes place in practically every village, town and city in the country. They are of varying length, but are typically around 5-6 kms, starting at about 6.00 p.m. There are 30-odd of these events in Asturias alone. So, I will be doing the one in Oviedo, which is 5.5 kms long and goes round the streets of the centre, under the spectacular Christmas lights and with enormous crowds along the route. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They changed the route last year, and stuck in a massive hill of over 1 km, but I should be able to wheeze my way round in around 22-23  minutes.
 
Following the race, I will go home, prepare myself a nice dinner, eat the grapes at midnight and then drink a toast to 2016 and the future, a future which if we just want it badly enough and allow it to come to pass, can surely be as magical as any we've ever dreamt about.
 
Have a great New Year's Eve, everyone, and I wish you all a very Happy New Year!!

 

  
 
 Everything Will Flow

Swallow My Pride

Swallow My Pride

Hello again!

As promised/threatened/feared, I didn't do much running this week. With a race coming up on the Saturday, then Christmas looming large and the advent (see what I did there?) of my marathon training plan, it made sense to back off and rest up a little. Which was convenient, because it's exactly what I felt like doing.

So I did no more midweek than two 7-mile runs, the second of which including some strides at the end. I do these in a little park nearby which is perfect as it has a gravel, 150-odd metre straight. It even has a kind of turning circle at the far end, which you can just see in the photo.

The trouble with it is that it's a popular place for people to take their dogs for a w...well, I was going to say for a walk, but from what I've seen, it's mainly used as a canine toilet. The park also has a small playground for kids, so that must be lovely for them, rolling around in the shitty grass next to it. And then of course, when a dog sees me jog up to the end and then sprint back, it thinks to itself "here's fun!", and comes bounding over to play. So basically, if someone turns up with a dog, that's the end of the strides session for me, as was the case this last Friday, when I could only get six of the planned eight done thanks to a dirty-looking Alsatian. A dog, I mean.

The good thing about a Saturday afternoon race is that you can lounge around in the morning guilt-free, so that's what I did. However, I did make the mistake of looking at my stats for past editions of the race and so fell somewhere between despair at the near-impossibility of getting close to those times and self-delusion involving what might be possible if everything went my way. 

The day before, my friend (the one who had uncharitably beaten me in a half marathon in May) had texted to tell me he was racing, too, and would I like a lift? Well, of course I would, so at 3.00 he picked me up and off we drove to the town of Piedras Blancas, some 25 miles away. It had been quite cold all week, but today it was windy and warm - too warm!

We parked up and went in search of the race numbers and timing chips before sitting out on a terrrace with a pre-race coffee. It was 22ºC, so I sat in a t-shirt and shorts, with sunglasses - and had to keep reminding myself that this is mid-December!

After a two-kilometre warm-up, we made our way to the start area, which was already very congested and it became clear that getting anywhere near the front was going to be impossible. 1,600 were taking part and the road is quite narrow, so when the gun went it was a mad scramble, and it took me a while before I had any sort of a clear run. The first two or three kilometres are pretty much downhill and I know from experience that it pays to bank some time here while also getting into a good, fast pace. That idea was scuppered from the start, and I passed the first kilometre marker in 3:59, easily 10-15 seconds down on what I could/should usually expect. Of course, my friend had gone off like a shot, and that was the last I saw of him!

By the second km the field had become more strung out and there is a good-sized hill to go down, so my pace picked up accordingly. We then entered the tunnel which goes through the cliffs on the headland, and subsequently emerged in the pleasant seaside town of Salinas.

 

  
At this point, despite the inspiration of the coastal scene before me, I started to slow and my breathing became a bit laboured. There was a big crowd gathered in the centre of the village so I kept up appearances as best I could and gritted my teeth - but this was going to be tougher than I'd allowed myself to think...

We continued on for another kilometre or so before reaching the halfway point, going round the block and heading back to the tunnel again. The slight incline meant my pace slowed even more, but my legs still felt reasonably good, and I was still overtaking people, which is always encouraging.

 
Once you go through the tunnel on the way back, you are faced with two kilometres uphill, relieved only by a couple of short downhill sections which are actually too short to really get any time back on. No wonder, then, that kilometre 6 was my slowest by far, 4:27, which is shockingly bad, but at least I knew at that point that the really hard work was done and there remained less than ten minutes of slogging it out - and even I can manage that!

A long, straight road leads you back up to Piedras Blancas, and then just after the 8-kilometre mark you take a sharp right and there in the distance, at the bottom of an inviting hill, is the finish. Here, too, people had turned out in large numbers, and I turned the corner and steeled myself for a final effort...

It's amazing that even though midway through a race you feel as if you're about to die of sheer exhaustion, you can still find the energy from somewhere to sprint to the line. And so it was again this time, as I gave it all I had and managed to beat two or three runners in the last 50 metres, to the cheers of the massed ranks of spectators!

In the end, 8.5kms in 35:30, chip time. This works out at 4:12/km (6:45/mile), which is obviously much quicker than I'd have done in a training run, and if I count this as another tempo run, it was both longer and much faster than the previous week's.

On the other hand, it was a good 2 minutes slower than last year. I choose, conveniently enough, not to dwell too much on the reasons for this, and rather, to focus on the steady progress I am nevertheless making toward my spring marathon goal.


All smiles (nearly) back at the car

I met up with my friend, who had come in some 40 seconds before me. I expected this, but it is one more dent in my already wounded pride... He said he'd gone off well, but had completely detonated two kilometres out and practically crawled to the line!

It was already getting dark by the time we got back to the car so we lost no time in getting changed and driving back to Oviedo. Not an ideal day for either of us, but we both felt fairly satisfied at having been the best we could be on the day, which in the end is all you can do, really.

In the evening I had my work's Christmas dinner, which dragged on longer, and was ultimately far more alcohol-sodden, than I'd anticipated, so Sunday's planned evening run was scrapped. Instead I lazed around the house, put the Christmas tree up and then went up to the city centre and did some shopping. Yes, I know - on a Sunday. I do feel guilty...



I work until Wednesday night, and then I'm off until 7th January. It's going to be a strange Christmas this year, though, because such has been the upheaval in my personal and domestic life that I'm going to be completely on my own for the holiday period. I would have like to have gone back to England, but I had to hold on to see how and when things would resolve themselves, and by the time they had, it was too late to book flights. So, all a bit sad, really.

 

However, I am determined to make the best of it, and I'm going to do a full-blown Christmas dinner regardless. I've had to scale down the buying of Christmas Alcohol, but there's at least a couple of nice bottles in the cupboard that I fully intend to enjoy. With a bit of luck, I'll be in a fit state to drag myself out running a good few times, as well!

 

Once again, many thanks for reading. I hope you have a very happy, peaceful Christmas. See you on the other side!

 

 

Swallow My Pride

Make It Easy On Yourself

Make It Easy On Yourself


Hello again!

After enjoying a long weekend which lasted until Wednesday, what with one public holiday and another, I got a good week's running in. My easy staple runs are now of 7-8 miles when only recently they were no more than 4-5, the pace seems to be improving with no perceptible increase in effort, and my longer workout of a Sunday is up to 12 miles. The weekly total this time round was 38.8 miles (62.5kms), so everything is going to plan.

On Saturday I decided to revisit what was a kind of tradition in my marathon training a few years ago, a tempo run. I always used to do these on a Saturday, starting with a 4-5-mile effort and gradually building up to 8-10 miles as the weeks passed. They are hard work but doable, and while they leave your legs tired for the long Sunday run, that is A Good Thing, apparently, as it replicates the sensations of race day, when you are necessarily going to run a bloody long way on tired legs and just keep going anyway.

Before I went out on Saturday I had a look through my past training logs to see the kind of thing I was doing and to be honest, I wish I hadn't, because it frightened me a bit to see what I was capable of in those days, compared to now. But if I've learnt anything in all this time, it's that you have to be realistic about your goals and be patient in building up to them. So I decided that I would do a 1km warm-up, do 7 kms (4.4 miles) hard-ish and then cool down with a final kilometre.

So I did exactly that on the mean streets of Ventanielles, Oviedo, which are at least flat, and found to my surprise that while the pace was nothing to write home about (4:19/km on average), I was always in control and could have gone faster and longer. Nonetheless, the idea (from one of the respected training gurus whose name escapes me at present) that you should never try to "beat the session" is a wise one, so I left it at that, and instead resolved to build on that distance and intensity over the coming weeks and months.

I felt great all day Saturday, but then it came to Sunday morning and as soon as I woke up I knew I was going to be in for a struggle. It was another beautiful morning but cold this time, around 5ºC, as I headed out of the house and up to the city centre. I have mentioned before on here that the first couple of miles are always a bit grim, but that then I tend to settle into a decent pace and just let the miles fly by. This time, however, my legs let me know in no uncertain terms that they were not happy, and it wasn't until about 9 miles (14kms) that I finally started to feel any better and was able to lengthen my stride a touch and pick up the pace for the final stretch of the run. In the end I did 11.9 miles (19.1 kms), at an average 7:43mm (4:48/km), and it just shows how rubbish I was feeling that I couldn't even be bothered to complete the round 12 miles for statistics' sake!

The truth is, it hurt, and more worryingly, my knee hurt. It was more than the usual level of discomfort. My knee is in a terrible old state:


Can you tell which is the dodgy one?

I actually felt real pain, and while it wasn't enough to force me to stop, it was the only thing I could think about as I dragged myself around the city for an hour and a half. Looking on the positive side, after I had taken Ibuprofen, iced it, and had a hot bath, it felt better, and I was able to go out walking round the city en route to A Good Lunch.

But there remained - and still remains - this general sensation of feeling beaten-up and bruised, and so I am going to do two things about it.

This week I was supposed to be Week One of my prescribed 18-week training plan, but instead I'm going to follow some more time-honoured advice and listen to my body for once. It is clearly telling me to take it a bit easy for a while, so this week I'm not going to do very much at all. I definitely do need a few days to recoup, mentally as well as physically. This morning, I made a cup of tea. Nothing unusual in itself, that, but whereas normally I would swill it down, lace up my trainers and head out the door, today I took it back to bed with me. Oh, the decadence!

The other thing I'm going to do is bin my trainers. I mean, just look at the state of them:

Note particularly the way the left heel is worn down to nothing. This is what's visible , but I shudder to think just how little they've been protecting me over recent weeks, given that the cushioning must be absolutely battered into submission by now. I've done more than 700km in them, which is a lot for a heavyweight like me,

So it's a very good job that the new shoes I ordered arrived about an hour ago. Typically, I had waited at home all morning for the courier to come. I thought it would be safe to leg it out to the supermarket and get some water (the whole neighbourhood has been without water supply since last night, with no warning), but just as I got back, there he was, just driving off. I managed to flag him down and stop him, and so happily, I have got my new trainers after all. Compare them with the old ones (ignoring the colour difference, of course):

I would just rest up for the whole week, and damn well enjoy it, too  but on Saturday afternoon I have another of my favourite races of the year, the 8 Kilómetros de Castrillón. Curiously, it's not 8kms at all, but 8.460kms, something I wish I'd known the first time they changed the distance! My final, desperate sprint for the line, or what I thought was the line, made me look a bit ridiculous as I realised too late that I had to turn a corner and keep going...

Anyway, as it's the last event before Christmas, there's always a festive atmosphere, with 1,600 participants. There are kids' events beforehand, so many people come with the whole family in tow, meaning the crowd support is excellent, especially at the finish. It also means another trip to the seaside for me, as the race goes from the nondescript town of Piedras Blancas to the beach resort of Salinas, and back again.

Therefore I suppose if only for confidence's sake I'd better do some sort of training this week. I'll probably get out tomorrow morning to see how I feel, and then do something involving bursts of something approaching speed on Friday morning.

So, next time I'll be back with the gory details of the race...and of my work's Christmas dinner which follows it on Saturday night. Will I make it out on Sunday for another 12-miler, as optimistically planned?

Thanks once again for reading, and until next time, take care and enjoy yourselves.

Bye for now!


Make It Easy On Yourself 

Touch Me, I'm Sick

Touch Me I'm Sick

Hello again!

Maybe as a consequence of running the race last week, I've been feeling a bit achy all over. It could just be me getting old, of course, but I've been waking up in the mornings, struggling to get out of bed, and going downstairs with a peculiarly crab-like, sideways shuffling motion. I get out of the door and wonder how on Earth I'm going to manage to keep putting one foot in front of the other for the next 55 minutes, but somehow I manage it.

In fact, it feels like my body is a spring, being coiled tighter and tighter with every day that goes by. And I know from painful experience that when this happens I can either do nothing, and wait for the inevitable injury to rear its ugly head, or I can pick up the phone and make an appointment with the physio.

Well, I say "the physio", but actually I go to two different ones, and they really are different.

I can't remember exactly how, when or why I started going to see Jaime at his practice, but it was at least six or seven years ago. I used to suffer quite a lot from calf strains and I would go there and subject myself to an hour's torture, then come home on what felt like totally new legs.

Three people work there, but usually I get Jaime, who is the boss and, I asume, the owner, or I get Hilda.

Initially I would always be assigned Hilda, and I was always happy to be treated by her. I have to say here - why deny it? - that she is a very beautiful young woman, with the hands of an angel. What generally happened was that she would go to work on my legs and put me through the most excruciating agony for the first half-hour. If I could just survive this, and luckily I generally could, then what followed was 30 minutes of bliss as she gently massaged my poor, battered legs back to life with her warm, soft hands. It was so pleasurable that on more than occasion I just could not control myself and...I fell asleep. Well, what did you imagine?

There was one time, though, when my calf must have been worse than usual and for days afterwards I could barely walk, so the next time I needed a service I called and was almost relieved to get Jaime, who duly booked me in for a session - but with him, this time.

Unfortunately, now it wasn't just about my calves or hamstrings, it was because of a nascent pubalgia which I'd been suffering for quite some time and which was getting so bad it prevented me from running - in fact it would wake me up every night. It's basically an aggravated groin strain resulting in a horrible burning sensation and dull ache in the muscles over the pubis bone, between the lower abdominals and the abductors. Obviously I couldn't go to Hilda with this!!

Looking on the internet, my heart sank, as it was generally suggested that this kind of injury spelled the end of many a runner and footballer's career, and even if it didn't, required months of rest and rehabilitation.

So it was with no little trepidation that I lay down on Jaime's couch and steeled myself for whatever was to come. But to cut a long story short, he identified the source of the problem as my poorly-aligned hips, and, straddling the couch behind me, he grabbed me in a sort of Heimlich manoeuvre and with one sharp twist and CCCRRRAAAACKKK, I was sorted. To this day (touch wood) it hasn't given me any more problems.

Ever since, I have considered Jaime as a sort of messiah-figure and now any time I have anything resembling an injury I go to him. However, it is no picnic. They have a sort of Zen atmosphere going on there, with aromatic oils and chill-out music, but relaxing it is not. It's fair to say that Jaime is not the most loquacious of men, and in fact many's the time my feeble attempts at small talk are met with nothing but a curt "on the couch, face down". He then gives me a cursory examination and declares, reproachfully, "you don't stretch at all, do you?" I am forced to admit to this as shamefacedly as if I was admitting to excessive masturbation or a penchant for farm animals, or something...

I went to him once when I had very tight abductors again, and he introduced me to the pleasures of the suction pad. This, he warns me, is painful, but will save hours of traditional massage, so I agree. He then brings out a suspicious, terrifying-looking instrument with a suction pad on the end of it, which he heats up and applies to my affected parts, rubbing and kneading with a vigour approaching Sadism. It is, without question, the most painful thing I have ever had to endure. For days afterwards I was horribly sore and even if I had ever indulged in the kind of practices suggested above, I wouldn't have been physically able to. But then, following his advice to return slowly but surely to running, I found once more that I was cured.

About a year ago, a physiotherapy practice opened about 100 metres from my front door, and so the next time I felt in need of a sports massage, I decided to try it. It is run by an affable, friendly man called Héctor, who couldn't be more different from Jaime. As he pummels and prods and stretches and pulls, we talk about running, football, travel, and life in general. Or rather, he does. I emit grunts and strangled shrieks in response, but can't help thinking that if he talked less (Spanish people use their hands to talk) I would get double the treatment in the same time period!

So these days if I just need my legs loosening up, I go to Héctor, as I will do this week, but if there's anything more serious that might develop into a full-blown injury, I bite the bullet and go to Jaime. They're both reasonably-priced (27-30€ an hour), so money isn't really the issue. Needless to say, though, I try to avoid both of them as much as possible.

Did I mention running back there? Oh yes, well, this week has been a sort of recovery one after the exertions of last week's race, so nothing special, and all a bit one-paced, in fact. I have cranked up the miles a bit more, however, and bashed out 11.3 miles (18.2 kms) yesterday, Sunday, in glorious sunshine.

I went out of the city and through woods and along a river, so it was pretty pleasant all round, really - a morning when it's a pleasure just to be outdoors.

Parque Santa Bárbara, near Lugones, Asturias

 

The Puente Viejo over the River Nora, near Oviedo

This made up a grand total of 36.2 miles (58.3 kms) for the week off five outings, so my mileage is finally getting to a respectable level, one to serve as a springboard to full-on marathon training.

Talking of which, my 18-week training plan starts the week ending 20th December. This is a bit annoying, actually, as on the 19th I have a 5.3-mile race in the afternoon, and then my work's Christmas do in the evening. How I'm going to do 12 miles on the Sunday is anybody's guess!

Spain loves its public holidays, and so today, Monday, and tomorrow, I'm off work thanks to Constitution Day and Immaculate Conception Day. I intend to move very little, at most between bed, sofa and kitchen. The bathroom may get a look-in, too, I imagine.

Well, that's all for this time. Thanks ever so much for reading. I hope all your Christmas preparations are coming along nicely (if that's your thing) - not too long to go now! Take care.

Touch Me I'm Sick

You Can't Moan, Can You?

You Can't Moan, Can You?

Hi everyone!

A week is, famously, a long time in politics. Well, I found this week that it is also a very long time in running.

Last Sunday, I crawled out of bed to the sound of rain battering on the windows and the wind howling through wherever it gets into. This is not normally a problem, as I have plenty of bad-weather gear, and in fact I actually quite like donning it all and getting out early when it's really cold.

But last Sunday I got out of the door and saw it absolutely lashing it down, and for the first time in months I thought to myself how little, if at all, I wanted to be out there. This had nothing to do with pleasure whatsoever. Rather, it was simply a case of gritting my teeth, getting the job done and getting home again.

Which is what happened. I cursed my way round 10.6 miles (17.1 kms), not even taking comfort in the perverse pleasure of braving what was at times biblical weather, and people staring at me in wonder as I breezed past them.

I just focused on the idea of getting home to the reward of a hot bath and a decent lunch, and sure enough, before two hours were up I was soaking happily in the tub.

 
This week's running was all about preparing for today's (Sunday 29/11) race, the Cross Popular Villa de Gijón. In fact, this meant taking it a bit easy but throwing in one session of speedier stuff, if only to remind myself what going a bit faster feels like, and whether it's at all possible still. 

So on Thursday I went up to the University and did 16 laps of a 450m circuit there - one fast, one slow. The faster ones came out at about 6:00/mile (3:45/km), so it was nothing spectacular, but it was good enough to put me in a positive frame of mind.

Yesterday morning I finished off an easy 6-miler with 6 x 100m strides, bursts of practically flat-out running where you concentrate on good running form.

So I woke up today looking forward to the race. It's actually back to being 11.5kms, after a few years of flirting with the 12km distance. I've done it a number of times and have always really enjoyed it. I like the route, which basically goes through a park by the football stadium, along the seafront, through the Town Hall Square, past the other town beach, up a hill at mile 3 and then round, over a dual carriageway and back over undulating wide avenues, past the Bull Ring and into the velodrome and the finish. 

It also comes at a time of year when I'm just easing back into a better level of training and fitness, so I don't have to stress about goal times, I just go and do what I can on the day.  

It's always well-attended and crowd support is great, too. Logistically, it's simple for me, which is a bonus: it's a 25-minute drive from my house, and I park effortlessly right where you pick up the race numbers and chip: this is a mere 300m from the finish, so afterwards the getaway is swift, even if the race hasn't been! Oh, and it's only 8€...

It was a beautiful, sunny morning today, if a bit chilly - only 6ºC - when I set off. With very little traffic about I got to Gijón in no time and put the car in the still half-empty car park next to the athletics stadium.

 

You can't tell from the photo, but it's salmon pink!

I collected my race number, chip and commemorative t-shirt in the space of two minutes, and then realised it was only 9:20, and that, with the race at 11:00, maybe I'd been a bit over-cautious in getting here so early.

But in fact it's better that way, as then I can do what I did today: relax and take my time over the pre-race rituals. I sat in the car and listened to some music for 20 minutes before getting out and going in search of a café. I found a very nice one only five mnutes' walk away, and sat reading the papers for a good while before, erm, taking advantage of the establishment's facilities.

This is a vital part of any race preparation. I make sure I "go" before leaving the house, but this second pit stop is key. Without it there's always the chance, however slim, that, well - maybe it's best not to dwell on that.

Back at the car, I attached the race number to my running vest and tied the chip into my laces, before going for a 2-km warm-up. This I finished with a few changes of pace and found that I was feeling fairly good - and that I had indeed warmed up. No need for the gloves in the race after all. Then it was time to strip down to vest and shorts, and apply vaseline liberally to various bodily bits. This is another essential, unless you want bleeding nipples and your family jewels rubbed red-raw. I understand some people do...

I locked the car and jogged down past El Molinón, the football stadium, to the start area, which was a hive of activity as usual, with around 1,600 people who were due to toe the line today. I spoke to a couple of people I know, which is always great for dispelling any nerves, and took up a place midway in the pack (or so I thought) to await the gun.  

And then we were off! I didn't actually hear the gun, and was surprised to find just how far back I was. In fact it was 30 seconds before I crossed the start line and then it was all I could do for the first couple of minutes to get myself into a decent pace without trampling or being trampled...

Soon we were out of the park and after a short uphill ramp we emerged onto the seafront. Gijón is not the most beautiful city in Spain by any means, but I have to admit this area, with the wide sweep of the bay, is spectacular, especially on a clear day like today. With the waves rolling in and crashing on the shore it makes for an impressive sight.

Going along the seafront

San Lorenzo beach, Gijón

 

The Promenade, Gijón

 I had thought beforehand that a pace of about 7 mins/mile (4:20/km) should be manageable, and after three kilometres I was actually a little faster than that, but still feeling very comfortable. However, I knew from experience that a sizeable hill was coming up and although it wasn't as bad as I remembered, my pace inevitably slowed. Just past the five kilometre mark we swung round and began to head inland as we traced a wide arc back to more or less where we started from. 

Going up the flyover, and starting to feel it...

At this point I noticed for the first time that there was a fairly stiff breeze blowing and that I was just beginning to have to work hard to hold onto the pace. We were now going over Gijón's version of the Croydon Flyover, and this one is not much prettier, it has to be said. It's easy to lose focus at this point so I made sure I stuck with the group of five or six I was with (mostly teenagers, curiously) and concentrated on keeping a good running style, carrying myself upright with hip extension, swinging arms and pushing off with each stride.
 

I almost look like I'm enjoying myself. Almost.

The kilometres began to pass and I doggedly maintained the pace. Soon I could see the Bull Ring in the distance, and I knew from that point  there was a right turn, and then the final 1.5-2 kilometeres to the finish. The crowds were now out in good numbers and their shouts of encouragement helped to spur me on. I still had something left in the tank and my pace quickened as I steeled myself for a final effort.


I honestly have no idea what's going on here...

...but in future I will try to enjoy myself less, and run more...

To my surprise, as I went up and over the bridge leading to the velodrome, I saw that this year we didn't have to do a lap of the track and instead there only remained the finishing straight. I won't say that I sprinted it, but I did at least give it my all, and crossed the line in 49:39.

This, for a race distance of 11.5 kilometres (7:14 miles), works out at an average pace of 4:20/km, just a shade under 7-minute miling. So as it turns out I was bang on my predicted pace, and as I picked up drinks and fruit in the finish area and headed back to the car, I felt pretty pleased with myself.

This is the slowest I've ever run this race. Over this distance I ran 49:16 in 2007 and (somehow) 45:34 in 2008. Even so, given the shocking state of fitness I'd come into this race from, I think that this is a step in the right direction. I had no injury concerns, and I'm pretty happy with the level of effort I put in, whilst admitting that I didn't have to push myself too hard.

Since I started this blog in October, I've lost 3 kgs, and so with today's race, I think there are causes for what is usually called "quiet optimism". I know it's going to be a long winter and there will undoubtedly be setbacks and struggles of many different kinds, but right now I think I can go to bed tonight feeling pretty satisfied with how it's all going. So, when I think back to last week and how my mojo was way down low, I can say that a week in running really has felt like a long time!

Now, where and when to race next?

Thanks for reading, everyone, wherever you are. It's great to know that there are people quite literally all over the world following my progress, something I never for a minute expected!! 

Until next time, friends, keep safe and be happy.

Bye for now!


You Can't Moan, Can You?