How Far Can Too Far Go?

How Far Can Too Far Go?

Welcome back!

Well, this isn't exactly going to plan. I was confident about jumping straight back into full-on marathon training, but in fact the truth is it's been a lot harder than I'd hoped. After two tentative runs to see how my knee was coming along, I went out on the Sunday with every intention of doing some longer miles.

Just my bad luck, then, I suppose, that the weather had turned from biblical to apocalyptic. It was lashing it down with rain, which is hardly ideal, but I can deal with that. The problem was the wind, which was absolutely howling, with gusts of up to 120 km/h. Call me a slacker, but it was just impossible to run. For the first time in my entire life, I wished I had a treadmill at home. So there was nothing for it but to head back in and get on the bike. I did think of waiting until lunchtime and getting out then, but there was no let-up in the storm, so I did the only thing possible and went out to a bar to drink beer and watch Arsenal v Leicester. If I'd hoped this would cheer me up, well, I was wrong! 

The next week was little better, running-wise, at least, as I received the welcome visit of my brother and his two little boys. We had a great few days together and I wouldn't have missed it for anything, but between preparations (cooking, cleaning etc.) and the visit itself, I didn't get much running done: only two easy 6-7 milers, in which I at least felt comfortable again.

One morning we went up to the area of the famous Angliru, and played around in the snow. Does that count as hillwork? I'd like to think so. 

We then took a trip to Galicia where we went to the coast before spending the day and night in the beautiful walled city of Lugo. We spent the day eating and drinking stupendously, before taking in some Spanish Segunda División football, bathed in warm sunshine.

The clan had to be back at the airport for 9:30 on the Sunday morning, so it meant an early start and not much sleep. Having breakfasted in Departures after a nerve-wracking, fog-bound journey, I got home around 11 and pooled all my resources of motivation to not go straight back to bed, but instead haul myself out for a run. I dragged myself round Oviedo for just over 11 miles and felt pretty satisfied with that, given the circumstances.

While stretching after the run, though, I noticed a pain behind my (good, but lately not so good) right knee. It hadn't bothered me while running so I put it out of my mind. I was more concerned about a palpable loss of fitness and the paltry number of miles I've been able to do, hardly in keeping with a training campaign for a marathon. And while I talk about miles, well, that's how far I am away from where I should be at this stage. 

This has now turned into a full-blown salvage operation. All the evidence seems to suggest that I'm going to have a complete disaster in Brighton, with so little time to pull things round.  

I think, to be honest, if I didn't have the flights booked and it wasn't in Brighton, my (other) brother's home town, I would have given this up as a bad job. But I think I may as well do as much I can do and see what happens. I curse my blog, too, for holding me so accountable - but in any case I can't, and won't, give up now.

Two short-ish runs on Tuesday and Wednesday went by uneventfully, but the niggle behind my knee was still there and clearly was only going to get worse, so I booked in for a session this morning at Jaime's physio practice. He would sort me out, for sure, although I went in some dread, remembering the agony he had put me through in times past.

I expected to be treated by the great man himself, so was surprised and not displeased to be greeted by a a tall, slim, raven-haired beauty by the name of Lucía. She ushered me in and soon got to work. If I'd imagined a gentle, soothing massage I was promptly disabused of the notion, as she yanked my poor legs this way and that and contorted me into impossible positions, like she was playing with one of those bendy Pink Panthers, or something. She then concentrated on my hips and abductors before moving onto my lumbar region, and, er, arse, which she kneaded and prodded into submission. In short, however, it's the first time in a good few weeks that I can honestly say that I've had a good workout!

I decided to book another session for a week today, as I clearly need all the help I can get. In the meantime, I'll be out tomorrow early before embarking on a go-as far-as-I-can session on Sunday. If I can get to about 14-15 miles, I'll be happy, try to recover well and just push on from there. As I said before, this is turning into a car-crash of a training campaign, but  I have no option but to bag all the miles I can and pray that in 8 weeks I will have done enough to get round Brighton in one piece. I don't even want to think about target times, I think it's gone beyond that, now.

Now it's just about how far I can go. How far, in fact, can too far go? That's the question.

Thanks for reading and please join me again next time. It's fun, this, isn't it?

Rip It Up

Rip It Up

Hello again!

You may or may not have noticed that I haven't posted with my customary frequency recently; in fact almost two weeks have gone by since my last missive. How have you been coping in the meantime?

So, to catch up, I have to tell you that I took the physio's advice and did nothing from the Tuesday until the following Monday, save the knee exercises I'd been prescribed. These went more or less well, but there was still quite a bit of discomfort present, so when I popped in to give the physio an upate he ordered me to continue resting and come back on the Wednesday for another session, with a view to possibly go out running again on the Thursday.

To my consternation, an hour before the appointment, he texted me to say he had toothache and was off to see the dentist. Could I come in the following morning? Yes, I could, but I asked him by return if I should go out that day and give the knee a bit of a test. No reply was forthcoming so I did go out, but immediately found running painful and so stopped abruptly. On starting again gently, I noticed it was better, but after a couple of laps round the block I decided that caution was indeed the better part of valour, and again aborted the session.

Back I went to the physio, my spirits low, and was given another bout of electrolysis therapy, and to cut a long story short, orders for another week of doing no running at all. It did feel better, and a few more days' enforced rest would sort it out for once and for all, surely?

At this point I realised that if I didn't want to start dramatically losing my fitness, I'd better get on my bike. Literally. I walk quite a lot as part of my daily routine, and I'm eating sensibly and well, so I haven't put on any weight, but I needed to do something to get my heart rate up for a period of time.

I have an exercise bike at home, of the type used in spinning clases, so clearly it was time to make use of it again. I have it installed in my Personal Fitness Centre, which is lavishly equi - yeah, all right...it's in my spare bedroom. It's not the same as running, of course, but much better than nothing. The trouble is, no matter how interesting the podcasts I listen to while pedalling away furiously, the time passes so slowly that doing more than 30-40 minutes is a real struggle. To make matters worse, my arms ache all the time I'm on it, despite my having adjusted the height of the saddle and the handlebars various times. And what to say of the suffering caused to and by my poor old arse? The less, the better, I think...

"The Beast"

So, as it turns out I've done 5 sessions on the bike and started doing my pseudo-pilates routine again, in the hope that if and when I do get back to running properly at least my body will be prepared for it, after a fashion.

Not being able and/or allowed to go out running does, I must admit rather guiltily, have its compensations. Namely, staying in bed more. This, or at least the sleeping aspect of it, is something I vowed to pay more attention to in 2016, so in that sense, every cloud really does have silver lining. Lying in bed on a Sunday morning with a cup of tea, drifting in and out of consciousness, is a pleasure I haven't been able to indulge in for years, without exaggeration. I just hope I don't get too used to it, that's all...

This past Tuesday I went to see Hector the physio again, and this time he gave me the green light to start running again! Just 5 or 6 kilometres, but it was still fantastic news.

I was too busy on Wednesday, but yesterday I donned my running kit and laced up my trainers, not without a feeling of dread. What if as soon as I broke into a trot my knee flared up again?

I needn't have worried. In fact, I actually felt quite light on my feet as I eased into a gente rhythm and headed off down (up? it's flat) the road. the sense of relief was palpable, but I was careful not to overcook the proverbial goose, and after 25 minutes and 5 kms of pain-free running, I decided to stop and notch it up as a success.

On informing Hector of my progress, he add a timely note of caution and bade me take my recovery slowly and gradually. Yes, this was great news, but I cannot afford any more setbacks of any kind. I still have about 9 weeks to get myself in shape for Brighton, which is far from ideal, but sufficient to at least get to the start line with some confidence of running a decent enough race.

So how to go about it? The first thing is obvious - the Pfitzinger and Douglas plan I was tentatively following has to go out of the window. I have to start afresh and just focus on how much I can realistically do, and what will be the most efficient way of doing it. A three-week taper is out of the question, as is a huge weekly mileage. Instead, I'll have to make sure of getting a good, increasingly long run in every Sunday, bag a medium-long run midweek, and grind out some shorter, faster efforts. As race day approaches I'll do speedwork to sharpen up, but for now the focus must be just to gradually build up a level of consistency, and hopefully my fitness and much-needed weight loss will come along for the ride. I will also try to do many of the miles at around competition pace, which shouldn't in theory be a problem.

Tomorrow I hope to start putting all into practice, but gently, and increasing the kilometres gradually day by day from then on. Having said that, if I feel all right after tomorrow's outing I might see if 9-10 miles are possible on Sunday. In running terms, I need to sort my head out just as much as the rest of my body, so a nod in the direction of some longer miles would give me the confidence that this marathon campaign hasn't entirely come off the rails.

Well, we'll see, said the blind man. Join me next time, and discover whether this is a false dawn or whether, despite having to tear up the training plan and start ad-libbing, I can get myself back on track.

As always, thanks for reading and sticking with me, and if anyone has any advice to offer, now more than ever it really would be much appreciated!

Bye for now!


Rip It Up

Frustration

Frustration

Life has a funny habit of kicking you in the teeth, just when you thought that things were finally going your way again. It's quite incredible how one minute the world is your oyster, and the next you can't see yourself ever being happy/satisfied/fulfilled again.

Last time I was full of optimism, and even excitement, at the prospect of stepping up my marathon training, starting with a 10km race I'd enjoyed in previous years. I sit here now without having run for five days, wondering when and indeed if I'll be able to get out there again.

Last Sunday dawned bright and sunny, a beautiful day to get out and run. The 10kms Oviedo-Las Caldas is a well-attended, well-organised race, mainly following the route of a disused railway line, now a popular place to walk/run/cycle, as the incline is gentle and because it passes through beautiful scenery. Las Caldas is a spa town, and the spa itself was restored to its former glory a few years ago, so all told it's a lovely place to visit.

Note the race number, folks...

In previous years the organisation laid on buses before the race from Las Caldas to Oviedo, so I would drive to the finish, get the bus back up and then get in a few kilometres round Oviedo before doing the race itself. This year, however, they decided to only put on buses for after the race, to prevent everybody driving to Las Caldas and swamping the village with traffic. In fact, this backfired on them, and practically everybody just got their family or friends to pick them up at the finish, resulting in a monumental snarl-up.

I drove to the start early to pick up my race number and chip, and then drove home again to relax a bit and get ready for the race in my own good time. I had about 90 minutes for this, as the race wasn't starting till 11:30. When the time came I put on my rucksack (with a small towel, my race vest, vaseline, deodorant, camera and money inside) and ran back up to the start, some 4-5 kms away. It was already warm, but still pleasant.

Once at the start area, I swapped an already-very-sweaty t-shirt for my race vest, applied vaseline to those bits which generally need it (use your imagination), dropped off my rucksack (to be collected at the finish) and made my way to the start. This year we were going to start in a large car park rather than on the path itself - this was always chaos, as it's way too narrow for 900 people - and immediately go up a steep hill, climbing over 30 metres in just 400m. Gulp.

 

There was a hilarious moment just before the gun went. The announcer took it upon himself to start presenting the favourites in the race, and he must have thought they could be identified by dint of their having been given the lowest race numbers. So, first he introduced Number 1, Pelayo Menéndez, who would go on to finish second in a time of 31 minutes dead. He then declared "and...wearing number two..." before somebody whispered in his ear and pointed out that the numbers had largely been handed out at random, and while athlete number two was indeed of an international nature, this was due solely to his passport rather than to any athletic credentials. So he shut up, and said no more. I laughed loudly at this, but of course nobody else had an inkling of what had just happened! 

At 11:30 the gun went and we were off. The hill was nasty and many complaints could be heard as we struggled up it before turning left onto a flat road and then zig-zagging down thrrough the park to join the path.

 

With my new niggly knee, I had promised my physio that I would take his advice and, if not exactly take it easy, at least not push the pace too much. So, of course after the tough start and a second, fast kilometre (3:48) I began to feel as though I was working a bit too hard and eased off into a steady 4:10-4:15 pace, and basically just let the kilometres go by. The only trouble was, I was being passed by all and sundry, including people I should normally wipe the floor with (in a nice way, of course).

Of course, my deciding on this pace was nothing to do with my knee or the physio's advice. The plain truth is that I simply could not be arsed to go any faster, and used the excuse I had ready-made.

I am aware that this is despicable.

I don't actually think that I overtook a single person in the last 6 kms of the race, but at least I kept the pace nice and steady, and found it very easy-going. The village of Las Caldas soon hove into view and the pavements became lined with spectators, so I gathered myself for a final effort and galloped up the 200m hill to the finish, crossing the line in an entirely mediocre 42:31.



"Oh, I can smile about it now, but at the time it was terrible..."

I collected my rucksack, made myself a little more respectable and headed to the bus stop where, in 30 minutes' time, a coach would, in theory, take me back to Oviedo. As mentioned earlier, the whole village was jammed solid, but not only with race traffic. Las Caldas and the surrounding area is a popular destination for walkers, cyclists, people visiting the spas and those simply out for a spot of lunch in the many restaurants, and on a sunny Sunday with temperatures up to 23ºC, even more so. It got so bad that the police had to intervene in order that the coaches, when they arrived, could even get down the street. These coaches came a bit early, but left only half-full - of course: most people had arranged to be picked up.

Las Caldas: the spa itself

 

Las Caldas, before it all got clogged up

The coach dropped us near the start and so I donned my rucksack once more, and ran home. After a good stretch in the sunshine and a nice, long shower once inside, I felt I could get on with my roast chicken, finally...

Not an epic performance by any means, but a decent workout nevertheless, and crucially, more miles clocked up - they all count. And as for the knee, well, it hadn't given me any problems at all.

So, on Tuesday I set out in good spirits to tackle an 11-miler (18kms). The first few miles went by uneventfully but then at about 5 miles (8 kms) to my dismay, my right knee - the good one, this is - suddenly became so painful I had to stop. Appalled, I stretched the leg for a while and as it began to to feel better, decided against going straight home and pressed on. I got to the top of town at about 8 miles (13kms) and still felt all right, so drank from a fountain, stretched a bit more for good measure, and headed homewards. But at 10 miles (16kms), as I descended a short but particualrly steep section of my route, the pain came back and I finally, belatedly, saw sense. I stopped and hobbled dejectedly home.

I got another appointment with Héctor the physio, for the following day, and he refused to be worried - it really was just a strained patellar ligament. Luckily, he informed me, he had just taken delivery of a machine to deal with just such an injury.  I just smiled weakly and hoped - prayed, in fact - that his confidence was justified...and that it wouldn't hurt too much. The treatment is called Percutaneous Electrolysis Therapy.

So he proceeded to stick a needle in me, just below the knee, and start turning up a dial to administer an electrical charge. The idea is that it produce a "controlled inflammation", which in 48-72 hours the body will combat by creating its own defences, thus healing the injury naturally. I should not run till Tuesday, and instead come back on Monday to see how it's looking. Meanwhile, I have to do 3 sets of 10 single leg squats twice daily.

I have no choice but to go along with this. In fact, I am happy to do so. I can focus on other things: sleeping better (the secret: drinking less...who knew?), eating well, reading, watching films and series, doing housework (yes, really)...going to the football with friends - anything, in fact, rather than go running - and it's only a matter of  a few days. Isn't it?


There are other things in life, apart from running. Watching Real Oviedo is just one of them

What I don't want, though, is to lose a week's training while hanging around doing nothing, then come back only to find the injured area is no better. So, as I say, that diagnosis had better be the correct one...

So, we'll see, then. I'm actually quite calm at the moment, and enjoying the down time. Inexplicably, I've lost weight, too, although how long that continues remains to be seen! 

Next time I hope I have better news for you both...er, I mean, for you all. In the meantime, thanks ever so much for reading, and please, stretch and generally look after your body - just think about how much it looks after you!

Bye for now!


Frustration

It's Going To Happen

It's Going To Happen

It's often said that marathon running is more psychological than physical. It's definitely true that your legs won't carry you where your head doesn't think you can go. And when things turn ugly in a race, keeping a positive, rational attitude can help you through, whereas if negative thoughts start to seep in, the wheels will, more often than not, come right off. 

But that's in the race itself, when you've effectively done all the hard work in the long months leading up to it. While you're actually still doing the training, it's arguably even more important to keep your head and stay in a positive frame of mind.

I've done 14 marathons. That's 14 times I've gone through the slog of pushing my body close to its limits of physical endurance over a three- and even four-month period. So you would think I'd know what to expect by now and take it all in my stride (do you see what I did there?). The occasional bad session, the feeling of overwhelming tiredness, the niggles and the aches and the actual pains leading to missed workouts and plans not followed to the letter.

You'd think so, wouldn't you?

In fact, I don't appear to have learnt any lessons at all. What somebody might conclude about what this says about my life in general, I prefer not to think about. But every time a workout doesn't go well I immediately think it's the end of my aspirations, and that I should hang up my trainers and look for a more appropriate hobby, like basket-weaving, say, or flower-arranging.

So it was important for me to bounce back quickly after a run when, not content with feeling run down, I actually very nearly was run down, after taking a fall which in the end caused more injury to my pride than anything else.   

I didn't fancy it at all: 9 miles (14 kms) with 5 (8) at half marathon pace. In the pouring rain.

I gave myself a good talking-to before heading out, conscious of the need to nail a decent session and get this marathon campaign back on track, at least in my head. Off I went up to the city centre to the mainly-pedestrianised area by the train station and in fact covering the tracks, where people stroll amongst fountains and shrubs. It's a flat area and a circuit of just over a kilometre, so good for doing interval sessions and specific pace workouts.

 
What counts as half marathon pace at this stage doesn't really correspond to reality, that much I do know, so I set myself an arbitrary target of 4:20 per km (6:55mm), and was pleased to find that the first two were well on pace and easier than I had imagined. I had to make an effort to concentrate and not admit negative thoughts once it did become harder, but after 5 kms, I knew it was in the bag and the final three actually felt pretty comfortable. A quick stop at the drinking fountain, and I headed home at an easier pace, feeling well pleased with myself. On looking at the stats later, it turned out that I'd done the 8kms at an average of 4:19/km, with only a couple of seconds variation in each.

You know when things are going well when you do an easy, recovery-style run and you struggle to keep the pace down. This happened on the Saturday, two days later, when I meant to go at 4:50-5:00/km, but ended up going at some 20 seconds faster than that. Not textbook stuff, but all good for the morale.

On Sunday the plan had me down for a 16-miler (26 kms) with 10 of these (16kms) at marathon race pace. Again, at this stage, you can't take this too literally, but if I want to go sub-3:15 at Brighton, that means going at 4:37/km (7:25mm), so on this run I wanted to go somewhere within ten seconds/km of that. In the end, and after all my troubles on the long run the week before, (and despite only having three hours' sleep the night before) I found it easy-going, and I felt confident and positive all the way round. I actually did just over 25 kms (15.6 miles), but at an overall average of 4:48/km, with the majority a good deal faster than that, so again, I came home feeling pretty bloody chipper about my running, and life in general.

No complaints from my knee, more to the point. For the first time I really began to believe that this Brighton Marathon campaign was going to be a big success. Feeling comfortable mentally and physically at a decent pace over nearly 16 miles, on tired legs in a tired body, is a very good place to be at this stage.

On Tuesday I did a steady 8 miles and while not exactly whistling my way round, continued to feel in top shape. The recovery run of 5 miles on Wednesday could only prolong this happy, carefree feeling, couldn't it?

Well, it did for about three miles, until I gradually became aware of a nagging pain just below my right (i.e. good) knee, getting worse and worse to the point where I had to stop. Not unduly worried, I did a bit of stretching, which seemed to do the trick, and I completed the workout.

I got home and climbed the stairs to the bathroom...and every step was agony. This was Not A Good Thing. Normal walking was no problem: it didn't hurt when I touched it, and bending it was fine, too. But putting all my weight on it to go up or down stairs...absolutely not.

Of course, my first thought was that my marathon hopes were dashed irrevocably. However, I went into denial and didn't give it too much thought for the rest of the day. In the evening I noticed it was still no better, but I went to bed calmly enough.

The following morning I was supposed to do another 8 miles with some strides at the end, so off I went...and 45 seconds later I was back indoors. It wasn't simply unwise to continue running, it was actually impossible, such was the pain with every step.   

He'd run out of pink...

Jaime the physio/sadist (see Chapter 9) was fully booked for the Friday (phew!), so I went to Héctor, and he was able to find me a morning slot. To cut a long story short, he immediately allayed my worst fears and told me it was just a strained patellar ligament, which he proceeded to deal with by kneading, prodding and generally abusing me in the surrounding area, including the quadriceps. He taped me up and sent me on my way, just like that.

Now, on Sunday I am entered for the 10.3kms race from Oviedo to the spa town of Las Caldas. Before leaving him, I asked Héctor if I should forget the race and rest up until Tuesday. He said there was probably no need, but that a few days' rest were always going to do me good. That was it, then - no problem, I would be sensible, and consider the bigger picture. What were a couple of missed sessions if it meant safeguarding my health and recovering properly?

Two hours later, I got a text from a fellow runner, informing me that I had been assigned race number 2. Two! This was too good to miss - my knee felt much better already, and a short test today (Saturday) would confirm this, surely?

Well, amazingly, it did. Good old Héctor had proved his worth and fixed me up completely! A four-mile run convinced that once again, all is well, and yes, it really is going to happen. All of it! Starting with this race tomorrow, in what promise to be spring-like conditions. It goes down on the path where once there was a railway line, through some fantastic scenery.

It's supposed to be 10kms, but measures a good deal more, probably 10.3. They've tweaked the route this year, but even so I hope to shave at least 30 seconds off my effort of 42:18 last year. We'll see.

Well, I thought this was going to be a shorter post than usual, but it hasn't turned out that way, has it? So thanks for your patience, and for your continued support of my trials and tribulations. See you next time!


It's Going To Happen

Taste The Floor

Taste The Floor

When people find out you run, the main reason they give you for not running themselves is that it's too boring. Then, of course, they bang on about the delights of swimming. Swimming!

Well, naturally, I respect all (or most) opinions, but I can assure you that this week my running has not been boring. In fact, I would have loved it to have been boring. Dull. Monotonous. Tedious, even...

Apart from actually getting killed or suffering serious injury, what do you think is is the worst that can happen to you when out running? Because I think that in the space of three days, I was visited by two of any runner's worst nightmares. Not one, mind you, but two.

After my Christmas mini-hiatus, last week I decided to throw myself into full marathon training and so sweep those cobwebs away. The first week went well and I was feeling confident as I got ready on Sunday morning for the planned 14-15 mile (23-24kms) effort.

The overnight rain had relented as I got my kit on and laced up my trainers. I set my MP3 to listen to a BBC play and then Marathon Talk. I'd had my regulation two cups of tea and had been to the loo successfully, so all was apparently in order. As I went out of the door I did feel the slightest qualm in my stomach, but I put it out of my mind and, after some quick stretching, was soon pounding my way down the road.

On a long run, one of over 12-13 miles, I find the first few are always a bit of a challenge, but once I'm past 4 or 5 miles I go into auto-pilot and the thing goes by quite painlessly. This time, however, I got to 5 miles (8kms) and I felt seriously tired already. I even began to have thoughts of cutting the run short and heading home, something which is absolutely unthinkable...

So I employed a bit of psychology and did a checklist of how my various bits were feeling. Legs, knee, lungs...all felt fine, and there was really no need to worry. This perked me up considerably and on I pushed much more freely.

Suddenly, at about 7.5 miles, my world changed. I had this awful churning feeling in my stomach, and if Harrison Ford had been there he would have said there was Clear And Present Danger of my disgracing myself. I stopped and tried to clench all available muscles in an attempt to ward off the inevitable, but nothing was going to stop it. I looked around in desperation, and miraculously there was a bar open just 50 yards away. I sprinted over, dashed inside to the astonishment of the three old gentlemen nursing a mid-morning glass of wine, and asked permission of the lady behind the bar to avail myself of the facilities, tout de suite. I must have been a sorry sight indeed, because she assented and even showed me the way.

Without going into too many details, the relief was palpable. But even then there was one more obstacle to be overcome, because only after I'd "been" did I realise there was no paper. So I had to shuffle out in a squatting position and take up occupancy of the ladies', having first made a calculated guess that it would not be being used...

The rest of the run passed without incident, probably because it took a while for me to shake off the feeling of numbed horror at might have been and so very, very nearly was. So by the end I had bagged 14.4 miles, but the mental scars may yet take some time to heal.

On Tuesday I went out again after making doubly sure all was well "down there", and set off on the prescribed 10-miler at an easy-ish pace. It was awful. I felt horribly tired and after 7 miles I stopped at a drinking fountain, pretty much exhausted. There may be a number of factors for this, but a chronic lack of sleep combined with an increased workload and training mileage certainly isn't going to help. In any case, I had to get home, and the quickest way was always going to be by running there, so I had no choice but to continue. I headed my usual way back, past the bus station and down the hard shoulder of a never-busy dual carriageway. With 9 miles done, there only remained the final stretch and I was home. It's amazing how positive thoughts like this can spur you on even when you think you're about to flake out; I cheered up and picked up the pace for the last few minutes.

Well, in the event, they could easily quite literally have been my last few minutes. I came to a roundabout beyond which the road narrows in a type of chicane. I don't know how, but my legs became tangled, I lost all balance, and I crashed to the ground with a terrfying thud. With two cars behind me, I honestly thought my time was up.

In that awful fraction of a second, all sorts of things went through my mind. Ridiculous things, mostly. Had I left anything embarrassing, shameful and/or incriminating for the police to find at my house? Who would take my place at work later that day? I even thought that should I survive, I would at least have something to write about this time...

Then the pain and the shock. I landed squarely on my right forearm and rolled over, ending up in a particularly ungainly heap. My immediate thought was one of relief that the cars hadn't flattened me, followed quickly by the fear I'd broken my arm. Fear, that is, of the boredom and hassle induced by trips to the hospital, of the long waits, of the inconvenince of a plaster cast, of the dashing of my marathon hopes...

A cursory full-body inspection soon allayed these fears: my arm hurt like hell and looked like Di Caprio's after that attack by the grizzly, but it clearly wasn't broken. I picked myself up gingerly, dusted myself down, and continued on my way, sobbing gently to myself.

It was only when I got home that it struck me that despite lots of cars having passed me, and all the pedestrians there were out walking, nobody had enquired as to my well-being, or otherwise showed any interest in my predicament. Muchas gracias, Oviedo!

Well, of course I'm probably over-dramatising, but I was quite shaken up by the incident. Mainly, I suppose, because as I was going down I really did feel I'd had it and the cars behind me were going to run me over. I thought how easily this had happened and wondered, in fact, how something similar - or worse - had never happened before. I do run along the road a lot even when there are pavements, but I never take risks and my safety is always my principal concern when out running.

Needless to say, by the next morning, although my legs felt sore I was keen to get out again, so off I went for a 5-mile recovery run. These are designed to flush out any toxins from your legs, and as long as you take them nice and easy, you finish feeling much better, and even fresher, than when you started. Thankfully this was the case on this occasion; I had been more worried about just how tired I'd been feeling recently than anything else, so this workout put my mind to rest in that respect.

On Thursday came a real test, however. 9 miles (14kms) including 5 (8kms) at half marathon pace is a challenging workout this early in the programme, and my build-up to it had hardly been the most encouraging. However, I was determined to get a really good session in and thus turn the page, closing the chapter of recent misfortunes.

Would I suffer yet another disappointment on this long, long road to Brighton? Or would I nail the workout and come away feeling that now I am well and truly on the way to marathon success? Well, you'll have to wait until next time to find out!

Thank you once again for following my story  - and for not tutting too much at my melodramatic exaggeration!

Stay healthy and happy, and I'll see you next time!


Taste The Floor

Start!

Start!
 
Well, here we are in 2016. Unbelievable. When I was at school years ago I always imagined that by now people would be walking around in shiny silver suits, eating unappetising, synthetic food and communicating in a strange, unintelligible language. Mind you, now I come to think of it, that does sound a lot like Newcastle on a Friday night...
 

 
As I mentioned last time, on New Year's Eve I was running the traditional San Silvestre race, specifically the one in Oviedo. This started at 6.10 p.m., which gave me plenty of time to get my dinner for the evening ready.
 
I had no plans to go out but I thought I would make the effort and do myself something nice for  dinner, to at least see out what has been a difficult year in a bit of style. So I spent a good part of the morning wrestling with an Iberian pork sirloin, and attempting to open it up then stuff it with dried fruit and nuts. There were, I have to confess, one or two fraught moments, but in the end I showed it who's boss and before too long I had it tamed: I'm not going to go through the whole process, but once it was done it looked like this:
 

That way, in the evening all I had to do was heat it through in the port wine reduction it had cooked in.

With all this going on, I didn't have too much time to fret about the race, but as the afternoon wore on I got my kit prepared, pinned on the race number and soon enough I was out the door. 
 
The great thing about this race is that I can leave the house in just my race kit, and by running up to the city centre and the start I get my warm-up practically done. Then there's the fantastic festive atmosphere and the thrill of running through the city under the Christmas lights, cheered on by thousands of spectators.
 
Why, then, would I fret? It's only 5.5 kms, which, as people are often very keen to point out, is nothing at all for a distance runner like myself. Well, this is true, but the problem is that precisely because it's a much shorter distance, you have to go eyeballs-out from the off and run to the absolute lung-bursting limit all the way. It's painful, let me tell you.
 
To cut a long story short, I pitched up at the start area a good 20 minutes before the gun and manoeuvred my way to a position about ten rows back from the front.

There I am, under the first tree on the left - this is the only picture I appear in...

It got ever more tightly packed as the minutes passed and I wondered how on Earth I was going to get into any sort of decent pace and even just stay on my feet. In fact, when the gun went and the stampede started it wasn't too bad where I was, although not far to my left there was a Foinavon-style pile-up, which I managed to avoid and I was away, careering down Calle Uría, the main street here in Oviedo.
 
A sharp left, and up Calle Toreno - the first hill - we charged, a reminder that sooner or later this was going to hurt, but so early on in the race, adrenalin alone takes you up those 400-500m. This hill is made yet more bearable by the knowledge, if you've done your homework, that there follows the fastest section of the race, 2.5 kms of generous terrain (i.e. downhill), and if you've got a clear run here you can really open up your legs and pile on the pace. if you're still a bit hampered by the crowds, on the other hand, you can easily lose two or three minutes, just in this section.

 
In my case it was somewhere between the two: the road was still fairly crowded and I was continually catching the heels and ankles of people cutting across too closely, but even so I found myself going through two kilometres in 7:48, more or less what I'd imagined. Here the road flattened out, but at the three-kilometre mark it suddenly kicked up and there we were, facing the biggest challenge of the day, something everybody had been terrified about...
 
The numbers tell us that we went up 40 metres in 1.5 kms, and so inevitably my pace plummeted, but in fact it was far more manageable than I'd feared; I just concentrated on decent form and keeping the same cadence, and was heartened to see I was passing dozens of exhausted runners. Come on, it was only 2 miles into the race, for heaven's sake!
 
Once at the top of the hill you are in the administrative district of the city and from here it's about a mile of gentler downhill all the way to the finish. One thing I have learned over the years is the value of doing repeated intervals of faster running intercalated with slow recoveries - in a race situation these enable you to get over a hard section and then immediately pick up the pace again, so while some used the first half-mile of the downhill section to recover form the hill, I pulled out all the stops and flew down there!
 
The crowds were really massed along the pavements here and they cheered me on as I steeled myself for a final, continual effort and we came in to the old part of the city before turning towards the Cathedral Square and the finish. The last 200 meters or so are slightly uphill but I never even noticed, but hurled myself forward and crossed the line. Done!
 


The top five in the men's race. 

23:02 for 5.65 kms works out at 4:05/km (6:34/mile), and considering my diet over the previous days, involving far too much beer, and in fact far too much of everything (no cigarettes, though, thank God!), I am very pleased with that. It was tough in parts and was never going to be the fastest course but I feel I gave it a really good push and finished very strongly - the last mile was in about 6:20. 

All that remained was for me to congratulate two or three people I knew at the finish (including the chap who came in fourth - he lives very near me and trains in the same places) and jog home.
 

At this point I would normally run myself a nice, hot bath and take a couple of celebratory beers up there with me, but then I looked at my watch and saw it was only 7:15. If i started now, I'd be out for the count by 11, if not before. So, tea it was. In fact, I held off everything as long as possible, and in fact the records show I was still drinking tea (not the same one) at 10.30...
 
If I'm going to be honest, then I must also say that I was also being a bit careful because as soon as I got home I received an extremely attractive, if tentative, offer via the medium of Whatsapp to go out later on, i.e. about one o'clock (these Spanish, eh?)...it simply wouldn't do to turn up three sheets to the wind, would it? I'd said I'd be delighted and where and when should we meet?
 
Needless to say, at that point Whatasapp crashed for the remainder of the evening (ironically, precisely what I'd tried to avoid doing all along!) and that was the end of that, my illusion crushed. As any man would have done in my position, I took solace in good food and alcohol.
 
As the donkey work had been done earlier in the day, the assembly and production of my repast was simple and fairly quick, although in fairness by the end of it I was glancing at the kitchen clock a little anxiously.
 
For starters, a simple confit of bacalao:
 

 
To follow, the Iberian pork sirloin, with port wine reduction and caramelised apples...



 

 
And once I'd washed up, it was 11:50 and so I had to get moving and plate up the traditional mix of  turrones and dried fruits, with the obligatory bottle of Cava.
 

I also had to prepare the grapes, something which I'd forgotten to, and had to do them at full speed starting at exactly 11:58 and 20 seconds. This done, I ran to the living room (not far, admittedly) and turned the television on, just in time to hear the first chime. With each of the twelve chimes, I ate a grape for luck, as is the tradition, and when this was done, I opened the bottle of Cava, drank off the first glass and started sending Whatsapps to my family and friends, albeit knowing they probably wouldn't arrive until hours later...
 
In short, quite a pleasant evening, but it would have been a hundred times better with some company, of course.
 
So, now to business. It's all well and good stuffing yourself with food and drink for two weeks, but the Brighton Marathon will not run itself, as far as I am aware. Neither, to my knowledge, has anyone standing on the podium, having achieved their goal, ever cited eating and drinking like a pig as a key factor in their success.
 
Goodbye to all that, then, fun as it was. Actually, I've got off fairly lightly and only put on about two pounds over all this holiday period. I found, furthermore, that my knee seems to be co-operating, and so as I laced up my trainers on Tuesday and headed out for a 10km easy run, I was pleased to note that all was well with the world. My little corner of it, anyway. For this was no ordinary run. No - this was the first of a hundred-odd which go to comprise the Pfizinger and Douglas (P&D) 18-week marathon training plan.
 
So I have started in Week Four? No matter, I'm in there for the duration now. 18 weeks is miles too long, anyway! But really, there was no way I was going to stick to any sort of plan over Christmas, and besides, I like the symmetry of the start of a new year and the start of serious, full-on, relentless, all-consuming, unforgiving marathon training.
 
Next time we'll all of us find out how I cope with this shock to the system and what, if any, changes I have to make to my lifestyle to be able to deal with it.
 
Thank you ever so much for continuing to follow me and my footsteps on this journey. I would love to hear from you; any comments, suggestions, crticism and - God forbid - encouragement would be really gratefully received!
 
Bye for now!
 
 
Start!

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