September 2011 – Page 2

The Power of Breakfast

On Saturday morning I woke up with a hangover. I drank two cups of tea, ate two slices of toast and did Friday’s crossword in bed. By 9am I still had a hangover but laced up the trainers and we headed out for a 9 mile run.

I ran on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday mornings and it was horrible every time. On Saturday I ran twice as far, with a headache and mild dehydration, but felt brilliant. Either there is no justice in the world, or I really have to eat breakfast in order to have a good run.

I’ve been slowing down or walking too much on my runs lately, but it didn’t even cross my mind on Saturday. When I got back, the hangover had gone. It was a miracle run. If only I could have one every day.

Friday Cheer

I have of late, and wherefore I know well but don’t particularly want to share, lost some of my mirth. It is therefore possible that my running, and my reporting of it, has been less enjoyable than I would like.

I set out this morning really hoping for a soul-lifting and heart-filling experience, a little story or two to lighten the mood. Sadly the most interesting thing I can think to say about my 4 mile plod around Crouch End is that it was very humid. I regretted wearing running tights over flappy shorts.

I don’t have anything good to say about the run. I have tried. I am reduced to commenting on the weather.

As a last resort, I will post a picture of one of my cats.

Here is Ted on the bed this morning. If he doesn’t cheer you up, nothing will.

The 40 Steps

Back to the Emirates this morning for Rocky II: Still Damp but Marginally Less So.

I definitely didn’t punch the air this time at the top of the steps. I felt like punching something, but not that. A bad mood from Wednesday insisted on staying overnight like an unwelcome guest. I ran with it on my back like a military pack filled with bricks.

Sometimes even a run can’t shake a black cloud. The real black clouds aren’t helping much – North London looked filthy in the gloom. I passed a homeless woman, tottering in slow motion on the Holloway Road, eyes open but vacant. She swayed as I passed, as if rocked by a cool breeze.

Routes Manoeuvre

I am in search of new routes. Until I am better able to handle running 1.5 miles straight up a hill at 6.15am, I need a new selection of 4 – 7 mile routes which are flat. At least for the first mile.

This morning I set out in the rain without knowing where I did want to go, but knowing exactly where I didn’t, and taking the opposite route. I headed over towards Holloway Road, didn’t want to run down it or up it, so crossed over and went to Tufnell Park. I didn’t fancy running downhill to Kentish Town (sure to involve an uphill on the way back), or uphill towards Highgate (which would be uphill), so went down Tufnell Park Road. I was heading back to the Holloway Road, not ready to head towards Finsbury Park, so I ran down towards Highbury. A longer route could take me around Highbury Corner to Highbury Grove, but I took the shorter route past the Arsenal stadium to Blackstock Road.

This was a good plan. The wind was whistling around the Emirates, but I got a psychological kick from running up the stadium steps, a la Rocky. Every run should have its training montage moment.

I resisted punching the air as I crossed the bridge into Ashburton Grove. Tiredness was setting in at the half hour point, but I set my face into a grimace and headed home. 39 minutes and 15 seconds, about 5 miles dead on. A new route has been put down.

“Race” Report

So it turns out that 7 hours of gardening, no proper training and 4 slices of pizza don’t help you run a good 10k race.

Yesterday I ran the lovely Regent’s Park 10k, which happens on the first Sunday of every month. I am proud of myself for turning up, but not much more than that. I knew I wasn’t in for a pb – see above for my extensive preparation – but I vainly supposed I could finish within 44 minutes.

At the start line the threatened rain clouds dissipated promisingly. It was a big field but I kept up a decent pace over the first couple of kilometres. By the end of the first lap of three my legs felt tired but 44 minutes was still possible.

BUT THEN. As I passed the start/finish line and smiled at Mr N, it was as if the world had turned from technicolour into black & white. Immediately, everything hurt. Slight inclines were mountains, breathing was laboured. People running alongside me were suddenly running past, at an impossible pace, like the Keystone Kops. All I could think was, “I have to stop, I have to stop”.

I will stop at 5kms, I thought. At 5kms I slowed down to a morbid jog. I kept this up for 200 metres. There was a slight downward hill. I felt a bit better. I will make it to the end of the second lap, I thought. I picked up a tiny bit of pace. On the approach to the start/finish, through loud-hailed encouragements from the race director, I glimpsed Mr N waiting for me to pass. I knew I had to finish the race. “I’m just going to jog the rest”, I wheezed.

I started the third lap, stopped to drink half a cup of water, and finished the race. My jog improved to a steadier run as the finish line got closer, but was never less than painful. The only positive thing I have to say about this race is that it made me want to train for another one to expunge its memory. We’re signing up for the December 10k and I am going to crack 43 minutes.

And that, my friends, is an absolute promise.

Not a Walker

Last night I ran home the long way round – 7.5 miles. I’m not doing many runs this week so I’m making them count. At the South side of Regent’s Park, about 25 minutes in to my run, I felt suddenly weary. As I crossed the bridge over the boating lake, about 3/4 of the way around the Park, I was about to stop to walk. There’s a long slow incline from that bridge to the gate and it is my least favourite section of any run there. It isn’t a hill, it barely qualifies as an incline. Yet somehow the path is awkward to run on, I’m always at my most tired at that point, and I have a history of slowing down to walk it.

Yesterday I did the same, slowed down and was about to start walking – just to the gate, then I would start running again. As my legs elongated into a loping stride and my shoulders relaxed, I changed my mind. No, I would not walk. I would do what I always encourage new runners to do when they are just starting out – slow down, go as slowly as you need to, slow down to a ridiculous level, but never walk.

Running very slowly uses a similar amount of energy as walking briskly, there’s very little difference between the two speed-wise, but the vital difference remains. Running is running, no matter how slowly or quickly you are doing it. Walking is not running.

Yesterday I stuck to running, I slowed down about four times during the run, maybe five. On the hill to Tufnell Park I thought about walking a lot. I’ve walked up that road many times; it’s post-6 miles, I feel I’ve had a good run, I deserve to walk for a bit. Not this time. By slowing down a bit I got my breath back, recovered a bit of bounce in my legs. I didn’t feel any more tired at the end of the run, I didn’t work any harder, but I feel much better about myself now. Running really is at least 50% mental effort and I have been slacking lately. Time to turn it around.