Category: Bad Days

This morning’s effort – 5 miles to the Hill of the Muswell – was not my best work.

It was underwhelming. I did not reach my true potential.  I let myself down.  Tenacity was not demonstrated. Mental toughness was absent. A hint of laziness might even be said to have been detected.

If you had passed me on any of the uphill stretches after the first 1.5 miles, you may be forgiven for imagining that I was out for a walk, rather than a run. ‘Who goes for a walk at 6.30am, without a dog?’, you might have wondered. 

The best part of the run was the part after I stopped my watch at the end. And no, that is not the best part of every run. It is a good part, yes, but if the run is anything short of horrific, it’s never the best.

Bad days happen. Legs unaccountably turn to  jelly overnight. Muscles buckle. Brains turn to mush.

Coffee. That’s what I need.

Not dead;

Still hungover.

I did not want to run this morning. I wanted to stay in bed. I wanted to eat my breakfast. I wanted a cup of tea and the nudge of a passing cat on my shin, the Today programme, an unread section of Saturday’s paper, the view of my garden.

I did not want the struggle into a too tight sports bra, the forcing of contact lenses into half-closed eyes, the gulp of stale water from the bedside table. I did not want the shiver of morning air on my bare arms, the arthritic drag of stiff knees up Crouch End Hill. I did not want the thunder of passing buses or the attention of curious dogs on their morning walks. I did not want to run this morning.

I did run this morning. I ran 5.5 miles and 4 of them were not awful.

When I had woken up I remembered something a wedding guest said to me on Saturday, that you never regret going for a run. I suppose this is a cliche, but I had never thought of it before. It is entirely true, and knowing that is probably the difference between a beginner and someone like me. I run because I know I will be glad to have done it, no matter how badly it went.

No change with the cold.
Ran 3 miles from work, slowly.
Used many tissues.

Two and a half days to go to the race and I need to face facts: I am not going to be able to run a best time if I still feel like this, and I am probably still going to feel like this.

I will finish the race, however, and if I can do it in less than 1 hour 40 minutes that’ll be just about acceptable. Anything over 1.40 and I’ll definitely be questioning the wisdom of Mr Hall and his training plan, phlegm or no phlegm.

It is at about this point before a race that I start to wish I weren’t so competitive. It’s a very handy thing in training, pushing myself to work harder, but more likely to result in self-flagellation than congratulation on the big day. Previously, when a race has gone to plan, rather than being delighted with my new time I just feel relieved I didn’t mess it up.

So, maybe it’s a good thing I’m not on top form. I might actually give myself a break and enjoy the run. A tour of leafy London suburbs with a few hundred sweaty loons on a Sunday morning, what’s not to like?

Before leaving the flat this morning I planned the route of my 6 mile tempo run (moderate), with half a mile warm up and cool down. I committed the start and finish of the tempo section to memory and set off. 

All was going well until I found myself on the Seven Sisters Road and realised I was running a completely different route. I’m not sure what’s to blame- maybe the stupor brought on by a massive meal last night, but more likely the EXCELLENT playlist the genius delivered to my iPod. Starting with Weezer’s Sweater Song, the Indie disco in my head was bip bopping away and, like Thom Yorke, “for a minute there, I lost myself”. 

I’m quite glad it happened – it was a dreadful run but I can’t tell how dreadful owing to not knowing how far I actually ran. suffice it to say the first two tempo miles were great and the remaining four were laughable. I walked twice and slowed to a bona fide jog for the last mile. Ho. Riffic.