Evil stuff – Not a Jogger

Is it a cross-country race, or is it a near-death experience?

I’m not just here for the good days, the training revelations and pictures of dreamy footpaths. I’m here for the worst days too. The races that are so bad you don’t want to run another step, and even though you don’t give up, you can’t feel good about it afterwards because you hated it so much you wish you had given up.

I had one of those days at the last race of our local cross-country season on Sunday 12th March. Nearly two weeks have passed, but the pain is still fresh enough to write about it. I never enjoy this race. The final in our “frostbite” season, it’s always unseasonably warm, and lo, the sun was shining. It’s also famously windy, and lo, the wind was blowing.

Beginning in Huntingdon’s Jubilee Park, the five mile race starts with a long lap of a boggy playing field, where everyone goes pounding off too fast around the sides of a football pitch, blocking your view of the ankle-breaking divots in the grass. Once your heartrate is good and high, the field squeezes through a gap in a spiky hedge out onto the course proper: long miles of rough grassy paths on the fringes of exposed open farmland, somehow both flat and uphill, and buffeted by a constant howling gale.

The worst thing about this terrible race is how far ahead you can see. If you manage to lift your eyes up from the ground for a second, there will be a long string of faster runners in the distance, reminding you how much further you have to go. And the absolute very worst thing is the section in mile four where the sketchy path turns into a lumpy bank for half a mile. I won’t even call this part a “path” because literally no-one has set foot on it for a year since the last race. It is lumpy, tussocky, long grass, with huge holes and nowhere safe to put your feet. As soon as it began, I remembered it from the last time, and the urge to walk, stop, or lie down and wait for death, was overwhelming.

Luckily, most other runners were also hating it. Despite slowing down to what felt like a crawl, I didn’t get passed by many people. And several were walking – not something I usually see in a frostbite race. Looking at strava afterwards, I took a tiny shred of comfort from the misery of others.

I am ashamed of how sorry I felt for myself at the end of the race. It’s a team event, and our team did well. But instead of congratulating others on their runs, I went off in a huff and jogged around the field until I felt less angry. Yaxley Runners finished second on the day, and third in the league, but I only found this out on Monday, when I’d calmed down enough to check the website.

We all have bad days, and the important thing is to learn from them, right? Okay. The lesson I’m taking from this one is: never run this race again*

*Only joking, Team Captain, I’ll be there.

Whisper it… I might be getting my fitness back

After three months of covid and a post-covid cold from hell, I’m finally getting back to my pre-covid fitness. It makes me nervous to write this, in case I chase it away, but I also want to record it. If I say it out loud, I can start to believe it.

Three months sounds like nothing, but feels like forever. At first I was just happy to be able to get outside. But when my garmin beeped a “your stress levels are unusually high” warning at the start of a run, and then repeatedly told me my easy jogs were done at a “threshold” level heart rate, I was worried. How could I listen to my body, when I felt fine but so obviously wasn’t?

Mine was a mild Covid case, with most of the OG symptoms but no cough. I only took one day off work and, after two weeks of no running, I was keen to start again. People who’d had covid (which at this point was pretty much everyone) kept warning me to “take it easy”, and “don’t rush back to exercise”. It sounded like they wanted to add “… or you’ll get long covid”. I tried to find some proper medical advice for post-covid running, but failed. Is there any?

This Runner’s World article is the best summary I could find of what information there is for us to go on. It shares data on elite athletes, which I did not find helpful, but also looks at a big study of fitbit data which finds that the average covid sufferer doesn’t return to regular resting heartrate for 79 days following infection. 79 days is… three months.

Three months after Covid infection, my heart rate is now connected to the effort I’m putting in. I can stay in the “easy” heart rate zone without stopping to walk, and in the past two weeks I’ve run:

my first interval session since October 2022;
a 5 mile cross-country race, within 15 seconds a mile of my old pace; and
an 18 mile long run.

My heartrate looked normal during each of these, and they were all a massive effort and a hideous struggle. I loved them!

It’ s official. I’m back. (fingers crossed)

Boston, baby!

I ran the 2019 Boston marathon! I haven’t written a race report in a while, but I’m making an exception for this one.

Why is Boston so special? Because you have to work hard to make it to the start, work harder to make it to the finish, and when those Bostonians say “Good Job!” as they hang the unicorn medal around your neck, they really make you believe it.

If you don’t believe me, watch this excellent film. Be careful though, it might make you want to sign up.

Getting to the start

As a Brit, Boston was a race I was aware of, but not one I thought I’d ever run. I’m not a huge fan of aeroplanes or big city marathons, so the thought that I would fly somewhere ‘just’ to run a marathon was nuts. But then, in 2017, a couple of my running clubmates ran Boston, and I realised what a big deal it was. Given that most people struggle to run fast enough to qualify, and I could, why wouldn’t I?

After many years of not caring about this race, I suddenly cared a lot. We planned a big trip around it, seeing friends in Connecticut and in New York. We saved for 18 months – booking the hotel room as soon as I nailed my qualifying time at Edinburgh (after a failed attempt in London) in 2018.

No pressure, then

Boston

With all the expectations I had of the race, the holiday and the $$$$$$$ we were spending on hotel rooms, I had one job: get to the start line uninjured. I abandoned the high mileage Hansons plan which did so well for me in 2016 but resulted in injury in 2018. I used one of the free Boston plans (level 3) and something crazy happened – I actually enjoyed the training! It was varied, interesting, and most of the interval training was 10k or half marathon pace, not 5k. Win win win.

I arrived in the US ready for the taper, and… well… let’s just say I enjoyed it.

The most well-organised race I’ve ever run

So, my holiday was great! But what about the race? I trained for a 3:25, and ran a 3:32. It was amazing and awful – sometimes at the same time. But definitely mostly amazing.

Things I loved:

So many fast women! I started in the blue wave, with a qualifying time of 3:32, and I was mostly surrounded by female runners for the whole race. This was brilliant and in my experience very unusual! There was not a whole lot of chatting going on (we were working too hard for that), but it was truly awesome and inspiring to run alongside so many speedy women.

A race run by runners, for runners. It felt like a local race, scaled up, but not commercialised. Everything you wanted was where you needed it when you needed it. Coffee? Bagel? Toilet? Toilet again just before the start? They even gave you a bottle of water BEFORE your medal at the end. Extra points for this.

The volunteers – there were almost half as many volunteers as runners and it showed. They were SO GREAT at every water station and at the finish they made me feel like a rockstar.
The City – this is a big deal for Boston. There were signs everywhere from the minute you arrive. The crowds during the race were smaller than London, but three times as enthusiastic. One guy locked eyes with me and shouted ” I BELIEVE IN YOU”. I believed in him.

Things I didn’t:

The weather. It is so changeable there you could get anything, and we did. Torrential rain stopped before I started, but the humidity stayed. It was already warm and once the sun came out at 10 miles I knew my pace was toast.
My bloody shorts. It was the third day of my period, and I should have known better than to wear blue shorts. My biggest worry was that spectators would think that I’d shat myself. “It’s blood!” I considered shouting, “I just have my period!” Seriously, I am ashamed to say it did knock my confidence and I was really self conscious for most of the race. Plus towards the end the dried blood made for some pretty bad chafing. Sorry if this grosses you out (actually, no I’m not), but for all you bleeders, know that it happened and I got through it. No-one died of shock or made a rude comment and I am a WARRIOR.

The things I will remember

The rolling ribbon of runners stretching out in front of me as far as I could see, seemingly stationary in the far distance.
The smell of weed as we passed the groups of college kids.
The fight not to pass out running up (and down) the Newton Hills.
The taste of Gatorade. So much Gatorade.
That I did not walk.
That the sun went in as soon as I finished.
The feeling of joy when Dan and Martha met me afterwards.
The taste of the Harpoon IPA afterwards.

“Welcome to Boston!”

Underpass, Overpass: Milton Keynes Marathon 2014 Race Report

Behold! Warrior woman, striding it home in 3hours 41 minutes at yesterday’s Milton Keynes Marathon, with a grazed knee but a big smile. How strong I look! How fresh!

I love this picture, taken by my sister who so brilliantly came to see me at the end of the race. I love it even though it is a massive lie.

The thing about a stadium finish, I discovered, is that it forces you to (MK) don your gameface and power home like Paula. This is a good thing, but the scene in the Arena, behind the stadium, was the true face of marathon running. Everywhere runners were prostrate in exhaustion and pain. The St John’s Ambulance medics were running out of chairs. There was a distinct whiff of vomit.

My sister and her boyfriend found me on one of the chairs having a piece of metal prised out of my knee. The St John’s medic was keen to know if it hurt. “Hurt?” I said, “compared to the race, no, it does not hurt. At all.”

I fell over at some point in the last six miles of the race. Where, I could not say. It was a bit embarrassing, spinning onto my back whilst cornering one of Milton Keynes’ 96,000 roundabouts, but my main feeling was one of relief not to be running for 10 seconds. That and appreciation for the blood now dripping down my leg. A war wound!

This race is an odd one. A city marathon that starts on empty dual carriageways, as if the zombie apocalypse had left only an army of runners on the streets, it then has a long succession of cycle paths with one child and his gran waving you on, before heading towards IKEA and ending up in a proper stadium. It has many out and backs – oh, so many out and backs – where you are cruelly faced with other runners who look better and faster and, most importantly, nearer the finish than you. In a mean piece of planning, most of the out and back sections are down and up the same hill.

This section destroyed my pacing. I wasn’t wearing headphones, so couldn’t hear the Strava lady giving splits and had to rely on my poor maths to work out mile times. I thought I was doing ok on 3:35 pace (and in fact I was) until I got overtaken by the 3:45 pacer group at 7 miles. This really threw me. I put in a couple of sub-8 minute miles over an uphill section. I shook off the 3:45 pacer but sweat was now stinging my eyes – it was too warm for heroics, and I would pay for them.

I enjoyed the race after the half-marathoners disappeared at 11 miles, but I knew pain was on the way. At 19 miles everything started to hurt: stomach, knees, quads, neck (neck?!). I promised myself to slow down but never never walk. Even on sharp underpass inclines (of which there were about 937) I ran the slowest I possibly could without walking. At one point I felt like the only person who wasn’t, it was really surprising, and I think the weather and course must have been to blame. I didn’t do it to prove anything to anyone, but because once I started walking I wouldn’t be able to start running again.

So, I went from 8:15 miles to 9:30 miles, but I made it home before that bloody 3:45 pacer.

6 x 800 Metres = Ow

Got to love those intervals.

I left work at 5.30pm in the rain, got home in the rain, got changed (not in the rain) and headed back out for a run. In the rain.

I ran slowly over to Tufnell Park Road, which is straight and about a kilometre long. In an uncharacteristic fit of organisation, I had measured out an 800m section in advance. Of course on one of the intervals I stopped at the wrong cross-street and wondered why that interval was 30 seconds faster than the others, but you can’t expect miracles.

For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to wear my cold weather fleece to run these intervals. I ripped it off after the first one and decided to get soaked instead. 800m intervals are quick. In my case, between 3 minutes and 5 seconds and 3 minutes and 19 seconds (for the last one). If I had done all 10 Yasso 800s, I reckon I would have averaged 3 minutes 20 seconds, so I now have absolute cast iron scientific proof that a 3:30 marathon is possible. Maybe.

In hamstring news, I tried the tennis ball (thanks Holly) in the absence of The Stick (thanks Robinson), but I’m sure I noticed any improvement. My contortions did keep the cats amused, however.

TWENTY MILES

Last week I was assailed by a massive wave of tiredness. It had been building for a while, but running 8 miles before breakfast on Thursday was the final push the wave needed to knock me out of my boat and leave me beached on the shores of exhaustion.

I had to take a day off on Friday. I also had to get a massage. My hamstrings have been getting gradually tighter over the last couple of weeks, to the point where I now can’t do my glute exercises (which are supposed to take pressure off my lower back) because the hamstrings won’t let me isolate any other muscles. 13 weeks of training are now setting off a muscular domino effect. Everything is over-compensating for everything else- it’s like a midlife crisis of the legs.

The massage was great, by which I mean horrifically painful. On Saturday morning I was ready for my last long run before the big day- 20 miles. I made it round in 2 hours and 47 minutes and it was fine, even brilliant, until the last 2 miles. Even the massive hill (see below) which took up 3 miles in the middle was fine. Fine, fine, fine, until 18 miles when it felt like my pelvis had caught fire, and not in good way.

On Sunday I had another rest day, so I suppose the taper has begun. No more “long” runs, but I did run 8 miles this morning, so I suppose long is a relative concept.

Weekly summary:

Monday: rest
Tuesday: 6 miles
Wednesday: 6 miles
Thursday: 8 miles
Friday: rest
Saturday: 20 MILES
Sunday: rest

Total: 40 miles

Anticipation, Procrastination and Dread

I ran 18 miles yesterday. It was the first ‘proper’ long run of this marathon training schedule, meaning longer than 13 miles. A mere half-marathon? Pah! I laugh in your face. I could take you on any day. An 18-miler, however, means preparation.

I had planned to run mine on Sunday. Actually, I didn’t plan it, the plan dictated it and I didn’t question it. On Friday night, however, I checked the weather forecast: sun and mild on Saturday, rain, wind and cold on Sunday. At this point I had already drank two beers. I had to stick to the plan. On Saturday morning I went for a miserably lovely 5 mile run in the sun. I ate toast and bread and pasta and cake. I drank litres of water. I spent all day in a bad mood.

On Sunday morning I woke to the sound of rain. I cheered myself with the thought that every minute that went by was a minute closer to it being over. I got out the vastly expensive pink rain jacket I never wear and my camelpak water bottle holder and put them on the bed. While I brushed my teeth, Bill S Preston Esq sat himself on them and looked up at me. ‘Who goes out in this?’, he seemed to be saying.

It wasn’t a bad run. It was wet, my running gels were disgusting, but I stuck to my pace of 8 minutes 30 seconds a mile and it felt ok. It was a lot better than the same run when I trained for a marathon in 2010, when I can remember thinking my legs were going to snap off my hips like a broken barbie. Having already run 26.2 miles, you know that in a long run things will hurt, you will panic about being injured, then mysteriously they will stop hurting. Then something else will hurt. It really is just pain, and it really will go away.

Getting back home, filthy, soaking and stiff, I was elated. It was over! I could actually start to enjoy my weekend; the relief was instant. I have now learned my lesson. Sunday long runs are out, Saturday long runs are in. Subject to weather forecasts.

This week’s numbers:

Tuesday: 6 miles (intervals)
Wednesday: 4 miles (easy)
Thursday: 6 miles (steady)
Saturday: 5 miles (with 3 mile tempo)
Sunday: 18 miles (2 hours 32 minutes)

Total: 39 miles

On Not Flaking Out

I am tired. Have I mentioned that recently? I think I might have, but I can’t remember because I’m so flippin’ tired.

I may be tired, but I am still doing this thing. This marathon thing. Training. I went out last night with my shorts over my tights for a hill session, just before it started to snow. Usually I run about a mile to a hill, do the session and then run a couple of miles afterwards to make up the distance. This time I decided, on a whim, to run 4 miles first, then do the session. I think it was a good idea. I was quite tired (yes) when I got to the base of the hill, but I gave it everything I had, as there was no reason to hold back. The end of the session was the end of the run, bar a jog back to the flat.

I did 9 x 40 seconds uphill, as fast as I could. These are very short reps, so I might extend them in future weeks, but for now they were fine. As usual I felt at my worst on the 7th rep, then the last two were better.

This morning I was tired (again) but a short easy run would get my mileage above 35 this week, so I went out in the snow. I ran mostly on the roads as the paths were icy, though the short pieces of untrodden snow I found were rather lovely to run on. Almost crunchy. I still hope it’s gone by tomorrow though.

50 Words For Snow: None Of Them Printable

Reading other blogs written by runners in colder climes, I feel like a wimp for complaining about the cold. It is almost as common and dull as moaning about having a cold, but I must get it off my chest.

Thursday’s and Friday’s runs were done at -2 degrees C and -4 degrees C respectively, and Sunday’s 12 miles were slugged out through 4 inches of wet snow. I thought I had something to complain about after Friday morning’s run – in Alexandra Palace Park the freezing fog was like having a bulldog clip clamped to each ear – but after Sunday’s nightmare all is forgiven.

It was, quite simply, the hardest run I’ve ever done. I cried for the whole last mile. I screamed with frustration as I plunged ankle-deep into my 15th icy puddle of meltwater. I was still cross about it when I went to bed last night. It was 1 hour and 55 minutes of hell, if hell is London streets covered in a sloppy swamp of slush. And it is.

You may be wondering why on earth I ran at all. I had three reasons:

I love snow. It’s so pretty. I went for a few snowy runs last winter and the winter before and they were gorgeous.
We left the house early thinking we would avoid any slush, as it was snowing all night.
I couldn’t run on Saturday so I really had to get the miles in.

Unfortunately, it did snow all night but the temperature rose, meaning that new snow was already soft and wet. Even areas untouched by the late night clubbers, kebab eaters and random salt-scatterers of North London proved tough-going. There was none of the lovely crunch and scrunch you get when it’s cold; my feet went straight through the white stuff to the squelchy slime beneath.

In summary, it was like running in mud for two hours. Not as dangerous, perhaps – I didn’t fall over – but, because it took as much energy to pull my legs forward as is it did to push them back, just as exhausting.

My rage knew no bounds. Poor Mr Notajogger got the worst of it. He runs in a very upright way, with a short gait and straight stride. I do not. At the end of every step on the slushy bits (ie half the run), my right foot slipped off behind me and had to be reigned in before the next step, making me very slow. Mr N trotted away, unperturbed by the shifting ground. This made me cross. All the other runners (there were surprisingly many of them) looked jolly and rosy cheeked and bouncy. I felt like I was running at half-speed, stuck in a slow-motion crime scene reconstruction. I was certainly feeling murderous.

Totals for the week:

Monday: 7 miles (un-steady)
Tuesday: 6.5 miles (hills)
Wednesday: (5 miles easy)
Thursday: 7 miles (steady-ish)
Sunday: 12 miles (very very slow indeed)

Total: 37.5 miles

No Guts, no Glory. Or something.

At the weekend Mr Notajogger and I bought a Christmas tree at a garden centre in Highgate and decided (ok, I decided) to carry it home rather than try to get it on a bus. Mr N sighed, slung the tree over one shoulder and headed up the path. “I guess carrying a whole tree makes you a real man or something?”, I asked in mock awe. A well-dressed lady passing by turned and said, “I like ‘or something’ “.

I helped carry the tree for about 100 yards of the two mile journey home. My hand hurt. Mr N shouldered the tree the rest of the way. This is roughly equivalent to our running skills at the moment. However, I will not wimp out. I will shoulder the tree and get it home eventually, no matter how long it takes.

This morning I braved the dark, the wind, and my sore lungs for another run. I tried not to walk, but gave in when I got to the Arsenal stadium steps. Today was not the day for Rocky heroics. I used the opportunity to check out the new statue of Thierry Henry as an excuse to keep walking around the concourse for a bit, then reluctantly picked up the pace.

As I headed down the final two streets I was fighting the need to stop with every step. I panted, grunted, and finally shouted “come on!” to myself out loud. I made it home, insanity intact.