Good Days – Page 4 – Not a Jogger

Small Dogs, Mint Humbugs and Other Running Treats

Another bittersweet run.

Mr N and I pulled each other out of bed at 9 on Saturday morning and pushed ourselves along the 9.5 miles to Regent’s Park and back. We barely spoke a word through general exhaustion, but managed to stop each other from stopping and keep each other keeping on, with only a short break for water and mint humbugs by the water fountain.

I love Regent’s Park. We go in at the north-east end, by the Zoo, to the sound of penguins honking. I always take deep breaths so that I can really appreciate the whiff of feeding time fish and then complain about how disgusting it is. Once, just past the Zoo, I saw a pair of peregrine falcons being mobbed by crows.

We head up the Broad Walk to the obelisk and turn left down a side-path to take the small gate leading over Chester Road to the English Gardens. No dogs are allowed in the English Gardens, so we have to pay particular attention to those on display before and after. My attitude to dogs on my runs is indicative of my general hypocrisy about most things. I used to be, and sometimes still am, terrified of dogs. Now, however, I also love them. Particularly the following: small Jack Russell types; spaniels who are a bit scrappy; medium sized sad-eyed mongrels; anything black and white. I love all dogs in Regent’s Park, because they are very well-behaved and usually on a lead. The terriers grunting around at the back of Elthorne Park at midnight without an owner in sight, not so much.

The English Gardens are lovely, but they’re only my favourite bit of the Park in Spring when the blossom is out. In Summer I prefer the lake with its temporary residents: groups of heron stalking and posing (and occasionally flying) around like fragile feathered dinosaurs; Egyptian geese with their sunglasses on; millions of daisies untroubled by lawnmowers; and runners of all shapes, sizes and speeds.

Back around the lake and up into the main Park again, every weekend brings a new opportunity for anthropological observation. This Saturday, mini-football – hundreds of tiny tots blundering after footballs they could barely hold, adrift amid a sea of cones and flags. On the other side of the path, 10-year olds playing cricket, their legs lost inside enormous pads, tiny hands in giant gloves.

After stopping at the Hub for a drink and a sweetie, we head for home. It’s still a minimum of 3.5 miles away, uphill, but it feels within reach. Leaving the Park for the Camden pavements is never sad. I know it’ll be there the next time.

Junk Miles or Golden Wonders?

I have been running lately, I really have. I just haven’t felt like writing about it. What could I say that I haven’t said before, or that you haven’t thought before? I haven’t done any new training sessions or run any races. I don’t even have any new trainers. Is there anything new to say about running?

Of course there is. It’s tricky though. I know this is a blog but I try not to be too personal on it. I may write about me, myself and I but I don’t think this is the place to discuss my multiple personality disorder.

After my marathon came the inevitable comedown. The stiff hamstrings I picked up during training kept grumbling and, to be honest, I let them. I should have stopped running for a couple of weeks to give them the chance to recover.

I didn’t, though. I didn’t stop running because I have to stop running.

Soon, probably in a couple of weeks’ time and not for long, maybe a couple of months. Not for anything terrible either. I just can’t run during some medical treatment. I’ve done it before and I know it won’t kill me, but it’s become a big mental block, stopping me writing.

I’ve loved so many of the runs I’ve been on lately so much that I don’t want to share them. I haven’t run at faster than marathon pace. I haven’t pushed myself, thought about my performance or planned my sessions. I heard miles like these referred to lately as “junk miles”.

During last week’s junk miles I paused to appreciate wet roses in a morning shower. I watched storm clouds clear to blue sky and back in ten minutes. I ran up Highgate West Hill without stopping.

They’re not junk, any miles you can run without thinking or worry. They’re golden. No rules, no responsibility, no plans, no targets.

I’m going to miss them.

A Wet Weekend

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

I exaggerate. It was the better of times, it was the less good of times. It was the passable of times, it was the sub-standard of times.

What am I talking about? I am talking about my weekend. My lovely four day weekend with four diamond opportunities to run in a sparkling celebratory fashion around the streets of London town. My jubilant, joyful firework display of a weekend which was, in reality, partly a damp squib.

It started well – a 13 mile run with Mr Notajogger on Saturday morning took in Regent’s Park and Highgate, and was planned specifically to pass by the Highgate Pantry in order that we could purchase two ginormous iced doughnuts (with hundreds and thousands on top). It is something of an unreconstructed bakery, favouring artifical colours over artisan cupcakes, and for that reason perhaps the doughnuts are ridiculously good. We feasted on them, full of the self-satisfied glow of those who have run an unnecessarily long way for no reason.

On Sunday it rained. I did not run.

On Monday it did not rain until I started running. I forced myself out onto the streets for a weak, slow and painful 7 miles. It hurt. I ran out of podcasts. My left sock had a hole in it. I had run out of clean sports bras and had to wear a tight white vest which is a size too small and slightly see-through.

On Tuesday I was hungover. Mr N dashed out of the house for a 10 mile run. 2 cups of tea, 2 breakfasts and 2 extra sleeps later I crawled out for a 5.2 mile run. It was supposed to be 5.5 but by 5.2 I was off the main road and no-one could watch me limping sadly home.

It rained.

The Secret World of Runners

There is a world out there that only I know about. While people are sleeping, just after the sun comes up, when the grass is still heavy with dew, there is a land waiting to be discovered.

At 7am on Friday morning I wasn’t switching off my alarm in North London, or heading back from a grey run around the Holloway Road. I was pulling on my trainers 100 miles away, ready to head out through the suburbs into the Georgian streets of a small market town.

Seventies’ semis quickly gave way to cobbled back-streets, then water meadows. A spaniel emerged from the riverbank, shaking sparkling droplets from his coat. Up past the station and my old school walls, out of town and through the lodge gates to the Park.

I stopped to stretch by the cricket pitch and raised my eyes above the path. I took in May blossom, cow parsley, horse chestnuts in flower, pollen floating in the rays of the sun. A flock of sheep, newly shorn, ignored me.

I ran 6 miles before breakfast just to run down this avenue of trees.

I stopped at the top of the avenue, turned and caught my breath. It was a moment of complete happiness.

This is why I run. I remember now. I may not be able to find this world every morning in North London, but I know it’s out there, waiting for me.

Race Report: North Dorset Village Marathon

I ran the North Dorset Village Marathon in 3 hours, 28 minutes and 15 seconds! It was a GOOD DAY. I don’t often write long posts but I can feel one coming on now. If you would like a summary, just read this and look at the pictures: 10 miles of joy, 9 miles of doubt, 4 miles of arrogance, 3 miles of pain, 0.2 miles of relief.

10 Miles of Joy

What a lovely race. 400 people and their friends warming up in a school hall, with bacon butties for the supporters, enough portaloos, and a handbell for a starting gun. No chip timing, no queueing, no crowds.

As soon as we started running the sun peeked out from behind the clouds for the first time in a month. Everyone was smiling. I tried not to worry about sunblock. The next 9 miles were perfect – good pacing (just under 8 minute miles) and good conversation with two people who had just run the London marathon. There was a sharp hill at 8 miles, but it was much shorter than the hills of Crouch End and I conquered it with ease.

At 10 miles some friends were going to be waiting, and I was really looking forward to seeing them. I waved like a mad woman and felt really excited. It was going so well!

9 Miles of Doubt

Running away from my friends, I felt like a switch had been flicked. Not in my body – that felt fine – but in my brain. I didn’t know if I was going to see anyone again until the end, which was still 16 miles away. I had pulled away from the London marathoners and was pretty much on my own now. The lanes were quiet and flat. There were cows, horses, pigs and lambs for company, but they weren’t doing much for my motivation. I spied a buzzard soaring overhead. Maybe I could stop and go for a nice Sunday walk in the sunshine?

I was getting distracted from the matter in hand. My times were creeping up. I went through 13 miles in 1 hour 43 minutes, 2 minutes faster than planned, and I was gaining 15 seconds a mile. I was restless. I needed to take control, so I decided on two things – to start listening to music to calm me down, and to split the race up into sections from here on out.

I decided to run three races; a 5 miler to 18 miles, trying to slow my pace down; a four miler from 18-22, taking it easy over the hills I knew were coming then; and a final four miler from 22- 26, hopefully a bit faster if I was feeling fresh.

4 Miles of Arrogance

It worked. I had got to 18 miles feeling good, better than on my long training runs. There was a lovely flat mile from 18-19 and I was thinking that the penultimate four mile section would be a doddle. Then came the hills. I knew they were coming, they weren’t that high or long, they were just there. I attacked them, probably a bit too hard, but I was feeling so good. It was great to pass people on the way up and I got a bit addicted to doing it.

At this point, someone told me I was “fourth lady”. I ignored the use of the word “lady”, and started dreaming of glory. I could totally catch that third woman! On a rare straight section, I caught sight of her. It was on.

3 Miles of Pain

I had been thinking that the final section would be one of the easiest. It looked flat on the course profile, what could possibly go wrong? I forgot that this was a marathon. Marathons hurt. Bodies are not supposed to run 26.2 miles as if it were a walk in the park. They are hard.

Once I passed the 23 mile marker, another switch was flicked. This time it was in my legs, and I couldn’t do anything to control it. Throughout the race I’d been conscious of my hamstrings and calves. At 23 miles they hurt, but they were a mere twinge compared to the pain party going on in my quads. The lactic acid was squeezing through them like lemons in a juicer.

It wasn’t like any pain I’ve experienced before in running. It made me feel sick, like I might faint. I grimaced. I shouted to myself. I turned up the power ballads really really loud. I kept running. I crept up slowly on the third place woman, and edged past her apologetically. It wasn’t the triumph I had hoped it would be. We were fellow sufferers.

The feeling came and went in waves. I hoped that if I ran through a terrible patch, a good patch would replace it. The last mile was a whole bad patch, however, and I have never been so grateful to see the number “26” in my life.

0.2 Miles of Relief

Supporters lined the track for the last 0.2 miles. I’m really glad they did or I’m not sure I could have kept running. I knew I was going to to make it home in under 3 hours 30 and the temptation to walk was really, really strong.

I didn’t walk. I half ran, half stumbled over the finish line and bumbled incoherently to Mr N about how hard it had been. He was gleeful, and it was infectious. The memory of the last 3 miles was fading. I know that by this time next week I’ll have forgotten about it completely.

This is the joy of marathon running – the pain is part of the joy. What would be the point of running 26.2 miles if it didn’t hurt a bit? Who would be impressed by that, and what would we be proving?

Another joy of marathon running is below. Nothing tastes sweeter than a post-race pint.

CHEERS!

The Benefits of Passive Running

Yesterday morning I ran 0 miles.

I woke up at 7.30am (a lie-in) and had a leisurely breakfast of normal, non-athletic proportions. I ate no carbohydrate-based gels. I drank no sugary sports drinks. An hour later I got out of bed, sauntered into the living room, switched on the TV, and sat on the sofa for three hours.

I love the London Marathon. I look forward to watching it on the BBC so much that I find myself singing the ‘theme tune’ under my breath for days beforehand. If I ever ran the race itself I would be gutted if they weren’t playing it as I ran through the start. In reality they’re probably playing Rihanna or something. This is one of the many reasons why I’ll never run it. There are at least 37,499 others.

I’ve only ever been to watch it in person once, despite living in London. It was an amazing atmosphere, I managed to see my friend and cheer her on, but to say I’m not good in crowds would be something of an understatement. I have a panic-attack in Tesco on a Friday night if the queues are too long.

Watching the elites, and then the real runners, from the comfort of my sofa was perfect. The elite men, particularly, are really creatures from another planet. I can’t make any kind of connection between what they do and what I’m able to do. This is good for my competitiveness, and means I can relax and enjoy the spectacle. The real runners, however, just make me want to get out there.

A good thing, then, that there are only 13 days until I will be – on the mean streets of Dorset, with my 399 fellow-runners.

This week’s running summary:

Monday: 8 miles (steady)
Tuesday: 6 miles (esasy)
Wednesday: 7 miles (800m intervals)
Thursday: rest
Friday: 6 miles (with 5 at marathon pace)
Saturday: 9 miles

Total: 36 miles

Q: When is a Taper not a Taper?

A: When you’re a week into the “taper” and still running the same amount.

A: When your running’s going so well you don’t want to run less.

A: When you tell everyone you’re tapering but really aren’t.

A: When you fear rest and avoid it at all costs.

A: When it’s a tapir.

A: When you really need to get a grip and STOP RUNNING GINA.

I ran 6 miles this morning. In my defense, the plan said 7. In accusation, I could easily have done 4.

My plan seems to have a 2 week taper, rather than a 3 week one. Is this ok? I feel good, but I know I need to slow down. There are 31 miles in the plan for next week, then 10 the final week. Too much? Help!

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

This Week’s Summary is brought to you by Cadbury’s Mini Eggs

I feel nervous about writing this blog today. Superstition is taking over and I’m scared of saying how well things are going for fear that they will immediately go horrendously wrong. I once worked with a woman who used to say “horrendrous” when she meant “horrendous”. She was a real Geordie character. When things were stressful in the shop she used to say “Ooo I could slit me throat”, brandishing a big set of keys on a chain.

Back to running: this week is my last before the three week taper and I hope it will be my highest mileage week yet. I have my last long run – 20 miles – on Saturday. I am so desperate to get it over with that the weekend cannot come fast enough.

I need to stop fixating on the future, there is a lot to be proud of in the week just gone. I managed my second 42 mile week, made a hole in my newish trainers and got on to the fifth and final section of Our Mutual Friend. My feet are as tired as Bradley Headstone’s must be in the pursuit of Mr Eugene Rayburn.

On Sunday the plan said “Half Marathon Race”, so I set out to run a hard but comfortable 13.1 miles. I finished in 1:39, which made me happy. I’m trying to make 8 minute miles feel easy, in the way that 9 minute miles felt easy for my first marathon. They don’t, of course.

Weekly summary:

Monday: 5 miles (easy)
Tuesday: 5 miles (easy)
Wednesday: 7 miles (intervals)
Thursday: rest
Friday: 7 miles (steady)
Saturday: 5 miles (easy)
Sunday: 13.1 miles (1:39)

Total: 42 miles