Good Days – Page 5 – Not a Jogger

The Time I Thought I Had Run a Six Minute Mile

I had not.

I am not a scientific person. When I run intervals I think, “ok, how fast do i think a mile at 10k pace should be?”, pick a number of minutes and run for that long.

I have no idea how fit or fast I am. Which is not a problem, as I’m going away for a weekend in the middle of the Olympics so someone else can have my place in the team. I am training for a marathon however, so it might make sense to have some kind of idea of how well this is going. I measured out a route containing 4 x 1 mile sections on mapmyrun, with rest sections, before I left the house. As it was a 7 mile run, I had to try to remember where each mile section started and finished.

Wouldn’t it have been easier to just find a mile section and repeat it? Yes. Yes it would have.

The first interval was tough – lots of pedestrian dodging, uneven pavements, hay fever eyes, slight uphill. I finished it in 6 minutes 40. Hey! I thought, that’s not bad. I spent the next 4 minutes of jogging trying to work out what that would make my 10k time (as) if I could maintain that pace for 6.2 miles.

The second interval was kinder – a long empty downhill followed by a brief uphill and a flat bit. I approached the endpoint with my watch still in the 5 minute somethings. Oh my god! I thought, I’m going to run a six minute mile! I am so fit!

I was rapidly reassessing my next 5k time- sub-20 minutes, faster? Maybe I had been too hasty in giving up that Olympic place? Then came the next interval. It was mostly uphill but I still busted a gut. 6:30. Hmm.

The last interval. I’ll just take it easy I thought. I killed myself – 6:30 again.

Doubts were creeping in. Could there be a tiny possibility that I had got the distance wrong on my sub- 6 minute mile?

Back at the flat, I checked the map. Yes, I had missed out a section. Not a big section, but enough. I might have made it in 6 minutes 20. Which, over 10 k, would be a 39 minutes. Of course, I could only run it over 1 mile, maybe two with a fair wind.

The Olympic dream was over.

Weezer and Chips

I don’t drink much coffee. In the mornings at work I sometimes have a cup of milk with a splash of filter coffee in it. A Diet Coke is a risk for me. On Saturday I had a caffeinated gel one hour in to my 18 miler and I was high as a kite for the rest of it. It contained 63mg of caffeine (a can of Coke has 32, Red Bull has 80).

By mile 10, colours seemed sharper and I was struggling to keep my pace down to 8:15, never mind the planned 8:30 a mile. By mile 15, I was bounding up York Way singing out loud to The Sweater Song. I gave up the pacing and ran home as fast as I could manage.

I paid for it afterwards. Caffeine + 4 beers + Doom Metal gig = massive headache. It was good to run long on Saturday, rather than Sunday, though. I went to a party, ate a massive plateful of pie, then went to the gig and ate an 11pm portion of chips.

Those gels are coming with me on marathon day, for sure. I’ll save one for mile 16 in the hope that it’ll carry me through the remaining 10. It and Weezer. And the promise of chips.

Monday: rest
Tuesday: 5.5 miles (short intervals)
Wednesday: 8 miles (at marathon pace)
Thursday: 5.5 miles (don’t remember)
Friday: 5 miles (easy)
Saturday: 18 miles (2:29)

Total: 42 miles

My 6am Moment of Zen

In a perfect world I would never run before breakfast, but this morning I had one of those rare moments worth interrupting dreams for.

Running down a quiet North London street, towards the rising sun, the tall Edwardian villas rose in sepia like friends in an old photograph. The air was chill, but the promise of warmth lingered like a faint memory. Over our heads two aeroplanes trailed bright pink arcs in the ice blue sky, headed towards the sun.

I ran on and the tight trails frayed like unravelling ropes. Neon sharp lines shifted into salmon spray, then faded into the dawn.

I ran on.

Oh Hayfever, How Have I Missed Thee?

The darkness recedes, the days grow less dim. Buds push out from the tips of branches, bulbs split underground. Chandeliers of magnolia candles glow out from the gloom. Blossoms burst forth in a shower of froth against the blue sky.

Spring is here! Vital, glorious, hopeful!

At least it is, for two days, and then the birch pollen wakes up and my hayfever begins. Flowers are glimpsed through tears of irritation, blooms barely sniffed. Last night’s run through Regent’s Park in 20 degree heat (yes, heat, this is England) was fabulous, but for the drifting waves of pollen.

Ah, but the bliss of this morning’s run through the cement garden of Archway – the fake flowers in the hanging baskets of my local pub, the tree-less streets and bricked over gardens, the clouds of fumes from passing cars. A treat for the eyes and nose. A sight, indeed, for sore eyes.

A Confession and a Ray of Hope

First things first, the confession. You know how I said I was going to run for a week without my mp3 player, with just the sounds of my foosteps and the city for company? Well that didn’t happen.

After only two runs without headphones, both of which were grim, I took an executive decision to abandon my promise and go back to audio heaven. It was hard enough to motivate myself to get up at 5:55 am to run without foregoing the dulcet tones of Ira Glass as well.

This spells trouble for the marathon. I’m going to have to go with a TV-presenter style “safety compromise” option of wearing one headphone only, leaving me semi-entertained and only half as likely to meet a traffic-related death. Quite what I’m going to do with the other headphone I haven’t quite worked out. Perhaps I’ll tie a couple of running gels on to it.

Now for the Hope. Yesterday morning I went for a Good Run. Not only that, but one that contained fast intervals (they were only 45 seconds long, but that’s not the point).

Mud, Sweat and Ray Mears

On Sunday I ran 17 miles through mud, rain, barbed wire and private property. Over dams and down hills, through nature reserves, woods and car parks. I was at my parents’ for the weekend and was more than ready to swap the litter of North London for the lambs of rural Rutland.

I got up early and crept downstairs to read the paper and eat breakfast alone in silence. Two hours later I was all dressed up and waiting in the hall for my dad to finish his tea, like a teenager late for a party.

After an initial stretch of road-side running, my route headed towards Rutland Water. Within 15 minutes of being dropped off in Manton I had turned my ankle on a stony track, covered my trainers in mud and tripped over a tree root. The rain got heavier as the route opened out and I rounded the grassy hills into the wind, but I was still smiling.

It was hard to keep my pace down in the first few miles, I was feeling so good. It doesn’t help that the first 5 miles of the route are like a mini-rollercoaster. No massive hills but a lot of sharp rises and falls, which make it difficult to stick to an even pace. As I headed towards the North shore of the reservoir I tried to slow down, to the bemusement of a crowd of woolly spectators.

The next 7 miles were fairly uneventful – I know this route really well and apart from a couple of very sharp uphills it’s mostly smooth cycle tracks. The rain stopped for a while and I tried to concentrate on maintaining a steady pace, keeping my head up and remembering to say hello to passing walkers (not in London now, Gina).

At 12 miles, I took a literal turn for the worse. I headed into Egleton village, assuming I could add on a few miles to the run by retuning through the nature reserve. This turns out not to be the case. After going through two different gates saying “no entry”, and testing my internal compass to breaking point, I eventually decided to climb over two barbed wire fences in the belief that this would lead back to the road. Were 17 miles were about to turn into 22 with only some sport beans for sustenance? Where was Ray Mears when I needed him? I ran up a(nother) dirt track anxiously. A road! Relief.

We’d arranged that Dad would pick me up again at the end, and I’d calculated my timing to the minute. He called me 10 minutes before the agreed meeting time. “What are you calling me for?”, I panted. “We’re here, but you’re not here, where are you?”. “I’m still running, I’ve got 1.5 miles to go yet”. “Oh well, we’re here, shall we wait?”. I did not reply.

The rain started up again in the last couple of miles, which was dispiriting, and then my sister called for a gossip, which was disconcerting, but eventually it was over. I ran the last two miles at faster than marathon pace partly for the hell of it, and partly out of fear that Dad would actually drive away.

I ended the run tired, wet and very very dirty. Also happy.

Running with Salmon

Today I ran a mile carrying a packet of smoked salmon.

This is happening a lot. Last saturday I ran with a loaf of bread, the previous week there was some minced lamb. There just aren’t enough hours in the day to fit in running, shopping, cooking, eating, working and travelling so I’m doing a lot of combining.

This morning I took a half-day off work to prepare for a weekend away. I made a cake for my mum, I packed my bags, I thought about cleaning the bathroom and went for a run so that I could have a hangover tomorrow. While mixing the cake, I was thinking about lunch. I should make a sandwich and take it to work but there was nothing in the fridge. Marks and Spencer was on the way home… hence the smoked salmon.

I did get a few odd looks. There are a lot more people on the street at 9.30am than 6.30am. The salmon was flapping as I ran. I struggled to hold onto the packet with my slippery gloves. Running down Crouch End Hill, it temporarily got away, but I recaptured it and brought it home.

The sandwich was delicious.

Marathon Pace, and other mysteries

The marathon is still eight weeks away, but it’s like a mountain in the distance. You see it every day, it’s part of the landscape, you might even have climbed it before, but one day soon you’re going to wake up at the foot of it staring upwards in panic.

One of the main ways to counter the marathon panic is to plan. I love to plan. Training, logistics, fuelling, outfits. The only important thing to plan though, really, is the hardest of all: how fast to run it.

I decided my marathon pace before I ran a step of my training plan. I wanted to finish in 3 hours 30 minutes, therefore my marathon pace would be 210 minutes divided by 26.2 miles: 8 minutes per mile. Last time I did the same, with 4 hours and 9 minute miles.

They’re not quite the same, though, are they, 8 minute miles and 9 minute miles? There might be a tiny flaw in my logic here.

Recently I listened to a marathon talk podcast “training talk” about marathon pace. It was comprehensive, bordering on confusing: pace of your last marathon is important but you shouldn’t set your sights too low; current training performance is key but you shouldn’t get carried away if it’s going well and set your sights too high, you need a race strategy but you should be flexible on the day. Hmm.

The best piece of advice, and the one I’m taking with me up the mountain on the day, was that your marathon pace should feel too easy at the start, and hard at the end. I think that fits well with my experience of running at 8 minutes a mile so far. I am trying to ignore the fact that 9 minute miles felt very tough at the end of my last marathon, assuming that any miles feel tough at the end of a marathon. Right?

With marathon pace in mind, I set out on Sunday to run a comfortable (but not easy) pace over 13.1 miles. I finished in 1 hour 38 minutes. I have no idea what that means.

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

Early Bird

I seem to have become a morning runner.

I have always been a morning person – when I was a kid I used to get up at 6am on a Sunday to spend two blissful hours scraping through my pile of lego before anyone was up to moan about it. I’ve never been a morning runner, though. When not training for a race I never darken the streets until after breakfast, at least. I run about 30 seconds to a minute slower per mile on any run completed before I’ve had some tea and toast and a bit of a sit down.

Morning runs used to be torture. Even on mornings when I hadn’t drunk any wine the night before, I felt hungover. Attempting any kind of speed session led to nausea and, well, other natural urges.

I started running in the mornings out of necessity. Fitting marathon training into your life is difficult, and getting a run out of the way first thing leaves you free to slot in the little things like meals, a social life, a job. More importantly, it stops your run from being derailed at 6pm by a sudden deadline or urgent visit to the pub.

I realised recently that I now start almost every run, even the weekend ones, before 9.30am. I run most without breakfast and they’re fine. They aren’t amazing sessions – those still only tend to happen once I’ve eaten – but they’re nothing to throw up about.

In an ideal world I wouldn’t have to go to work and I could run at 10:00am every day, after breakfast and while still feeling positive about the day. That’s what it must be like to be a full-time athlete, I sometimes think mid-run, I could do that no problem. Then I have to stop and walk up a hill.