Training Day – Page 5

Small Mercies

Another day, another 5:55 alarm call.

If I get up at 5:55, by 6:10 I can be running, dressed, teeth brushed, cats fed. It is such a pain to have to feed them before being able to get outside – the stinky food, the loud miaowing, the time spent making sure Ted doesn’t steal Bill’s food.

Today, on my way back home after a terrible hill session in the rain, I was struggling up Crouch Hill feeling sorry for myself when I passed a dead cat on the pavement. He was beautiful. A tabby, quite small, laid out as if sleeping by the fire on a particularly cold day. There was a smudge of blood on his nose and his eyes were closed to the rain. A lump rose in my throat.

I fought back the tears for the remainder of my run. How pathetic, I thought, whilst unable to stop. A 36-year old woman blubbering over a cat she never knew. I couldn’t stop thinking about the poor driver who had hit the cat, the person who had moved it to the pavement, the owner missing him at breakfast time…

I was all set to write about the joy of returning to hill “sprints” after a couple of weeks’ absence, but it now seems unimportant. Back at the flat, both cats ignored my return. They had been fed, what did they care for this sweaty human invading their personal space? I choked back a feeble sob of gratitude.

Do Recovery Runs Really Work?

Monday’s plan was uncharacteristically democratic, and offered me a choice: “Rest, or 4 miles easy, off road”. I had the day off work, mostly to catch up on sleep after Sunday’s 18 miles, and pondered the decision. I wanted to rest, obviously, but would it be better for my legs to get in a ‘recovery run’? Might this help me avoid muscle fever?

I was dubious. How would exercising my tired legs ‘bring out’ the soreness early, or in some way appease my poor broken down tissue? After a marathon, the advice is to do nothing for a week, so if you wouldn’t attempt a recovery run then, why would you do it at any other time? Doesn’t that suggest that it won’t actually help you recover?

Some brief google-age found me this great article, which puts my half-baked thoughts into scientific and properly researched terms. A ‘recovery run’ is actually nothing of the sort, it won’t help you recover, which is why most marathon runners don’t do them after a marathon. Ultra-marathoners might though, because what they really are is ‘pre-fatigued running practice runs’, helping increase your endurance when you are tired and re-programming your brain to be more efficient in using your muscles.

As I didn’t do this google-age until today, you may surmise (correctly) that I did not run yesterday, but took the rest option instead. It was great. Happily, I also avoided muscle fever last night, though I did have some very strange dreams involving running gels. Make of that what you will.

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.

The Unfortunate Brevity of the Running High

I went for a beautiful run this morning. Dawn broke as I sallied forth along the more charming roads of Crouch End, turning the sky pink behind the terraces and trees, lending a rosy glow to the faces of passing commuters.

Two runners smiled as they passed; two cars waved me across at traffic lights. I took it easy, running smoothly up and down the hills and enjoying the growing feeling of comfort and happiness as it became clear that this was going to be a Good Day.

Back at the flat, I held on to that happiness throughout breakfast, ironing, and five minutes playing with the cats. On the 91 bus crawling along the Caledonian Road, it reduced by about half, but was still keeping me afloat. Opening the office door, I walked in and my happiness stayed outside in the hallway.

I made myself a coffee and ate a biscuit. Perhaps that would bring it back? No. By 9:30am, it had gone. I found myself contemplating an extra run tonight.

This is how it starts. One minute you’re a woman who likes a jog, the next you’re putting your name down for Badwater.

24 Hour Marathon Training

Last night I slept like a woman unable to stop running, even while unconscious. I went to bed at my customary hour (9:30pm) and dropped off in seconds. Sadly from 1:00am things were less successful. My legs were uncomfortable. I moved them. They were fine for five minutes. Then they weren’t. I moved them again. And again. At first I blamed the cats, who had arranged themselves around my feet. The fifth time I woke up, I realised that the cats were in the same position, but I was not. This continued until 4:30am, when the cats woke up and started requesting breakfast.

I am now propping my eyelids open with caffeine and drinking matchsticks to survive. I didn’t run yesterday, so I’m not sure why my leg muscles were giving me such grief. Is this DOMS or, as wikipedia more delightfully calls it, muscle fever?

MUSCLE FEVER! Out now starring Jean Claude van Damme!

Oh god I think I am delirious. I can’t quite believe I managed to run 6 miles this morning, with 10 minute intervals of “half-marathon pace or faster”, but I did.

I can’t stop!

On Reaching 40

Week Six of my marathon training programme is over and that’s the best thing I can say about it. It was not a vintage week, with one horrific run and no really good sessions to make me feel I’m working hard. I am working hard though. To prove it, here are the numbers:

Tuesday: 7 miles
Wednesday: 6 hellish miles
Thursday: 7 miles (intervals)
Friday: 3 miles
Saturday: 4.5 miles
Sunday: 13.1 miles

Total: 40.5 miles

It’s all about the 0.5. Actually, I jogged about a mile home after my long run on Sunday, so it’s probably all about the extra 1.5. I had planned out a perfect 13.1 mile route, ending at the corner shop near my flat so that I could buy a lucozade sport and limp the few yards home. Of course I then forgot all about the plan and just ran my regular 10 mile route on autopilot, only waking up to my mistake an hour later. I added on an extra loop of Regent’s Park, but got carried away.

The extra Park loop was lovely. The sun was out, the crocus were croaking (thanks, Dad), and I saw my first blossom. I also got shat on by a bird, but them’s the breaks.

All Your Bad Days Will End

One bad run does not make you a bad runner.

It had all been going so well. I had kept up with my training plan with borderline obsessive-compulsive accuracy. I was feeling stronger, fitter and more confident. Yes, I was tired. Yes, I had a fleeting and mysterious pain in my left foot, but nothing to stop me training.

I was late leaving work on Thursday, but headed out to run at around 7pm. 7pm is not a good time to run around my neighbourhood unless you love terrifying dogs. I passed four bull terriers, without leads, out on their evening lurch. I’m sure they’re lovely dogs with the right owner, but I did a lot of crossing the road.

The dogs were the least of my worries. This run was one of the worst of my life. It was 5.8 miles of hell and it took every ounce of will power in my body not to stop, walk, or cut the run short. I slowed to a plod, I tried to think positively, I told myself it would get better in the next ten minutes. It did not. From start to finish, this was painful and unenjoyable. It was the kind of run that makes you question not just your training plan, but why you are even running in the first place.

On Thursday morning everything hurt, from my finger joints to my chest muscles. Holding on to the rail on the tube train on the way to work, I could barely stay upright. Even my eyelids were tired. Was I overtraining? Should I have a rest week? I felt really low.

At lunchtime the sun came out over London. Temperatures pushed the high teens. I went out for lunch and bought brownies on the way back to the office. As 5pm approached the sky faded from blue to orange on the horizon. A perfect evening. I had my kit in the office. Dare I use it?

Thursday’s run was everything Wednesday’s was not. I ran intervals and enjoyed them. I felt fresh and strong. I ran an extra mile without meaning to.

My Left Foot

A week ago I went for a reflexology foot massage in a room down a backstreet in Chinatown, where they wash your feet in blue detergent and make you drink water as warm as blood. I was initiated into this experience by a very good friend, who promptly fell asleep as soon as fingers hit foot. My eyes were wide open throughout. No amount of Heart FM, soft cantonese chat or cracked leather seating was going to distract me from the matter in hand. My feet were being attacked.

I am not a fan of physical contact from strangers. My parents are from Yorkshire, where a nod is an intimate indication of love. Over the years, however, running has necessitated several back massages and some painful physiotherapy, during which I have been known to yelp like a frightened puppy.

The foot massage was better. I didn’t scream and managed to stay seated for the whole 45 minutes. My feet felt pleasant afterwards. During, however, my primary concern was that the masseuse’s fingers would snap something important. I suspect that this probably can’t actually happen, but I don’t know that it can’t. It must be at least a possibility. It certainly felt like one, particularly when the tendons on my left foot were being plucked like strings on a double bass.

Yesterday night I ran 7 miles home from work and afterwards, lying on the sofa stuffing my face with pancakes, I realised that the outside sole of my left foot was hurting. Was it stiff? Was it pulled? Was something about to snap? It was painful when I walked, but also when I didn’t.

It hurts less this morning, but I can still feel it. I have put off this morning’s run until the evening. I will wear my old trainers in case new ones are the issue. I will take care. I will not panic.

I might have to go back to Chinatown.

Hills, Half Marathon and a Recovery Run

There’s a lot of catching up to do, so I’ll start with my weekly summary:

Tuesday: 6 miles (intervals)
Wednesday: 6.5 miles (start slow, finish faster)
Thursday: 6 miles (hills)
Friday: WIMP OUT
Saturday: 13.1 mile “race”
Sunday: 5.5 miles (plod)

Total: 37 miles

I had intended for last week to be the first 40 mile week of my training. A piffling 3 mile jog on Friday morning was all that was needed to achieve this, but I just couldn’t manage it. Thursday night’s hill session was a killer – only one more rep than last week, but my thighs were suffering from the third rep onwards.

Saturday’s plan dictated a half-marathon race. I interpreted this not as 13.1 miles “run as fast as you can” (i.e. a race), but “run at marathon pace” which, for me, is 8 minutes a mile. The good news is that the pace felt fine. The bad news is that I cannot imagine running it again today, never mind immediately afterwards.

However, I’ve been here before. Running this very training programme in 2010, I remember feeling exactly like this after the first half-marathon in the plan. By week 14 of the training, 13.1 miles will seem like a short run. Gulp.

Sunday’s run should have been the easiest of these three. It was the shortest, the sun was out and it was a beautiful day. Not so. A run around Archway, Holloway and Highbury on a Sunday morn’ is rarely a thing of beauty. Blue skies may loom overhead, but pavements are littered with Saturday night’s hangover. Broken bottles glitter from gutters, polystyrene burger cases bloom in hedges, and benches and bus stops have yet to lift their skirts of vomit.

This week the mileage should hit 40. Life begins there, I hear.