Worst Run Ever – 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.

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.

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

Pride comes before the Wall

I love these light, bright evenings. Instead of getting home and having to force myself into running kit and out of the door, I walk in and can’t wait to get out back out again, trainers on.

At least, this is how I felt last night. I went for a 5 mile “easy run” around Crouch End and Muswell Hill and it really was easy. Wow, I thought, I’ve reached the point in my training where even when I’m tired my legs can carry me along without too much effort. Running up Mount Doom at the end, I felt like I was being pulled up the hill by an invisible ski lift.

This evening, however, the ski lift was nowhere to be found and I was flailing in the gutter. It was the dreaded tempo session (hard): 35 minutes (5 miles) with 1 mile either side. It was hot. It was hell. I managed a pathetic 10 minutes of the tempo section before realising that if I carried on I might actually die of exhaustion. I can’t work out what went wrong, everything hurt at once. I managed to keep running for the whole distance, but could only manage two short bursts of speed and ran the rest at a snail’s pace.

Apparently Kenyan runners are famous for their tempo runs. They run them for 10-20 miles. I don’t think I am a Kenyan.

A Bum Start

I switched off the alarm at 6.10am this morning and immediately got out of bed. Congratulations were due – I had succeeded in carrying out last night’s plan. I wouldn’t be leaving my running gear in an accusatory pile on my bedside chair today, no way.

Feeling smug, I fed the cats, brushed my teeth, drank half a glass of water and got dressed. I headed out into the dark London morning. I started my stopwatch, pulled on my gloves and grimaced at the drizzling rain. Dodging the piles of dogshit, I headed up the nearest hill and settled into a podcast (a vintage Adam and Joe number). At the top of the hill I head across a zebra crossing and down a poorly lit side street by a wood. It’s always a bit spooky and today was no exception – a man was loitering by the recycling bins – dog walker or a potential rapist? I usually imagine the latter, it helps with motivation. I ran past the dog, who was mid-business, and down the hill past our old flat.

The next bit is fairly flat and dull, but before I had reached the end of the street, a mere 7 minutes into my run, an ominous feeling surfaced. Actually it was less of a feeling and more of a painful and familiar urge, verging on urgency. My thoughts went roughly as follows: I can’t “do a Paula” this is a bus route; I’ll have to walk home and will have got up at 6.10am for nothing; I might not make it home, I might have to go in someone’s garden; what if the security light comes on while I’m mid-squat…; don’t think about squatting. The next five minutes were some of the longest of my life. I fought the urge – the urge did not control me, I could master it. Pain is fear leaving the body. No! Don’t think about anything leaving the body.

Thankfully I made it through to the other side – the urge subsided. After a few minutes I could even attempt some light running and I managed a few laps of the block around my flat, taking today’s mileage to a massive 3! Woop.

Tommorow: strong bowels and a proper run, cross fingers (and legs).