In contrast to the last marathon at the Cornish where a marshal declared I was looking very serene at mile 23, La Rochelle was the ugliest marathon I have ever run. Purely for all the yelling, swearing, bad temper, grimacing and desperate lunges for each breath, the town itself is a charming old fishing port and the route a standard city one taking in a tour of the suburbs.
I had the mixed blessing of starting in the second pen with only a group of 100 runners ahead of me. Unfortunately La Rochelle has two starts and there were a few thousand runners in the other one who would run faster than my vague hopes of 4 hours. So the inevitably fast start turned into feeling like I was being trampled by a herd of wildebeest that continued for a good 15k. It was both stressful and unpleasant to feel like I was going entirely backwards, even at just over 8 mm, and even more stressful as I wanted to back right off to 9 mm. The pace was too fast, the field refused to calm down and everyone seemed to be racing. I doubt anyone was out for anything other than a good finishing time.
Mark met me at 10k, he needed a long run and the company was most welcome. The pace didn't settle though, and we were still being passed and by the time we got to half way, I'd gone into a bit of a fog. The route is 2 laps and we were back in the town centre where the crowds had built up. Bloody hell, the noise was unbearable. It was horribly stressful as the wheels had already fallen off, I was already breathing really hard and I couldn't see much. As ever, I express feeling like shit as sounding like I want to punch someone. I'm not proud of yelling at the crowds to shut the hell up and threatening to shove the next whistle I heard up its owner's derriere. I was just hurting enormously and it was only half way. In 1'49, way too fast.
Mark was being surprisingly patient with my bad grace that only deteriorated. He was very good at chatting away even though I could barely hear him, let alone respond. The field had stopped going past us by now and there were patches where it got a bit easier so we held the same pace. The bad bits came and went, there would be a few 100 metres where it felt tough but manageable then it all got hellish again and like it was the final kilometre of a 10k.
Although it was getting even more horrible by the metre, by 35k or so we were taking people back and thanks to Mark bouncing along so comfortably, my legs decided to follow him, leaving my head to fight with my lungs. I barely remember anything of the last few miles other than a fight to stay awake, everything was swimming in and out of focus, but luckily my legs were looking after themselves. So the splits were good, only slipped to 8 40 once. The last few hundred metres of La R are on cobbles and the finish tucked around a corner so you're not quite sure how far it is to go but a last push gave me a 3 40 finish with almost even splits of 1 49 and 1 51, god knows how at that effort level.
Afterwards was horrific as I was in bits, very cold and quite wet from several heavy rain showers. You get corralled into a sort of processing tent and funnelled between 6 foot high metal fencing to help yourself to a selection of food and drink, including most welcome coke and hot chocolate. You are also presented with an enormous windcheater, in white with a garish gold La Rochelle image on the reverse (I wore it, who cares), a backpack that I wore for a fraction extra warmth, a rose for the ladies and a box of fine de clair oysters (Mark later gallantly set aside his revulsion to shuck them over the bath with the freebie oyster knife we were given, never got a knife at a race before). Quite a haul. I'm just trying to forget the vile process of getting back to the hotel and defrosting and juggling all the alarm signals - "Warning! You are dangerously cold, alarmingly hungry, your brain is pulling away from the inside of your skull, you need to sleep RIGHT NOW, your fingers are blue and are going to drop off, oh yes, and your legs are a bit sore. You bloody idiot, what the hell have you done to yourself?"
I totally paid the price for racing La R in such cold and wet conditions and came down with a cold almost immediately afterwards. I despise being ill and consider it, entirely irrationally, as a sign of weakness. Therefore, I am reluctant to sit around under a blanket with hot drinks, especially when on holiday and there are icy streets to wander around. So by the time this weekend's Luton marathon was cancelled, I'd decided I was well enough to run a replacement, in spite of an abortive few miles on Saturday where breathing was almost impossible in cold dry air.
10 in 10er David Bayley had come to the rescue by staging the emergency Christmas Enigma to save those of us on marathon streaks, on countdowns to their 100, keen to avoid wasting Luton training or those just plain addicted. Weather conditions were ok if you don't mind the cold and the field full of friendly familiar faces. I started off feeling ok, but after half way was getting very cold and very hungry. It was 7 laps and as soon as I started the 5th I knew I was too cold, plus my legs were tired as a result of racing La R last week. Normally they're fine in a road mara and look after themselves but this time they were buckling by 18 miles. The loss of speed meant less heat generated plus, as I discovered later, I was sweating like a stuck pig and soaked all down my back, leaving a nice frost pattern. Must be illness related, I certainly wasn't running hard enough to sweat. At the end of the 5th lap, I was unbearably freezing and knew that my legs weren't capable of running much more.
DNFing felt as numb as my hands. It's 1 DNF out of 52 marathons I've started this year so not a bad ratio, but it's funny to think you can still lack the resilience to finish it off when you've done 90-odd of the blighters. I have a bit of a conundrum that several third parties think has a very simple answer. If I count the 10 in 10 Club AGM marathon from back in January, then I'm still on track for 52 this year. My 100th at Malta is fine, I could always find another one in Jan / Feb, but this is my only shot at 52 marathons in a single calendar year, I'm never going to put myself through this again. I counted the 10 in 10 AGM for my 50th and 75th and only recently decided not to, on the grounds that it didn't seem to me like a proper marathon. But then I'll ultimately be doing 100 road marathons and not counting my trail events so, if it counts to the 100 club rules, then surely it's no more and no less valid than my other doubtful events, like the LDWA ones. Unless Roger (chairman of the 100 Club) thinks otherwise, I think I'll count the 10 in 10 AGM, stay on track, and stop trying to find dividing lines in a very grey area. Which would mean I'm still on 52 for the year with Calvia this weekend (I *will* be better and I *won't* be racing) and on 95 in total.
Monday 6 December 2010
Monday 15 November 2010
Naomi in 5 mile cross country shocker
A 5 mile cross country race isn't really my bag, however, after 13 marathons in 11 weeks, I needed a break from all the travelling as much as from all the miles. Plus it was Mark's birthday so it seemed a bit rude to wander off to do my own thing, yet again, after he'd given up several of his weekends to keep me company. Plus, the alternatives were the LDWA Steppingley Step (muddy fields, increasingly soggy and disintegrating written instructions on sheets of A4, lots of boredom, lots of stiles, lots of shuffling, negligible running), Gower (the only race I've DNFed purely because it was so blinkin' miserable, hooning down with rain, swamplike underfoot and bound to take over 6 hours), and the triple marathon over the Ridgeway (sleeping on a school floor, cold showers, wet kit, covered in endless mud, most people getting lost and finishing in the dark). I could have gone to France for the Nice-Cannes marathon that looked fabulous but that was a bit much with 2 foreign maras already booked in for November. So it was a marathon free weekend.
Mark had entered his club's Autumn Challenge, saying it was the best race ever for reasons I never quite managed to pin down. Still, I knew that if he went off to run a race on Sunday morning and it was remotely decent weather, I'd feel far too jealous stood on the sidelines cheering him on. So I entered. The Autumn Challenge is 5 miles (too short), off road (too non-tarmac), on grass (too slippy and tussocky), and muddy trails (too muddy and slippy), and hilly (ok, I don't mind this bit). It also suggested the course would "take a short spike". I have never heard this sort of language in any race I have entered before, it was a little intimidating. I wore road shoes and hoped in vain for dry weather in the few days leading up to the race.
It was mild and dry and even sunny on Sunday morning so the back up plan of just ditching it wasn't required. A 20 minute walk to the start plus maybe 5 minutes of trotting about on the grass was a half arsed attempt at loosening up but the autumn challenge for me was concentrating on running hard right from the start rather than ambling off at a very pedestrian pace before taking about 4 miles to realise what I'm doing and to start thinking about running as I usually do in marathons. It passes a bit of time, ok?
The start was up a shallow hill, on grass and quite slippy. Happily, the bulk of it was on varying degrees of muddy trail which was far more tolerable, indeed, I've done plenty of off road marathons on worse terrain, plus none of the hills were very long. Of course, at eyeballs out pace, they're a lot more unpleasant but at least my road maras have taught me that you can run up hills, unlike trail maras and ultras where hills are almost obligatory to walk. I was passed by quite a few people in the first mile as the field shook itself out, by next to noone in the middle 3 miles (where I took a few back) and by only a couple in the last mile. Which suggests that while my top gear is reasonably sustainable, I definitely had no more pace for the finish.
Despite feeling minor dread and perhaps because of such low expectations, I rather enjoyed running to the point where it felt like my lungs were about to explode for 40 minutes. It feels more efficient to know you're covering ground as fast as you can rather than scuffing about and taking forever. I don't like wasting time. It's also quite nice to feel more competitive than usual, it's been all too easy to think "stuff it, I've run 48 marathons this year, I've got nothing to prove" and ease off (see drifting times and abominable training passim) so this was rather refreshing. I had no expectation of time so with the terrain and hills was quite satisfied with 40'59 for 5.12 miles, bang on 8'00 minute miling. Same as my 1/2 marathon pace, same as the pace I've maintained for 16 miles in a marathon. Proof that I don't have much acceleration.
Targets were as follows:
1. Don't injure myself - done
2. Don't hate it too much - done
3. Don't fall over - done
4. Don't embarrass myself - done, I was 46th out of 146 overall, 11th of 51 ladies and 3rd of 17 senior ladies.
5. Don't embarrass Mark by beating him on his birthday race - done, he did himself proud with 6th overall and 1st MV40. And yes, I hadn't a chance in hell of beating him.
Mark had entered his club's Autumn Challenge, saying it was the best race ever for reasons I never quite managed to pin down. Still, I knew that if he went off to run a race on Sunday morning and it was remotely decent weather, I'd feel far too jealous stood on the sidelines cheering him on. So I entered. The Autumn Challenge is 5 miles (too short), off road (too non-tarmac), on grass (too slippy and tussocky), and muddy trails (too muddy and slippy), and hilly (ok, I don't mind this bit). It also suggested the course would "take a short spike". I have never heard this sort of language in any race I have entered before, it was a little intimidating. I wore road shoes and hoped in vain for dry weather in the few days leading up to the race.
It was mild and dry and even sunny on Sunday morning so the back up plan of just ditching it wasn't required. A 20 minute walk to the start plus maybe 5 minutes of trotting about on the grass was a half arsed attempt at loosening up but the autumn challenge for me was concentrating on running hard right from the start rather than ambling off at a very pedestrian pace before taking about 4 miles to realise what I'm doing and to start thinking about running as I usually do in marathons. It passes a bit of time, ok?
The start was up a shallow hill, on grass and quite slippy. Happily, the bulk of it was on varying degrees of muddy trail which was far more tolerable, indeed, I've done plenty of off road marathons on worse terrain, plus none of the hills were very long. Of course, at eyeballs out pace, they're a lot more unpleasant but at least my road maras have taught me that you can run up hills, unlike trail maras and ultras where hills are almost obligatory to walk. I was passed by quite a few people in the first mile as the field shook itself out, by next to noone in the middle 3 miles (where I took a few back) and by only a couple in the last mile. Which suggests that while my top gear is reasonably sustainable, I definitely had no more pace for the finish.
Despite feeling minor dread and perhaps because of such low expectations, I rather enjoyed running to the point where it felt like my lungs were about to explode for 40 minutes. It feels more efficient to know you're covering ground as fast as you can rather than scuffing about and taking forever. I don't like wasting time. It's also quite nice to feel more competitive than usual, it's been all too easy to think "stuff it, I've run 48 marathons this year, I've got nothing to prove" and ease off (see drifting times and abominable training passim) so this was rather refreshing. I had no expectation of time so with the terrain and hills was quite satisfied with 40'59 for 5.12 miles, bang on 8'00 minute miling. Same as my 1/2 marathon pace, same as the pace I've maintained for 16 miles in a marathon. Proof that I don't have much acceleration.
Targets were as follows:
1. Don't injure myself - done
2. Don't hate it too much - done
3. Don't fall over - done
4. Don't embarrass myself - done, I was 46th out of 146 overall, 11th of 51 ladies and 3rd of 17 senior ladies.
5. Don't embarrass Mark by beating him on his birthday race - done, he did himself proud with 6th overall and 1st MV40. And yes, I hadn't a chance in hell of beating him.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Porto marathon
Porto was a lovely weekend, not just my usual whistle stop trip for a marathon but the chance to relax a bit more, see more of the city and have a very pleasant weekend with Mark. I had slightly conflicting thoughts about him coming along and not running, on the one hand, it was good that he didn't have another marathon as multiple marathoning is a choice you have to make yourself, not one to be influenced into, however unintentionally; on the other, I felt a bit prima donna-ish with my race being the dominant theme, especially as Mark was relegated to supporter, jumper carrier, water bearer and soigneur, roles that he fulfilled very proficiently. I don't think anyone's ever tried to pin my number on for me before. It was, however, excellent to have such good company, and even more excellent when he popped up at 15k and kept me company for the next almost 11.
Portuguese marathons appear to be like the smaller Spanish ones: they're very competitive with a fast field, you're going to feel quite lonely if you finish in much over 4 hours. There are also very few women, 93 of a 1,180 strong field, that's about 8%. It's not so much a social thing as it is in the UK, people are there to race, and I rather like that attitude, it makes you feel part of something a bit more momentous, it's more than a bunch of people getting together for a jolly old jaunt together, stopping off to eat cake and chat. But then I am getting quite purist.
On Saturday, we went, via winding lanes, crooked houses and epic flights of steps, to the expo at the not very Crystal Palace that gave out a cracking goody bag with a race number with my name on it, backpack, technical t-shirt, baseball cap, a few odds and sods like a keyring and samples and, most excitingly of all, a full size 750ml bottle of commemorative marathon port. I was hugely pleased with this, although it represented a further challenge of decimating it before the flight back (it was polished off sitting on the harbour in the sunshine post race). The free feed was pretty vast too, if of school dinner quality, but the included beer made it worthwhile. At the finish was yet more free stuff, ladies were given a rose and we all got a drawstring bag with another baseball cap and a cotton t-shirt, and there was a stall set up doling out more beer. It's one of the most alcoholic races I've done and one of the better value ones. Less said about the flight the better.
As for my performance, I wasn't best prepared for the race, having a minor port headache, chronic sleep deprivation which is short circuiting increasing parts of my brain, and a series of niggles exacerbated by walking up and down many hills and steps in Porto on Saturday afternoon in inappropriate shoes. The current list includes (but is not exclusive to): right ankle, achilles and anterior tibialis, right back of knee, outside of both knees (prob tight ITBs), inside the top of my left knee that tends to give out on sudden inclines, right hamstring and where the deltoids meet the spine. It's all adding to the general feeling of decrepitude and the requirement for a good 6 weeks resting in a sanitorium on the banks of Lake Garda.
However, I was really looking forward to the run, and usually do for marathons like Porto where I get to see lots of a nice city. This is a charming town with a great route down to the coast, along the sea front, then up the Douro river with a few out and backs before heading back the way we came. The start is straight up a hill for 1/2 a k, then downhill for 7k to the coast to tempt you into a fast start, luckily we were spared the long climb all the way back as the finish was "only" 2k up, although this does deposit you a long way from town.
My pacing has gone a bit haywire lately so I've had to run to perceived effort and accept whatever pace that results. This time that seemed like 8'30s which was a rather nice turn up for the books, it's been more like 9'15s recently. When Mark joined me, about 2km before I expected him, it definitely helped keep the rhythm going. He left me just before the hardest bit mentally, from 26 to 30k when it was getting quite warm and I was getting a bit sleepy and lacking in concentration. A Dutch bloke came alongside with perfect cadence so I latched onto him for a bit. The increasing heat was lovely and eased out some of the aches, and after seeing Mark again at 31k, it was a matter of counting down the ks. The legs were very very tired in the last 3 or 4 miles and the pace drifted a bit, but a sub 4 was without doubt. What was very tight was a sub 3'50 but, given I hadn't done one of these since April and I couldn't remember when GFA times expire, I had to go for it. The last 1.5k uphill was pretty cruel..... Finished in 3'49'20, got my rose, bag #2 and beer, then was very lucky to find a cab avoiding a long old hike back to the hotel inevitably getting very lost. Just a shame there was no teleporter to get us back home.
Postscript: I have to name and shame Victor Hutchins from Queen's Park Harrier who we saw peeing on the 25k distance marker, it didn't help that Mark had seen very few other Brits so had given him a cheery wave and shout on at least 3 occasions, to be totally ignored each time. Victor, you are the victor of the most vile runner prize, narrowly beating the portly gentleman running in racing knickers.
Portuguese marathons appear to be like the smaller Spanish ones: they're very competitive with a fast field, you're going to feel quite lonely if you finish in much over 4 hours. There are also very few women, 93 of a 1,180 strong field, that's about 8%. It's not so much a social thing as it is in the UK, people are there to race, and I rather like that attitude, it makes you feel part of something a bit more momentous, it's more than a bunch of people getting together for a jolly old jaunt together, stopping off to eat cake and chat. But then I am getting quite purist.
On Saturday, we went, via winding lanes, crooked houses and epic flights of steps, to the expo at the not very Crystal Palace that gave out a cracking goody bag with a race number with my name on it, backpack, technical t-shirt, baseball cap, a few odds and sods like a keyring and samples and, most excitingly of all, a full size 750ml bottle of commemorative marathon port. I was hugely pleased with this, although it represented a further challenge of decimating it before the flight back (it was polished off sitting on the harbour in the sunshine post race). The free feed was pretty vast too, if of school dinner quality, but the included beer made it worthwhile. At the finish was yet more free stuff, ladies were given a rose and we all got a drawstring bag with another baseball cap and a cotton t-shirt, and there was a stall set up doling out more beer. It's one of the most alcoholic races I've done and one of the better value ones. Less said about the flight the better.
As for my performance, I wasn't best prepared for the race, having a minor port headache, chronic sleep deprivation which is short circuiting increasing parts of my brain, and a series of niggles exacerbated by walking up and down many hills and steps in Porto on Saturday afternoon in inappropriate shoes. The current list includes (but is not exclusive to): right ankle, achilles and anterior tibialis, right back of knee, outside of both knees (prob tight ITBs), inside the top of my left knee that tends to give out on sudden inclines, right hamstring and where the deltoids meet the spine. It's all adding to the general feeling of decrepitude and the requirement for a good 6 weeks resting in a sanitorium on the banks of Lake Garda.
However, I was really looking forward to the run, and usually do for marathons like Porto where I get to see lots of a nice city. This is a charming town with a great route down to the coast, along the sea front, then up the Douro river with a few out and backs before heading back the way we came. The start is straight up a hill for 1/2 a k, then downhill for 7k to the coast to tempt you into a fast start, luckily we were spared the long climb all the way back as the finish was "only" 2k up, although this does deposit you a long way from town.
My pacing has gone a bit haywire lately so I've had to run to perceived effort and accept whatever pace that results. This time that seemed like 8'30s which was a rather nice turn up for the books, it's been more like 9'15s recently. When Mark joined me, about 2km before I expected him, it definitely helped keep the rhythm going. He left me just before the hardest bit mentally, from 26 to 30k when it was getting quite warm and I was getting a bit sleepy and lacking in concentration. A Dutch bloke came alongside with perfect cadence so I latched onto him for a bit. The increasing heat was lovely and eased out some of the aches, and after seeing Mark again at 31k, it was a matter of counting down the ks. The legs were very very tired in the last 3 or 4 miles and the pace drifted a bit, but a sub 4 was without doubt. What was very tight was a sub 3'50 but, given I hadn't done one of these since April and I couldn't remember when GFA times expire, I had to go for it. The last 1.5k uphill was pretty cruel..... Finished in 3'49'20, got my rose, bag #2 and beer, then was very lucky to find a cab avoiding a long old hike back to the hotel inevitably getting very lost. Just a shame there was no teleporter to get us back home.
Postscript: I have to name and shame Victor Hutchins from Queen's Park Harrier who we saw peeing on the 25k distance marker, it didn't help that Mark had seen very few other Brits so had given him a cheery wave and shout on at least 3 occasions, to be totally ignored each time. Victor, you are the victor of the most vile runner prize, narrowly beating the portly gentleman running in racing knickers.
Monday 8 November 2010
Snowdonia marathon
Mark had been a proper gentleman and offered to drive up to Snowdonia, thus sparing me a really difficult journey plus the expense of two nights in a shonky hotel or B&B plus affording the opportunity to stop off in Crewe to see my sister who you may remember was my lead cheerleader and tea and jam sandwich provider at the 10 in 10. Hence I got to stay in the car and out of the drizzle as long as possible before the start, so didn't spot many familiar faces other than a couple of 100 Clubbers either there or on the route.
It was actually quite nice to set off at a very pedestrian pace with the meagre aims of a sub 5 finish and not too much of a drenching from the local weather. Only one of those was in my control. After a gentle few miles to warm up came the first hill. Now, reports had suggested this race was harder than the Langdale mara so I was very happy to find that the first was quite easily runnable and knew there would be some fabulous views and a delightful downhill reward to follow. Turning onto a shaley track wasn't ideal, didn't like that bit. Once back on the road there was plenty of pretty much flat to half way and, having seen on the route profile that the second hill was shorter than the first, it was easy enough to run up it. Around this point, Gail from Watford Joggers caught up with me and we had a nice chat until we passed Mark who recognised his clubmate well before he recognised me...
Thanks to my steady start, it felt quite comfortable over the last 10 and I passed quite a lot of soggy, miserable looking runners. On reaching the last hill, I knew I ought to break 4'30 and if I kept about 10 minute miles going it would be 4'20, not so easy with the notorious Waun Fawr (sp?) in the way. I really didn't want to walk the hill, not just because of losing time but also because it was already wet and looking to get wetter and I'd just freeze. So I managed a nice steady trot all the way to the top, had a bit of a laugh to myself at all those people who'd said Langdale is harder, I could barely walk the hills in Langdale let alone run them, witnessed a big lightening flash and rumble of thunder, thought I ought to get in before that lands on our heads, then hit trail. For heaven's sake. This is a "road marathon", I can tolerate a bit of low-fat track but this turned into full-fat, extra lard, uneven stony path before deteriorating into muddy, churned up, slippy grass awash with puddles. Not so bad on the flat but the descent was quite dangerous in road shoes. Thankfully the last 2/3rds of a mile were back on road, though now in torrential rain with a good inch or two of water running off the hills, I've never seen anything so heavy outside of Asia. Cleaned my shoes up a bit.
Came over the line in 4'18, only 8 minutes slower than Abingdon, quite pleased with that. Was presented with a cup of cold water (just what I need) and a slate coaster, got gathered up by Mark, had a brief chat to Yin Hai, Fu and Gail and made straight for the car. I like that the organisers are trying to make this an ethical event, including giving you a carbon neutral t-shirt, but it's pissing in the wind when virtually everyone has to drive a blinking long way to get to your race. Overall however, an excellent event, loads of well-stocked water stations, slick start and finish and a grand sense of occasion. Hardly saw any marshals away from the water stations and the traffic could have done with more management but otherwise it was top drawer. I might be back next year, if I can be bothered with the epic journey.
It was actually quite nice to set off at a very pedestrian pace with the meagre aims of a sub 5 finish and not too much of a drenching from the local weather. Only one of those was in my control. After a gentle few miles to warm up came the first hill. Now, reports had suggested this race was harder than the Langdale mara so I was very happy to find that the first was quite easily runnable and knew there would be some fabulous views and a delightful downhill reward to follow. Turning onto a shaley track wasn't ideal, didn't like that bit. Once back on the road there was plenty of pretty much flat to half way and, having seen on the route profile that the second hill was shorter than the first, it was easy enough to run up it. Around this point, Gail from Watford Joggers caught up with me and we had a nice chat until we passed Mark who recognised his clubmate well before he recognised me...
Thanks to my steady start, it felt quite comfortable over the last 10 and I passed quite a lot of soggy, miserable looking runners. On reaching the last hill, I knew I ought to break 4'30 and if I kept about 10 minute miles going it would be 4'20, not so easy with the notorious Waun Fawr (sp?) in the way. I really didn't want to walk the hill, not just because of losing time but also because it was already wet and looking to get wetter and I'd just freeze. So I managed a nice steady trot all the way to the top, had a bit of a laugh to myself at all those people who'd said Langdale is harder, I could barely walk the hills in Langdale let alone run them, witnessed a big lightening flash and rumble of thunder, thought I ought to get in before that lands on our heads, then hit trail. For heaven's sake. This is a "road marathon", I can tolerate a bit of low-fat track but this turned into full-fat, extra lard, uneven stony path before deteriorating into muddy, churned up, slippy grass awash with puddles. Not so bad on the flat but the descent was quite dangerous in road shoes. Thankfully the last 2/3rds of a mile were back on road, though now in torrential rain with a good inch or two of water running off the hills, I've never seen anything so heavy outside of Asia. Cleaned my shoes up a bit.
Came over the line in 4'18, only 8 minutes slower than Abingdon, quite pleased with that. Was presented with a cup of cold water (just what I need) and a slate coaster, got gathered up by Mark, had a brief chat to Yin Hai, Fu and Gail and made straight for the car. I like that the organisers are trying to make this an ethical event, including giving you a carbon neutral t-shirt, but it's pissing in the wind when virtually everyone has to drive a blinking long way to get to your race. Overall however, an excellent event, loads of well-stocked water stations, slick start and finish and a grand sense of occasion. Hardly saw any marshals away from the water stations and the traffic could have done with more management but otherwise it was top drawer. I might be back next year, if I can be bothered with the epic journey.
Monday 25 October 2010
Abingdon & Brentwood marathons
For the first time in 80 marathons, I couldn't blog a race last weekend. Abingdon was horrible because it was so blinkin' cold but more so because I hurt as much after the finish as I did after my first few marathons. Waking up in the middle of the night because your legs are so painful isn't something that's happened since Hastings in 2008 (setting aside the 10 in 10 ) and the thought of putting myself through that 10 more times was enormously depressing. It also seemed inappropriate to be moaning about a horrible race after so many people, and Mark in particular, had had fantastic marathons, there's nothing worse than someone tainting your achievement by whinging about how miserable they are.
As a result, I was dreading Brentwood. It's off road and the paranoia has started to build that I may get injured between now and the 100th. There have been a few people who've had to get through their last few marathons on injuries and it's not appealing; however, with so many people going out to Malta, the pressure is considerable. I'm also slower off road and wasn't looking forward to 5 hours of shuffling about in the cold. What I expected to be fairly flat, nicely smooth gravel packed paths turned out to be a mix of slippy grass and muddy trail, barely any of it flat, and two long hills on each of the 12 laps. Thank god for the laps, 12 is a perfect, many divisible number to break it up all manner of ways, and it actually felt like a 12 mile race, with each mile being really quite long.
It was lung-shrinkingly cold again (proved by a bit of a coughing fit post race) but the sun was out on a few stretches, which made the frosty grass fairly greasy, contrasting with the ever increasingly churned up mud on the woody sections. Road shoes meant a lot of sliding around, but it was worth it to avoid vile trail shoes (anyone want a filthy, no doubt mouldy, very much unwanted pair of Innov8s?). Lovely to see deer in the park, particularly the buck that crashed out of the bushes and bounded across the path in front of me in the woods. Also very lovely in the last 2 laps to see Mark turn up after his cross country to provide cheers and spur me on through the last few miles.
Having set off at a sedate pace, I was able to run all the hills to the 8th lap, then walked just the top section of the steeper hill, it was quite reassuring to see I could get up them, albeit very slowly. I have a very sore ankle from a totally unnecessary ditch we had to cross and inside of the right hip flexor from the hill running and had no thought of placing at my plodding pace. So when I got to the brow of the final hill, with about 100 yards to go, and one girl just ahead of me, it seemed only right to pick off one more place if I could. I sprinted past her and pipped her to the line by about 2 seconds. With 4'31, it was a very pleasant surprise to be presented with a trophy for second lady but I felt rather guilty for swiping it from under t'other girl's nose right on the line. Sometimes it's worth turning up to races with a small field, you can do better than you expected.
As a result, I was dreading Brentwood. It's off road and the paranoia has started to build that I may get injured between now and the 100th. There have been a few people who've had to get through their last few marathons on injuries and it's not appealing; however, with so many people going out to Malta, the pressure is considerable. I'm also slower off road and wasn't looking forward to 5 hours of shuffling about in the cold. What I expected to be fairly flat, nicely smooth gravel packed paths turned out to be a mix of slippy grass and muddy trail, barely any of it flat, and two long hills on each of the 12 laps. Thank god for the laps, 12 is a perfect, many divisible number to break it up all manner of ways, and it actually felt like a 12 mile race, with each mile being really quite long.
It was lung-shrinkingly cold again (proved by a bit of a coughing fit post race) but the sun was out on a few stretches, which made the frosty grass fairly greasy, contrasting with the ever increasingly churned up mud on the woody sections. Road shoes meant a lot of sliding around, but it was worth it to avoid vile trail shoes (anyone want a filthy, no doubt mouldy, very much unwanted pair of Innov8s?). Lovely to see deer in the park, particularly the buck that crashed out of the bushes and bounded across the path in front of me in the woods. Also very lovely in the last 2 laps to see Mark turn up after his cross country to provide cheers and spur me on through the last few miles.
Having set off at a sedate pace, I was able to run all the hills to the 8th lap, then walked just the top section of the steeper hill, it was quite reassuring to see I could get up them, albeit very slowly. I have a very sore ankle from a totally unnecessary ditch we had to cross and inside of the right hip flexor from the hill running and had no thought of placing at my plodding pace. So when I got to the brow of the final hill, with about 100 yards to go, and one girl just ahead of me, it seemed only right to pick off one more place if I could. I sprinted past her and pipped her to the line by about 2 seconds. With 4'31, it was a very pleasant surprise to be presented with a trophy for second lady but I felt rather guilty for swiping it from under t'other girl's nose right on the line. Sometimes it's worth turning up to races with a small field, you can do better than you expected.
Sunday 10 October 2010
Leicester marathon
The ancient Greeks has a philosophy that the mind is like a house with lots of rooms, some of which you shouldn't go into. Today, a door opened to one room and, because of a momentary falter, I had a bit of a peek inside. And very nearly ruined my whole race. It was only at 12 miles and my legs had been tired and heavy all the way through the previous almost-two-hours, and were feeling very sluggish. But this seemed to bring things to a head, it was almost certainly psychosomatic (and hence why I shouldn't have gone into the room), but suddenly I felt very spacey, the tunnel vision descended and my legs felt like lead. For half a mile all I could think about was curling up and sleeping but luckily I came up to a 100 Clubber taking his daughter round her first marathon who chatted for a bit. That bit of reality shook me out of my funk, I've no idea where it came from, but things got better from there.
The moral is, there are doors in your mind that you shouldn't open during a marathon. They are the doors to doubt, fatigue, tired and aching limbs ( NB. you should open the pain-that-indicates-you've-done-some-damage door), getting carried away and bombing through the first 6 miles, thinking about the finish until you're certain you're going to get there etc etc. And there are doors that you need to open as you get further through a race: confidence, belief in your training, desire to achieve the targets you've set, a healthy dose of competition, determination to stick through the last 10 miles when you want to walk, the rewards of getting the finish you want.
Now I've stretched that metaphor to its limits, back to the marathon. Or rather not, there's not much to say. The second half was better than the first - the half runners were winding me up big time in the first 6 miles and I have never seen such a shocking collection of terrible running styles, arms flailing, legs kicking out every which way, over striding, scuffing, heads shoved forward. It was extraordinary. That's not a comment on half marathoners, it merely seemed like a convention of runners desperate to injure themselves.
Mentally, I felt stronger the more this race went on, which isn't surprising, it gets easier the fewer miles you have left, and found it quite rewarding to give a bit of encouragement to a few guys doing their first back to back marathon and to a guy going for his first sub 4 (he got it). The last mile is cruelly uphill but my pacing had been a bit more classic today - first half 1'56, second half 1'59 so I just had to keep running for the sub 4. Nice even pacing throughout, after a bit of a speedy start, nice strong finish, not too trashed afterwards, and home by 5pm, not a bad day all round.
Monday 4 October 2010
Jersey Marathon
Disclaimer: this blog may be edited when I'm less grumpy)
It was drizzling when we started and it soon turned into heavy rain that persisted for the majority of the race. Not very nice but thinking of the masochists doing the Atlantic challenge (3 x well over 26 miles along the Cornish coastline in even worse conditions) helped put it into perspective. My aim was to take it really easy in order to run the whole thing, running so badly has been depressing me especially in the light of seemingly everyone else getting faster and faster. How ungracious. Running easy meant I went backwards in the first mile and it felt like the whole field passed me. I tried to ignore it but was disappointed to see that my easy pace was 9'30s, that's horribly slow.
Still, I was enjoying it as best I could, Jersey's a pretty place and the route is lovely - narrow lanes through the countryside and woods and the odd village. Running round the airport was a new one, those planes are quite loud when they're metres above your head. And the marshals in this race are the most complimentary I've encountered, I heard "Lovely legs" and "Very elegant" among others. I got through half way in 2'05 so if only 9'30s were manageable and allowing for a bit of drift in the second half, sub 4 was off really and even if I could run it all, 4'15 seemed like the most optimistic target.
The 9'30s still felt ok though I was having to run harder for them. With 7.2 miles left I had just over an hour to get to 4'00 that seemed impossible at my current rate of fitness. With 5.2 miles to go, I had 43 minutes, again, impossible. A soaring descent got me only an 8'26, going faster on the flat was unthinkable. The next mile, on the flat, was 8'44, it wasn't going to happen. But something came to mind, someone who believes that I can run faster than I think and it seemed a nice opportunity to see if he was right.
8'09. 7'50. I'd been passing marathon runners for 10 miles but now I was passing relay runners and the radio DJ who said "some runners are still looking relatively fresh" which was nice to hear. 7'28 for the last mile. On the approach to the finish, I passed a young guy shuffling in who saw me and immediately responded to race me in. My lack of acceleration and 3 mile kick meant there was no more speed so he just pipped me to the line, with one spectator yelling "let her have it" at his lack of sportsmanship. Can't get beaten by a girl eh? Idiot.
I was really happy with my race time and a big negative split (2'05 and 1'54) until it sank in that it's still rubbish. Running eyeballs out for only a 7'50 is rubbish. Only 6 months ago my easy pace was 8'30 / mile for THE WHOLE DAMN RACE. And then I got depressed. Jealousy is ugly, being pleased about a sub 4 is ridiculous when I was comfortably running 3'40s a few months ago, blogs are full of trophies, PBs and "I got rained on more than you" one-upmanship. I'm running like rubbish and the last thing that will help are platitudes about me being tired and over-raced.
It was drizzling when we started and it soon turned into heavy rain that persisted for the majority of the race. Not very nice but thinking of the masochists doing the Atlantic challenge (3 x well over 26 miles along the Cornish coastline in even worse conditions) helped put it into perspective. My aim was to take it really easy in order to run the whole thing, running so badly has been depressing me especially in the light of seemingly everyone else getting faster and faster. How ungracious. Running easy meant I went backwards in the first mile and it felt like the whole field passed me. I tried to ignore it but was disappointed to see that my easy pace was 9'30s, that's horribly slow.
Still, I was enjoying it as best I could, Jersey's a pretty place and the route is lovely - narrow lanes through the countryside and woods and the odd village. Running round the airport was a new one, those planes are quite loud when they're metres above your head. And the marshals in this race are the most complimentary I've encountered, I heard "Lovely legs" and "Very elegant" among others. I got through half way in 2'05 so if only 9'30s were manageable and allowing for a bit of drift in the second half, sub 4 was off really and even if I could run it all, 4'15 seemed like the most optimistic target.
The 9'30s still felt ok though I was having to run harder for them. With 7.2 miles left I had just over an hour to get to 4'00 that seemed impossible at my current rate of fitness. With 5.2 miles to go, I had 43 minutes, again, impossible. A soaring descent got me only an 8'26, going faster on the flat was unthinkable. The next mile, on the flat, was 8'44, it wasn't going to happen. But something came to mind, someone who believes that I can run faster than I think and it seemed a nice opportunity to see if he was right.
8'09. 7'50. I'd been passing marathon runners for 10 miles but now I was passing relay runners and the radio DJ who said "some runners are still looking relatively fresh" which was nice to hear. 7'28 for the last mile. On the approach to the finish, I passed a young guy shuffling in who saw me and immediately responded to race me in. My lack of acceleration and 3 mile kick meant there was no more speed so he just pipped me to the line, with one spectator yelling "let her have it" at his lack of sportsmanship. Can't get beaten by a girl eh? Idiot.
I was really happy with my race time and a big negative split (2'05 and 1'54) until it sank in that it's still rubbish. Running eyeballs out for only a 7'50 is rubbish. Only 6 months ago my easy pace was 8'30 / mile for THE WHOLE DAMN RACE. And then I got depressed. Jealousy is ugly, being pleased about a sub 4 is ridiculous when I was comfortably running 3'40s a few months ago, blogs are full of trophies, PBs and "I got rained on more than you" one-upmanship. I'm running like rubbish and the last thing that will help are platitudes about me being tired and over-raced.
Langdale marathon
Langdale had been a highlight of my race calendar for months, we used to go for walks up there as a family and it's one of my favourite spots in the Lake District. It's also become the weekend for the 10 in 10 reunion - mara Saturday afternoon with a 12pm start, dinner and drinks with the 10 in 10ers Saturday evening and a lazy Sunday morning made infinitely better by upgrading to one of Brathay's very luxurious chalets with views over the mountains.
The 10 in 10 had started to change for me; in the first few months of the year it was the biggest thing in my life, training dominated everything and it was paying huge dividends - my times were dropping, my recovery lightening fast, my injuries negligible. And the event was huge. Since then, it seems every man and his dog is running multiple marathons at the drop of a hat or back to back 100 mile ultras, while I've got slower and slower and more and more tired with every marathon completely wiping me out. Classic over-training / over-racing.
Going back to Brathay reminded me why it is so special. It's not just about pitching up, running 262 miles, ticking the box and moving on. It's about the charity you're running for, about the people you meet and relationships you form, about the things you learn about yourself, not just the strength to get through it but also the humility, appreciation of other people's efforts (and that's support as well as runners) and good humour required. It's the sort of event that should change you because it is so intense. It was fantastic that some of my favourite people were there, notably Chris and Jim, who have become those sort of friends you value incredibly highly.
As for the race, it was just as beautiful as expected and even tougher. I usually like laps but the lack of strength at the moment made the second very hard and the 12pm start made it feel like a Very Long Day Indeed. Still, it was absolutely stunning. I loved the fat little brown sheep who raced alongside us in the first mile until, as a man (or a sheep), they refused the fence and were brought to a baffled, milling standstill. The sun reflecting off Blea Tarn, the shadows of the clouds moving across the valley, the chickens running about in the road and teetering across the cattle grid, the bracken on the hillsides looking like swathes of rust in the low light in late afternoon, and the soaring views from about mile 9.5 and 22.5 up the Langdale valley had me grinning like an idiot. First runner's high in about 4 months.
It was a bastard of course, especially in my current state of fitness and I really struggled to get round in 4'57. Again, not quite the wooden spoon but it wasn't far off. Unfortunately my legs were totally smashed afterwards with the uphills obliterating my glutes and the downhills annihilating my quads. I'd booked in to see 10 in 10 physio Graham at The Body Rehab on Monday which was exquisitely excruciating, next time, he's going to have a stick for me to bite on rather than chewing his pillows to bits. I'm also the proud owner of kinesio tape to help out the rib that's still pretty sore, a brand new style of tit tape.
42 marathons down this year, 10 to go for 52 in a year, then it's the final coast to the 100. It almost feels within reach now.
The 10 in 10 had started to change for me; in the first few months of the year it was the biggest thing in my life, training dominated everything and it was paying huge dividends - my times were dropping, my recovery lightening fast, my injuries negligible. And the event was huge. Since then, it seems every man and his dog is running multiple marathons at the drop of a hat or back to back 100 mile ultras, while I've got slower and slower and more and more tired with every marathon completely wiping me out. Classic over-training / over-racing.
Going back to Brathay reminded me why it is so special. It's not just about pitching up, running 262 miles, ticking the box and moving on. It's about the charity you're running for, about the people you meet and relationships you form, about the things you learn about yourself, not just the strength to get through it but also the humility, appreciation of other people's efforts (and that's support as well as runners) and good humour required. It's the sort of event that should change you because it is so intense. It was fantastic that some of my favourite people were there, notably Chris and Jim, who have become those sort of friends you value incredibly highly.
As for the race, it was just as beautiful as expected and even tougher. I usually like laps but the lack of strength at the moment made the second very hard and the 12pm start made it feel like a Very Long Day Indeed. Still, it was absolutely stunning. I loved the fat little brown sheep who raced alongside us in the first mile until, as a man (or a sheep), they refused the fence and were brought to a baffled, milling standstill. The sun reflecting off Blea Tarn, the shadows of the clouds moving across the valley, the chickens running about in the road and teetering across the cattle grid, the bracken on the hillsides looking like swathes of rust in the low light in late afternoon, and the soaring views from about mile 9.5 and 22.5 up the Langdale valley had me grinning like an idiot. First runner's high in about 4 months.
It was a bastard of course, especially in my current state of fitness and I really struggled to get round in 4'57. Again, not quite the wooden spoon but it wasn't far off. Unfortunately my legs were totally smashed afterwards with the uphills obliterating my glutes and the downhills annihilating my quads. I'd booked in to see 10 in 10 physio Graham at The Body Rehab on Monday which was exquisitely excruciating, next time, he's going to have a stick for me to bite on rather than chewing his pillows to bits. I'm also the proud owner of kinesio tape to help out the rib that's still pretty sore, a brand new style of tit tape.
42 marathons down this year, 10 to go for 52 in a year, then it's the final coast to the 100. It almost feels within reach now.
Monday 13 September 2010
2 to go & Nottingham marathon double
So that was a rather crazy weekend, I'm exhausted in many various ways. The Two to go marathon on Saturday felt like a formality, just one to be ticked off before the main events started. I enjoyed it last year but found it a bit dull this time round, although things were livened up by the entire field going the wrong way at one point. Some poor sods ran an extra 3 miles, I was lucky and clocked an mere 1/2 km extra. I find it really hard to run 26 miles without stopping now so had a few walk breaks from 30k. Got round in 4'06 with no dramas and no nose bleeds. It was a shame the finish left a bit of a bad taste (rip off food & drink, cheapest bit of pressed tin medal, shower block knocked down etc) but relaxing in the sunshine for an hour with lots of familiar faces was most pleasant.
Then it was off to Nottingham to meet up with Team Sparta, a ragtag army of half and full runners, all of whom were slightly hungover and not very well prepared to run anywhere but more than happy to look rather foolish for everyone else's entertainment.
So I kept up with Mark for just over 10 miles, the attention he was getting was fantastic and I was killing myself laughing for most of those 90 minutes. He'd be running along with his shield and huge sword, then suddenly pounce at a small unwitting child who would leap out of his skin. He was getting such a good reaction from the crowd I kept forgetting I was a Spartan too. It would have been nice to have made more effort to join in but I was concentrating more on finishing and wanted to keep my head down and be a bit insular during the run.
What I wasn't forgetting about the outfit was how hot it was and how it was starting to chafe like crazy, mainly the seams inside the bodice and the edging on the skirt. The flappy epaulette things were constantly jumping about in the periphery of my vision too.
Mark let me fall behind after 10 miles, I was struggling and he looked really fresh (and went on to run a massive negative split, very proud of him overtaking half the field and really annoying them, imagine a bearded, semi naked, helmeted bloke barrelling past you, brandishing a 4 foot sword, cloak billowing in the wind and shouting RARRRRGGGGHHHH at 22 miles. Demoralising for you. Very funny for us.) and I ditched the costume on Stella at half way. Sorry Stella. Then again, how often can you cycle up alongside a girl, say hello to get the reply "do you mind if I undress and give you my clothes?" Feeling much lighter and unhampered, if rather self conscious, the second half was more of a no frills marathon - no watch, far fewer runners, fewer spectators, no hills, just 13 miles to cover. I liked the purity of it.
This marathon was so enjoyable, in two entirely different ways: the first half really really funny watching Chiefy play to the crowds and the second focusing on running at its most concentrated. Nottingham gets a million extra points for handing out water and lucozade in small 200 or 250ml bottles, at very regular intervals, perfect for a few sips and meaning you don't need any gels. I ran with a first time marathoner between 16 and 22 when he dropped me. You can never forget to be humble when you're still running at 22 miles and you get dropped by a marathon virgin. As last year, I loved running round the lake and, while I still felt very tired and sore legged, had enough energy to keep running to the finish. It was reassuring to know that 13 straight miles to round off a double is still possible.
My pacing over this double is bizarrely like clockwork, last year, I ran 3'51 and 3'49, this year I ran 4'06 and 4'05. What was best was the turnout, Chris, Jim and Dave from the 10 in 10, loads of Fetchies and 100 clubbers, and the man of the match, David Bayley, running his 100th marathon. One of the best post-marathon pub afternoons ever (in spite of the terrible service) and a hilarious train ride home with the Spartans. A top weekend all round.
Weary and worse for wear Spartans in civvies and Percy Pigs
Sunday 5 September 2010
Kent Coastal marathon
The Kent Coastal is a lovely marathon, well organised by Thanet Roadrunners with loads of marshals and water stations, nicely pretty along the sea front, a few bumps to break it up and a bargain price. This is the third year in a row I'd done this race so there was a tiny incentive to beat my last two times here of 3'57 and 3'51, a rather challenging task given my shonky pace lately. However, I set off at a pace that felt a little stretchy but sustainable that turned out to be about 8'30s. That worked great until 16 miles.
Then I got a huge nosebleed, no idea where it came from, it's never happened in any of my races before. Apologies to the squeamish, but it was bleeding so much that it was down my race number, splashed onto my legs and all up my right arm, even on my shoulder and over my hands within seconds. Two very kind ladies from the cafe on the seawall rushed over with tissues and water to mop me up, and prop me up because by this time it was only the railing that was keeping me upright, it had all gone rather dark and spinny. After a fair bit of dabbing, I set off again as my legs were fine, if a bit splattered, but it wouldn't blinkin' stop. What was worse, it seemed to be correlated to my pace, the faster I ran the faster it ran. I tried to wash it off but gave up after a bit, it's not a beauty contest after all and it was just being replaced by fresh stuff. I was also feeling very very spacey and dizzy so had to have a few walk breaks from 20 miles, just to get the damn thing to dry up a bit and to give my head a break, I had a splitting headache by this time too.
It was a bit annoying because I'd been on for 3'50 to 16 miles but all the faffing about and feeling like I was about to pass out lost that. Oh well, there are other races and it's nice to know I do still have a bit of speed in the old legs. What did surprise me was when I spotted Warren just ahead of me about 100 yards from the finish and yelled "Warren, don't let me pass you on the line!" That's what I was trying to say, but it came out like a stroke victim - "Wozdohnlehpass'nline", I couldn't articulate at all. So it was perhaps less surprising when I came over the finish line and hit the deck. Some very nice marshals looked after me, indeed, today's highlight was Derek the medic dabbing the blood away from my face with a wetwipe, he was as gentle and caring as a grandfather looking after a small grandchild.
4'08 wasn't too bad I suppose in the circumstances, and suggests that 2 x sub 4s in the 2 to Go and Robin Hood double next weekend may just be within reach with a bit of HTFUing. Even as a Spartan.
Tuesday 31 August 2010
Fleetwood marathon
There was an inauspicious start to the Fleetwood marathon: I arrived in dire need of breakfast but there was nothing to be seen. The next door leisure centre had a cafeteria however, so off I went in hope of a round of toast and a cup of tea, to find three vending machines. Vending machines do not sell anything resembling proper food and Fleetwood at 8.30am on a Sunday morning is bereft of a functioning caff, apart from a MacDonald's in an out of town shopping centre. Low blood sugar loss of temper was increasingly close when I placed an emergency call to my mum to deliver take away breakfast. I felt very guilty that not only had I dragged her all the way to vile Fleetwood early on a Sunday but that it was also a truly miserable morning. So it was that I was stuffing down a barely chewed but very tasty MacD's egg, bacon and cheese muffin and a hash brown 20 minutes before the gun went. My digestive system is fairly robust but this did ensure a cautious start for first 2 miles. Happily, it worked fine and I didn't need any other energy at all during the race. All those recommendations to have porridge 2 hours before the race, then a sports drink 30 minutes before, no need. Just find whatever greasy bacon sandwich you can get your hands on and start out slow.
As for the start, have you ever seen that penguins game on iGoogle? There are a bunch of penguins shuffling aimlessly around a small box and when you move your cursor, they all turn as one and shuffle towards it. Move your cursor to the opposite side of the screen and they all about face and shuffle back. The start was like that. There was no line as it had been covered by sand, and no banner as it would have blown away, but noone knew which direction we were going so there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing with the speedy ones having to shove down the sides to get to what they thought was the front. With very little fanfare, the Mayor set us off. They could have at least given him a chair to stand on, noone saw him.
We set off through Fleetwood which is a total dump with a lot of care homes, a lot of run down small factory buildings masquerading as the set of a Guy Ritchie film, the Fisherman's Friend plant and a ferry to get the hell out of there. Nowt else. The route was unfathomable on the map with lots of loops and a few zig zags but the bulk of it from 7 to 23 miles was on the coastal path, a concrete sea wall. Hence no cover. It was blowing a gale inland that morning so there was no cover from the elements on the exposed coast so when we got round the turn at 7 miles we were full into a monster headwind. It was slap into your face, blasting sand at you in every direction, so much so that I was running with my right arm over my face but still had to screw my eyes up so much that I couldn't see where I was going and earned 10 years' worth of wrinkles in 26 miles. As for all those expensive microdermabrasion treatments they flog on Harley Street, save your money and come to Fleetwood. All exposed skin was stripped red raw by the sand blasting.
The water stations were ridiculously stretched out in this marathon at 3, 7, 13, 16, 21.5 and 24 miles. Two 6 mile stretched between stations is way too far especially when you've got a gob full of hurricane driven sand and you've had a very salty breakfast. I was quite traumatised after less than half way, it felt like I'd done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and was totally battered and exhausted. What made it worse was the mental fight to keep going, at no point could you stop concentrating on maintaining some sort of straight line or not getting knocked over or blown into the wall. 4+ hours of deafening white noise torture from the gales was also very unpleasant. I like the quiet (in my office, you can usually hear no more than the airconditioning and tapping on keyboards) and this was brutally and unremittingly noisy.
There were some surreal distractions from the louring skies and boiling brown seas (yes, the sea is brown here because of all the mud washed down the Morecambe estuary) - running underneath the Blackpool illuminations was an odd flashback to childhood trips. One evening every September, we'd crawl along the prom in the car and one of us would be sent out to the chippy to get the round in. Traffic moved so slowly, you could get served and back to the car and it had only moved 50 yards. Today, we passed the Jolly Roger, Doctor Who, a haunted house, Humpty Dumpty, plenty of Buddhas and a bizarre Roman temple complete with centurion. No doubt he was after the Vestal Virgin peering coyly out of the window.
After several miles of slogging into the wind, I was a bit fed up of running what felt like 8 minute miles to achieve 12 minute miles, so I walked 21.5 to 24 with some good company from a multiple marathoner on a mighty impressive challenge to run 223 maras in memory of his nephew and another similarly impressive bloke running his first 10 marathons all in one year. I couldn't bear the shame of walking the last couple of miles so ran those for a shame-inducing time of 4'42. Those heady days of effortless PBs and serial sub 3'50s seem a long time ago.
As for the start, have you ever seen that penguins game on iGoogle? There are a bunch of penguins shuffling aimlessly around a small box and when you move your cursor, they all turn as one and shuffle towards it. Move your cursor to the opposite side of the screen and they all about face and shuffle back. The start was like that. There was no line as it had been covered by sand, and no banner as it would have blown away, but noone knew which direction we were going so there was a lot of to-ing and fro-ing with the speedy ones having to shove down the sides to get to what they thought was the front. With very little fanfare, the Mayor set us off. They could have at least given him a chair to stand on, noone saw him.
We set off through Fleetwood which is a total dump with a lot of care homes, a lot of run down small factory buildings masquerading as the set of a Guy Ritchie film, the Fisherman's Friend plant and a ferry to get the hell out of there. Nowt else. The route was unfathomable on the map with lots of loops and a few zig zags but the bulk of it from 7 to 23 miles was on the coastal path, a concrete sea wall. Hence no cover. It was blowing a gale inland that morning so there was no cover from the elements on the exposed coast so when we got round the turn at 7 miles we were full into a monster headwind. It was slap into your face, blasting sand at you in every direction, so much so that I was running with my right arm over my face but still had to screw my eyes up so much that I couldn't see where I was going and earned 10 years' worth of wrinkles in 26 miles. As for all those expensive microdermabrasion treatments they flog on Harley Street, save your money and come to Fleetwood. All exposed skin was stripped red raw by the sand blasting.
The water stations were ridiculously stretched out in this marathon at 3, 7, 13, 16, 21.5 and 24 miles. Two 6 mile stretched between stations is way too far especially when you've got a gob full of hurricane driven sand and you've had a very salty breakfast. I was quite traumatised after less than half way, it felt like I'd done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and was totally battered and exhausted. What made it worse was the mental fight to keep going, at no point could you stop concentrating on maintaining some sort of straight line or not getting knocked over or blown into the wall. 4+ hours of deafening white noise torture from the gales was also very unpleasant. I like the quiet (in my office, you can usually hear no more than the airconditioning and tapping on keyboards) and this was brutally and unremittingly noisy.
There were some surreal distractions from the louring skies and boiling brown seas (yes, the sea is brown here because of all the mud washed down the Morecambe estuary) - running underneath the Blackpool illuminations was an odd flashback to childhood trips. One evening every September, we'd crawl along the prom in the car and one of us would be sent out to the chippy to get the round in. Traffic moved so slowly, you could get served and back to the car and it had only moved 50 yards. Today, we passed the Jolly Roger, Doctor Who, a haunted house, Humpty Dumpty, plenty of Buddhas and a bizarre Roman temple complete with centurion. No doubt he was after the Vestal Virgin peering coyly out of the window.
After several miles of slogging into the wind, I was a bit fed up of running what felt like 8 minute miles to achieve 12 minute miles, so I walked 21.5 to 24 with some good company from a multiple marathoner on a mighty impressive challenge to run 223 maras in memory of his nephew and another similarly impressive bloke running his first 10 marathons all in one year. I couldn't bear the shame of walking the last couple of miles so ran those for a shame-inducing time of 4'42. Those heady days of effortless PBs and serial sub 3'50s seem a long time ago.
Monday 9 August 2010
Isle of Man marathon
I was absolutely knackered this weekend, having been burning the candle well and truly at both ends. My last job was so quiet that going into the office was my chance to have a rest, but my new one is requiring me to actually work, and work quite hard. The running had swelled to use up all the energy I should have been using in the office, but now I've got the double whammy of keeping the momentum going with the marathons as well as putting some effort into my job.
Hence, last weekend, I ran the Faversham marathon on Saturday, then flew to the States on Sunday for a conference and series of meetings - 8 of them on Monday, conference and drinks reception Tuesday, morning conference and 4 more meetings Wednesday. I'd managed to make the most of jet lag and get to the gym each morning, but my efforts were feeble. Three tiring days were followed by an overnight flight and straight into the office (well, I snuck home for a shower in between) for a full day then the Camra beer festival with the hard core London drinking crew. I was so tired I felt drunk even before I got in, but managed to stay awake for 10 different beers and 2 shots of toffee vodka.
Friday was predictably a write off, sitting at my desk toggling between spreadsheets with the latent horror of how much work I've got on slowly building up. None was possible. I just about managed to remind myself that Saturday's flight was at 8.50am not 9.50am.
Although that was pretty painful, getting to Douglas before noon meant I had an entire afternoon of enforced relaxation. I can't remember the last time I had the chance to read newspapers and have the odd snooze, and the sunshine coming in through the window was delicious. I think it may have been Alcman who used the phrase "limb-loosening" (one of the Greek elegiac poets at any rate, and in a rather different context), anyway, this was proper limb-loosening and restorative relaxation.
That was rather a long preamble to a race report.. The Isle of Man marathon is one of my favourite sorts of race - small field, country lanes, great views, lots of familiar faces. It's over two loops which was perfect, it was good to know what was coming in the second half. There are two mini hills and two midi hills in this, a bit of undulation and some blissful shallow descents, an excellent route all round. For the first time in months, I managed to run the whole of the marathon, get reasonable splits, and finally get under that blasted 4 hours. 3'56 and 6th lady for mara #80. A few hours at the rugby club with a bar and free buffet, watching the other runners come in and the presentations before a lift to the airport generously provided by Selina (who set a second PB in as many weeks) and a return journey that, although it involved a flight, took less time and fractionally less cash than a trip to Salisbury for the 54321 mara would have done. Naturally, I bagged my run this morning in favour of 90 minutes' more sleep.
Hence, last weekend, I ran the Faversham marathon on Saturday, then flew to the States on Sunday for a conference and series of meetings - 8 of them on Monday, conference and drinks reception Tuesday, morning conference and 4 more meetings Wednesday. I'd managed to make the most of jet lag and get to the gym each morning, but my efforts were feeble. Three tiring days were followed by an overnight flight and straight into the office (well, I snuck home for a shower in between) for a full day then the Camra beer festival with the hard core London drinking crew. I was so tired I felt drunk even before I got in, but managed to stay awake for 10 different beers and 2 shots of toffee vodka.
Friday was predictably a write off, sitting at my desk toggling between spreadsheets with the latent horror of how much work I've got on slowly building up. None was possible. I just about managed to remind myself that Saturday's flight was at 8.50am not 9.50am.
Although that was pretty painful, getting to Douglas before noon meant I had an entire afternoon of enforced relaxation. I can't remember the last time I had the chance to read newspapers and have the odd snooze, and the sunshine coming in through the window was delicious. I think it may have been Alcman who used the phrase "limb-loosening" (one of the Greek elegiac poets at any rate, and in a rather different context), anyway, this was proper limb-loosening and restorative relaxation.
That was rather a long preamble to a race report.. The Isle of Man marathon is one of my favourite sorts of race - small field, country lanes, great views, lots of familiar faces. It's over two loops which was perfect, it was good to know what was coming in the second half. There are two mini hills and two midi hills in this, a bit of undulation and some blissful shallow descents, an excellent route all round. For the first time in months, I managed to run the whole of the marathon, get reasonable splits, and finally get under that blasted 4 hours. 3'56 and 6th lady for mara #80. A few hours at the rugby club with a bar and free buffet, watching the other runners come in and the presentations before a lift to the airport generously provided by Selina (who set a second PB in as many weeks) and a return journey that, although it involved a flight, took less time and fractionally less cash than a trip to Salisbury for the 54321 mara would have done. Naturally, I bagged my run this morning in favour of 90 minutes' more sleep.
Catching up - Faversham marathon
It’s interesting that trail marathons that take you across 26+ miles of largely pretty scenery bore me senseless. It’s probably because I’m concentrating on where to put my feet, the time passes very slowly and it feels like I’m out there for the best part of a day. On the other hand, a marathon comprised of 40 laps of a small recreation ground in a small town in Kent passed very quickly and most enjoyably and I was finished by lunchtime, leaving the rest of the weekend clear for other activities essential for a well-rounded life: good company, good wine, and getting on a plane to the States for work (spot the odd one out).
I’d never done more than 5 laps in a single marathon before, though this reminded me somewhat of the 10 in 10. There’s something very soothing about a multiple lap course, once you’ve settled into a good pace, you can get into a rhythm that rocks you into a world without time or distance or distractions, no mobile or blackberry or emails to answer, just the same kilometre of path to cover, over and over and over. Each lap was about 50m over one k, and the clock indicated my pace was really consistent at just under 6 minutes per lap. I was really enjoying this marathon and knew it was a far better race to test my current fitness than my recent events.
The route fell into a sort of isosceles triangle – a long steady uphill, topped off by a short sharp climb, a long descent and a short section of flat. The mini hill was fine for the first 10 laps, ok for the next 10, getting rather like hard work for the next 10, knackering the next 2 and then I had 10k to go so I walked it from then on. As for the number of laps I did, I have no idea. I was very puzzled when I went through 21.1km on the nose according to the garmin and was told I’d only done 19 and my official finish clocked almost 43km on the watch. It’s more likely that running in a fairly tight circle made the garmin go a bit screwy, so my finish time was a shade over 4 hours, indicating some return to form.
I’ve hit the wall so many times in marathons, pretty much every marathon since April, and it was nice to have got a lot further in this before capitulating. Even tripping over my own feet after about 15k and ending up sprawled across the path, causing Roger to full on hurdle me before gallantly offering my a hand up didn’t lose more than a few seconds. Maybe without that pimple of a hill I would have been able to go sub 4, certainly without the extra distance that the watch logged. It was a good day.
Faversham is organised by 100 club Sid. It’s not just for 100 clubbers, but there were a lot of them making up the 60 strong field. With so many laps, you were constantly going past people, and having people pass you and it was a very social day out. I feel a bit spoiled lately after the Enigma and this, it’s lovely to feel like a real part of the marathon circuit and to be treated as one of them. Some of these old boys (and not a few girls) are legendary. Seeing John Dawson keep going after his eye op and Selina set a huge PB after hundreds of marathons among all the other inspiring people is incredibly motivating.
Sid knows what marathon runners want and had set out a very professional event with a bank of lap counters and a station laden with water, orange, ribena, lucozade, electrolyte, flapjacks, jelly babies, cereal bars and god knows what else. He then spoiled us rotten at the finish with a Morrisons carrier bag stuffed full of an energy drink, a bottle of Spitfire (brewed in Faversham), a 2 lottery ticket (along with the clause that 10% of any winnings were due back to him) and a giant trophy. No crappy old pressed tin medals here, this was about 10 inches tall with blue paint and monstrously brash. I love it. A great race with only a 5.30am alarm call, and back in London for 3.15pm, now that’s efficient marathon running.
I’d never done more than 5 laps in a single marathon before, though this reminded me somewhat of the 10 in 10. There’s something very soothing about a multiple lap course, once you’ve settled into a good pace, you can get into a rhythm that rocks you into a world without time or distance or distractions, no mobile or blackberry or emails to answer, just the same kilometre of path to cover, over and over and over. Each lap was about 50m over one k, and the clock indicated my pace was really consistent at just under 6 minutes per lap. I was really enjoying this marathon and knew it was a far better race to test my current fitness than my recent events.
The route fell into a sort of isosceles triangle – a long steady uphill, topped off by a short sharp climb, a long descent and a short section of flat. The mini hill was fine for the first 10 laps, ok for the next 10, getting rather like hard work for the next 10, knackering the next 2 and then I had 10k to go so I walked it from then on. As for the number of laps I did, I have no idea. I was very puzzled when I went through 21.1km on the nose according to the garmin and was told I’d only done 19 and my official finish clocked almost 43km on the watch. It’s more likely that running in a fairly tight circle made the garmin go a bit screwy, so my finish time was a shade over 4 hours, indicating some return to form.
I’ve hit the wall so many times in marathons, pretty much every marathon since April, and it was nice to have got a lot further in this before capitulating. Even tripping over my own feet after about 15k and ending up sprawled across the path, causing Roger to full on hurdle me before gallantly offering my a hand up didn’t lose more than a few seconds. Maybe without that pimple of a hill I would have been able to go sub 4, certainly without the extra distance that the watch logged. It was a good day.
Faversham is organised by 100 club Sid. It’s not just for 100 clubbers, but there were a lot of them making up the 60 strong field. With so many laps, you were constantly going past people, and having people pass you and it was a very social day out. I feel a bit spoiled lately after the Enigma and this, it’s lovely to feel like a real part of the marathon circuit and to be treated as one of them. Some of these old boys (and not a few girls) are legendary. Seeing John Dawson keep going after his eye op and Selina set a huge PB after hundreds of marathons among all the other inspiring people is incredibly motivating.
Sid knows what marathon runners want and had set out a very professional event with a bank of lap counters and a station laden with water, orange, ribena, lucozade, electrolyte, flapjacks, jelly babies, cereal bars and god knows what else. He then spoiled us rotten at the finish with a Morrisons carrier bag stuffed full of an energy drink, a bottle of Spitfire (brewed in Faversham), a 2 lottery ticket (along with the clause that 10% of any winnings were due back to him) and a giant trophy. No crappy old pressed tin medals here, this was about 10 inches tall with blue paint and monstrously brash. I love it. A great race with only a 5.30am alarm call, and back in London for 3.15pm, now that’s efficient marathon running.
Sunday 25 July 2010
An action weekend - 1 marathon, 1 skydive and some obligatory partying
David Bayley is one of those runners who does a huge amount more than *just* running loads of marathons. He's about to run his 100th at Nottingham, ran Comrades this year and is going to run the 10 in 10 for the third consecutive year in 2011. But he also selflessly and cheerfully paces people round to PBs, raises thousands and thousands for charity and puts on marathons for those of us desperate enough to want to run them every weekend of the year.
The Summer Enigma was the second in the series, and I freely admit I found it really boring the first time at Easter, but this promised to be a great social day out. Of the 27 runners, I knew about 24 of them, a great mix of 10 in 10ers, Fetchies and 100 Clubbers and there was a great atmosphere, especially at the finish where everyone sprawled out on the grass to welcome people in. It wasn't the most exciting of races but I didn't dislike it as much as I feared and there was some good company from Heather, David himself and Joe. Catching up with 10 in 10 Jim on the way there and back was a particular treat. My X marks the spot tan line from my top was well and truly reinforced too so it was a grand day out on the Grand Union Canal.
I legged it back to London to get scrape off all the salt and put on a cleaner pair of shorts for Frances' birthday drinks with many of the usual drinking suspects and some very fierce shoes. Several cocktails later and I was dropping so, as inviting as more drinks and dancing at some nightclub sounded and as fine as the company was, I did my Cinderella and went home. I had to be up at 4am to get to the completely misnamed North London Parachute Jump site, in Cambridgeshire. North OF London perhaps.
I'd signed up to do a tandem skydive with a bunch of people from work and was so floored by the combination of lack of sleep, mild hangover, not eating very much and a marathon that the thought of throwing myself out of a plane really didn't get the nerves going at all, my brain just couldn't compute it. After a few hours hanging around in the sunshine drinking tea and watching a solo jumper land in the only bush in the entire county, it was our go. I was attached to a predictably lairy pro who distracted me from the 13,000 foot drop with talk of our second date until he shoved me out of the hole in the side of the plane. The freefall bit was an unbelievable rush, it didn't feel like we were falling, more like we were entirely weightless in a monstrous wind. The parachute bit that follows is very calm and peaceful. Your focus shifts from "Oh my god, this feels incredible!!!!!!" to "Oh, wow, look at the view!", the widest horizon you've ever seen, the stillness and silence, and the bloke behind you yelling "You want more, baby? You want me to give you MORE?" Cambridgeshire looks infinitely prettier from way up in the sky than it did in the Pathfinder marathon last August. It's all over far too quickly and my only fear is having discovered a potentially new, very expensive hobby.
Sunday 18 July 2010
Fairlands Valley marathon
I don't know about you, but these race reports can get a bit boring no? Haven't you heard enough of: I ran each 5k in the following splits, had a gel at the following miles, hit the wall at 18 miles, thought of my kids / cat / dead Great Auntie Florence to get me through the last few miles, pulled a hamstring / got cramp / had my leg gnawed off by a rabid cow, had to stop for a comfort break (far too frequently supplied with all the associated and unnecessary detail), got competitive in the final 100 yards to finish one place higher in a field of 10,000 runners and half kill myself in the process etc etc. We've all done it, and it's important to you, of course. But there's a limited amount of things to say about a marathon and an even more limited amount of interesting things to say about a marathon. I'm not sure why I keep writing about them, some of my races are so unmemorable I'd be quite happy to let them slide into the deepest corners of my memory, and be forgotten. So if you're bored by reading about marathons, here's your Stop sign.
Fairlands Valley was infinitely better than I expected. It was much more runnable than Tanners with smoother, wider paths, fewer hills and lots of blissful tarmac. So runnable, in fact, that I got through the first half in just over 2 hours. Unfortunately I did hit the wall around 18 miles, having omitted to eat anything at the checkpoints. Walking a few miles meant that lots of 100 clubbers and Fetchies went past me, it was an excellent turnout, and things got much easier in the last few miles once a few sticky, stodgy, almost indigestible lumps of bread pudding at the last checkpoint worked their magic. I think that's the first time I've gone sub 5 in an LDWA style event.
There is a reason to celebrate. Having planned all my races through to my 100th, I don't have to do any more seriously off road events. There's still the Enigma, the 2 to go and the Grantham double, but the canal stuff is trail-lite (don't you just hate deliberately mispelt words?), nothing like Langport or Tanners or those horrific coastal things. I might not have to be out for more than 5 hours ever again.
Monday 5 July 2010
Tanners 30..in more than two words
The so called early 9am start was a good idea, it's not even early and it gave me a bit more leeway on an event that I knew was going to take a very long time even in a best case scenario. The first 10 miles went ok actually, in terms of the running. Anticipating grumpiness, and wanting to accept responsibility for my own route finding, I wanted to do this by myself so was rather put out by a Kraut who tucked in behind me, ran when I ran, walked when I walked, and was so obviously using me as scout that when he asked me where we were he got a pretty short reply. Worse still was some idiot in terrible purple shorts who popped up from the wrong direction with a mobile glued to his ear. No water, no gels or food, just a mobile and the route description. Well prepared then.
I'd reached a long downhill that I booted down to drop the Kraut and managed to get a bit of space, however, there was a gappy bit in the directions shortly afterwards. I went to investigate one path, only part convinced it was the right one, and Mobile Junky decided to tag along. When I realised it wasn't and turned back, he had the cheek to pause his conversation and ask me "are we lost then?". I said "it's your own responsibility mate, we're not running together" to which I got a (somewhat justifiable) mumbled reply of "f*****g snotty cow". But, jesus, if you do these events then you have to be able to find your own way. It's not a bleeding guided tour.
A few miles later I was still going ok until I tripped over a root or something and went arse over tip. Entirely winded, bit shaken, re-busted toenail, grazed, bruised, dented pride, and busted confidence. Mentally I'd reached a total block. If I cared more about trail, I'd get therapy or something but there is something subconscious and very determined that I am Not Going To Run Off Road. It just wouldn't happen. The body was fine, energy levels were ok, nothing was hurting, but something was stopping me. It felt like I wasn't fit enough to even jog a mere half mile and no matter how often I tried, the dials were in the red zone and sirens were sounding and men in boiler suits were rushing around with fire extinguishers.
So I could walk it. But that's not a marathon to me. This is a deeply personal and subjective view of course and I recognise one that is harsher than that held by the 100 marathon club so I'm going by the 100 club rules until I've got my 100, and then I'm going back and doing it my way. To me, you should be able to run the whole damn lot of a race (you can on this one), it should be an actual race with a start line, proper timing, a finish line, an incentive to finish on the podium, a course where the front runners are busting a gut, where the middle packers are competing with their club mates and where the back of the packers are still involved in a race. Not just a test to see who's got the biggest balls / most obstinacy just to get round. So the next chance I got, I was going to drop out.
That chance never came and, christ, was I fed up by it. The few roads we crossed were too small for buses and were nowhere near towns and I was in a very temporary period of just-get-on-with-it at the penultimate checkpoint at 21 where there may have been a chance of a lift. At the final checkpoint, I really had had enough, all the walking had tightened up my right hip flexor and my feet were killing but mainly it was the CBAs. However, the promise of transport back to the start/finish for retired runners didn't stand. I could either wait until 7pm when the checkpoint closed (contrary to the 6pm stated on the route description) or I could carry on. Only in the case of injury requiring medical attention would they help. So they didn't know about any buses going past near by? That would be a No then.
It's not my intention to slag trail off, lots of people really enjoy it and it has its advantages. However, I can't see the point of shuffling up and down rooty tracks for the best part of a day when I could have covered 26.2 miles on tarmac before lunch. According to my garmin, I covered the 31 miles in a shade under 8 hours, that's about 12 miles running and about 19 miles walking. And it's officially number 76. But it's not a marathon. How can that be a marathon? The only good things about today were the fabulously warm weather, some lovely views, and all the Fetchies and 100 Club friends who passed me, some keeping me company for a while and all with a friendly greeting. That definitely restored some faith. But other than that it was appalling.
To top it all off, I almost got into a fight at Waterloo station on the way home. I was ordering at a sandwich bar and got confused by the offer of trading up for a meal deal. The girl behind me told me it was only a penny or something more for the drink. I said, "ok, I'll have a bottle of water then thanks" to the girl behind the bar. Customer offered to take the water if I didn't want it to which I replied, "er, no, otherwise I wouldn't have taken it". She says "yeah, I thought you looked like a bitch anyway." What? I'd had a long day, was fed up anyway and certainly didn't need any uninvited insults so told her to go screw herself. "Thanks, but you're really ugly, so no thanks." I'd had enough by now (round two) so said "Look, sweetheart, if you're after a punch in the mouth you're going the right way about it." Trouble is, if she'd squared up to me, I would have done it. I already had my own blood on my knee, palm, elbow and shoulder and I was more than ready to get someone else's on my knuckles. Fortunately for me and my as yet non-existent criminal record, she'd been served by now and buggered off. It was a stark contrast to the journey out of London where I got chatted up on a train platform (declined). What's the opposite of ring composition?
I'd reached a long downhill that I booted down to drop the Kraut and managed to get a bit of space, however, there was a gappy bit in the directions shortly afterwards. I went to investigate one path, only part convinced it was the right one, and Mobile Junky decided to tag along. When I realised it wasn't and turned back, he had the cheek to pause his conversation and ask me "are we lost then?". I said "it's your own responsibility mate, we're not running together" to which I got a (somewhat justifiable) mumbled reply of "f*****g snotty cow". But, jesus, if you do these events then you have to be able to find your own way. It's not a bleeding guided tour.
A few miles later I was still going ok until I tripped over a root or something and went arse over tip. Entirely winded, bit shaken, re-busted toenail, grazed, bruised, dented pride, and busted confidence. Mentally I'd reached a total block. If I cared more about trail, I'd get therapy or something but there is something subconscious and very determined that I am Not Going To Run Off Road. It just wouldn't happen. The body was fine, energy levels were ok, nothing was hurting, but something was stopping me. It felt like I wasn't fit enough to even jog a mere half mile and no matter how often I tried, the dials were in the red zone and sirens were sounding and men in boiler suits were rushing around with fire extinguishers.
So I could walk it. But that's not a marathon to me. This is a deeply personal and subjective view of course and I recognise one that is harsher than that held by the 100 marathon club so I'm going by the 100 club rules until I've got my 100, and then I'm going back and doing it my way. To me, you should be able to run the whole damn lot of a race (you can on this one), it should be an actual race with a start line, proper timing, a finish line, an incentive to finish on the podium, a course where the front runners are busting a gut, where the middle packers are competing with their club mates and where the back of the packers are still involved in a race. Not just a test to see who's got the biggest balls / most obstinacy just to get round. So the next chance I got, I was going to drop out.
That chance never came and, christ, was I fed up by it. The few roads we crossed were too small for buses and were nowhere near towns and I was in a very temporary period of just-get-on-with-it at the penultimate checkpoint at 21 where there may have been a chance of a lift. At the final checkpoint, I really had had enough, all the walking had tightened up my right hip flexor and my feet were killing but mainly it was the CBAs. However, the promise of transport back to the start/finish for retired runners didn't stand. I could either wait until 7pm when the checkpoint closed (contrary to the 6pm stated on the route description) or I could carry on. Only in the case of injury requiring medical attention would they help. So they didn't know about any buses going past near by? That would be a No then.
It's not my intention to slag trail off, lots of people really enjoy it and it has its advantages. However, I can't see the point of shuffling up and down rooty tracks for the best part of a day when I could have covered 26.2 miles on tarmac before lunch. According to my garmin, I covered the 31 miles in a shade under 8 hours, that's about 12 miles running and about 19 miles walking. And it's officially number 76. But it's not a marathon. How can that be a marathon? The only good things about today were the fabulously warm weather, some lovely views, and all the Fetchies and 100 Club friends who passed me, some keeping me company for a while and all with a friendly greeting. That definitely restored some faith. But other than that it was appalling.
To top it all off, I almost got into a fight at Waterloo station on the way home. I was ordering at a sandwich bar and got confused by the offer of trading up for a meal deal. The girl behind me told me it was only a penny or something more for the drink. I said, "ok, I'll have a bottle of water then thanks" to the girl behind the bar. Customer offered to take the water if I didn't want it to which I replied, "er, no, otherwise I wouldn't have taken it". She says "yeah, I thought you looked like a bitch anyway." What? I'd had a long day, was fed up anyway and certainly didn't need any uninvited insults so told her to go screw herself. "Thanks, but you're really ugly, so no thanks." I'd had enough by now (round two) so said "Look, sweetheart, if you're after a punch in the mouth you're going the right way about it." Trouble is, if she'd squared up to me, I would have done it. I already had my own blood on my knee, palm, elbow and shoulder and I was more than ready to get someone else's on my knuckles. Fortunately for me and my as yet non-existent criminal record, she'd been served by now and buggered off. It was a stark contrast to the journey out of London where I got chatted up on a train platform (declined). What's the opposite of ring composition?
Sunday 4 July 2010
Monday 21 June 2010
Mauritius marathon - number 75 and 2nd lady
It can be a gamble entering the first edition of an event, but the Mauritius marathon went very smoothly. My hotel, Les Pavillons was part of a hotel group sponsoring the marathon, and I’d had a few outrageously lazy days lying on a sunlounger under a palm tree on the beach, reading, snoozing, sipping cocktails and going for dips in the sea. Friday’s race briefing was at another hotel in the same group, the Tamassa on the south coast near Bel Ombre, which is still very nice but not quite as indulgent and luxurious as mine. I got chatting to a girl there who has whispered seductive thoughts in my ear: she’s running marathons on the 7 continents. Hmmmm, yet another excuse to go on even further flung holidays… The briefing was by a hunky French doctor and featured the race director, a charming French gentleman with experience of Olympic events. We were in good hands.
The race started at 6.30am on Sunday, plenty of time to get the bulk of it done before it got warm. The route wrapped around the south western corner of the island, starting at an otherwise deserted shopping mall, and heading north for 5k then returning south through small villages, past Le Morne, the considerable rocky outcrop that overlooked my hotel, then along the stunning south coast past Baie du Cap and Bel Ombre to St Felix beach. The first stretch to Le Morne was standard issue – clumps of posh houses, pockets of villages with odd restaurants and shops, patches of wasteland and lots of sugar palm plantations. The highlight was running along the colourful Avenue de Jacarandas and getting glimpses of the sea as the sun came up.
The southern stretch was truly fabulous, the road follows the beach with mountains on the left and the sea is postcard perfect there – clear, azure blue water completely still up to the shoreline and waves slamming onto the reef break further out. By the time we’d got down there, more locals were out and about and, while they clearly had no idea what was going on, they were very friendly and smiley. It was mildly uncomfortable running past a funeral in the final kilometre, especially as it was open casket and I got a glimpse of the poor chap’s Sunday best suit, I felt quite disrespectful, but they were largely very encouraging. The good thing about this event is there was a ½ marathon and a relay going on at the same time which attracted a far greater proportion of Mauritian runners than international ones. It didn’t feel like a tourist jamboree, rather a Mauritian race that we were welcomed into.
Looking back at the race route at about 30k with Le Morne in the background
My race wasn’t so good today. I’d certainly tapered, having run very little this week, and was well rested. I probably hadn’t eaten enough, the food at my hotel was excellent in the big white plate and towers of food and smears of jus fashion, but I’d skipped lunch each day (pina coladas count surely?) and hadn’t really had that much more than usual on Saturday. I’m not sure that was the problem though, it was probably more an electrolyte issue. It wasn’t so hot during the race, no more than 25 degrees and fairly cloudy but very humid. For a fairly non-sweaty girl, I was sweating like a stuck pig today. There was pepsi at the water stations and I’d had two gels but I may have been a bit low on salts. Whatever it was, by 30km the wheels were coming off and by 2km later, they’d fallen off entirely.
Up to that point I’d been feeling good. It’s not an easy course with a lot of undulations, and a couple of significant hills, one long drag from c.11k and a shorter but steep little bastard at Le Morne. Still, I was running comfortably and at a decent pace and went through half way in 1’52. With only 10k to go though my legs gave up and felt like solid lead weights, there was no running in them whatsoever. At the 35k checkpoint, 7k seemed like such a long way left and it was pretty dispiriting really. I dropped quite a bit of time and was lucky to come in as second lady in a (for me) woeful time of 4’04. That was enough to bag me a podium finish but I ought to have been a good 20 minutes quicker. I’m not sure what’s going wrong at the moment. Yeah yeah, I’ve still got the 10 in 10 in my legs. But why am I so bleeding unfit?
There wasn’t much ceremony over the finish line, though the presentation was good and the police brass band most entertaining (how often do the police have a brass band, let alone one that does covers ranging from Louis Armstrong to Celine Dion?). The medal was tiny and far from memorable, though offset by a larger version for coming second lady and a rather nice prize of a 3 night stay in a Naiade hotel and free entry to the race next year. I'm now 3/4 of the way to the 100 and it was another lovely place to mark it (50 at Marrakech, 75 at Mauritius and 100 at Malta). What was by far the best bit was taking off my runners and getting straight into the sea. Not quite an ice bath but supremely refreshing.
The Langport double
Within a mile or two of Day 1 of the Langport double, we had reached a section that reminded me precisely why I prefer road: thigh high grass concealing a surface that pitched and rolled like a ship in the southern seas. Since we were the only runners and therefore some of the first people to go through (the walkers had set off a bit earlier) Paul and Colin were doing a grand job of trailblazing while I desperately tried to hang on to the back of them. Saturday’s marathon happily had some good long stretches of tarmac but there was a lot of this very difficult deep grass to wade through. The high stepping running style you have to adopt is pretty exhausting.
There are always some pretty hamlets and views to reward your efforts in LDWA style races. Sadly, these events lacked the usual checkpoints with tables groaning from the weight of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cakes and rice pudding. Squash and a tin of sweets had to do. I was a bit caught out by the promise of “food” and definitely found that being on my feet for 5-6 hours on a few chocolate mini eggs isn’t ideal, I was very low on energy on both days. Overall though, they were well organised races with friendly marshals and even some tape marking the route.
My times weren’t too bad for a route-finding off-road double, 5’16 and 5’58. We had some lengthy pauses at checkpoints and especially at CP3 today where we all got a bit lost. They do seem like obstacle courses with numerous electric wires to duck under (I discovered not many were live) all the gates to open and close, particularly the Bristol gates with a good 12 inch clearance, and dozens of stiles. They honestly do get taller and taller the more miles you do until they turn into mountains. I lost count of the number of times I was grateful not to have short legs, it’s a minor advantage but one I was very grateful for.
Sunday was much the same though a different route so we didn’t have the benefit of Rima dragging her tyre and clearing the trail for us. I was tired today and struggled from early on, having managed to hang on to Paul and Colin for most of yesterday, I lost them fairly early on and then 100 club Danny and 2 ladies who ran today after about 30k. It was good timing, virtually all the rest of it was along the mightily tedious River Parrett and while my mood could barely cope with it by myself, it was unlikely it could have maintained enough good humour for company. I was glad to see the finish.
It wasn’t a bad pair of races, but they were purely for the numbers. That makes Mauritius next weekend a reward for the off road, and number 75. And then a rest.
Paul, Colin and me after Day 1
Dartmoor Discovery
Apologies, my internet access has been reduced to a painful dial up crawl over the past few weeks and I'm only just catching up with posting my race reports.... This one was great, you can skip the Chester and Langport maras, deadly dull.
My training in 2008 had been pretty similar to my marathon training, with extra back to back runs, building up to 10 miles on Saturday followed by 20 on Sunday. It worked well but I suspect that running 10 hard marathons on 10 consecutive days prepares you as best as is possible. Sure, it’s made me a bit slow, but it’s provided the endurance and included a lot of hill training. That meant that I got round this feeling very comfortable on a cup of orange squash (the E numbers must help) at each of the 10 checkpoints and only half a lucozade sport energy bar. What a difference from Day 7 of the TiT!
Having heard me talk about how fantastic the DD is, Patrick had also entered and we set off together. He’s run several marathons this year and Comrades 5 times so he’d have no trouble, plus he’s a bit quicker than me so I fully expected him to push off as he usually does after about 10k. He decided, however, that he’d rather ease back and keep me company so we ran the whole thing together, the first time I’ve ever run an entire race with someone since my very first marathon. It was surprisingly nice, some of the time we’d chat, some of the time we’d be running alongside each other in very companionable silence and our pace seemed perfectly matched. It helps that I’m now a lot stronger up the hills, there’s no question that even a few months ago he would have got bored after about 10 miles, and it was a revelation to be able to run so much more of the course than I have done in previous years. I’ve always been hopeless on hills.
I’m by no means an ultra runner, but I will keep coming back to the DD as long as I’m able to and as long as it’s on. Sadly Phil Hampton can’t run it any more, it’s a massive commitment and he’s not getting any younger, but I very much hope the Teignbridge Trotters take it over. They have such a huge representation in the race that it would be a big gap in their club calendar. Plus it’s a very special event now, the last of the dying breed of ultra marathons on road. The trail ultra scene has taken off in recent years but the road ultra scene is facing extinction and a large part of it must be because it’s so much more difficult to organise a road race now, with licenses and permits etc. The DD has retained its competitive nature, it’s not just a distance to get round like many trail ultras, it’s a serious competition with some very exciting racing up at the front. It would be a huge shame to see it disappear.
It’s not just because it’s competitive that makes it so special. I’m never going to be anywhere near the front in the DD, I come for the superb organization, the way Phil looks after his runners, the atmosphere among the runners themselves, the weekend away and the stunning route. Of all the marathons and ultras I’ve run, this and Connemara are my two stand out events. Both have those wide open skies and soaring views that are somehow incredibly soothing. In the DD, you run down into wooded valleys, over ancient stone packhorse bridges, past tumbledown thatched cottages, through picture postcard hamlets and up onto the open moor with the tors punctuating the skyline. At this time of year, there are dozens of ponies about and lots of foals, some so fresh out of the box that they appear to be all long, perfectly turned out leg. Funny how several years on, they appear to be all stocky body. Not just humans who suffer that then.
It was the perfect counterfoil to Chester on Monday which was pretty disappointing. We were running well all the way through, even picking people off in the last few miles and not slowing down too much. We’d paced it well, relaxing on the downhills, maintaining momentum on the ups and coasting along the flats, neither pushing too hard nor being lazy. I was pleased with an average pace of 10’15 / mile given there are a lot of very serious inclines and an 11 minute course PB. Energy levels were good, the weather was great, the company excellent and the views fabulous. It was a proper life affirmer of a run.
At the start: L-R Paul, Patrick, me, Riel & Helen
Monday 31 May 2010
Chester marathon
As a wise fellow 10 in 10-er pointed out to me, it's inevitable that you have ups and downs in marathon running and, setting aside the TiT, my last few races had all gone very very well. I was really looking forward to running the Chester marathon: it's my first mara after the 10 in 10 and I think 14 days later was the right timing. All my niggles healed very quickly and I'd had a lot of rest (all motivation to train had disappeared with no big event to target) plus I was itching to run a marathon again. Unfortunately, it was probably always going to be a bit difficult emotionally.
I missed the routine that had evolved at the 10 in 10, the small group of runners who knew each other really well and could support each other, whether that was with words, a hug or merely the tacit awareness that we were all going through the same thing. I missed the physios, sure, the physical attention, but also their unswerving enthusiasm and cheerfulness. Selfishly, I missed being one of only 12 and it all being about us, though of course you can't expect that to continue. And I missed the route. Each mile of Windermere has its own character and the atmosphere develops and changes along the way. Chester is an out and back along a fairly straight cycle route that used to be a railway line and is very flat. I'm not criticising it, it's great for PBs, it just wasn't "my" marathon.
My rested legs had developed a lot more strength over 263 miles over a hilly course in 10 days (can someone explain to me how on earth I clocked it 0.1 mile long every single blinking day? I couldn't have cut any more corners without getting in the lake) and decided to set off way too fast. Sadly, those 262 miles were done a lot more slowly than my recent marathon pace and the cardio couldn't keep up. It would appear that I'm not very fit any more. Endurance. Tick. More strength. Tick. Improved obstinacy. Tick. Aerobic capacity. Fail.
I got through the first half in 1'50, my standard first half split but it had felt too hard, so I decided to take the third quarter easy with the hope of picking it up again from 20 miles. Incredibly, things were hurting too - my lower back was killing me, then my right glute went followed by my right ITB. It was very disappointing that things were hurting on a single race when I'd got through several in the 10 in 10 before niggles arose. Still, what it tells me is that I need to strengthen my lower back, do more stretching, and get back into interval training.
3'54 is a reasonable time, however, given my pre 10 in 10 times, it ought to have been 15 minutes faster. I made a comment a while ago about having to accept responsibility for your races. This was not about a lack of rest or training, or race conditions, or the route, or poor preparation, it was my own lack of fitness. At least that's provided renewed motivation.
PS. Today's highlight has got to be walking through the wrong door of the rugby club, turning my head to the right to see a tall, dark and handsome man, stark naked, walking towards me through a cloud of steam. So there was hot water in the men's showers then.
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