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.
Monday, 4 October 2010
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.
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