It's 10am on a Sunday morning. The rain is lashing down on the car roof. I sit inside, looking out over the playing fields of Harrow School, where over a century of Harrovians have suffered bullying, abuse and humiliation over their lack of sporting prowess.
Judging by the amount of club runners turning out for this local race, I am quite concerned about the potential for me being humiliated for my lack of sporting prowess. Having run a grand total of 6 miles in the preceding 12 days, and still suffering from sorely bruised ribs, I'm not brimming with confidence as I hide in the dry car until the last possible moment. There's a strong chance I could finish last in this one.
Down at the start, the high proportion of 'proper' runners is even more obvious. Despite the temperature of 1 degree and rain coming down like ping pong balls, most people are lined up in the shortest shorts and the vestiest vests. They're freezing to death but they're definitely 'proper' runners.
All masochistic smugness I had about me being a 'proper' runner is starting to wane. Turning out in the rain doesn't make you that hard if you're decked out in tights, hat, gloves and your Team Labreque NYC marathon waterproof. The kudos are nothing compared to those bright pink legs and shoulders that everyone else has on display.
Once the race starts though, it's a totally different game of ping pong. Harrow's playing fields are the lowest point of Harrow School. Harrow School is at the top of Harrow Hill. Harrow Hill is supposedly the only part of Southern England that will not be submerged by the melting icecaps at the end of this century. It's that high. And we're running up it for the first 500 yards of the race.
By the time we reach the first mile marker, I'm definitely not last. I'm not walking either, which seems to be the default tactic for so many runners when faced with a hill. The rain is starting to ease, although we're still at risk of a major soaking from the deep puddles that local drivers insist on driving through when approaching a runner. They're just jealous.
By the time we get to the 3 mile marker, we're taking on the hill from the very bottom. I go past two 'proper' runners at the bottom - all short shorts and corned beef shoulders in their club vests. I go past another club runner halfway up the hill (admittedly I am coughing up one of my own lungs in my now obligatory bout of exercise-induced asthma) and as I get to the top I run past two more runners, one of whom is so 'proper' he is wearing the most conflicting amount of commemorative race tops ever seen on an individual. Show-off. That's me, I mean, going past him.
I drop another two club runners going down the hill again and by the finish, I have overtaken in total about 8 people. I am not going to be last! Hills are my bitch. I may never stop coughing again, but I am deliriously happy. I have just run 6 miles in 56 minutes, and someone has given me a KitKat. Running is brilliant, even in the rain.
I drink a cup of water, turn round and head back to the car to go home and dry off. In front of me, a grown man cries in pain. Perhaps his vest and short shorts are cutting into him.
LON
Sunday 21 February 2010
Wednesday 10 February 2010
how the not-so-mighty are fallen
I've not made a good start to week 5 of training. My calf seems to be recovered enough to run again - obviously the decision to only wear flat shoes in this freezing weather has done the trick for my mobility.
However, I seem to have discovered a new winter affliction - night blindness. I set off for an evening run last night and was going quite nicely, all muscles in full working order, despite the freezing cold. As I headed into the final 1.5 miles of my run, up a badly lit hill, I tripped over a raised paving stone and went hard down onto the ground.
Unfortunately, this paving stone was a few yards away from a bus stop, so I had a full audience for the fall. Not satisfied with attentions of this captive audience, I made sure I drew full attention to myself from anyone else nearby by wailing 'Ow' really loudly as I broke my fall with my left arm and shoulder. What a wuss!
I tried to minimise my shame by getting straight up and continuing uphill away from the spectators, relieved that I hadn't hurt my foot or pulled a muscle. My right knee, elbow and hip were pretty vocal about their lack of approval for my new running gait (sideways on the ground, shouting 'ow' - you should try it, Ms Radcliffe) and the right side of my ribcage was a bit sore, but I was convinced the only major damage was to my pride.
I ran home as fast as I could, in order to avoid being passed by the bus full of people who had witnessed my ineptitude, pointing and laughing from the window. Buoyed by just a couple of scrapes to knee and elbow, I vowed to eat more carrots and laugh it off. Then I got in the shower, tried to lift my right arm and felt the real agony of the fall.
I've obviously elbowed myself right in the ribcage as I've fallen, shouldercharging the pavement and pushing my arm into my side. As a result, all lifting and movement is agony, and getting up off the sofa is done in a style that would earn me the scorn of arthritic pensioners across the globe.
Let's face it, this winter training is rubbish - how people train for the London marathon in the dark and the cold is beyond me. They have my utmost respect.
In the meantime, I'm pricing up headlamps. If I'm going to look stupid, I might as well be able to see while I'm at it.
LON
However, I seem to have discovered a new winter affliction - night blindness. I set off for an evening run last night and was going quite nicely, all muscles in full working order, despite the freezing cold. As I headed into the final 1.5 miles of my run, up a badly lit hill, I tripped over a raised paving stone and went hard down onto the ground.
Unfortunately, this paving stone was a few yards away from a bus stop, so I had a full audience for the fall. Not satisfied with attentions of this captive audience, I made sure I drew full attention to myself from anyone else nearby by wailing 'Ow' really loudly as I broke my fall with my left arm and shoulder. What a wuss!
I tried to minimise my shame by getting straight up and continuing uphill away from the spectators, relieved that I hadn't hurt my foot or pulled a muscle. My right knee, elbow and hip were pretty vocal about their lack of approval for my new running gait (sideways on the ground, shouting 'ow' - you should try it, Ms Radcliffe) and the right side of my ribcage was a bit sore, but I was convinced the only major damage was to my pride.
I ran home as fast as I could, in order to avoid being passed by the bus full of people who had witnessed my ineptitude, pointing and laughing from the window. Buoyed by just a couple of scrapes to knee and elbow, I vowed to eat more carrots and laugh it off. Then I got in the shower, tried to lift my right arm and felt the real agony of the fall.
I've obviously elbowed myself right in the ribcage as I've fallen, shouldercharging the pavement and pushing my arm into my side. As a result, all lifting and movement is agony, and getting up off the sofa is done in a style that would earn me the scorn of arthritic pensioners across the globe.
Let's face it, this winter training is rubbish - how people train for the London marathon in the dark and the cold is beyond me. They have my utmost respect.
In the meantime, I'm pricing up headlamps. If I'm going to look stupid, I might as well be able to see while I'm at it.
LON
Sunday 7 February 2010
My left foot
After 3 days off running, resting my left calf, I decided that the best way to test out my muscle strain was an 8 mile run. It was either going to hurt straight away or not hurt for a while, so I thought I might as well get as far as I could after missing 3 training days
And it was ok - for 6 miles anyway. Even then, after 6 miles, I just had a bit of tightness. Nothing that stopped me from carrying on for another couple of miles, I didn't even have to break into a walk. I'll need to keep an eye on it, and use plenty of ice and muscle rubs when I'm not running but hopefully it won't get any worse. As a precaution, I'll cut down to 3 runs this week and my long run next week is actually a trail race, so perhaps the grassy surface will help take the strain.
The whole idea of being injured is quite worrying - after all, it's not like I 'm just doing a half marathon a few miles from home. This is another transatlantic project. So I really hope I don't end up being a spectator on the day!
On the plus side, this weekend I've started to see some other runners in my area. I presume they're all in training for the London marathon in April and are starting to log their long runs - they have certainly never surfaced before now, physical exercise is something that local residents normally scorn. But it's reassuring to know that someone else is going to have to share in the verbal abuse from the local teenagers over the next few weeks.
LON
And it was ok - for 6 miles anyway. Even then, after 6 miles, I just had a bit of tightness. Nothing that stopped me from carrying on for another couple of miles, I didn't even have to break into a walk. I'll need to keep an eye on it, and use plenty of ice and muscle rubs when I'm not running but hopefully it won't get any worse. As a precaution, I'll cut down to 3 runs this week and my long run next week is actually a trail race, so perhaps the grassy surface will help take the strain.
The whole idea of being injured is quite worrying - after all, it's not like I 'm just doing a half marathon a few miles from home. This is another transatlantic project. So I really hope I don't end up being a spectator on the day!
On the plus side, this weekend I've started to see some other runners in my area. I presume they're all in training for the London marathon in April and are starting to log their long runs - they have certainly never surfaced before now, physical exercise is something that local residents normally scorn. But it's reassuring to know that someone else is going to have to share in the verbal abuse from the local teenagers over the next few weeks.
LON
Wednesday 3 February 2010
Today is clearly not my day
Today I've hit a hitch in my training.
And it's all been going so well. My weekend runs went like a dream, I ran fast, I ran long - I was in the zone. I was so in the zone on my long run at the weekend that I forgot where I was supposed to be running and ended up a couple of miles further away from home than I even intended.
But today, it's all gone a bit wrong. I headed off to a conference in Birmingham today, at the not-very-salubrious venue of the National Motorcycle Museum. Like all venues in the West Midlands, the venue was on a roundabout, on a roundabout, off a roundabout, on a roundabout and only accessible by car. I got a cab from the nearest station, cutting it fine for the start, hopped out of the cab, accelerated to make it into the revolving doorway without having to wait for the next revolve - and pop went my left calf.
I spent the rest of the day either limping up stairs carpeted with the most lurid print you could possibly imagine or sat on a luridly printed chair desperately trying to stretch out my calf without looking like a lunatic in a room full of civil servants (admittedly this is a big ask, lunatics don't usually stand out in a room full of civil servants. You'd probably have to wear a clown costume to raise so much as an eyebrow).
Once I got back home, I decided to take the calf out for a muscle-warming run. The first three quarters of a mile felt great, the calf seemed to be appreciating the exercise and I felt confident I could run it off. As I approached the mile mark, the calf started to twinge a bit. Then as I passed my first mile marker, the whole lower left leg just went. I felt like a racehorse with a broken leg - in fact, if I'd been on a racecourse they probably would have put screens round me and shot me on the spot, the limp and the pain was so pronounced. After walking for a bit, the leg let me start jogging home and I managed to make it back to the house intact ( I even managed to dodge the rottweiler that lunged for me about half a mile from home)
The calf is now on ice (writing this entry is giving me a craving for veal, for some reason) and I'm hoping that ice, rest, and a good night's sleep will do the trick. It doesn't feel too bad, so don't think it's too serious.
Here's hoping.
And I'll definitely let the revolving door go the next time.
LON
And it's all been going so well. My weekend runs went like a dream, I ran fast, I ran long - I was in the zone. I was so in the zone on my long run at the weekend that I forgot where I was supposed to be running and ended up a couple of miles further away from home than I even intended.
But today, it's all gone a bit wrong. I headed off to a conference in Birmingham today, at the not-very-salubrious venue of the National Motorcycle Museum. Like all venues in the West Midlands, the venue was on a roundabout, on a roundabout, off a roundabout, on a roundabout and only accessible by car. I got a cab from the nearest station, cutting it fine for the start, hopped out of the cab, accelerated to make it into the revolving doorway without having to wait for the next revolve - and pop went my left calf.
I spent the rest of the day either limping up stairs carpeted with the most lurid print you could possibly imagine or sat on a luridly printed chair desperately trying to stretch out my calf without looking like a lunatic in a room full of civil servants (admittedly this is a big ask, lunatics don't usually stand out in a room full of civil servants. You'd probably have to wear a clown costume to raise so much as an eyebrow).
Once I got back home, I decided to take the calf out for a muscle-warming run. The first three quarters of a mile felt great, the calf seemed to be appreciating the exercise and I felt confident I could run it off. As I approached the mile mark, the calf started to twinge a bit. Then as I passed my first mile marker, the whole lower left leg just went. I felt like a racehorse with a broken leg - in fact, if I'd been on a racecourse they probably would have put screens round me and shot me on the spot, the limp and the pain was so pronounced. After walking for a bit, the leg let me start jogging home and I managed to make it back to the house intact ( I even managed to dodge the rottweiler that lunged for me about half a mile from home)
The calf is now on ice (writing this entry is giving me a craving for veal, for some reason) and I'm hoping that ice, rest, and a good night's sleep will do the trick. It doesn't feel too bad, so don't think it's too serious.
Here's hoping.
And I'll definitely let the revolving door go the next time.
LON
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