When people find out you run, the main reason they give you for not running themselves is that it's too boring. Then, of course, they bang on about the delights of swimming. Swimming!
Well, naturally, I respect all (or most) opinions, but I can assure you that this week my running has not been boring. In fact, I would have loved it to have been boring. Dull. Monotonous. Tedious, even...
Apart from actually getting killed or suffering serious injury, what do you think is is the worst that can happen to you when out running? Because I think that in the space of three days, I was visited by two of any runner's worst nightmares. Not one, mind you, but two.
After my Christmas mini-hiatus, last week I decided to throw myself into full marathon training and so sweep those cobwebs away. The first week went well and I was feeling confident as I got ready on Sunday morning for the planned 14-15 mile (23-24kms) effort.
The overnight rain had relented as I got my kit on and laced up my trainers. I set my MP3 to listen to a BBC play and then Marathon Talk. I'd had my regulation two cups of tea and had been to the loo successfully, so all was apparently in order. As I went out of the door I did feel the slightest qualm in my stomach, but I put it out of my mind and, after some quick stretching, was soon pounding my way down the road.
On a long run, one of over 12-13 miles, I find the first few are always a bit of a challenge, but once I'm past 4 or 5 miles I go into auto-pilot and the thing goes by quite painlessly. This time, however, I got to 5 miles (8kms) and I felt seriously tired already. I even began to have thoughts of cutting the run short and heading home, something which is absolutely unthinkable...
So I employed a bit of psychology and did a checklist of how my various bits were feeling. Legs, knee, lungs...all felt fine, and there was really no need to worry. This perked me up considerably and on I pushed much more freely.
Suddenly, at about 7.5 miles, my world changed. I had this awful churning feeling in my stomach, and if Harrison Ford had been there he would have said there was Clear And Present Danger of my disgracing myself. I stopped and tried to clench all available muscles in an attempt to ward off the inevitable, but nothing was going to stop it. I looked around in desperation, and miraculously there was a bar open just 50 yards away. I sprinted over, dashed inside to the astonishment of the three old gentlemen nursing a mid-morning glass of wine, and asked permission of the lady behind the bar to avail myself of the facilities, tout de suite. I must have been a sorry sight indeed, because she assented and even showed me the way.
Without going into too many details, the relief was palpable. But even then there was one more obstacle to be overcome, because only after I'd "been" did I realise there was no paper. So I had to shuffle out in a squatting position and take up occupancy of the ladies', having first made a calculated guess that it would not be being used...
The rest of the run passed without incident, probably because it took a while for me to shake off the feeling of numbed horror at might have been and so very, very nearly was. So by the end I had bagged 14.4 miles, but the mental scars may yet take some time to heal.
On Tuesday I went out again after making doubly sure all was well "down there", and set off on the prescribed 10-miler at an easy-ish pace. It was awful. I felt horribly tired and after 7 miles I stopped at a drinking fountain, pretty much exhausted. There may be a number of factors for this, but a chronic lack of sleep combined with an increased workload and training mileage certainly isn't going to help. In any case, I had to get home, and the quickest way was always going to be by running there, so I had no choice but to continue. I headed my usual way back, past the bus station and down the hard shoulder of a never-busy dual carriageway. With 9 miles done, there only remained the final stretch and I was home. It's amazing how positive thoughts like this can spur you on even when you think you're about to flake out; I cheered up and picked up the pace for the last few minutes.
Well, in the event, they could easily quite literally have been my last few minutes. I came to a roundabout beyond which the road narrows in a type of chicane. I don't know how, but my legs became tangled, I lost all balance, and I crashed to the ground with a terrfying thud. With two cars behind me, I honestly thought my time was up.
In that awful fraction of a second, all sorts of things went through my mind. Ridiculous things, mostly. Had I left anything embarrassing, shameful and/or incriminating for the police to find at my house? Who would take my place at work later that day? I even thought that should I survive, I would at least have something to write about this time...Then the pain and the shock. I landed squarely on my right forearm and rolled over, ending up in a particularly ungainly heap. My immediate thought was one of relief that the cars hadn't flattened me, followed quickly by the fear I'd broken my arm. Fear, that is, of the boredom and hassle induced by trips to the hospital, of the long waits, of the inconvenince of a plaster cast, of the dashing of my marathon hopes...
A cursory full-body inspection soon allayed these fears: my arm hurt like hell and looked like Di Caprio's after that attack by the grizzly, but it clearly wasn't broken. I picked myself up gingerly, dusted myself down, and continued on my way, sobbing gently to myself.
It was only when I got home that it struck me that despite lots of cars having passed me, and all the pedestrians there were out walking, nobody had enquired as to my well-being, or otherwise showed any interest in my predicament. Muchas gracias, Oviedo!Well, of course I'm probably over-dramatising, but I was quite shaken up by the incident. Mainly, I suppose, because as I was going down I really did feel I'd had it and the cars behind me were going to run me over. I thought how easily this had happened and wondered, in fact, how something similar - or worse - had never happened before. I do run along the road a lot even when there are pavements, but I never take risks and my safety is always my principal concern when out running.
Needless to say, by the next morning, although my legs felt sore I was keen to get out again, so off I went for a 5-mile recovery run. These are designed to flush out any toxins from your legs, and as long as you take them nice and easy, you finish feeling much better, and even fresher, than when you started. Thankfully this was the case on this occasion; I had been more worried about just how tired I'd been feeling recently than anything else, so this workout put my mind to rest in that respect.
On Thursday came a real test, however. 9 miles (14kms) including 5 (8kms) at half marathon pace is a challenging workout this early in the programme, and my build-up to it had hardly been the most encouraging. However, I was determined to get a really good session in and thus turn the page, closing the chapter of recent misfortunes.
Would I suffer yet another disappointment on this long, long road to Brighton? Or would I nail the workout and come away feeling that now I am well and truly on the way to marathon success? Well, you'll have to wait until next time to find out!
Thank you once again for following my story - and for not tutting too much at my melodramatic exaggeration!
Stay healthy and happy, and I'll see you next time!
Taste The Floor
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