That time I kind of got hit by a car

I reckon that in the 7-ish years that I’ve been a regular runner I’ve run somewhere between 4,000 and 5,000 miles. And yesterday, for the first time in all those miles, I was hit by a car.

I’ll let that thought linger before I explain.

It gets a lot less dramatic from here. To be honest, it would be more accurate to say that a car was hit by me.

I was on a very slow recovery jog – early Sunday morning around the Tan Track in central Melbourne – unsuccessfully attempting to shake out some of the muscle and joint pain from my 16 miler the day before. The Tan is an almost uninterrupted trail that measures just over 5k from our front door, all the way round and back home again. I do it all the time.

To get to the Tan I need to cross two roads, both of which have traffic lights and pedestrian signals at convenient spots. So it’s probably no surprise that this isn’t where a car got hit by me.

I was on the home stretch having just left the Tan to run down a very quiet residential street, picking up a bit of speed on a downhill. I’m running on a narrow pavement – a bit unusual as this road is so dead that often enough I just run in the road itself. It would have been a better idea to do that on this occasion.

The nose of a car pulls out of a concealed lane. There’s an imperceptibly small dip in the pavement, no lines painted on the road, no visibility for pedestrians or drivers. The bonnet appears and then a door and then I’m thinking “Well, this is happening.”

The driver sees me and slams on the brakes at the point at which my chest and arms splay out melodramatically across his car’s bonnet. The car comes to a stop as my right knee connects with the wing, which buckles slightly under the impact. I’ve more or less tripped over his car and broken my fall with my entire self. I stay there a fraction of a second to check whether I’m dead.

I’m not dead, but I am immensely surprised.

In fact I’m not even winded – my arm is a little uncomfortable as I landed heavily on it, but as I take a step away from the car and lean back on a convenient tree, trying to catch my breath, I remark that I really am totally fine. I’m remarking this to the driver as he lowers his window and we both look at each other, wondering who is going to shout at who.

In fact neither of us shouts. He wants to check I’m OK because that’s a good place to start and I want to apologise because I am British.

Luckily I really am OK. Perhaps a little shocked but nothing more than that. He drives off, I wave and jog the rest of the way home. Carefully.

I’d like to thank my brain, which realised early enough that my legs weren’t going to stop in time to avoid a collision, so worked out that spreading the impact as much as possible was the best alternative. For a fraction of a fraction of a second it considered swerving me out in front of the nose of the car – but if the driver hadn’t stopped then I would surely have broken a leg or hit the pavement, maybe catching an ankle or something under a front bumper and leaving myself with a large medical bill and a severe disinclination to boogie.

So what have I learned from this little escapade? Well, not much. I learned that this particular laneway is there, and that visibility is appalling, so it’s worth slowing down for a spot of green-cross-coding. I also learned what I have long-suspected: that being run over – or indeed running into cars – is literally no fun at all. More importantly, as I trotted the rest of the way home, heartrate at 30 or 40 thousand bpm, I resolved to generally be more careful. In an abstract sense, I’d like to get to 10,000 miles, or 20,000 miles, or none at all if the mood doesn’t take me, but I’d ideally like to get there on my own two feet.

Happy running, be safe out there,

Dave
(5 weeks, 6 days to 26.2)

2016 to date: km's 442, parkruns: 6, races: 1

Time may change me...

…but I can’t change time. And this is getting to be a problem.

I have trained for marathons before – some seasons much more diligently than others. But until the current fear-filled VLM/Wall Run combo I haven’t ever attempted to string together quality, consistent high-mileage weeks, and it is taking its toll.

In training terms, it’s going well. I am getting stronger and faster, recovering more quickly and even sometimes feeling like I could manage two good sessions in a day. But the timetabling of these training sessions is turning into a major headache.

I am training five times a week, running around 15-20 miles across Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, then doing two long-ish runs on the weekend. As the runs get longer my need to squeeze every possible ounce of training value out of my free time is becoming more intense. For example, I simply cannot fit a run of more than five miles into my lunch hour, unless I forgo one of: showering, changing, or actually eating lunch. More than once it’s the food that’s lost out. I have the luxury of a gym on hand at work and have been using the dreadmill for some of the shorter lunchtime runs, as this saves the navigation/traffic light/distraction time involved in a proper run, but this results in such a sweatfest that I spend what feels like even more time trying to make myself presentable to get back to the office.

In the evenings I have to balance the cold, the available daylight, my ridiculously high standards of designing interesting routes and other commitments. Oh yeah, other commitments. Like seeing my wife and eating food.

Oh and I’ve got a job as well, did I mention that?

And this blog to write! Humbug.

Plus sometimes I drink intoxicating beverages and this makes running much trickier.

You’re thinking that I should get up early and run before work. This is because you’ve never seen me in the mornings. So forget that – I just can’t do it.

At the weekends things are somehow more difficult. This weekend coming I’m planning 16 miles on Saturday morning and another 8 or 9 on Sunday morning. I regularly start these runs at hours that mean I’m having breakfast at a time beginning with 7. Soon it will have to be 6. At the weekend! Invariably, when I finish a long run: broken, exhausted, inspired and elated, I dash off almost immediately post-shower to meet someone, be somewhere, do something, or perhaps get on a plane or train or back in the car.

There seems to be no let up, no wiggle room and I confess that I am struggling to keep all the plates spinning. I often get to the end of the week, look smugly at my mileage total that I’ve diligently logged in the diary, then morosely look ahead to all the empty weeks stretching out until these two monstrous racing commitments are done. What kind of moron would design himself such a punishing schedule?

All that, and my mileage is due to almost double in the next two months.

Two things keep me going. One is my enormous commitments to my main races this year. Between the honour of pacing duties at the VLM and the gentlemanly bond we have entered into over the Wall, there’s no way I can let training slide. The other is the classic maxim, applicable to many parts of life, that ‘somewhere, right now, someone busier than you is out for a run’.

And I’m off to catch him.

Happy running

Dave

2013 to date: miles run - 208.4, races: 1, parkruns: 1, miles biked: 3

I'll pace YOUR race!

Excellent news! As I’ve been hinting rather explicitly for some time, I am delighted to say that I’m currently training for the Virgin London Marathon, which I will be running as part of Runner’s World’s pacing team. This means I will totally relinquish all interest in my own racing, and will instead be aiming to run at exactly 10 minutes per mile, wearing some sort of cumbersome marker to signify the same, and finish in exactly 4:22. The idea is that anyone looking to run at that pace or finish in that time will look for me and use my position as a benchmark for their own pace. Simples.

Now running a marathon in around 4:20ish shouldn’t be a problem from a sporting/challenge point of view. As you know, I’ve topped out at 3:49 and barring a small hernia-related hiccup, can usually be found completing 26.2 miles in around about 4 hours (there, there and there). Trying to run a marathon in precisely 4 hours and 22 minutes, however, is a different story.

Imagine the scope of this challenge. Every single mile has to be perfect, completed in bang-on 10 minutes. This means I will have to constantly adjust my effort to account for inclines, corners, wind, congestion of other runners and probably plenty of other factors I haven’t even considered, just to iron out crinkles in my pace that would otherwise characterise a ‘normal’ race. My pace will have to be metronomic, even if all around me are runners speeding up and slowing down as they find their natural rhythms. If I run a mile 30 seconds too fast or too slowly, I will have to adjust for that over subsequent miles. I will have to become a marathon running machine equipped with some pretty snazzy maths skills.

It’s a bit daunting, now I think about it.

www.virginlondonmarathon.com/

But it’s also incredibly exciting. Not only do I get the privilege of running the Virgin London Marathon, probably the most iconic of all iconic sporting events in this country, but I get to run it in a unique and fascinating context. My assigned pace and finish time are likely to attract a large number of first-timers, which means I get the further privilege of meeting, chatting to and supporting scores of beginners to achieve success. I get to be part of the Runner’s World team, running the VLM in a network of the most prominent people in British distance running. What an incredible opportunity.

My training for this will be simple: a holistic marathon build-up in which every long run is done at 10 minute:miles, which should also produce a hearty base from which to plan for The Wall Run, my first ultra which is scheduled for June (more anon.).

I am ludicrously excited.

Happy running

Dave

2013 to date: miles run - 64.03, parkruns: 1, miles biked: 3

A most profitable run

Last night I had a plan to go for a run with almost-elite athlete and total jobbyhead Megan Crawford. Megan is an awful lot faster than me and tougher than a pile of tough things tied together with iron chains of toughness, so whenever I can I like to think of a way to slow down our runs so as to save my lungs from exploding. Luckily last night I had a truly excellent idea indeed.

If you’re a whisky fan, you will already know about Jura, an island on the west coast of Scotland with a population of 200 and a major export industry of incredible whiskies. If you’re a whisky fan on Twitter you can follow them on @jura_whisky. This week they’ve started a competition to promote their ‘Superstition’ bottling, a beautiful single malt full of peat - surprisingly smooth and one of my favourites. Jura’s Twitter people hid a number of ‘lucky pennies’ in Edinburgh since, as you know, if you see a lucky penny, and pick it up, then all day long you’ll have good luck. In this case, you win a bottle of Superstition. Jura’s Twitter feed and the hashtag #JuraPennies gave clues as to their locations - first one to find the penny wins the whisky. Simples.

Around lunchtime and early afternoon, three clues went up on Twitter. By the time I left work around 5pm, one penny had already been found, and my heart sank. Surely the others would be gone well before I was meeting Megan at 6.30pm? I sat at home and fretted.

Undeterred, when the time rolled around I explained the plan to Megan, and though quite reasonably confused and slightly suspicious, she agreed to the hunt. Here’s the first clue we pursued:

So near something called Thomas on Princes Street. With no time to lose, we ran straight there, me trying to explain the wider context of the marketing campaign as we went, though most of our conversation revolved elsewhere. Such was our distraction, that by the time we reached Princes Street I felt a little silly for dragging Megan up here, where there’s loads of traffic and plenty of interruptions to running, which is what she actually wanted from the evening. Pressure to find the penny mounted.

We jogged passed a few of the imposing statues on the south side of the street, looking for anyone called Thomas. We settled on Thomas Guthrie, whose statue sat inside Princes Street Gardens but faced north towards the street. It being dark and late and windy and horrible, the gardens were locked. Without hesitation, we levered ourselves gingerly over the fence – though clearly not gingerly enough as one of the fence spikes went straight through my trainer and into the insole, poking me in the foot but causing no lasting damage. We looked nervously at each other once into the gardens, wondering if this was a tad ridiculous, and what on earth we would say to a groundskeeper or PC should they ask. Eager to move on, we started scouring around the base of the statue using the headtorch I’d brought for the purpose, but to no avail. Bringing Megan was a stroke of genius – she gamely rummaged through piles of leaves and clambered all over the statue feeling for hiding places, but still nothing. Things were looking bleak. We had trespassed on council property on a whim and had nothing to show for it. Hmm.

Just as I thought all was probably lost, I pulled out my phone to re-read the clue. ‘Take a seat to find your penny.’ That’s it! The penny must be under or near a seat! If you know Princes Street gardens and the general area, you will know that there are dozens of benches to hide things under, and we started the process of scouring all of them around the statue. Again having two of us to share the search was ideal. But still nothing.

Hopping carefully back over the fence (no puncture wounds this time) we crossed the road to try the benches which faced the statue, but again found only chewing gum mixed with disappointment. We agreed to give up on this clue and started thinking about the second, though we agreed to have a cursory look on the last few benches on the south side of the street before we left the area.

And we only ruddy well found the penny.

We leapt around like season-winning F1 drivers, confusing the commuters and drawing a load of mad looks. I held the penny aloft like Charlie (of Chocolate Factory fame) and we hastily read the rules on the packet. No doubt about it – we had won ourselves a bottle of Superstition.

But wait, only one? To share?

Five seconds later the penny was stowed in my pack and we were sprinting along Princes Street, heading up the Mound and onto the Castle Esplanade. We had tasted victory and we wanted more. The last unclaimed clue was as follows:

The side of the castle. Hmm. Have you seen Edinburgh Castle? It’s enormous and built on a volcano. It has more sides than you can shake a stick at, and even if you did you would need a stick that could shake at dozens of roads, footpaths, building, alleyways, a railway and plenty of other stuff. And a map? Like a tourist information board, perhaps? Again there are hundreds of those all over the centre of Edinburgh. This could take hours to find.

Running straight up to the castle and through a ghost tour (we probably looked dead and can only have added to the effect) we carefully toured the perimeter of the castle esplanade, looking for a map. In the near-total darkness, we convinced each other that many things were maps – memorial plaques, a guardsman’s hut, a blank wall. Megan even closely inspected a drain cover in case that turned out to be a map. But no joy. Returning to the top of the Royal Mile, we spotted the Scotch Whisky Experience, a visitor attraction all about whisky – and lo and behold it had a map of its many attractions displayed on the wall outside the building! This had to be it.

It wasn’t. We ran our fingers over every possible nook and cranny. We focussed on the phrase ‘lead to your penny’, thinking maybe that it could be hidden near something made of lead. We dismissed this idea. Eventually.

There are some stairs running down the south side of Castle Rock near the entrance to the esplanade, and I suggested we go down them looking for an info board or map, maybe somewhere towards the Grassmarket. Megan eventually agreed after I promised we could come back to the Scotch Whisky Experience and look again if we still couldn’t find it. We ran just a few steps down before coming across a black box, stood on a post on its own at the edge of the stairs. A box that dispensed something. A paper something. A tourist map kind-of-paper something. And taped underneath the box was only another ruddy penny! No doubt you got this hours ago, but here we were on some steps to the side of the castle, finding a map. Obvious when you know how. The ghost tour guide looked a bit miffed at our whooping and laughing and cheering, but we didn’t care. We had two pennies.

The pennies were safe but the night was young. We ran another four or five miles around Edinburgh, taking in a few little hills and chatting some more. When we got back to my flat we took photos, laughed at the madness of it all and sent tweets to Jura so we could claim our prizes. I tried to tempt Megan with a wee celebratory dram, but she took her penny home, probably for some sports supplements and stretching or whatever it is she does of an evening. I stared at the penny I was left with and laughed. What a wonderful and mad evening.

The competition continues throughout the UK as the Edinburgh competition is just the beginning – you should follow @jura_whisky and get your own paws on some tasty aqua vita. I strongly recommend running as a way to find your quarry. If nothing else, runners tend to know their cities inside out, and you may find the clues much easier than the competition will...

Happy running (and hunting!)

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 402.8, miles biked - 73.2, metres swum - 3950, races - 4

Best run of the year (2012 edition)

Despite accusations by my Best Man during his speech that this blog is merely a conduit for my own self-aggrandisement (it is) among enquiries of ‘what is with all the running?’ (don’t know), I still managed to incorporate quite a lot of running into my own wedding. Which is entirely how I wanted it.

This blogpost is NOT about the wedding – one day I might write something down about what the day meant to me, but not today. No, this post is about The Third Traditional Pre-Wedding Run. I’ve already written about the first, and bypassed the second as it wasn’t my run to write about. So here goes with the third.

A glorious, crisp morning broke over St Andrews on Saturday 29^th September, and with several hours still remaining before my 3pm appointment at the altar I invited guests to join me for a wee jog, leaving from the Martyr’s Monument at 10.30am.  I expected a couple of ushers, my brother/best man and maybe one or two other hardy souls to form a motley crew. I was not entirely prepared to find a group of a dozen enthusiastic runners ready for a few swift miles...

And so we took off. A bizarre cross-section of the social circles of my life cheerily jogging in a loose group, composed of my brother, some friends from University, others from school, my brother-in-law-to-be’s girlfriend, friends whose provenance is lost in the happy mists of time and probably a couple I’ve forgotten. We headed east along The Scores, running in the middle of the deserted road and taking in the sights and sounds of St Andrews. Unbeknownst to me, one of my non-running ushers had just moments before bundled my bride off the road to avoid us meeting on the morning of the wedding. Thinking she was still in her rented cottage at the corner of The Scores and North Castle Street, we sprinted past the front door and onwards, descending fast to the harbour. A small boy shouted out to me ‘be careful!’. We tried not to take it as an omen.

Rounding the medieval stone walls we joined the beach-side path, and the field spread out. At the front a couple of marathoners, a former international sprinter and a hardy triathlete, towards the back a few ground-pounders who apply less haste and more refinement to their technique. All running together, all smiling and chatting and enjoying the scenery. I couldn’t have been happier.

Reaching the end of East Sands we folded back on ourselves, taking the road into town and meeting what can only be described as a pirate en route – an older gent with an eyepatch, large beard and a stick. We tried not to take this as an omen either. I put an usher in charge of leading the pack as I dropped back to mingle with others, and he led us down a sharp left along Queen’s Terrace, a beautiful tree-lined road which transforms abruptly into the Lade Braes, a footpath which could take you on all kinds of adventures if you had the time. We didn't, and so instead headed through the western end of town, pointing out local landmarks to the out-of-towners as we headed gently towards West Sands.

We regathered the pack for a dash across Grannie Clark's Wynd - the perilous road which crosses the 1st and 18th fairways of the world famous Old Course. The faster amongst us summoned wild sprints under the pretext of minimising the risk of being taken out by low-flying golf balls, and before long the pack was spread out again, snaking along West Sands. My intentions to keep the team together were proving impossible, but no matter, it's hard to get lost on a giant empty beach... We remarked on our obligatory Chariots of Fire moment, and I smiled enormously and inwardly, watching 12 people whom I love dearly, gathered in a funny little corner of Fife, ran along the beach where I proposed to my Crew Chief. The sun peeked out from behind a tiny cloud and everything was well with the world. 

Imagine synth music...

As we reached the turnaround and slogged through a gap in the dunes, the field became irretrievably spread out as the faster runners jostled for supremacy – I chose to stick with the back marker rather than join in the ruckus at the front. By the time we got back to the Martyr’s Monument, where a receiving party of other wedding guests had assembled, we had clocked just over four miles. An impeccable start to the day.

The day got quite a lot better after that.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 326, miles biked - 69.2, metres swum - 3350, races - 3

Redemption and Urban Zebras

After the dress rehearsal disasters which plagued my mind and feet last weekend, I was a little apprehensive about scheduling another run with my partner-in-suffering Neil Gray. But fortune favours the brave and so we valiantly planned to meet in South Gyle, just to the west of Edinburgh, aiming to run 13 miles. Or 9, or maybe 8, or maybe just for an hour...

The sun blazed overhead as we met in the car park. Neil’s better half Karlie and Karlie’s better half Nic were also there to greet me, and Karlie immediately grassed Neil up: 'HE’S BEEN DRINKING, YOU KNOW!!' she declared with a small amount of incredulous glee. I admitted that I too, had had a few beers and maybe a whisky the night before and only made it to bed around 1am. Neil looked at his shoes and mumbled that he’d only got to sleep at 5. So once again we started a run on the back foot, bemoaning our pathetic inability to stick to a plan.

But after last week’s excessive hype and subsequent deflation, we had abandoned all preconceptions and aspirations about this run. We were just going to go out for a few good miles and to rebuild our shattered running confidence. Heading out of South Gyle at a comfortable trot, we took in old Corstorphine before following the main road towards the city. I had a notion of climbing Corstorphine hill, but had missed my planned turn-off and ended up careering around residential areas before schlepping up the longest, most gradual ascent to the peak.

Neil silently cursed my route planning and I remarked on how my hill-climbing skills had all but vanished since my fitness peak for SF and Loch Ness. The brilliant blue sky and warm sun set a stunning backdrop to our long, slow slog, and the heat sapped our energy just as it had last weekend. In the final few feet before the top Neil managed to slip off the trail and earn himself a few nettle stings, and when we did finally reach the highest point of the hill we found our view blocked by trees. Neil attempted to – er – undo some of the effects of the previous night’s drinking, providing an incongruous soundtrack for our obscured view. We were in danger of not enjoying ourselves again.

But then we rounded a corner. And our fortunes changed.

All of Edinburgh spread out before us. The entire route of next weekend’s marathon stretched out along the stunning Forth coast all the way to Bass rock and beyond, flanked by the Castle, Scott Monument, Arthur’s Seat, Calton Hill, the broad streets of the New Town and everything else about my favourite city in the world, all of it lit up by brilliant sunshine on a cloudless day. The struggle and strife melted away as the rewards for our toil came into glorious, sharp focus. We looked at the view for a while.

After some time of gazing at the incredible vista, I explained to Neil that there were several ways down – I suggested either a route I knew would take us back to a main road on the other side of the hill, or another which I had never tried but guessed was more direct. Enthused and excited, we chose the road less travelled and launched into the unknown.

And then there were zebras.

Neil's photo from his iPhone. Not Attenborough, but proof nonetheless.

Yes, zebras. Just a few feet from the incredible view, we found ourselves on the perimeter fence of Edinburgh zoo, staring at a herd of zebras. The day could surely not get any better. We watched in quiet awe as the animals calmly grazed near where we stood, separated from us by a couple of fences. What luck that we had come this way. What good fortune we were running at all. How lucky that we didn't crawl back to bed and cancel this run, that we didn't choose a flat easy route somewhere else. How lucky that we took up running in the first place. How much better life is when we take the chances the universe has to offer. What an incredible amount of joy that running offers us, and what little it asks in return.

Eventually, we remembered that we had gone out for a run and not a safari, and launched ourselves through the ancient wood that borders the zoo. We could easily have been in the gorilla enclosure for all we knew, such was the solitude and rugged landscape of the place. We ran, hopped and leaped down the steep path as it wound through clusters of trees, under an ancient stone arch and generally through a beautiful piece of wild countryside, deep in the heart of the city.

As the path spat us back out onto the main road and we gleefully trotted back to South Gyle, we remarked that we had no idea what our pace was, no clue how far we had run and no cares about either. We had enjoyed a brilliant run, in glorious weather, and remembered why we bother in the first place. Redemption.

Haven't had one of these in a while: I run because of urban zebras.

6 days to 26.2, and I cannot bloody wait.

Very happy running.

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 185.02, miles biked - 52.2, metres swum - 1150, races - 2

Dress rehearsal disasters

Having decided that the Edinburgh Marathon is indeed on like Donkey Kong, I have spent the last week working on things which will contribute to me not having a completely disastrous experience during the race. With mixed success.

After a decent 10-mile run last Monday, some time on the bike and a touch rugby game on Tuesday, I went to see a podiatrist on Wednesday night to talk about my left ankle issues. He gawped at the nasty way in which I roll my ankle and ascribed the pain to me chipping away at the ball joint with every footstrike. He didn’t seem too disturbed by my plan to run Edinburgh despite terrible gaps in my training and general injury failings, but did point out that an inverse taper would be a pointless exercise, since I could do nothing to improve my fitness in just 2 ½ weeks. Quite the opposite – I risked doing myself an injury which might rule me out of the race altogether. Interesting. He made me a pair of custom orthotic insoles then and there, and I left his office satisfied though £70 poorer.

I took his advice and binned my scheduled runs for Thursday and Friday, focussing instead on the planned course recce set for Saturday with fellow Edinburgh marathoner Neil Gray. We would take the train from Edinburgh Waverley to Longniddry, a station just ½ mile from the furthest reaches of the route. From here we could run all the way back to my flat, totalling something like 14 miles, which we intended to run relatively slowly so as to get a good opportunity to explore the course.

Things went wrong from the beginning. Driving into Edinburgh, Neil’s car suffered the automotive equivalent of an enormous blood blister and left him on the side of the motorway, frantically changing the tyre. We were only half an hour late to Waverley station, but this made us feel a little thrown off our meagre plan. I had a social engagement to keep in just a few hours’ time – there was little margin for error. As the countryside flew past we realised that our route would take us a very long way indeed. Fear and doubt planted seeds in our minds.

Nothing seemed to go right. We got a bit lost just trying to get to the sea, necessitating an unplanned cross-country sprint across the fairway of Longniddry golf course, eyes to the sky in case of deadly white projectiles. When we did find the coast a cruel headwind beat us back wherever we went. In choosing routes along the sea we seemed to perpetually make the wrong call and veer down pointless diversions or on trails made of loose sand. Neil struggled in the heat whilst I cultivated an enormous pair of blisters from my new orthotics. Neither of us could get anywhere near a sense of flow or settle into a rhythm, and our complaints were exacerbated by the knowledge of one another’s problems. Things looked bleak, and got even worse when Edinburgh’s skyline appeared in the distance. The very distant distance.

Just over 8 miles in I had to make a pit-stop to swap the orthotic for a regular insole as the blister had become unbearable. The slight pain in my left ankle which was the root of my troubles had inexplicably got a hell of a lot worse. As I delved into my rucksack for the replacement insole, Neil stretched out his prematurely tired legs and finished off his water bottle, beetroot-faced and sweating. An air of resignation gradually crept over us both. We told each other that it was time to abandon the run and chalk it up to experience. Neither of us needed much convincing. An exceptionally rude bus driver took my money and we wallowed in our failure as the number 26 bore us back into the city.

Even RunKeeper seemed to be struggling – check out the route it first produced for our run:

2:46 minutes per mile. Excellent.

The corrected version is available here.

Needless to say, Neil and I were a little disheartened by this experience. We had cheerfully thrown ourselves at the course and been found sorely wanting. But as time has passed and I’ve had a little time to analyse what happened, I am less worried about my prospects for the full race. We put on a terrible dress rehearsal, which in theatreland means we can expect a great show (I acknowledge, of course, that this is marathonland and training is pretty bloody important, but shush now). From here on I’ll only be using the orthotics for short distances - as I was told to in the first place - and I’m sure Neil will have plans to address his overheating problem (hint, mate: drink more water).

10 days to 26.2.

Happy running

Dave

2012 to date: miles run - 175.5, miles biked - 52.2, metres swum - 1150, races - 2

1087 miles: my 2011 in running shoes

What started with a broken promise ended with mixed emotions. I knew that my 2011 in running shoes would be the biggest, toughest and hopefully the most rewarding yet, but I wasn’t ready for how it would finish.

Pivoting on the San Francisco Marathon, all my training, racing and writing was focussed on getting into the best possible shape to run one of the most brutal road marathons in the world. My madly overambitious plans to start with the Lochaber Marathon were sensibly sidelined in favour of the usual crop of half-marathons and parkruns in the first half of the year, including a brilliant weekend in Campbeltown for the MoKRun.

My annual tradition of PB’ing in Alloa despite (or perhaps because of) being violently sick entered its third year, modified only slightly this year by a rather more exciting end to the day. But before both of those was the last-minute slapdash effort at the Meadows ‘Marathon’ in Edinburgh, which of course was only really a half marathon, run over seven laps of the Meadows in Edinburgh.  It may interest you to know that the organisers are planning a full length-marathon for 2012, covering a soul-sucking fourteen lap course (details here). You won’t be seeing me there.

San Francisco loomed large and arrived on my doorstep at the end of July. With the miles in the bank, hills in my legs and a Union Jack on my chest I was ready to run the best race of my life, and was rewarded with a hugely satisfying 3:49 PB. I’ve wasted enough of your time already on eulogising about this incredible race – go back and read it all again if you’re interested.

I came back from the USA with an enormous medal and two more goals on the horizon. My commitment to run the Great North Run for the Alzheimer’s Society, coupled with my wild over-commitment to run it barefoot, made for a superb combination of a world-class event and another tough challenge complete. Two weeks later I toed my final start-line of the year, accompanying the one and only Ben A. Nicholson around the Loch Ness Marathon, to complete my fourth lifetime 26.2.

 It was a good year for meeting heroes. I met round-the-world runner and adventurer Rosie Swale Pope in Campbeltown before the MokRun, then elite ultramarathoner Michael Wardian and prolific marathoner Dane Rauschenberg in San Francisco, and finally world 5,000m champion and British Olympic hopeful Mo Farah in Newcastle before the Great North Run.  If you’re interested, Michael and Dane were the friendliest. Rosie was busy at a book signing but very kind. I think I might have annoyed Mo – he was out for a drink with some mates. Sorry Mo.

Mike Wardian (after winning the SF Marathon)

Mo Farah

I was delighted to publish articles in Runner’s World UK again this year, reviewing the Alloa Half Marathon, the MoKRun and the San Francisco Marathon.  RW has a readership of almost 400,000, which, as I’ve said before, is almost as many people as read this blog (pfft!).  I very much look forward to publishing more in future. It was also a joy to watch this blog's readership grow and diversify - thank you for sharing it as widely as you have, it means a great deal to me.

Perhaps best of all was watching others achieve and succeed. It was a pleasure to run with my brother the day of his wedding, a delight to see that my sister completed her first 10k, an honour to accompany (and eventually be beaten by) Ben Nicholson in his first marathon. I took a Dalmatian and her owner to the top of Arthur’s Seat. I trained with future marathon world champ Megan Crawford, when she slowed down enough for me to keep up. I even coaxed the Crew Chief out on one or two occasions. I ran in Scotland, England, Portugal, California and New York, covering a total of 1087 miles and wearing out two-and-a-half pairs of running shoes. Here are the final stats:

miles run: 1087, parkruns: 6, races: 6, 

miles biked: 159, metres swum: 1225

I had a great year.

Except the hernia bit. That was shit, and still is.  Not long after the Loch Ness Marathon I started experiencing a great deal of pain whilst running.  By early November it had become unbearable, so I hastened to my GP. She thought it was probably a hernia, and ordered a surgical consultation (which still hasn’t happened, by the way).  In the meantime my running has dwindled to almost nothing, and at times it seems genuinely impossible to think that I have trained for and completed two marathons and four half marathons this year, as well as a few hundred miles on the bike. At times, genuinely, I can barely walk.

Swings and roundabouts, eh?

Happy New Year

Dave

2012 to date: miles - 3 (painfully)

Reflections (3:49 and all that)

I’ve done a lot of thinking about SF. So much happened in such a short space of time that it’s taken me a while to get my head around it all, and particularly to contextualise that new PB. On a basic level, cutting such a large amount of time off my personal best in one race is unusual – it would have been much more comprehensible to have taken off 5 or maybe even 10 minutes. 15:31 is a long time when you’re waiting at a finish line.

The main reason I’m struggling to get to grips with that time is mainly that I never allowed myself to believe that it was possible. You might remember that I promised to be ecstatic with anything from 3:48 to 4:04, but a little niggle of doubt never really let me believe that I could run the lower end of that spectrum. I had my fingers burned in both Paris and Brighton, when I became so obsessed with running sub-4 that I almost forgot to enjoy the experience and ended the races a little deflated when I failed to achieve that goal. The marathon became a wily, sneaky adversary which I just couldn’t quite figure out. I allowed myself to believe that my training had been good but mitigating factors had ruined both races, often telling people (albeit truthfully) that I tripped over in Paris and had a chest infection in Brighton*, and that otherwise I would definitely have run sub-4.

I now know that this isn’t true.

The simple fact is that for my first two marathons I was only adequately prepared. Looking back over my running log from those crucial pre-race months I realise that I consistently took the route of least resistance (sometimes literally), setting myself unambitious training schedules and then failing to complete them anyway. SF was different. Perhaps the massive over-commitment of a 12,000 mile round-trip, compounded by the enormous entry fee and contextualised by the knowledge that this was a very, very hilly course made me wake up and smell the fear. On training runs this year I would actively seek out the toughest, hilliest courses Edinburgh had to offer, whereas for Paris and Brighton I meticulously planned the flattest routes I could find. 

For SF I made greater sacrifices of time and energy, pouring my all into training. I spent hours studying course maps, videos, elevation charts, weather patterns and memorising the location of aid stations. I cross-trained and took vitamin supplements and had sports massages and invested in new gear. The result is that seven months of training was focussed completely on success at that course, on that date. I could not have been more ready for SF, and I’m a little embarrassed to think of how relatively unprepared I was for my previous marathons.

All that said, and I’m struggling to type this: I know I can go faster.

Because I was so reluctant to commit to a finish time goal, I only designed a race strategy up to 20 miles, planning to ‘just hang on’ thereafter. I went through 4 miles in 34 minutes, 10 miles just under 1:26, halfway in 1:52 and 20 miles in 2:50, all absolutely according to my carefully-composed plan. But I allowed myself to ‘fly blind’ in the last and most important 6.2 miles, giving me no reason or motivation to reach particular markers at particular times, which also impaired my ability to predict finish times on the run. The result was that I just bargained with myself, struggling lamppost to lamppost on some occasions. If I had decided that I needed to be at 23 miles after 3:16, for example, I’m pretty sure I could have done it. I reckon I might have lost as much as 5 minutes as a result.

Furthermore, remove the long haul travel, jetlag, early start, non-ideal race week and some of the more aggressive hills from the equation, I’m pretty sure I could pick up probably 15 seconds a mile, which is another 6 and a half minutes over the whole thing.  Ecstatic and humbled though I am by 3:49, I guess I’m saying that sub-3:40 is realistic in the not-too-distant future.

Crikey.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 845.28, parkruns: 6, races: 4, miles biked: 78.47, metres swum: 1225

*I really was ill - when I dug out my fuel belt ahead of SF, which I last used in Brighton, I found a Dequacaine tablet in there left over from the race. Dequacaine is a super-strength cough sweet, which more or less gives your throat a local anaesthetic. I think I had it on prescription. What the hell was I thinking running a marathon in that state!?

The Blessed Taper

After six months of (quite) dedicated and (mostly) consistent training for the San Francisco Marathon, this week I have finally reached the blessed taper.  Those 27 weeks since January 3rd of gradually increasing mileage and diligently logging training sessions culminated in Saturday’s Last Long Run, a pleasing and relatively fast 20+ miler composed of consecutive 9 and 11 mile loops, briefly stopping off at home in between to enjoy my own personal aid station (wo-)manned by my long-suffering Crew Chief. Despite the heat, humidity and ever-present hills, which I had brutally decided to cover in the latter loop, I finished strong with a smile on my face and clicked off some pretty fast miles. Even accounting for the pit-stops, seemingly endless traffic lights and popping into a running shop to buy an energy gel, I managed to average 8:27 m/m, which, since you’re wondering, would equate to a 3:41 marathon were I able to sustain it for the last six miles.

Click to enlarge.

So now I’ve reached the taper, ready for the gentle cruise down to race day, focusing on stretching, hydrating, relaxing, sleeping and not running very much at all. Sounds great!

However, when still a little fuzzy in the post-run glow, I thought I’d better look up my plan for the taper as I don’t seem to remember what an optimum schedule would look like. I was aghast at what I discovered. Week one of the taper (this current week) is supposed to be 80% of my peak mileage. That means a 16 mile long run at the weekend and some pretty hefty outings on other days. Next week is 60% of the peak mileage, which still equates to a 12 mile long run – actually rather a long way in the real world. Sure, it’s a big reduction, but nothing like the walk in the park I had been picturing... In fact according to the plan I still have 70-80 miles to cover before race day, which is really quite a hefty distance. Sigh.

Then I made another, even more extraordinary discovery. I haven't actually left myself enough time to taper. Instead of leaving three weeks of training plus race week, I mistakenly have just left myself two weeks of training plus race week. Whoops.

But that’s OK. It’s less than three weeks to SF now, which surely means that my rest and relaxation period is right around the corner.

No.

Because, like an arse, I have signed up for the Great North Run just seven weeks after ‘the race even marathoners fear’. Worse still, I seem to have set myself a ridiculous challenge and intend to run it barefoot in aid of the Alzheimer’s Society (FYI, if you haven’t already, now would be a good time to visit my justgiving page, make a donation and remind me why I agreed to this idea...). So it’s ten weeks until I can relax, right?

Wrong.

Two weeks after the GNR I am running the Loch Ness Marathon with my dear friend Mr Ben Nicholson. It will be rather fun, unless of course he’s in a hurry, in which case it might be quite difficult...

I’ve no idea what my training’s going to look like over the next twelve weeks, oddly there don’t appear to be many online training resources designed for people running two marathons and a barefoot half-marathon in the space of nine weeks. Perhaps I should corner the market and write my own? It’s unlikely to be a commercial success but maybe it will attract a cult following.

So 12 weeks. Just three short months and then I can relax properly, ease off the training, try to grow back some of the bits missing from my feet and generally attempt to restore myself to full working order. There’ll be no races in the calendar and I’ll be free to kick back and ignore the pestering of my running shoes. I definitely won’t be spontaneously signing up for anything else. No sir-ee. Not even one.

Probably.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 741.32, parkruns: 6, races: 3, miles biked: 54.38, metres swum: 1225

P.S. I'm starting to panic a little bit.

'Target Marathon pace'

I'm burnt out. Consecutive 40+ mile weeks, compounded by swims, bike miles, tennis and working full time have left me tired and feeling like I'm running on empty. Luckily, with just 3 weeks and 5 days to the San Francisco Marathon, this week is the last big training week before the taper. Right now, it feels like the taper can't come soon enough. I pounded out a quick 10 miles this evening, and before the week's out I'll run two 4 mile max efforts, one 8 mile fast run and 20 miles at the weekend at target marathon pace.

Target marathon pace. So easy to type, so difficult to define...

Because most people can't just run a marathon every day, it's hard to accurately gauge what you're capable of achieving and therefore what pace you should be aiming at. One way is to use a running calculator, like the one available on marathonguide.com. Unfortunately, I pretty much refuse to believe what they've predicted for me based on my half-marathon PB:

Screenshot from marathonguide.com, plus commentary...

3:18! Rubbish. There's absolutely no way I can run that time. 

Judging by my recent runs of 16-18 miles, I could be looking at 8:10 - 8:43 minutes a mile, which would equate to a marathon in 3:34 - 3:48. I would be utterly ecstatic with 3:48. I'd be incredibly happy with 3:59, to be honest. I'd be pleased to run a new PB, ie under 4:05. 

You know what?

I'm going to be happy to finish.

If the hills or the jetlag or the ridiculously early start conspire against me and I run some distinctly average time then who gives a damn? You? Probably not. If you do, I don't care. Me? Not a jot. I'm going to San Francisco, baby! I'm going to run 'the race even marathoners fear'. I'm going to run my third marathon in three years. It will be amazing if I run 3:34 or 4:33. 

I'm going to be very, very happy to finish. After years of fretting about cracking four hours, I can't tell you how much of a relief that is.

Happy running.

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 698.97, parkruns: 6, races: 3, miles biked: 54.38, metres swum: 1225

Teetotal

There are six weeks and five days to go before the San Francisco Marathon, which means in five days’ time I start my traditional month and a half of being completely teetotal pre-marathon.  After my brother's stag do this weekend just gone, this seems like a better idea than usual...

Not everyone does this before a marathon, and it’s by no means essential; but it’s become part of my routine and I dearly love the physical and other benefits that sustained sobriety brings. For one, I am guaranteed to never struggle through a session due to a hangover, dehydration or overwhelming post-booze lethargy. I am always available to train. My head is clearer – not just because I avoid being drunk or hungover, but generally clearer than it is when there’s even a little alcohol in my system. 

There are downsides, for sure. I don’t drink a great deal, but it’s not until you give up completely that you realise quite how much alcohol punctuates your life. This was much more obvious when I was a student: very little happens in St Andrews that isn’t in some way pivoted on a couple of drinks, essay writing most definitely included, and as such life without alcohol became a little less amusing. Here in my slightly more grown-up and responsible lifestyle, the same is sort-of true. Your odd glass of wine of an evening, cheeky pint with your mates or a rare binge like the aformentioned stag do are suddenly deleted from your social repetoire. It can be a slightly depressing time.

Put it down, Dave!

But there's a great way to compensate. As soon as I've made the commitment to abstinence, I know the race is looming and I'd better do some serious running. The miles stack up and the endorphin high is more or less continuously topped up. More than that, as soon as I make a firm pledge that if I'm going to forgo a delicious frosty beer of a Saturday afternoon or a crisp glass of Pinot Grigio with my dinner, then I'm definitely going to make the most of it and put in some top class training. But above all, it makes that first cold beer after the race taste even better...

Though all that said, there's five days to go before I lock the liquor cabinet. Pass the corkscrew!

Happy drinking

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 591.98, parkruns: 6, races: 3, miles biked: 47.44, metres swum: 925

Zero to Hero

At 11am on Saturday I was sprawled over the sofa in my pyjamas; lethargic, grumpy and bemoaning various aches and pains. I had more or less no interest in leaving the flat for any reason whatsoever, least of all to pursue the 16+ mile run I had scheduled in for myself. I was on my own, slightly glum and generally not bothered. At all.

By 2pm I was back in the flat, elated, surging with endorphins and having recorded my longest run of the year to date. How did this miraculous turnaround happen? I’m not sure, but I’ll try to work it out.

The first hurdle was to bully myself into getting dressed and ready. I agreed with myself that if I put my gear on, I would go for at least a little run. No way would I put my running kit on and then endure the shame of taking it all off again to return to pyjamas. I did, however, take an outrageously long time to get dressed, postponing the moment that I’d actually have to step outside for as long as possible. My procrastination was epic. I downloaded a new podcast (The Marathon Show) to listen to on the run. I tied and retied my laces. I insisted on adding ice to my water bottle. I pursued every avenue of potential timewasting for as long as possible, until I had literally no further excuses.

I finally got out of the door at 11.55, almost an hour and a half later than optimum-run-o’clock. I stubbornly maintained absolutely no interest in running the full, prescribed 16 miles, but since the first 8 miles of my planned route were loops relatively near the flat I thought I may as well pursue them. I trotted cheerfully up the hill, confident in the knowledge that I had dozens of opportunities to cut things short.

My first mile was heavily handicapped by traffic lights, registering an impressively slow 9:41. I didn’t care. This run didn’t matter. It wasn’t a long training outing or anything. I trotted cheerfully along the Grassmarket and eventually all the way down to Holyrood Park, ticking off the miles slowly but surely. I dug in and put in a lap of Arthur’s Seat, slowly remembering why I like running and amiably racing a few other pavement-pounders who had joined me on the popular route. At the highest point, with a staggering view over the Forth and across to Fife, I knew this run was going to go well.

At the foot of Arthur’s Seat I headed for the Royal Mile, intending to run all the way up to Edinburgh Castle and rack up some altitude. Seemed like a great idea. But no, terrible mistake – the Royal Mile on a Saturday lunchtime is more or less the most densely populated place in the entire Universe (it’s definitely in the top ten). I was weaving in and out of the camera-toting masses, trying to contain my pedestrian-hating rage as I picked my way through the crowds. There was a wedding, some street performers, half a dozen bagpipers and coach loads of bimbling tourists. Nightmare.

Then suddenly, like a triathlete sensing the very gravest injustice, I could feel someone running on my shoulder. I glanced back. A greasy boy of about 16, laughing and shouting in Italian to a friend toting a camera, was keeping pace with me. His reeking cigarette hung lazily from two fingers. His gleaming white tracksuit shimmered in the sunlight.  I doubt it has ever been near a track. My brief stint of studying Italian was enough to know that I was being mocked for running slowly. 

The boy kept pace for just a fraction too long.

I know, I know. I was out for a training session. I was 6 miles into what was clearly now going to be a 16 mile serious long run. I was climbing a very steep hill and maintaining a carefully modulated pace. I am a serious marathoner with multiple long-distance goals in both the short and long term. But the Italian was very, very annoying. I know I shouldn’t have. But I did it anyway. 

I decided to teach him a thing or two about runners.

I surged forward like a shot, sprinting at full pelt up the cobbled street. The Italian laughed, he was game, this was what he wanted. He picked up too, a fraction behind. But I just kept sprinting, dodging back and forward between bollards and groups of tourists. I glanced back to see the look on his stupid face, and saw him fading faster than a free commemorative T-shirt. After just a few seconds he was long gone, I imagine he started crying. To prove the point I pounded out another few hundred metres at suicide pace, finally reaching the castle with burning lungs and heavy legs. It was awesome.

The next 10 miles were more difficult as a result, if I'm honest. But who cares? Some random tourist who I'll never see again was taught a pointless lesson and it made me feel great. I finished the full 16.6 miles in 2:17, averaging 8:18 minutes/mile. I was elated.

Aaw, yeah. Click to enlarge.

I encourage you to educate any Italians who annoy you, too.

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 570.52, parkruns: 6, races: 3, miles biked: 47.44, metres swum: 925

Getting serious

10 weeks and 6 days to San Francisco. Time to start getting serious about training then... But first - three other places you could visit for my ramblings and musings:

•  The June issue of Runners’ World UK, page 99, features my report on the Alloa Half Marathon.  Go and buy a copy now!
  
  
• My interview in the latest edition of Adventure Travel News on muchbetteradventures.com, where I divulge more details of my 10-marathons-before-I'm-30 plan than I had intended to...
  
  
• Twitter! I have joined the tweeting masses, you’ll find me as @davidjhaines. I’ve added a twitter-update feed on the right-hand panel of this blog. Follow me – you’ll probably not regret it too much. While we’re at it, you could follow this blog, too. There's a button over there on the right. That would make my day.

So, being serious...

The first of my efforts to ‘get serious’ was yesterday’s long run; a hearty and comfortable 16 miler around north-east Edinburgh, taking in 1072 feet of climbing and descent, as well as a monster headwind and driving rain along the coast. I often forget how privileged I am to run in a city like this, where a couple of hours’ running can take in beautiful Georgian architecture, a yellow-sand beach, medieval cobbled streets, an extinct volcano, a medium-sized sea port, charming Victorian parks and a calm, pretty riverside. Who could complain about wind, rain and aching muscles against a backdrop like that?

In order to properly illustrate the hills involved in SF and explain why I'm going to be ascending Arthur's Seat (the aforementioned volcano) several times a week for the next 10 weeks, below is a graph illustrating the elevation change of the SF Marathon, with some excellent anecdotes... This image is courtesy of Ben Clark's blog, Proclivity for Hyperbole - go check it out and tell him I sent you. Ben's training for SF too, see you there!

Click to view a larger version (worth it)

All humour aside, I need to take those hills and those miles seriously. Sunday's 16 hilly miles caused no major problem. Adding another 10.2 might, though, so here's my long run plan:

First I’ll be consolidating and strengthening my 13-16 mile runs. I’ll put in another 16 miler this Saturday, followed by probably a long bike ride on the Sunday along and around the Edinburgh Marathon course to support a few friends. Then I’ve got the Mull of Kintyre Half Marathon coming up in two weeks, which I’ll run at a roughly medium-effort pace, aiming to finish in something around 1:40 (look out for the Runners’ World review in a couple of months!). The week after that I’ll be aiming for another 16-miler.

Then a weekend ‘off’ for a stag-do (probably still going to do 10 miles or so), before launching back in the following week, ramping up to 16, 18, 18, then 20 miles in the four Sundays from 19 June. That leaves me two Sundays before the main event in SF, which will be for easy runs of 10-13 miles or so. Possibly incorporating the Milton Keynes half, still thinking about that one... That 20 miler 3 weeks out will be my longest run before the marathon, which hopefully will be enough to carry me through on race day.

Basically I'm back in long run season. Goodbye weekends, farewell alcohol, see you later lazy lie-in. But here come major endorphins, huge mileage and thighs of steel. It's a fair trade...

Happy running

Dave

2011 to date - miles: 467.79, parkruns: 6, races: 2, miles biked: 20.07, metres swum: 675