You don't have to take your shoes off to have a good time...

...but according to Barefoot Ted, it helps.

Last night, I went to 'An Evening with Barefoot Ted' to listen to the virtues of barefoot or minimalist running. I'd encountered this concept before (in Chris McDougall's book 'Born to Run'). I have to confess, I was already a bit of a convert (in theory, at least.)

The basic idea being, the foot is a piece of highly developed machinery that is designed to work best when it's at its most natural; i.e. the more you distance it from the world (with padded expensive trainers, for example) the less you give it the chance to work properly. And that can result in the joint pain and jarring that is, traditionally, the runner's lot.

A little while ago I attended the Running School in Chiswick in an attempt to achieve a more fleet-of-foot, effective running style. Their proposition is that they can teach you to run - and then to run faster.

At no point, did they suggest I throw my shoes out of the window. But what I found interesting, in comparing the words of Barefoot Ted with those of Mike Antoniades (founder/head coach at the Running School), was the similarities. Their descriptions of the ideal running 'technique' were virtually the same: from the idea that we need to remind our bodies how to work as holistic machines to the concept of light, gentle forward-foot landings and the emphasis on balance and breathing. The only difference being, Ted would advocate that this 'ideal' gait develops more naturally when you take your trainers off.

This is oversimplifying it and you'll find more information on his website but, to me, Barefoot Ted made a lot of sense. To the extent, I was seriously considering ditching my sandals for the walk home from the tube station. Maybe I should change my name to Barefoot Lou.


(Pic: Barefoot Ted waxing lyrical at King's College. Apologies that my iPhone doesn't have a great zoom. And no, he wasn't completely barefoot. He had special sandals on.)

(Chris McDougall's book 'Born to Run' is a fascinating insight into ultra running, barefoot running and the mysterious 'running' tribes of the Copper Canyons.)

(More info on the Running School in Chiswick. Mike, incidentally, is one of the nicest guys I have ever met.)

In the way

In my quest to become the slowest runner in London, I walked half of today's run. So, not really a run then. A walk.

Things started badly when I turned the first corner and found the pavements blocked. O'Connor's waste disposal on one side and spiralcellars.com ('the quickest, cheapest and easiest way of building a wine cellar') on the other.

Spying a two-inch gap between man, van and fence I continued onwards, only to meet a dog on an extendable lead. Keen that I should not pass, it did a few laps of my feet until we were joined at the ankles. I was trying my best not to fall over and squash it when its owner finally arrived. At this point, I pondered the filmic quality of the moment. Many a romantic movie had brought its protagonists together with a similarly improbable meeting proving a catalyst for their happy-ever-after. Clearly my 'hero' hadn't seen any of those films. Or, if he had, he certainly wasn't a fan. Instead of the adoring gaze that would signal our impending love affair, he gave a weary sigh and bent down to unwrap the lead. His grumbling disposition suggesting that he felt I made a habit of tangling leads around my legs in order to trap unsuspecting men. It's certainly a thought.

And so I continued. But the little momentum I had, had departed with the dachshund. At two and a half miles, I'd had enough and stopped to walk. At the 'speed' I was running, this didn't necessitate much of a gear change. I completed the 'run' at a pottering pace, stopping to bask in the sunshine on Primrose Hill. And finally, pausing to appreciate the man eating a pasty in a white van, playing 'My Life' by Billy Joel so loud that anyone with a north London postcode could share in his enjoyment.

(Stats: 4.18 miles; 58 minutes; 13.52 minute/mile.)

In praise of slow

After a week of false starts, I pulled out all the stops to ensure today's run actually occurred. Primarily, I uploaded a new radio comedy to my iPod. (New to me, but not to my brother who drew my attention to said comedy - or to anyone who first heard of it back in 2005. I'm such a late adopter.) Anyway, if Ed Reardon's Week couldn't provide motivation, then nothing could.

It worked. I ran for ages. Across to Hampstead, over the Heath, back through Swiss Cottage. Apart from a stitch halfway through series 2, episode 2, it was flawless. However, when I got home and tried to map my route (www.walkjogrun.net) something strange happened. I found I had absolutely no recollection of the first 3 miles. It's the bit of the route that I always do. Maybe I went into a bit of a commuter trance. Maybe it was because I was absorbed in Ed Reardon. Either way, it's a bit disturbing. I can truly say that I can't recall anything of the first 30 minutes. In fact, I think it was the stitch that 'woke me up'. That and bumping into Alastair Campbell.

Minor amnesia aside, I was pleased to find I had plenty of 'run' left in my legs, even after an hour. In fact, at that pace, I could do the half-marathon easily. And then I calculated the pace. And found out why.

(Stats: 6.9 miles; 1.23.23; 12.05 minute/mile.)

(Pic: Not to everyone's running tastes, but my grubby little iPod is a life saver.)

P.S. If you witnessed a girl, giggling maniacally, while running in a minor daze over the Heath, this is what she was laughing at: Ed Reardon's Week

A hard habit to break

Many years ago, when I started yet another new year's diet (more veg, less cheese etc...) a 'good' friend of mine told me that I would fail; he said I would fail because I had 'all the willpower of a horny dog at a Miss Lovely Legs competition'. He was right then. And he's still on the nose.

Last night I went to running club. I happily left my bag in the club room, then perched on the leisure centre steps, waiting for the runners to gather. With five minutes to go, my friend arrived. She pointed out the rain. And suggested we retire to the warmth of the pub instead. I was out of there quicker than a rat up a drainpipe.

Today, rather than bathing in a saintly post-run glow, I have a pink wine hangover and a weird guilty feeling. As a rule, I don't feel guilty about not running. But I'm thinking that in the past 3 months, running - and running club, in particular - has become a habit. And that's why not running has given me a bit of a guilty tummy ache. Though that could be the wine.

I'm off for a run now to assuage the guilt. So if something good has emerged from my less than perfect behaviour, it's that I've realized running is now pretty engrained in my unconscious wellbeing. Making it less of an effort to go. And more of an effort to miss.

The other good thing: I had a very nice evening in the pub - and a really tasty steak.

(Very interesting article from British Psychological Society on how to form a habit.)

And a good time was had by all...

So, the 10k race on Sunday was an absolute triumph. Not only did I beat last year's time. (Hooray!) But I actually enjoyed it.

That morning, things did not look good. I'd woken up terrified and even a calming bath hadn't helped. I lay my p.e. kit out on the bed and with trembling hands pinned my race number to my t-shirt. I made the decision not to wear my club vest as I felt this would give the wrong impression. Instead, I inadvertently wore the colours of another club, so enjoyed much misguided cheering from the local Harrow supporters (go Metros!)

Due to transport issues, I arrived at the clubhouse late (too late to buy raffle tickets. Damn!) I also forgot my stopwatch. My plans to stick to a 9 minute mile and aim for a negative split went flying out of the window.

Which was probably just as well.

I'd been so keen to beat my time from last year that I'd worked myself up into a frenzy. I thought I was going to be sick on the start line. And so I paused and had a quiet word with myself.

Why do something that makes you feel so awful? Balls to character-building.

I decided that enjoying the race was more important than time. If it hurt, I would run slower. If it felt good, I would speed up. I anticipated more of the former than the latter.

With that, the starting pistol went. Soon, I was surrounded by faster runners. They rushed past and I can honestly say that I had absolutely no urge to keep up. In the morning sunshine, I found my place and pootled happily at the back of the pack. It was nice to run in a new location, with a mix of gentle hills, main roads and park (though even at a slow-speed, running on grass is a killer). There were loads of marshals, stopping traffic, so I made sure I thanked all of them for their support on the way. I also had a race with a toddler. I won.

At the end of the first 5k, I felt fine so considered speeding up. I spent another 4k thinking about it, then decided to really give it my all. With about 100 metres to go.

I did feel shattered. And I did have to lie on the floor for a bit, cooling my face in the grass. (I hope that wet patch was dew. I didn't see any dogs.) But I was soon up and about and ready for a complimentary coffee back at the clubhouse. What I didn't have a clue about was my time. I felt okay, so assumed it wasn't the fastest in history.

So imagine my delight, when I won! Okay, imagine my delight when I discovered my time was 54.39. A whole 1 minute and 41 seconds quicker than last year. And I was feeling good. On an 8.48 minute mile. A miracle.

It's one month and counting till the half. Things are looking up.


(Pic: The best medal I've ever won. The nicest coffee I've ever drunk. My foot.)

An average run on a beautiful morning

Dodging commuters is a very good work-out. This morning I made the mistake of running down Finchley Road at rush hour. I was bobbing and weaving all over the place. Not unlike Rocky. Perhaps I should get a chicken to chase.

Once I diverted off the main road, peace was restored. The beautifully be-flowered (and be-bushed?!) streets were lovely to run around. And the only obstacles were a series of undersized dogs in coats. At one point, I was trapped by a gang of them. I genuinely feared I'd get home to find I'd trodden in a chihuahua.

On the subject of tread, I am now wearing new trainers. Well, new in the sense I found them in the back of my cupboard. They're Brooks Adrenaline S-257. They're okay, but I could do with a slightly narrower fit. I'm thinking of trying them with thicker sports socks to see if that helps. Actually, my physio friend showed me a new way to lace trainers that adds support around the ankle. She did it on my old shoes. It works, but it does make getting in and out of them a bit of a fight. Not unlike getting in and out of a sports bra. In fact, should anyone invent a supportive garment that does not require Houdini-like skills to manoeuvre, then I will be first in the queue.

Anyway, back to the run. Quad pain has eased, though my hamstring is still a little unhappy. And running uphill, unusually, proved to be the more pleasant element of the outing. On the whole, it was good to get out and about on such a nice morning. And I was just happy that I completed the whole run when for the first 25 minutes the devil on my shoulder was telling me to head straight home for a nice cup of tea.

(Stats: 4.29 miles; 45.48 minutes; 10.36 mile/minute)

Goods in. Goods out.

Yesterday's club run was all about the preparation. I lined my stomach with a jacket potato for lunch, then had a banana an hour before. I also had a large cup of coffee. I'd hoped this might speed me up, but a 'friend' gave me the fear by pointing out the unholy consequences should this plan backfire. For once, I was glad that I rarely have runners behind me. Thankfully, it just gave me a bit of a stitch.

The run itself was okay. I can't say it was great. Neither was it awful. It helped that a friend stayed with me, so I was able to steal his energy. I find latching onto someone with a mental lasso really helps. I'm considering using a real lasso next week.

So, last night I did 6 miles in 57.13 minutes. That works out to be a 9.32 minute/mile. If I do this pace on Sunday for the 10k, then I'll come in under the hour, but it's still slower than last year. Which leads me to the conclusion that regular training has had no impact whatsoever.

However, I am not downhearted!

This pace would bring me in at around 2.03 for the half in June. So, if I can just shave a bit off, then I might get in under 2. And, as for the 10k, I'm optimistic that the thrill of race day, with literally tens of people lining the streets of north-west London (on their way to buy the Sunday papers), will further boost my speed. Positive. Thinking.

Feel the fear and run away

Race number arrived today for the imminent 10k. Now sh*tting myself. Ridiculous. Must work on a more positive mental attitude.

Goodbye old friends

My trainers have no grip. Unfortunately, I discovered this while running up a slope of shiny stones and wet leaves. It was like trying to ice-skate uphill. I'm gutted. I love my Asics Kayano's. I've had them for around 5 years, which is probably 4 years too long, but they fit like gloves and I've become sentimental about the stuff we've done together?! As I have very narrow flat feet (picture a couple of anaemic sausage rolls) I really struggle to get trainers that fit. I used to have a lovely pair of Nike Air's (from around 1998) but when I tried to replace them, I discovered the fit had changed. I hope that's not the case with the Kayano!

Slippery slopes aside, Saturday's run was great. Due to friend-visiting, I was 'on location' in Bristol. Ashton Court, to be precise. It involved lots of gentle uphills and downhills - and a trip across the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Very picturesque and extremely high. Felt like I should have been belayed-up, just in case. Since we had a lot to catch up on, as usual, it was an easy, talking pace. So, not the fastest of minute/miles, but it's all 'time on your feet'. And that, according to a speedy marathon-running friend of mine, is what counts. Let's hope so.

(Stats: 4.5 miles; 52.50 minutes; 11.44 minute/mile.)

Proof of the pudding

It’s on. I’ve literally just registered for a 10k mid-May. I did the same one last year. It was the first ‘proper’ race I’d ever entered. Pamenos Ballantyne won. He’s an elite athlete and runs for Trinidad and Tobago, so I was just happy not to finish last. (I came 56th out of 83 and won a bottle of red in the post-run raffle.)

It should be a good warm-up for the half in June. And a good test of how far I’ve come. This time last year I was an occasional runner. Not the fighting fit running machine that I am now (?). It’ll be interesting to see the difference. If I don’t beat my previous time, earplugs will be needed to avoid the profanities emanating from north-west London.

Painful gaining

I need to invest in a Garmin. Or some other tool that measures my pace.

Last night's club run was slightly painful, which came as a bit of a shock because I was excited about going. For some wholly misguided reason, I imagined my enthusiasm would translate into an elegant gazelle-like canter around Hyde Park. Unfortunately, it was more Gollum than Bambi; all stitchy and hunched up. And it took a glacial 17 minutes to get into my stride. In the pub after, as I inhaled a lovely ham, egg and chips, it was generally agreed I must have been hungry. My empty tum had not been up to the job. No fuel. This seemed fair.

It was only when I got home and did my usual running maths (4.3 miles in 38.31 minutes) that I realized it was simple. I was running faster than normal. I can't believe this comes as a surprise, week in, week out. It didn't feel any faster. The park wasn't a blur of trees and squirrels all leaping out of my speedy way. It felt like the same pace as usual, only it hurt more. So the great news is, I did an 8.54 minute/mile. Which is my fastest yet. And which is also why I think I need a Garmin. Or maybe a pacemaker to run beside me and deliver regular reports. And give me a post-run foot massage. That would be good.

(Pic: Hyde Park last Friday. Thankfully, much quieter last night.)

A pain in the buttocks

Last week I was very remiss. At everything. Running. Life in general. I blame hay fever. And so it was a mighty 5 days after my last run when I finally made it out again. On this occasion, I was running with someone considerably fitter than me. My brother. Rather than try to keep up, I decided to drag him down to my level. Unfortunately, even when running slowly, he was still much quicker. We toured Hampstead and the heath in convoy. He loped along around 100 yards ahead; I wheezed behind and pointed out favoured drinking venues of the minor celebrity. Arriving at the top of the heath, I took a short breather (to admire the lovely view) while he jogged energetically (and not a little annoyingly) on the spot. Then we headed home to chips for breakfast. On the plus side, it was an absolutely beautiful morning and I now know that the pain of running with faster companions will have a positive effect on my fitness. I was also delighted to discover we did just over 7 miles. No idea of time but, bearing in mind I'd very much 'fallen off the wagon' running-wise, I felt this was a good way to clamber back on.

And so, keen to build on my renewed enthusiasm, I went out again this morning. Having exchanged my visiting family for a visiting friend, I dragged her out with me. We did a similar run in terms of hills, but at a far more civilized speed. It was an interesting lesson in the precise impact that a change of pace can have on your body. I felt comfortable, my lung capacity was more than adequate and my legs didn't feel like they were made of dark matter. We did 4.18 miles in 47.42 minutes (11.24 minutes/mile). A pace that may not set the world alight, but was extremely enjoyable and I definitely feel back on track.

One minor downside, my nagging hamstring was definitely in evidence on both outings. On the upside, my lucky friend is a physio and got the exciting opportunity to treat my injury. She diagnosed that my piriformis was the issue and set about poking and prodding it to relieve the muscle spasms she suspected were referring the pain down my leg. It was by far one of the most agonising experiences of my life. And I'm not sure she didn't enjoy inflicting said pain a little too much. However, to give her credit, it immediately started to help. It's a great relief to know the cause - and an even greater one to know that it can be 'fixed'. As long as I do the exercises regularly. Hmmm...


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piriformis_syndrome