2 hours 8 minutes 20 seconds

So, not only not under 2 hours, but I didn’t even beat my previous best half-marathon time. This is why I don’t set goals.

Today I’m feeling a bit of a failure, though I am trying to look on the bright side. I think that the training certainly helped on the endurance front (I didn't get my usual 11 mile anger) and my body actually feels pretty good today (when I'm usually aching like a b*stard post-race). And I suppose it’s not terrible, considering my recent dearth of mileage and sore tendons. But, ultimately, I failed. And I failed because I did not run fast enough.

I would like to blame the hilly course. And when I say hills, I mean hill. But it was a very large one and I had to go up and down it four times. I thought the course was flat. That came as a huge shock. I then spent a lot of time ensuring I conserved enough energy for the imminent ascent. I think that maybe I spent too much time conserving and not enough time... well, serving, I suppose. I don't know.

All that aside, I did really enjoy the run (probably because I was going so slowly). Torbay provides a beautiful backdrop for a half-marathon and cantering along the coast in the dewy morning sunshine was inspiring. I can also recommend Tor Abbey (recently restored), the Princess Theatre (Calendar Girls. Back for the very last time) and the London Fryer (tasty looking chip shop). But the best views were reserved for the top of that bloody hill. Views that I very much enjoyed on visit number one. By visit number four, the novelty had worn off and I had bigger fish to fry. Though not, unfortunately, at the London Fryer.

There were a couple of occasions when I did think about speeding up. One of which involved the tantalising prospect of overtaking my brother’s friend. He kept bobbing up in the distance and I felt that with a good burst of speed on my part I could ‘take him’. However, my feeble competitive instinct was quashed by the vision of me lying prostrate on the ground; the inevitable result of any ‘burst’. There's no glory in road kill.

To be fair to said friend, I probably wouldn’t have caught him anyway. I believe it was his first half-marathon and he came in a good three or four minutes faster than me. My brother also did really well, passing the post at 1.34.05, though he was gutted to narrowly miss the 33 minute mark. Which just shows how all success (and failure) is relative. No pun intended.

All in all, I would highly recommend the Torbay half. Irrespective of my disappointment re time, it was a really well organised, fantastically located race. And my lungs felt like they'd had a good jet wash by the end. Speaking of which, I was rather pleased with my sprint finish. It was nice to show my family that despite being the slowest member of the pack, I could still cross the line in style. Fortunately, they didn't witness the small collapse, seconds later, next to the military boy who was removing the timing chips. But once I'd gathered my thoughts and blood had returned to the cerebral part of my body, I was ready to collect the spoils of war in the form of the 'goody bag'. This was instantly collared by my niece and nephew. They grabbed the bag, devoured the free gummi bears and led me over to a market stall selling wool, where we spent a good 3 minutes before I came to my senses and insisted my wellbeing and need for rest came before their need to purchase knitting needles. No matter how cheap they were.

And so a rather surreal end to an inauspicious day. On the plus side, the challenge continues. And I'm looking out for my next half. Preferably one in Holland.

(Stats: 13.1 miles; 2.08.05; 9.46 minute/mile; one very very very very very very big hill.)

(Pic: Victory t-shirt and medal. It's all about the medal.)

My leg is a moot point

My race number has arrived. And my leg is feeling a bit better. It's all go! Except I had to work late so missed running club anyway. Unfortunately, I've spent most of the past three weeks squashed in an office chair. If the half on Sunday involves staring myopically at a computer screen, I'll definitely win.

In the absence of any actual running, I've decided visualization will have to suffice. I'm picturing myself racing confidently along the south Devon coast, enjoying the sea air and crossing the line in 1 hr 30. I may as well aim high. I'm also picturing a lovely hot dog. Not for Sunday. Just generally. I'm hungry.

Tibialis posterior update

My injured leg is absolutely fine. If I don't use it. None of which bodes well for Sunday's half. However, I'm carb-loading regardless. Why waste a good excuse to eat pasta and garlic bread and risotto every night?! This evening, on top of my Italian fiesta, I also poked down a small bucket of spinach. If it's good enough for Popeye... Seriously, my body needs all the help it can get. If that means eating fruit and veg in quantities usually only seen in zoos, then so be it. PMA!

One week to go

So, what was a small nagging pain in my left calf has developed into a huge nagging pain.

Weirdly, it didn't feel too bad on Thursday, the day after the run, but I think the mistake I made was wearing flip flops in the rain on Friday.

I say rain. It was torrential. Complete with thunder and lightning and floods on the streets of Soho. (Okay, so maybe it wasn't the apocalypse, but compared with the arid months of April and May, it was very wet.)

The thing with flip flops is they're hard work to keep on your feet anyway. Add in a few inches of water and they're wriggling about like a couple of flounders. I think struggling to ensure they weren't washed away put a lot of pressure on my already slightly sore lower limbs and I fear it was this that did the damage. (I should add it was lovely and sunny when I left for work and I was optimistic it would remain so. It didn't.)

By Friday evening, I was in real pain and had a distinct limp. When I got home and assumed a yogic position to inspect the area (behind my ankle and up the back of my calf) I found it tender and swollen.

I immediately texted my physio (i.e. my friend) a detailed outline of the problem and she identified the sore area as the tibialis posterior and feared it might be tendonitis. Obviously, I googled this and my symptoms do seem to correlate. However, my left sock was rubbing under my forefoot like a b*stard on Wednesday so I was running a little awkwardly. I'm hoping that it's this that has caused the injury and that it's a temporary state of affairs.

In line with recommended expert advice (from my friend) I have rested all weekend, dosed myself up with anti-inflammatories and been liberally applying an ice-pack to the area. And I'm relieved to report it's already improving. Just as well as this time next week I will be mid-half-marathon. In fact, If things are going according to plan I should only have half an hour to go.

Right now, there's a question mark over the time thing. But I'm optimistic my leg will be well enough to run. Because, of course, my optimism on the weather-front worked out brilliantly.

(Pic: My sore leg with biro graffiti highlighting the affected area.)

Milkmaids Passage

Tonight's run could not have been more 'London' had I done it dressed as a Beefeater while singing 'roll out the barrel, we'll have a barrel of fun.'

It was club night. And rather than opt for the shortest distance, I decided to step up. I would do the 'three parks'. This consists of my usual circuit of Hyde Park and Kensington Palace Gardens, with the addition of St James' Park (and Green Park too). Hang on, surely that's four parks? Guess that's why we're a running club and not a maths club.

I've done this distance before. About three times. Last time (at the beginning of April) I really pushed myself and nearly had a coronary. Since then, I have opted for enjoyment over speed. And so it was this evening.

I set off with the 9-minute milers. I kept up with the ones at the back. In fact, I even overtook two girls (to be fair, they were deep in chat and expending considerably more puff than me). But soon, I found myself in a pace group no man's land. Which proved the perfect place to be.

Hungry squirrels. Bored foreign students. Happy drunks. It's surprising what you see when you're running alone and very slowly. I saw a tent completely covered by a tree. A cuddling bear fountain. A stick shaped like a gun. And, the piece de la resistance, Prince Harry.

I was running down The Mall when I came to the entrance of Clarence House and a very nice policeman told me to stop. Tired, but keen to keep up the momentum, I jogged energetically on the spot, but rested my hands on my hips. That's when a state car emerged and a Harry-shaped head peered out through the tinted glass. I barely had time to register 'that's pri....' before he was gone.

Once I'd regained my composure, I completed the rest of the run at a comfortable pace. And I even carried on running past the most important lamppost in London (i.e. the one on Speaker's Corner at the 'finish line') all the way back to the club house. With just over a week till the 'big day', I thought those extra half miles could come in handy.

So, a thoroughly enjoyable evening was had by all. Well, by me anyway. I'm sure Prince Harry was just confused by the Riverdancing busker.

(Stats: 8 miles; 80 minutes; 10 minute/mile. PLUS: I ran from work to the club house (1.55 miles) so that's 9.55 miles in total. Which, I think, makes me brilliant.)

(p.s. Milkmaids Passage is a little alleyway just off Green Park. I ran past it earlier. In fact, it proved a welcome distraction from the pain in my left calf. Milkmaids Passage. Tee hee...)

Sunday driver

Today I planned to take my new Garmin Forerunner out for a test drive. Unfortunately, one look at the instruction manual and the plan demanded revision. Even the 'Quick Start' section had my little grey cells heading for the hills (at a pace that was somewhat faster than that managed on the eventual run).

By the time I'd finished fannying around, my motivation had long since departed. I had been considering a Regent's Park extension to the usual jaunt, but that got ditched along with the Garmin. I set off feeling uninspired and it wasn't long before I was home again.

Nothing particularly exciting to report. But, I guess, it is reassuring to think that even on a lacklustre day, I've managed a few miles. I used to go out with a golfer (a proper one, no windmills involved) and he was of the opinion that playing well on a good day was easy. Keeping going on a bad day was the challenge. Wise words. Then again, he also used to snap his golf clubs in half on the back nine. Less wise.

(Stats: 4.18 miles; 45.07; 10.47 minute/mile.)

Best (bare)foot forward

In the spirit of investigation, I decided to walk home from work on Thursday night. Without my shoes.

I thought it would be a good introduction to the 'minimalist' running idea that Barefoot Ted et al have been talking about.

I was a little self-conscious as I couldn't fit my flip flops in my bag so I had to carry them. This drew attention to my al fresco feet and I felt a bit of a tool (that's been happening a lot recently). To distract myself from tool-dom, I started taking photos of my feet on the various pavements and roads they encountered. (I took 241 pictures in total. I got a bit carried away.)

Ted was absolutely right about pavements being an easy flat surface to potter on. It was all pretty much plain sailing (or walking?). There was one minor incident when something non-specific got stuck to my forefoot. (I'm hoping it was just a soggy leaf.) And I found you had to be especially careful around parked cars. (You see a lot of smashed wing mirrors when you're staring at the floor.) But on the whole, the actual walking experience was fine.

However, once I'd got home - and washed my dirty black feet (top tip: don't try to shower with your jeans on) things took a turn. They really started to throb. I'm sure this is normal as it was around the padded raised areas that must have taken most of the flack. But they were so sore, I couldn't put them on the floor. It was almost as if they were burning in places.

At this point, I berated myself for not waiting till after the half to experiment. But just as I was going to text my flatmate to bring me a bucket of ice, the sensation began to subside. And by the next morning they were pretty much back to normal.

So, not the most auspicious of beginnings; but then, even Barefoot Ted had to start somewhere.

(Stats: 4.67 miles (2.67 sans flip flops); 1.30 minutes; not sure of the minute-mileage, probably not a personal best.)

(Pic: Using my flip flop to flick something untoward off my foot. I never ever want to know what it was.)

My life on my back

Tonight I should have been at running club, but was thwarted. Thwarted by work commitments! Damn the need to earn a crust.

As I sat alone in the office, pondering the wonders of cytokine inhibition, I ruminated on my recent lack of running. Somehow I had gone a whole week without my trusty trainers. Maybe Barefoot Ted had confused me into inaction? More likely, my new busy schedule was to blame. Either way, I had been doing an awful lot of not-running and this needed addressing.

I was suddenly feeling very tired and decided it was time to head for the tube. Still disappointed to have missed running club, I gathered together my detritus (phone, pen, extra strong mints) and shovelled them into my running rucksuck. My running rucksack? I had a rucksack that I could run with. And in that rucksack was my running kit. You spend your life looking for the key and the door is already open.*

I stripped off immediately. Normally, I wouldn't do an office streak (it wasn't Christmas, after all) but I wanted to get my kit on before the enthusiasm wore off. Fingers crossed, they don't have CCTV. Anyway, I immediately hit the streets of Soho. At first, I felt a bit of a tool. Not least, because my rucksack was so massively overstuffed I could plausibly have had a parachute in there. It was also heavy and a bit awkward for the same reason. After pausing to tighten the straps, I inserted my iPod and hid away with Ed Reardon until I reached Regent's Park.

The run home was absolutely lovely. And the week of resting and eating for England had resulted in a surprising amount of energy. So, it wasn't the fastest time in the world. But it was a good reminder that you don't always have to go for a run to go for a run.

(Stats: 4.73 miles - that's uphill miles with a very heavy bag on my back! 50 very enjoyable minutes; 10.34 minute/mile.)

(Pic: The Berghaus Mach 24 that I carried all the way home. I have put a small ball in the pic too. For perspective.)

(*Apologies to Aravind Adiga for poor paraphrasing from The White Tiger. Fantastic book.)