A rest is as good as a rest

This weekend hasn't been great for training - in the sense that I haven't done any.

I woke up yesterday feeling dreadful. I managed to drag myself to the Heath for a walk, but returned home exhausted so went back to bed for a siesta.

When I woke up, it was British Summer Time.

I figure if you need to sleep, you need to sleep. With only three weeks till Marathon Day, I think preserving my finely-tuned running machine is a priority. And today I preserved it - or pickled it, even - in orange juice and Cava. I should say I was visiting a friend and haven't taken to lying in bed, boozing. Not yet, anyway. Once the marathon fear really sets in that might be an option.

(Pic: The trees are still bald, but the sky is blue.)

Oh I see....

Last night I was the victim of a cycle-by bottom-slapping. That'll teach me to run through Regent's Park in the dark. To ensure my bottom stayed safe through Primrose Hill I clung to the heels of a guy in front. Impressive how quickly he speeded up when he thought he was being followed. Which he was. Fortunately, Primrose Hill is rammed at twilight so I was able to relax at the top - on my slightly tender rump - and enjoy the view. I needed a rest. I was carrying a huge rucksack stuffed with work clothes and it felt like I was on manoeuvres.

This escalation of exercise is the result of a short conversation about marathons with my neighbour. He said I've undertrained, the last six miles will kill me and I'll be lucky if I'm not running into a headwind, which will make it worse. Once I'd overcome my initial reaction - to start banging on his door in the middle of the night and running away - I decided he was probably right. So, I'm taking his advice: more miles, more hills, more often. As is so often the case, my antagonist is also my motivator. Though I'm still trying to work out where the bottom-slapper fits in.

(Stats: 5.58 miles; about one hour; about 10.45 minute/mile.)

The luck of the Irish

Today's run took an unusual turn when I became part of a St Patrick's Day parade.

Should you ever run into central London and find it closed to traffic, don't think 'ooh, how convenient, I can run down the middle of the road and avoid all those people on the pavement'. Because fairly soon, it will emerge the crowds are waiting for a parade and they think you're the warm-up act.

As I turned down Whitehall, barriers on either side of the road prevented me from correcting my mistake so I just kept running. One man tried to give me some money 'for the charity I'm collecting for'. Another decided to vault over and join me: he kept up for a good two minutes, which was impressive given he was wearing a large green hat, smoking and had been out celebrating since yesterday.

I escaped the throng at Westminster Bridge and sought sanctuary in the cafe at the BFI. I had been toying with the idea of running home again, but got cold so jumped on the tube with a pasty instead.

On reflection, today was an interesting lesson in how the energy of the crowd can carry you through. Let's hope there's a massive crowd in Brighton and they've got an awful lot of energy.

(Stats: 8.5 miles; 1.45 minutes; 12.21 minute/mile; but that includes some time spent chatting to leprechauns.)

A lot of it about

I did the Hampstead Heath parkrun this morning and there was a distinct feeling of love in the air.

This was due in no small part to the presence of a big contingent from the Royal Free hospital who were raising money for charity. This had the much-appreciated side-effect of increasing the numbers of 'hotties' in the field. Well done them. On both counts.

I had been a little anxious about my first run since the 20-miler. I'd intended to go to the gym this week but work (and bed) commitments had got in the way. As I'm thinking of doing another long run tomorrow, I thought the parkrun 5k would prove a good warm-up.

It was certainly warm. It's hard to judge what to wear this time of year and I'd opted for long running leggings. Were I more flexible, I might have whipped them off mid-race. Thinking about it, the last time I did PE in my pants was 1983. I recall I was wearing my Princess Leia vest and knickers set. Which seems cool now, but it was cream with brown piping and, at that age, no-one wants brown underwear.

Anyway, it was a very fine way to start a Saturday even if I did fail to entice over any of the hotties. Perhaps it is time to dig out the Princess Leia pants, after all?!

(Stats: 5k/3.1 miles; 26 minutes 33 seconds; 8.33 minute/mile - Woo hooo.)

(Pic: This is the last hill before the finish line. It may not look much, but you really feel it. I do, anyway.)

Hard to believe

I expected to wake up this morning and find rigor mortis had set in. But no, I feel pretty fine. Hamstrings are a little tight, but that's it. I'm fully mobile and ready to get back on the training horse tomorrow. To be honest, I felt worse the last time I did my Tracy Anderson DVD. It's been interesting to find the distance took a far greater emotional toll, than a physical one. And, thankfully, the blanket of fear has lifted. I'm delighted. I ran 20 miles. Hooray.

16 miles good, 20 miles bad

It's the day after the Finchley20 and I don't think I'll ever be the same again. I was going to write an update last night, but feared it would have been too depressing.

What's really scary is I usually feel euphoric when I cross a finish line. Not this time. This time, all I felt was terror. I just kept wondering where on earth I was going to find the extra six miles for the marathon?!

And then I started crying.

I surmised maybe my sugar levels were a bit low. Luckily, I'd stored some jelly babies in my socks. Unfortunately, after their 20-mile trip, they were really sweaty and fluffy, and looked absolutely disgusting. But they tasted fine.

It was weird. All was well until mile 16. Then the wheels (and my legs) fell off. Even walking the last half a mile didn't help because my muscles wanted to keep on running. I must have looked a bit sketchy because a marshal came over to see if I needed a medic. I said no, so he said it was only 200 yards to the end and I could probably run. I agreed, summoned up all my remaining strength and trickled across the finish line.

And then I started crying.

They say feel the fear and do it anyway. Well, I plan to. But I may need to tuck some tissues in my socks alongside the hairy jelly babies.

(Stats: 20 miles; 3:25:33; 10.16 minute/mile: 469th/501)

(Pic: My feet deserved it more than me.)

(P.S. I'd also like to add that the Finchley20 is a lovely, well-organised, friendly race and a good 'warm-up' for a spring marathon. Plus they have the loveliest loos and shower room - with candles and flowers and everything.)

It's just a training run. It's just a training run...

Finchley20 tomorrow. I was looking forward to it. Then reality hit. Now I have a stomach ache and my knees hurt.

It's four five-mile laps of somewhere in Ruislip (not Finchley, then?) To be honest, it's a bit of a trek to get there. I have to find my way to Ruislip station, then walk a mile and a half to the start line for 9.30 am. Part of me is really anxious I won't make it in time. Part of me's really anxious I will.

In order to distract myself, I have spent today working out what my split times need to be to maintain a 10.30 minute mile. I managed that last weekend when I did 12 miles in the Arctic conditions of Northampton. I see no reason (apart from the additional eight miles) why I should not carry on where I left off.

And speaking of bizarre weather, it's forecast to be a mighty 17 degrees tomorrow. Fifteen degrees more than last Sunday when I got cold-induced nerve damage. Which reminds me, I must remember to dig out my sun cream. Don't want to get my frost bite sun burnt.

(Stats: One Soho Special sandwich from Bodean's and a day spent listening to One for the ditch on Mixcloud in an attempt to relax. It has helped a bit.)

No sense, no feeling

Hamstring pulls, shin splints, stubbed toes. And now a numb left hand. A legacy of yesterday's icicle run.

It feels like I've been resting on it for too long and it's gone to sleep. Only it's been asleep for 24 hours now. I asked a medical friend if I should be worried:"Nah...it's probably just a bit of nerve damage". Well that's okay then.

To cheer myself up, sleepy hand and I went shopping at lunchtime to the new Sweatshop running store on Rathbone Place. I intended to buy some gloves (yes, that is the sound of a horse bolting) but came out with new trainers, 'Supreme Anklet' socks and insoles moulded to my 'surprisingly normally-arched' feet.

After a quick canter on their running machine, I was matched with a pair of Asics GT-2170. The very helpful assistant brought out a variety of shoes, but I found the 2170's the most comfy (as I need a narrow fitting) and least cerise. At the same time, I bonded with a fellow shopper who was also a novice marathon runner. I could tell he was a novice because he shared my demeanour - partly excited, mostly terrified.

I'm hoping that the new purchases will transform my session at the gym tomorrow. And what's reassuring is they come with a 30-day guarantee. That said, my assistant was very knowledgeable so it's unlikely I'll need it. On that note, I asked him if he'd ever experienced a numb hand from running. He thought about it and said yes, but not for that long - and I should probably see a doctor. Hmmm... not the reassurance I was hoping for. I'm going to see how it is in the morning and make a judgement call then. In the meantime, I'm typing this as quickly as I can before my ability to do so decreases by half.

(Stats: Asics GT-2170; FootBalance Dynamic moulded insoles; Supreme Mono Socks. I was given a running club discount on the latter two, but waived it on the shoes in favour of their current offer - a voucher that entitles me to another pair of trainers for £25, valid for the next three months. I best stock up now I'm a proper runner.)

Where the hell has spring gone?

Last night I went for a lovely run. Three miles on an early spring evening in the Northamptonshire countryside. Birds tweeted, friendly locals shouted hello and I returned home looking forward to my long Sunday run.

Little did I know my long Sunday run would be accompanied by driving rain and gale force winds.

I set off hoping my Gore-Tex jacket would protect me against the elements. It helped, but without gloves, my hands were soon freezing - and I became a little perturbed when my left hand started to turn blue. Mindful that I need my hand to do my job, I stuck it inside my jacket to keep warm. This gave the impression I was an opportunist thief running off with some half-hidden bounty. Thankfully, all sensible people were at home, so my only witnesses were another couple of runners and they had their own cold wet fish to fry.

Despite the hideousness of the weather, the 12 miles went quickly and I was soon home, resembling - as my friend said - a human popsicle. By now, I'd lost all use of my extremities so she peeled off my kit and I ran to the shower. There, I discovered, I couldn't distinguish between hot and cold so erred on the side of caution by setting it to cool. It took me around two hours to warm up properly, and that was done with the help of a huge roast dinner. And a very tasty mushroom starter.

In the spirit of being prepared for all eventualities, I suppose I should be glad it poured with rain. And dropped to four degrees. And started to snow a bit. But I would be more than happy if from now on I could just be prepared for lovely sunshine and a light breeze.

(Saturday stats: 3 miles; 30.37 minutes; 10.12 minute/mile.)

(Sunday stats: 12.4 miles; 2.01.55; 9.47 minute/mile.)

(Pic: Oh, I see. The sun comes out after I've been for my run!)