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.