Training Log Archive: OJ

8
Their relationship evolved slowly, and it was some time before Ian dared to invite Kate out for a drink—and only then on the pretext of celebrating their better than expected races at the Yorkshire Cross Country Championships. They met at a real ale pub in town, and Ian (who was often late) arrived after Kate. He suffered a jolt of surprise when he recognised her sitting alone in the corner dressed in a fancy skirt and top with make-up on. Where were her leggings? Where was her thermal? Where were the loose strands of wet hair? She looked immaculate and different, and Ian realised at that moment that he wanted to find out and understand everything about this woman.

By the end of the evening he had discovered that she was a secondary school geography teacher and enjoyed her job; she had been a talented 800m runner as a teenager but got fed up with the high pressure environment at the sharp end of the sport; she supported Sheffield Wednesday; she definitely voted Labour; she preferred Belgian lager to real ale and she could hold her drink better than he could. One month later he had discovered that she was pleased with her bum but didn't much like her boyish hips; she only put on make-up for special occasions; she rarely wore matching underwear and she sometimes talked in her sleep. By the end of the first year he had discovered that she wanted to have two kids, a cat, a vegetable plot and a big white wedding. They moved in together shortly after that and within two years they were married. The wedding was big and white and they shared it with lots mutual friends from their athletics club.

That was three years ago and not much had changed. Running was still their preferred hobby, although for Kate it had become less of a focus, while for Ian it had become an all consuming passion. His mileage had crept up and up from month to month and year to year, and his PBs had fallen second by second, minute by minute. Meanwhile the two of them hurtled on towards their mid-30s clinging for all they were worth to their precarious flush of youth and vitality. And all of a sudden, ever since that particular morning, Ian could no longer run. All of a sudden he no longer felt young.

C • hang on 1

Local event at Middleton Park, Leeds. Ran hard on what was a pretty straightforward course, going OK but still not up to speed. Didin't miss much, but a nice enough run out.

Extended WU and WD with a set of hill bounds thrown in at the end for laughs.

7
Ian was fortunate, he reflected as he waited at the bus stop that morning, that Kate was willing to put up with his running-induced mood swings. Her running career had reached dizzier heights than his ever would, including several wins in local races, cross country team medals and even county vests, but somehow Kate had been able to draw a line under her elite aspirations and make the transition to recreational running in a dignified manner that so far eluded Ian. The two of them met almost ten years ago at an athletics club training session shortly after Ian moved to Sheffield. It was a wet and windy night, and the conditions were hardly conducive to good times on the track. The girls were running 400s while the lads ran 800s, all off the same recovery, so their pacing was similar. Kate, who was a talented middle distance runner, was up at the front of the group on each rep. As a newcomer, Ian didn’t want to show off so he tucked into the pack. In search of someone to pace himself on during the session, his gaze settled on Kate’s lycra-clad bum. He was mesmerised. The session went by in no time at all, and Ian became a regular at the track.

It was only a matter of time before Kate began to take notice of this relative newcomer. She was surprised and flattered when he complemented her on her strong running at that first session, and she only found out many weeks later that there was more to his passing comment than mere admiration for her athletic ability. Their courtship was a flirtation of a kind unique to runners. It took place at the trackside, in muddy cross country fields and in the club tent; a shout of support, a word of congratulation at the finish, a warm up or a warm down together.

C • Kate 1

Recce for the Trigger from Snake Summit, taking in Kinder West trig and the route to Kinder River, then retraced my steps and tested out the route from Bleaklow Head to Shelf and back to Snake. Worthwhile trip out, mainly in wet, tussocky terrain and the time just flew by. I hope Nails doesn't get lost.

C • soooo..... did you go strai... 2

6
Five minutes later Kate came downstairs, wrapped in a dressing gown, to find Ian sitting at the breakfast table, his running shoes still on. He looked pale and drawn and was staring at the kitchen wall with an expression of intense concentration.
‘What’s wrong? I thought you had gone out. You look terrible.’
‘I don’t know, I feel fine. I didn’t go out.’
‘Why ever not? It’s a beautiful morning.’
‘I tried to go out. I can’t explain it. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. There must be Something wrong, but I don’t know what it is. I must be over tired, or maybe I’m getting ill.’ Kate made a concerned face and felt his forehead. She was used to her husband’s regular bouts of hypochondria, and she wasn’t overly worried. Whatever the problem was, it would most likely pass in a couple of days and he would get back into the usual routine.
‘I know you think I’m just being stupid.’ Ian knew his wife too well. ‘But this feels different. Something isn’t right.’
‘Look, I know how hard you find it, but just take a rest for a couple of days.’ Kate was on thin ice, and she knew it. ‘You've been training hard recently and work hasn't been easy either. Take a break, then you’ll feel recharged and ready to get back into it.’
There was a pause, as Ian considered the wisdom of this advice. ‘Maybe you’re right’, he concluded. ‘A couple of days can’t do any harm. It’s still three months ‘till London. I’ll write off the rest of this week and get back into it at the weekend.’ Kate released a silent sigh of relief and busied herself with the more pressing matters of the everyday morning bustle.

C • This Ian 4

Supposed to be a recovery ride but still felt quite hard. Usual route out to Moscar, nice to see the sun for a change.

Bolehill Park and some looping around. Nice evo for it.

5
The following morning Ian awoke to the sound of his 6.40am alarm. The irritating electronic drone put a definitive end to an uncomfortable night, during which he had lain awake wondering whether he would be willing or indeed able to rouse himself for his morning exercise. True, he had slept for longer than he thought he had, as is often the case during a seemingly wakeful night, but nonetheless, Ian was groggy and reluctant to rise as he lowered his feet over onto the cold wood laminate and slipped out from under the covers. Wearing only his boxer shorts, he stepped through to the bathroom, where a pre-warmed set of kit was awaiting him on top of the already-hot radiator—a special treat on a chilly January morning. Its warmth provided a welcome respite from the cold air, but it soon faded as he made his way down to the kitchen and groped around in the darkness for his running shoes. Banana (half), a gulp of water, laces tied, open the front door, out and away into the morning gloom.

Except…he couldn’t do it. The door stood wide open and a frosty winter chill crept into the house. Ian remained perfectly still on the threshold. A cat mewled in next door’s garden and a bus rumbled by at the bottom of the street. A faint morning glow infiltrated the cloudless sky above the opposite terrace.

Minutes passed. A runner came trotting effortlessly up the street and stopped outside Ian’s front gate.
‘Good morning. Did you sleep in again?’ Phil enquired with ill-disguised smugness. ‘I was wondering where you had got to, so I thought I'd come and wake you up.’
‘I’m awake, as you can see.’ Ian replied without a trace of emotion in his voice.
‘So are you coming for a swift one? I thought we could head up the valley. It’s a cold day and the trails will be frozen solid.’
‘I don’t think I can.’
‘What d'you mean? You’re all set to go. There’s still plenty of time for it.’
‘It’s not that. I want to. I just don’t think I can. I don’t know why. You should go by yourself.’ A note of confusion entered Ian’s voice.
‘You alright mate? Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘Yes, go. I’m fine. Just coming down with something, I guess.’ Phil shrugged his shoulders, wished his friend well and jogged away down the street. Ian, still standing in the open doorway, suddenly became very aware of the cold. He shut the door and sat down at the kitchen table, while a glorious orange dawn broke over the frozen city.

C • 1 2 3 4 6 3

Bolehill Park, etc. Got lashed by the wind and rain, obv. I have to admit that in a perverse kind of way I am really enjoying this weather.

Hallamshire session at Hillsborough Park. 6xlaps of the bowl in 2.41, 2.40, 2.40, 2.41, 2.38, 2.43. First three with a big crowd, next two with a small group and last one on my tod, which was a lot harder (everyone else resting up for Yorkshires. Not a bad evening all things considered, didn't even get wet. Weird.

4
The purpose of this brief synopsis of Ian’s love affair with running is not to paint him as a caricature, or to poke fun at him. He is an obsessive, it's true, but aren’t so many of us obsessives in one way or another? In all other respects, so far as can be established, Ian led a perfectly normal life. He had a loving wife, also a runner, but of a less all-consuming variety. He had an ordinary sort of job working as a marketing manager for the local council. He even had time for other, less physically demanding hobbies, including cooking and going to the cinema. Like many of his friends and colleagues, he even enjoyed a pint or two of real ale and was a regular at the local pub quiz. Ian's existence was compartmentalised and neat. The purpose of the above brief history of Ian’s relationship with running is simply to demonstrate that, in the absence of any diagnosable injury or illness, Ian’s inertia on this particular morning was an inexplicable anomaly and an exception to a long established rule.

C • What the hell is this shit? 11

IW, heavy pack, legs tired but much better than yesterday.

Tempo HFW via Lodge Moor feeling much perkier than this morning, still basking in the coffee effect. Working hard into the wind and rain all the way out, this was a wild run.

3
Of course, this was not the first occasion that Ian had missed a running session. He was no superman and he had succumbed to any number of colds, flu, coughs, infections, bugs and viruses over the years. Running had sometimes taken its own toll, usually when his obsession for it had exceeded the physiological limitations of his body. He had suffered plantar fasciitis (a sore foot), compartment syndrome (a sore shin), illiotibial band friction (a sore knee), piriformus syndrome (a sore bum) and had a chronic stiffness in his lower back to mention but a few of his more noteworthy malaises. As a fanatical sportsperson, Ian was highly attuned (over-sensitive, Kate would say) to the daily fluctuations of his biorhythms and was tormented by hypochondria, bordering on paranoid delusion, which amplified every little ache and pain that manifested itself in his perenially-fatigued body into a terminal, career-ending injury. In order to continue to function under these conditions Ian had developed a simple three-step system of self-diagnosis, which could be reliably applied to any malfunctioning part of his anatomy:

Step 1: Go for a run and see how it feels after fifteen minutes.
Step 2: If it fails to ease off, keep going and see if it gets any worse.
Step 3: See how it feels the next day. If in doubt repeat steps 1 and 2.

Only in extreme cases did this foolproof method fail to heal even the most persistent of niggles. On these occasions, a visit to the physio became unavoidable, and Ian would attend his appointment with every expectation that he would be diagnosed with a stress fracture, a career-ending cartilage injury, or terminal arthritis. Forty-five minutes later, he would leave the clinic with a spring in his step, his worst fears assuaged, a selection of stretching and mobility exercises prescribed to work on, and the resolutely sensible advice ringing in his ears: ‘Take a few days off running.’

The first day off would be fine. Ian could luxuriate in the extra time afforded by not having to go out running. He would spend a while longer over his breakfast and maybe read the paper. Then, in the evening, he would have time to cook a leisurely dinner for himself and Kate, which they would eat in front of the TV. He would devote a good half an hour to his exercises, safe in the knowledge that he was acting on sound medical advice, and that his minor injury was in the process of healing itself.

The second day was the worst. The novelty of not running had worn off, and Ian could detect the hormonal balance of his body reaching a sub-critical state in the absence of a stabilising endorphin release. He would become cantankerous, moody and listless. He would struggle to concentrate at work and snap at Kate when she asked him if he was alright. His levels of despair would reach a peak just before bedtime, and he would struggle to sleep without the comforting sensation of fatigue in his legs.

On the third day, he would crack. He would visit the gym before work for some cross-training. Cross-training was a phrase and a concept which Ian hated. He hated it because it was, as he saw it, a fashionable form of pseudo-training, which took place indoors, and was therefore dull, stuffy and pointless. He hated the sweatiness of the gym, he hated the close proximity of other sweaty exercisers, he hated the mechanised, repetitive activities, and most of all he hated the too-loud music and ubiquitous TV screens. But needs must, and Ian was by now a desperate man. Like a junkie getting a fix, he would climb onto an exercise bike, straddle a cross-trainer or slump into a rowing machine and stay there for as long as it took him to work out his frustrations. An hour-or-so later, he would stride out into the fresh air with his craving sated, and his sense of self restored.

It was fortunate that Ian had never been injured for long.

Up Loxley in the wind and hail. Feeling unbelievably beaten up after yesterday's ride, but a bit looser after this.

Drills and strides at Myers Grove on the way home. So waterlogged everywhere.

2
To the non-athletic reader, this train of non-events may appear to be of little consequence. It is not, after all, the first time that a man has slept in of a morning. A little context will help to explain the unprecedented nature of this otherwise insignificant occurrence and to give credence to the apparent over-reaction of Ian, his wife and his friend.

Ian is a runner; that much we have established. But there are many different kinds of runners. There are those for whom running is a physical means to an end; whether weight loss, general health and fitness, improved concentration, or a more shapely bottom. There are those for whom running is part of a training programme with a concrete goal; finishing a local fun run, winning the Olympic marathon, and all shades between. There are those for whom running is a social activity; a way to meet new, like-minded people, preferably ones with shapely bottoms. Then there are those for whom running is a diversion; a method of escape, a physiological pathway to a higher mental plane.

For Ian, running was, as the cliché goes, a way of life. It was simply a way of getting himself through the day. It was not that Ian defined himself through running; rather, without running there would be no Ian. That is not to say that the above categories did not apply to Ian as well; he was a keen member of a local running club, he was always in training for one race or another, he enjoyed the psychological benefits of running and he coveted his well-toned runner’s bottom. Additional benefits he had observed included the following: he could eat as much as he liked without putting on weight (although he was also careful to manage his diet in a way that would not be detrimental to his running); he did much of his best thinking while out running (therefore he could justify the occasional bit of time out of the office to partake in his favourite pastime); he saw a lot of interesting and beautiful things while out running (sunrises, sunsets, pristine frosts, heavy morning dews, remote and rarely-visited corners of the city); and he could run for the bus without getting out of breath (handy for someone who was often behind schedule). In short, Ian loved running, but he also needed it, in the same way that he needed to eat, drink and breathe.

That is why, when Ian failed to go for a run on this particular morning, it was a cause of some alarm for all concerned.

Long ride (by my standards, at least) out to Hathersage via Ewden and Strines. Met Jen for a coffee and cake sitting outside in the sun, lubed up my bike, which had been clunking all the way out, then back via Burbage Bridge and Redmires. Not much of this was easy as the wind seemed to be in my face most of the time, legs pulverised by the end.