Training Log Archive: OJ

11
After a few minutes of faffing and chatting Ian had missed his chance for a warm up. He resigned himself to a steady start and took his place a row or two back from the front of the field. Although the event was small and informal, there was the usual pre-race buzz of anticipation in the air. The pungent, not unpleasant, odour of vaseline and fresh sweat wafted amongst the closely packed bodies, who huddled together awaiting the starter's orders. Those closest to the line, like Ian, were shivering in skimpy shorts and running vests, while those further back were more comfortable in tights, thermal tops and windproof jackets. A few runners vented their excess energy in a spot of nervous gamesmanship: 'It was a late one last night, I'll be lucky if I make it round the first lap.' 'I'm not really racing today, I've got a bit of a cold coming on.' 'Just a training run this.'

Ian had learnt long ago to disassociate words from action in this pre-race banter. It was all part of the game, and he knew that those with the loudest excuses would be the fastest out of the blocks as soon as the race began. Whether they would stay in front was another matter. Ian's preferred strategy was one of tactical silence. He tended to make a controlled start until he knew how he was feeling, then he would wind up the pace and reel in some of the more impulsive or optimistic runners. It was a conservative way to race, but it had served him well throughout his career, and he wasn't about to make any changes today.

The race official gave a brief description of the route, which was already well familiar to most of the runners, who shuffled and hopped impatiently on the spot. He wished everyone luck, then began a short countdown:
Three: The field shuffled forward and toed the line.
Two: The front runners lent over and poised themselves.
One: A flurry of beeps as watches were started.
Go: The tension was released in an instant as bodies propelled themselves forwards with an intensity that would have no let up for the next fifteen minutes or more. Nerve synapses fired into life, muscles strained to reach their limits, lungs heaved as they pumped fresh oxygen into the bloodstream and brains were flooded with natural stimulants. An inert mass of people came to life.

With one exception. In the middle of it all stood Ian, who had not shifted from his position on the start line, save for one or two jostles as other runners barged their ways past from behind. The entire field disappeared out of sight around a corner and Ian was left behind, unable to budge, frozen to the tarmac.
'You alright, mate?' Asked the start official. 'Not up for it today?'
Ian was silent. What could he say? His feet remained immobile, his legs incapable of action. He shivered, took a deep breath, and walked away from the start line.

By the time he had pulled a thermal on over his vest and changed his shoes, the frontrunners were already passing back through the start and heading out onto the second lap. Ian stared at them as a curious bystander. How did they do it? What did it feel like to run so fast? Was it really as effortless as they made it look? He wasn't sure that he could remember and at that moment he felt very far away from being one of them.

C • I'm actually feeling gutted... 3

HFW via Tim's to pick up a few things I left behind last night. Doh.

Drills strides and sprints on the way home in a futile attempt to inject a bit of spring into my tired legs.

10
So it was that Ian took an early night on Friday and awoke full of purpose on Saturday morning. He had his tried and tested pre-race breakfast of museli, yoghurt and banana at 6.45, followed by a strong coffee at 7.30. He then lazed at the kitchen table, reading the paper and puzzling over the crossword until 8.40, at which point he pulled on his racing flats, shouted goodbye to Kate and strolled over to the race assembly, which was only a five minute walk from the front door. Once there he would dump his excess kit and have a short warm-up before the start.

As he walked down the street he tried to tune himself in to the special frequency of his own body as he often did on the morning of a race. He could feel his muscles flexing freely in his legs as he walked and was pleased to note that he could detect no special obstruction or resistance. He felt fresher and livelier than ever after a few days of inactivity and his light and uninhibited limbs were eager to get moving with a bit more purpose. Periods of self doubt such as this one have a habit of becoming self-fulfilling, he reminded himself, and sometimes all that is needed is a spark to rekindle the fire. Well, he was going to light a firework this morning, that was for sure.

At the park a small crowd was already gathering for the race. Although there was a chill in the air, the sun was shining, and it looked as though there would be a decent turnout. Ian made his way over to the start where he spotted a couple of familiar faces in the crowd—Dan, a fast student who would no doubt set a good pace at the front, Emily, Dan's girlfriend who was also very quick and would probably give Ian a run for his money, and Phil, Ian's morning running partner. Ian was not pleased to see Phil, although he gave him a friendly wave. In spite of their close friendship, the two were bitter rivals—of which more later—and a race against Phil, even a small and informal one, would inevitably mean that they measured their performances against one another. Never mind, Ian reflected as he laced up his racing flats, at least he had a good excuse on this particular morning.

Post-physio run home via Crosspool. Kim has loosened my foot up nicely, just need to keep working on it and try to stay on top of the stiffness.

Run up to Tim's followed by the 7 Hills of Sheffield race, which was not quite as grand and hardcore as it sounds. I ran at a decent tempo but took a few sub-optimal routes and actually failed to find one of the hills, which was mismarked on the map. Got schooled by Robs Little and Baker and only just overtook Tim at the end, which is getting to be quite a habit. Followed by a nice curry, perfect.

C • Tim... 1

9
The rest of the week passed in an agony of non-activity. On Wednesday and Thursday nights Ian lay awake until the early hours of the morning suffering from an insomnia born of surplus energy. Worst case scenarios of chronic fatigue and ME filled his waking dreams while Kate slept soundly beside him, the faint guttural click of her breathing counting down the seconds until dawn. Mornings were greeted with lethargy and reluctance, his body—robbed of the anticipation of morning mileage which usually woke him from his slumber—finding no good reason to leave the warm refuge of the bed. Deprived of the usual heady mix of cold morning air and endorphins, Ian resorted to caffeine as a replacement stimulant. It got him out of the door and into the office, but its chemical effects wore off long before the natural high of morning exercise, leaving him to submit with resignation to a mid-morning slump, which continued, unalleviated by further doses of coffee, until long into the evening. He struggled to concentrate, he struggled to communicate and he struggled to function.

In short, he was a pain to be around.

Do not suppose for a moment that Ian was unaware of the apparent irrationality of his malaise. On the contrary, he was painfully aware of it. He was aware of it every time he snapped at Kate. He was aware of it every time he rubbed a colleague up the wrong way. He was aware of it when he mumbled his way through a poorly-prepared presentation at the office. This awareness only compounded his misery. He knew he was acting like a spoilt child, deprived of its favourite toy, but he could do nothing about it. Kate, for her part, did her best to distract him from his deprivation. She made sure that his every spare minute, which would have been filled otherwise with training, was filled instead with household tasks or entertainment. One night the two of them sat down to watch a movie together—a time consuming activity, which would usually be impossible following an after-work training session—and on another she took him out to their local Italian for dinner. These would have been pleasant and even romantic ways to pass the time, had it not been for the lone black cloud which its long dark shadow over everything he did.

By Friday morning, Ian was thoroughly fed up and Kate was at her wit's end. The four day break from running had brought no noticeable improvement to Ian's state of health. He felt fine, so far as he could tell, but he had no inclination whatsoever to go running. A drastic solution was required. Kate had an idea over breakfast.
'What about a race? That might be the thing you need to bring back your mojo. There's a Parkrun tomorrow, why don't you try that?'
Kate had in mind the informal 5km race which took place in Endcliffe Park at 9am every Saturday morning. It attracted a small field of regulars, most of whom were looking for a reason to get themselves out of bed for some exercise at the start of the weekend. It was also used by a handful of local club runners as a timetrial to test themselves on on a regular basis. Ian had run it a couple of times, and enjoyed the low key, no fuss atmosphere of the event.
He thought about it for a moment. On the one hand, he would struggle to push the pace after a few days off. On the other, he would be well rested and might be able to set a decent time. Either way, it would jolt him out of this unexpected slump, and it might just set him up for a decent weekend of running. His mood brightened.
'That's not a bad idea. I think I'll do that. At least it'll get me out of your hair for a couple of hours.'

Morning run up Rivelin. Warm and dry with a nice pink sky, cracking morning for it.

Tempo session around Sutton Park after a nearby meeting. Ran on the trails wherever possible, but it was getting quite dark so had to bail out to the asphalt for the second half. Nice moonrise.

C • sutton park 1

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.