Training Log Archive: OJ

29
The third problem was one of hygiene. One might have thought that less running would mean less sweating and therefore less body odour. That was certainly what Ian thought at the start of the week. Under usual circumstances he only showered after a training session. In practice this meant that he was in the habit of taking two showers a day, sometimes as many as three, which meant that he was caught in a perpetual cycle of changing his clothes, exercising, undressing, showering and changing his clothes again. Ian would rarely go for more than twelve hours without giving himself a thorough wash. Sometimes it felt as though he was always wet; either sweating away during exercise or drying off after a shower.

Freed from the discipline imposed by this regime, Ian quite simply forgot to wash. Lacking the obvious need to scrub away his post-exercise grime, Ian went for a full forty-eight hours without taking a shower before Kate noticed his lank, greasy hair and wrinkled up her nose at his the pungent odour of his stale body. Nothing cleanses the body like fresh sweat and Ian's pores were clogged up from days of inactivity, like plugholes in need of unblocking. The sensation of taking a non-exercise induced shower was an unfamiliar one that it took a few days to get used to. The feeling of hot water on stiff, overworked muscles and glowing skin was one that he longed for as he scrubbed his armpits to remove the stagnant accumulation of a day in the office. It felt as though he was going through the motions, washing a body that was not his own.

Had a billy no-mates run from Cutthroat Bridge up Back Tor and Margery Hill, back via Abbey Brook, Howden, Lost Lad and Back Tor again. Plenty of snow high up but well trodden in most places and some stunning views over to Kinder, which was shrouded in a blanket of cloud. Glad I dragged myself out to do this.

28
The second problem was that he was late for everything. One might have assumed that a non-running lifestyle would have freed up so much slack in Ian's schedule that he would have no problem getting around on time. But as a fit and healthy individual Ian had relied on his natural ability to move fast in order to compensate for his innately poor timekeeping. He knew that if he was a few minutes behind he could always run for the bus or jog between meetings. Now he found himself thwarted at every turn by his body's resolute refusal to break into anything swifter than a fast walk.

On Wednesday the bus sailed past just as he got to the bottom of the street and although he urged his body to give chase, he could muster little more than an ungainly sort of race-walk. The doors hissed shut before he could catch up and the bus glided away without mercy, leaving Ian cursing the uncharitable driver at the stop.

He was late into the office, and he was late again after lunch when he went for a meeting across town. Unable to nip over the main road between cars and beat the jostling crowds he was forced to wait an interminably long time for a green man. The walk, he discovered, took far longer than the five minutes he usually allowed to jog up the hill, and he arrived late, no less hot and sweaty and a great deal more flustered than he would have been in normal circumstances.

By the end of the week, he had taught himself to allow an extra five minutes for everything involving locomotion from one place to another. It was an insight, he told himself, into the lives of others, who walked at a sedate pace at all times, who waited patiently at crossings, obeyed traffic signals, and who arrived in good time for public transport. The realisation dawned as he sat lost in thought on the bus on the way home on Friday that he was always in a rush, always on the run, always racing against the clock. It was not only training that made Ian into a runner; running was a function of his day-to-day existence and without it he was a different person altogether.

C • great 2

Gorgeous morning up Rivelin, picked up a newspaper and croissants on the way home. Offloaded a bit of gunk and felt pretty good.

No ill effectd from the am run, so went out to Ringinglow for a run around Burbage in the snow. Did one plummet ascent but it was too slippy so ran 2x up from Packhorse Bridge instead and took in Stanage trig on the way home. Had an altercation with a dirt biker, which got the adrenaline pumping for a while.

27
Ian and Kate's lives settled into a new routine over the coming days; his listless and sedentary; hers lively and energetic. It wasn't so bad, Ian reflected, as he lay in bed that night. He would recharge his depleted batteries and soon enough he would find his feet, just as Mitch had done all those years ago. But the first of Ian's problems was that he could not get to sleep. While Kate drifted instantly into a blissful, exercise-induced slumber, Ian lay next to her buzzing with unspent vitality. He did all he could to rest, to zone out, to empty his mind of worries and distractions. But he remained stubbornly conscious, his thoughts churning away with the discomfort of indigestion. And just when these mental palpitations seemed to be settling down, he would be brought round with a start by an especially acute spasm of consciousness as he returned, time and time again, to the conundrum of his non-running.

On the first of these restless nights, Ian fought the insomnia and endured what felt like hours on end of wakeful misery, lying as still as possible in spite of his discomfort so as not to disturb his lightly-snoring wife. He drifted off sometime in the early hours and awoke irritable and unrefreshed to be scolded by Kate for tossing and turning and sighing and generally keeping her awake. Caffeine helped him through the morning and early afternoon, but a late afternoon coffee top-up saw him retire to bed in a still-more frazzled and disturbed state than the previous evening. He chose to read himself to sleep on the sofa, rather than annoy Kate, and selected a particularly verbose tome—a hefty volume of Gogol's collected works, which had been gathering dust on a shelf for many years—in order to accelerate the onset of mental fatigue.

The mental fatigue kicked in soon enough, but it was not accompanied by any kind of drowsiness. On the contrary, Ian found his mind broiling with disturbed nightmarish logic as he drifted in and out of a semi-sleeping state. He awoke with a start in the early hours having struggled for what seemed like hours to rise from the sofa, only to discover that his legs were missing from the hips down. He watched in horror as his torso-less legs slipped on a pair of running shoes and let themselves out of the door. They were, it seemed, much better at running in their disembodied state than they had been at carrying the rest of him around and they showed no inclination of being reunited with the rest of him. He tried to give chase and slumped sideways in the sofa, where he awoke with a start. He lay there for a moment wriggling his toes before he was absolutely convinced that he had been dreaming and stumbled upstairs to crawl into bed beside Kate. But the feeling of acute dread that accompanied this nightmare lingered with him until morning, when he rose early for breakfast and more coffee.

A bit better today but another rest day. Too much cleaning and tidying to do to find time for training, in any case.

C • cleaning and tidying?! 2

26
‘Ah were going reet well at tha time an all. Ah’d bin doing a lot of running, but nowt serious. There weren’t so many races back in them days, not like there are now. Ah was just running for the sake of it. Just to keep misen fit, like. But still, ah were in some decent shape back then. Up at crack o’dawn every day, over fells and back, checking on t’sheep.’ Mitch broke off for a moment leaving Ian with a mental image of a wiry young man hopping nimbly through bogs and tussocks, a terrified lamb wedged under each arm.

‘That were afore running got serious, like. Anyway, ah got a letter from John Disley, tha knows who his is. He were a celebrity at the time, got bronze in t’steeples in Helsinki in ’52 and he ran 8.44 in ’56, when he got beat by Chris Brasher.’ Ian waited patiently while Mitch reeled off a potted history of Disley’s athletics career. ‘Anyway, ah’d won a few local races and he’d heard my name. Ah met him at a race in Wales, beat him too. He wanted me to come and run on track in London at Crystal Palace, a five miler he were organising. Well ah’d not bin to London and he was offering to put us up in a hotel an all. So I says “yes, why not?” It were all a bit of an adventure back then. But still, ah trained hard for it. Ah even went an ran on track in Keswick, managed 28 for the five, which ah thought were all reet.

‘Ah weren’t to know that track in London weren’t grass. Ah should have been out on roads, like. But it were too late by then. What were done were done and ah just had to get on wi’it. There were cameras an all, a crowd of people to watch. Ah’d not seen the like. Anyway, ah felt sick as a dog afore the start, all these people asking questions. Not a moment’s peace. It were quite a relief to get on start line.’ Kate had got in from training and stuck her head around the door. Ian mouthed ‘Mitch’ to her. She smiled and left him to it.

‘Well it were a disaster! The gun went and off they all dashed, but ah were going nowhere. Ah hadn’t even moved from the line, like. An those cameras were there, all pointing at me. Ah just about made it out way afore they all came round on second lap. Ah were ashamed of misen at the time.’ Ian could picture the scene in perfect black-and-white. He felt the pain that Mitch must have experienced at this very public humiliation.

‘It were weeks afore ah made it out for another run. Ah jus couldn’t bring misen to do it. But ah pulled misen together in t’end. Got back out on t’fells and found mi feet. It were stage fright, like, ah weren’t ready for it. One day it were jus for fun, the next it were dead serious. Anyway, the next month ah ran Mountain Trial and won it, then there were a ten miler on road in Manchester...’ Mitch digressed to summarise his subsequent results and times by way of evidence that a return to form was possible following a bout of performance anxiety. Ian listened politely, but his thoughts were still at the trackside in Crystal Palace. Maybe there was something in what Mitch had told him. The diagnosis seemed much simpler in Mitch’s case, but then the story had likely gained simplicity through many years of retelling. One phrase in particular stuck in Ian’s mind, ‘one day it were jus for fun, the next it were dead serious.’ Was Ian having fun when he succumbed to his runner’s droop? How could he get back to the source as his coach had done on the Lake District fells?

Some time later Ian bade his coach farewell and promised to stay in touch more often. He had plenty to think about.

I have a cold, which seems to be fairly minor. It's a relief in a way as training has been feeling like a real effort this week. Now I have something to blame it on, even if it is not the real cause. Anyway, I am going to treat it with respect and give myself a short break to get it better, which will hopefully allow my various niggles to settle down too.

25
Kate was still out--presumably training--when Ian arrived home, late, having made up for his over-long lunch break at work and caught the bus home. The phone was ringing as he unlocked the back door and let himself in. He could tell who it was without picking up. It's ring was especially insistent, as if the caller was never going to give up, until Ian either answered it or threw it out of the window. He wondered how long it had already been ringing. All afternoon? He answered it.

'Ian, how do? It's Mitch.'
Mitch was Ian's coach and mentor of many years, a formidable Cumbrian who was in his mid-seventies at least, although years of hard training and prolonged exposure to the elements made it difficult to tell. He was an athlete from another age, a dinosaur now. But in his time he had been a great runner both on the roads and on the fells, where he had been one of the pioneers. Some of his records still stood and would most likely never be broken. His was a breed that may never be seen again.
'Mitch, good to hear from you. I've been better, in all honesty.' Ian resigned himself to a long haul and made himself comfortable on the sofa. It wasn't that Ian didn't get on with Mitch. They got on famously although they didn't always see eye-to-eye. The trouble was that the one thing Mitch had always been better at than running was talking. Being a retired farmer and living by himself with only a dog for company in a small village near Shap, Mitch loved nothing more than a long talk on the phone, something Ian found increasingly difficult to fit into his hectic schedule.

'Listen, ah'v been meaning ta give thee a bell and then ah read yar diary on t'computer this aft'noon.' The computer had been a recent development, a gift from his daughter, which Mitch had been very excited about. It allowed him to indulge in his favourite passtime: expanding his already encyclopedic knowledge of athletics facts, figures and anecdotes. It also allowed him to keep a watchful eye on Ian and a handful other runners that he helped out.

'Do tha know, tha same thing 'appened to me once.' Ian was not surprised. Mitch had a near-inexhaustable reserve of personal experience to draw on. The injury or affliction that Mitch had not suffered was unknown to medical science.
'It were in '64, when I were 'bout yar age.' Ian was all ears.

IW via Victoria Quays, Park Hill and the Cholera monument, checking out some bits for the ShAFF race - it's a great bit of sprint terrain! I'm tired and this was a plod.

C • kept on meaning to map vict... 5

HFW, knee sore and feeling pretty rubbish all told.

Drills and sprints on the way home to pick myself up. Which didn't really work.

24
Ian was not a big fan of social networking, but neither was he immune to it. Like everyone else he had a facebook account and he followed a handful of people on twitter. He also had an online training diary, which he kept up-to-date with with fanatical dedication; filling in data on his sessions; uploading his GPS tracks; recording his mileage, his resting heart rate, his hours of sleep and his choice of footwear. He derived a deep sense of satisfaction from watching his training unfold in graphical form, poring for hours over weekly, monthly and annual training figures, plotting future weeks and coveting his unblemished record. He shared his training with an online community of users and he spent many distracted hours in the office trawling the training logs of close friends and complete strangers, searching for new ideas for sessions, reading with awe about far-flung races and drawing on the communal reserves of shared enthusiasm and motivation.

That was before he came up against this brick wall. Since that particular morning Ian had not so much as glanced at his online training diary or recorded any of his attempts to resolve the crisis. He couldn't face the glaring empty spaces in his daily training graph or the sympathetic and well-meaning comments that his friends and training partners might post on his log. He had likewise steered clear of facebook and twitter. Avoidance as a form of denial.

During a lull at lunchtime Ian decided to log on and bring his diary up to date. It would be useful to have a record of his current situation should something comparable arise in the future. And one never knew, someone else might one day find themselves in a similar position. But before he updated his own status Ian couldn't resist sneaking a peak at a few of his friends' logs to see what they had been up to. He clicked on Phil's log first and read greedily about last night's track session and Sunday's long run from Hathersage. These were sessions that Ian would have joined Phil for in all likelihood and they would have looked good in his own diary. He worked his way one-by-one through all of his favourites, reading about speed work, tempo runs, long endurance sessions, runs up hills, runs on the roads, fast runs, slow runs, solo runs, runs with friends, cross country races, fell races and road races. He drank it all in until he had slaked his thirst, intoxicated by the miles, the effort and the sheer passion of it all. Then he noticed the time. It was mid-afternoon and he had to get back to work. With reluctance, he clicked the 'injured' check-box and admitted to the world at large—or at least to his small circle of friends—that he could no longer run.

One of the consequences of doing this, Ian knew full well, was that his coach, his advisor, his mentor—whatever you wanted to call him—would find out and want to know more. Without realising it Ian had been putting off that moment.

5x3/1s up Rivelin followed by an effort of the Coppice in 4.54. I felt tired this morning and I could feel my legs on this, but the times are creeping down again. Finished myself off with 8x20secs steep hill bounds. Good session.

Evening headtorch run up Loxley. Sore R patella tendon to start, but felt really good once it had eased off, which is either a good sign or a very bad one.

23
The following morning Ian walked into work. Walking was something that he disliked and tried to avoid whenever possible. Although the walk into work was a short one—perhaps twenty-five minutes or so—it was interminable. It was wasted time on feet expending valuable energy that could otherwise be put to more purposeful use. It was also inexplicably exhausting; Ian would trudge up the hill, his back aching and his tired legs protesting to arrive at work with a sweat on that was out of all proportion to the effort that he had put in. A run into work, on the other hand, was a breeze. It would be over in no time and Ian would be barely warmed up by the time he made it into the office. He very rarely ran into work without taking a significant detour to make the whole thing worthwhile. And it still seemed easier than walking into work.

But needs must, and Ian wanted to get some exercise, even if it was of the walking variety. He left the house and strolled down the street, lost in thought. In the cold light of day (or at least the cold half-light of a dull January morning) he had to acknowledge that he was pleased Kate was getting back into her running. It was something that he had been trying to encourage for some time, if only to appease the guilt generated by his own obsession. He would, he resolved, get behind her on this and give her all the support and encouragement she needed.

Thump! Ian turned onto the main road and was knocked reeling by a bony shoulder.
'Sorry mate!' He spun around to see a couple in hi-vis jogging along the pavement, the man offering an apologetic thumbs up. No harm done. He continued along the street, dodging out of the path of another runner, a speedy young lad with an ipod on his sleeve.

A pause at a pedestrian crossing next to a balding middle-aged man, who was jogging on the spot while he waited for a green light. Over the road and up the hill, where a trio of female Asian students ran past dressed in leggings and garish arm-warmers. Followed by an elderly man in tracksters and a wool bobble hat. A chubby lady clutching a bottle in her hand. And a lean guy running and pushing a baby in a buggy. Past some astroturf pitches where a whole squad of footballers ran by on a warm-up. Ian had never seen, or perhaps never noticed so many runners out and about on a cold January morning. Or any morning for that matter. Had he in fact seen anyone who wasn't running? So many runners, of all shapes and sizes, all out doing the thing they loved.

He arrived at the office at the same time as the speedy young lad with an ipod, who darted inside and made for the shower. He had never noticed him before, but than again it was a big office and there were plenty of people that Ian didn't know. Or perhaps he was seeing runners like a thirsty man sees oases in a desert. His back ached from the walk and his shirt was damp with sweat. He would catch the bus home.

IW, really not feeling it this morning. A lot of shopping trolleys about.

Lodge Moor HFW. I started this run with the thought in my head that the best thing about it would be finishing. It was a surprise to discover half way round that I was actually quite enjoying myself and feeling alright.