Training Log Archive: OJ

Event: SYO - Selection Race - Big Moor
 

Big Moor event was cancelled so had a nice sociable run with RB, NN, PH and a special guest appearance from MP out along White Edge and Birchin Edge, back via Froggatt and Longshaw. Tired today and the snow made it hard work in places. Good end to a tough week or so.

C • Training Targets? 3

Event: Northern Night Champs
 

Epilogue
Three months later and Ian was at Sheffield half marathon. He wasn’t on the start line, but he was at Devonshire Green, about two-thirds of the way around the route. He was applauding the front runners through and waiting for Kate, who he was expecting to pass by in a few minutes.

Ian had not run a step for three months, not since that mysterious night when he had left Phil and wound up back home, his legs stiff and his clothes muddied. It wasn’t that he couldn’t run for those three months. He knew that he could have done, had he felt the urge. There was nothing stopping him any longer, no physical or mental impediment to speak of. He simply hadn’t wanted to run. To begin with, things just kept cropping up. First there was the hangover, the like of which Ian had never experienced before. It wiped him out for the entire weekend and left him feeling drained and empty, like a car with a flat battery. Then he had a busy week at work, meeting clients after hours and organising important presentations. Next he had gone away on a course for a few days and forgot to take his running shoes. But after that, he stopped needing to look for excuses. He just didn’t go running; it was as simple as that. It had been quite exhilarating at first. Every evening Kate would arrive home late, hot and sweaty after another run to find Ian in the kitchen preparing a nutritious tea, rich in carbs, perfect for her training regime. At weekends he did some of the things he had always wanted to do but never had the time or energy; fix up the garden fence, redecorate the attic, sit and have a go at the crossword. For a while he had been quite content.

But today, as he watched runner after runner pass him by, each of them pushing themselves as hard as they could; some grimacing, some grinning; some chasing, some being chased; some pushing on, some capitulating, Ian experienced a familiar itch. A familiar, nagging sensation that he knew from long experience could not be scratched.

‘Go on Kate!’ Ian had been miles away. Fortunately he was not the only member of her fan club out on the route and others were being more attentive. He caught her eye and thrust a bottle into her hand as she skipped past. She was ahead of schedule and looking good. Watching his wife stride out, feet springing off the tarmac, squeezing every little bit of power out of her body, Ian felt a sense of visceral excitement, as though he himself was a part of the race. She had been nervous before the start and Ian had shared her nerves. Now she was hurting and Ian shared her pain. In a few minutes she would be filled with release and elation and Ian would share that too. These were the sensations that he had been missing.

On Monday morning at 7am, Ian promised himself, I will run again.

The End.

C • The End 7

Hallam Parkrun on a cold morning. I was glad to have arranged to meet Rob to run down there as I could easily have changed my mind. Not very up for this, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't trying as hard as I could. A not very sparkly performance, but this is the most sustained effort I have put in since October, so not too surprising. Followed by a nice brekkie at Jonty's. Good start to a tough weekend...

Northern Night champs, Canklow. Had a nice run around in the falling snow and really enjoyed the course, just a few small mistakes and an altercation with a tree, which Pete Tryner had a good laugh at.

Warm up and down on the way to and from the start and a bit of extra running about.

34
On Saturday Ian awoke late with a substantial headache, as though a minor black hole had opened up in a space just behind his eyes, devouring all of his half-formed thoughts and memories of the night before and exerting a massive gravitational pull on the inside of his skull. He fought against its powerful inertia and tried to reconstruct the last twelve hours. He was alone in bed; that much was clear. Kate had no doubt gone out for her morning training run, although Ian had no recollection of her leaving. He must have been out cold. He could remember ending up alone in the pub with Phil, who was putting them away purposefully. He supposed he must have tried to keep up with his friend, which was always a bad idea when it came to drinking. But of leaving the pub or making his way home he had no recollection.

Ian’s legs hurt, he registered with some difficulty. They were stiff and sore from his calves all the way up to his gluts. That was mysterious and didn’t seem to fit in with his previous experience of bad hangovers. And he smelt bad; of dried sweat. He was doubtful that the two of them would have gone clubbing at their age, but you never knew. With some difficulty he swung his legs over the side of the bed and noticed his clothes lying in a heap on the floor. His jeans were caked with mud up to the knees. The clubbing theory was looking less likely, although in his student days he had often come home with pretty dirty shoes after a night out in a local club.

By the time the phone rang at eleven, Ian had made it downstairs to the kitchen and was making coffee.
'Ian, how are you doing? Better than me I hope?' Ian took some comfort in the fact that Phil was also suffering.
'I just wanted to make sure you made it home alright. I tried to get you into a taxi at about 2 but you weren't having any of it and you weren't looking so steady on your feet after those tequilas.' Tequilas. It was worse than he thought. Ian thanked his friend for his concern and together they pieced together the latter stages of the evening, which had concluded at a late bar on West Street, the sort of place that Ian usually avoided at all costs. That explained his still-ringing ears and hoarse voice. But of what happened next, Phil could offer no explanation.

Neither could Kate when she arrived home from her morning training session. She had been unimpressed to be woken at 3 in the morning by her muddy, unsteady husband, who burst into the bedroom panting and sweating before collapsing into deep and breathy alcohol-induced slumber. She had retreated to the spare room to get some peace and quiet before an early start. He placated her with fresh coffee and a bacon buttie and told her about his mysterious lost hour. In spite of his hangover Ian was feeling better than he had done for some time.

C • Finally! 4

Ride out to Strines and back, great day for it with clear views of the snowy hills, cold but not a breath of wind. Really enjoyed this and good to take the strain off my foot.

33
Three hours later and the group had dwindled to a dedicated few. Kate and a couple of her friends had left early ahead of a half-marathon session the following morning. Ian had reached a state of comfortable inebriation which put him into a quiet and contemplative mood, while Phil was becoming ever more raucous and exuberant, his tales of athletic finesse having become taller and more slurred by the pint.
'...And what about th Skyline a coupl f years back?' Ian knew where this one was going. 'Tha ws a race to remembr. A battle! It ws a foul day, jus flthy...'
Ian could remember it well, it was back when he was at his fittest.
'...I ws a hard pace you set at th front ther, Yan...'
Ian could well recall the sensation of bounding positively out of the start up the lower slopes of Kinder.
'...I ws angin on for dear life, I ws jus wonderin wen you were goin to drop off...'
That was a race Ian had trained seriously for. Three months or more of hard graft.
'...Bt you jst kept at it. Ammerin away all way long to Win Ill...'
He had made some sacrifices for that one, missed a few nights out, asked a lot of Kate.
'...I ad to jus nuckle down an run in your footsteps. Ope I ad it in me to tuck in there...'
He had pushed himself to his limits, left no stone unturned in his training.
'...You ad a lead by Mam Nick an I ws done in...'
He had told himself that it was all worth it. That it was an important goal, something noble and extraordinary.
'...Th wind an rain wer lashin us. An th clag was down. I lost site f you comin onto Brown Knoll...'
Ian saw now as he stared into his peat-brown pint that there had been nothing noble about it, nothing pure.
'...I jst kept goin, stumblin along. No sign of any folk behind, no sign of Yan...'
It had been pure vanity that motivated him. The desire to prove that he was better than others, better than Phil.
'...I got to th last checkpoint on Grindslow an they says Im th frst to come thu. “Wha?” I say, “wha bout Yan?”...'
All that energy devoted to chasing small, personal glories. Achievements so insignificant they were only important to himself.
'“No”, they says, “yr the frst!”...So I dont now whats appened but I jst go for it down an up to Ringing Roger...'
But at the same time...
'...I pelted it down tha ill. I nearly stacked it mor n once...'
At the same time...
'...I made it into th finish an won th race, bu my frst thought ws, “whers Yan? Whats append to im?”...'
There was something else. Something that was more important than results, pbs, split times, medals.
'...E'd only gon astray adnt ee! Turnd a full 180 on th way to Jabob's Ladder an found imself back on Brown Knoll!...'
Something glorious in the stories, the mishaps, the adventures, the suffering.
'...Ee came in bout alf hour later after frst woman! Good effrt to finish, like, aftr that...'
Something that took him beyond himself and transported to another place.
'...Bt sriously. Yan ws the best runner in th race. Ee shud v won it...'
Every time he ran he was doing something extraordinary. Something that brought him closer to real life.
'...If it wsnt for im Id be a lazy bastrd nyway!'
Ian chinked his glass with Phil and grinned. For the first time in several weeks he felt himself relax.

IW via Bolehill Park to get a nice view on a cold clear morning. Feeling a bit perkier today.

Hallamshire session, back to Hillsborough Park, which I was not too thrilled about. Ran a very similar session to Tuesday, 800, 1200 x3 off 1.30. 2.34, 3.54, 2.36, 3.56, 2.37, 3.59. Much faster in a group but struggled to sustain the pace, very cold air on the lungs tonight.

Foot feels a bit niggly after all this running - might get on the bike tomo.

C • You could... 5

32
Forty-five minutes later Ian and Kate were on their way to the pub to meet Phil, not a prospect that Ian would normally relish. It wasn't that Ian disliked Phil. On the contrary, they were the closest of friends and confidantes, but conversation between the pair was at its most lucid and uninhibited when running. As long as the turnover of their legs and the pounding of their feet were synchronised with one another, the cadence of their thoughts and opinions fell into corresponding rhythm. At 7 minute pace they revealed their deepest, most closely-guarded secrets without fear of judgement. After countless hours and miles together there was little they had not discussed. But back in the real world it was a different story. The two were still friends, but they were separated by an unvoiced competitiveness that loomed between them.

That Phil was a somewhat better runner than Ian did not help. Sure, Ian could beat Phil and sometimes did, but these occasions were the exception rather than the rule. By default Phil was the superior athlete: he trained less, cared less and won more. He was a natural, while Ian was a hard worker. Ian envied Phil's talent; Phil envied Ian's dedication. It was not an easy basis for a friendship.

Ian and Kate arrived to find not only Phil, but a small group of their closest friends from the local athletics club squeezed around a too-small round table in the corner laden with pints of various shades. They welcomed Ian with raised glasses, while Phil, who looked to be at least a couple of drinks into what promised to be a long evening, shoved a fresh pint straight into his hand. Kate flashed her husband a knowing smile and settled down with a few of her training partners.
'We wanted you to know that we're here for you, mate.' Phil confided to him. 'Now drink up, you've got some catching up to do.'

IW, feeling pretty drained this morning. Some cold air and an easy shake out sorted me out to some extent.

Just set my legs to autopilot and went along for the ride. Up Porter Brook and back over Lodge Moor, where I came to my senses realised it was still miles to get back home. Break on through to the other side. Yeah.

31
Ian towelled himself off, crossed the landing to his office and switched on his laptop. Next he pulled open a drawer and found his lately-obsolete training tools; his GPS watch, his heart-rate strap, his ipod shuffle, his foot pod. He carried everything down to the kitchen, wrapped this modest selection of his most treasured possessions in a tea towel, took a rolling pin off the shelf and pounded them until they were in pieces. He paused for a moment before adding a couple of pairs of compression socks and a pair of barefoot running shoes (worn only twice) to the pile of debris, which he dumped in the bin without ceremony. Next he turned his attention to the kitchen cupboard where he kept his vitamins, supplements, powders and gels. Out they came and away they went, the pills into the bin and the gels and powders down the sink, where they formed a glutinous, calorie-rich mess in the plughole until he washed them away with hot water.

He turned finally to his laptop and opened his online training diary—the painstaking and meticulous record of his life created lovingly over the course of many years. He hesitated for a moment, paying respect to the countless hours he had spent obsessing over it, logging each session in intricate detail, laying bare his soul through the raw data of training and racing. It was a record of his life and it was irreplaceable.

With a sense of finality he deleted it. Then he opened his documents and deleted the back-ups. There was nothing left.

Some time later Kate arrived home to find Ian stir-frying some veg with Led Zeppelin blaring out of the stereo. He greeted her with a hug and a kiss and whirled her around the kitchen to the strains of a Jimmy Page guitar solo. Phil had rung and invited them both to the pub for a quiet drink. Kate hid her surprise at Ian's transformation, grabbed a shower and joined him for a delicious curry before setting off for their local.

C • Guitar Solo 2

Pyramid session in Hillsborough Park in a gentle snow shower. Roughly 800, 1200, 1400, 1800 with one significant climb on each: 2.44, 4.04, 4.37, 5.57, 4.35, 4.02, 2.41 all off 1 min. Felt a bit heavy-legged to start and struggled to get the pace up, but better as it went on. Glad to see the back of that session.

Loxley valley with a headtorch. Nothing special.

30
But it was his own body, that much he had to acknowledge as he looked down at his sunken chest, his exposed ribcage, his scrawny waist and atrophied runner's legs as he washed away another wasted week on Friday evening. It still looked the same in spite of a few days without running. How long would it be before it began to change? Would he still recognise himself in a few weeks, in a few months? Would he begin to sag around the middle and fill out at the sides? Would the muscles he had cultivated over so many years of training wither away to become slack and undefined? He could see them standing out taut and sinewy, straining against the skin, each of them with its own story to tell of niggles, injuries and imbalances. Would he still be himself if he could no longer be a runner? Who would he be? Just like everyone else. There would no longer be anything extraordinary about him, nothing to set him apart. Sure, he was nothing special as a runner—he was never going to do anything spectacular and the occasional team prize was all he could hope for in most races. But didn’t running make him who he was? It was his secret double life, another world that he could disappear into once or twice daily, one in which he could feel like a giant. It was part of him.

He had shampoo in his eyes and he was crying. Perhaps this was the low point. He certainly hoped so. Ian climbed out of the shower and wiped the condensation away from the mirror so that he could look himself in the face. Had it been no more than simple vanity that kept him going? Was he really no more than the sum total of these individual components, programmed, conditioned and coordinated for the fulfilment of one simple task? It was laughable, pathetic even. He realised in a moment that the miles and miles of training, the obsessive repetition, the pounding footsteps, the relentless hammering of his heart and the pumping of his blood had become an end in themselves. He had eroded himself with every step, like waves pounding against a cliff, until there was almost nothing left. He had fed the insatiable appetite of his body, his muscles, his lungs. He had nurtured them, cared for them, made them strong. And they had taken over, staged a mutiny and assumed command. He was no longer in charge of his own body.

How could he wrest back the tiller and reverse this process? That was the question. Well he could think of a good place to start.

Just for laughs, a stupid-o'clock run up to Damflask and back with Andy and Rob then on to work up and over the hill with Rob. I left the house at 6.54, but I'm having the 6am time for the session. This was actually quite enjoyable and the session was done by the time I had really woken up. Good practice for a few months time.

C • a few month's time 7

HFW via Crookes to get a decent hill in. Feeling all right, all told.