Rumble in the Humble (dwellings of Coventry)

Last week culminated in a 10 mile run at home in Coventry; my longest run in a while. My spirits were somewhat dampened after a disappointing 10k run three days earlier, where I found myself struggling from start to finish. Perhaps fasting was taking its toll. I have certainly relaxed my diet in the last couple of weeks. After a 15-16 hour fast, it is difficult to turn down the samosas. Still, I've made enough of an effort with the carbs to suggest this shouldn't have too much of an impact. So maybe it was something else; fatigue perhaps. Or maybe just an off day. Yeah, that sounds good. Except to convince myself of this, I needed to put in a good showing on Sunday.

Off I went at around 2330, around a 7 mile route I crafted online. The final 3 miles would be three 1 mile laps around my area. I started at a decent pace, clocking just under 16 minutes for the first 2 miles. However, this came at the expense of some heavy breathing and already I was pondering an early finish. So far, I've completed every distance I've asked of myself and I exercised a degree of patience in the hope that I'd reach that golden moment where everything seems under control. My pace was measured but not as sharp as I'd like, soon plummeting to the 9 minute per mile mark. However, as time went on my breathing became less laboured and the suffering I endured in the opening miles became a distant memory. I've read that the early miles are the easiest but find my own experiences contrary to this. I think in the opening stages, one's body is adjusting to a huge increase in work rate and therefore needs time to adapt. I've come to expect pain in the first few miles. Now it's just a matter of sucking it up and waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. That moment where it suddenly seems so easy that you can inject some real pace into the mix. On Sunday, that moment came at the end of the 7th mile. There I was, back where I started, but with 7 miles and an hour of running under my belt and the belief that I could clock my quickest miles yet.

I couldn't help but compare this to the Ali-Foreman fight, which I consider to be the greatest sporting spectacle I'm aware of. One of the many things that made Ali the greatest was his ability to strike at his opponent before the fight even began. We see weak imitations throughout the sporting world today, but Ali was the original and the best in getting inside his opponent's head and defeating them psychologically before even landing a punch. Foreman was arguably the most powerful boxer of all time; a single punch would break the average man's spine if landed will full impact. He was able to land 100-150 of these per round. Ali was well aware of this and conditioned himself to cope with this sheer force; much of his sparring involved him standing on the ropes and receiving punishment from whoever would give it. When the fight came and Foreman landed his blows, Ali was ready and responded with a weapon more powerful than anything Foreman had. Not his fists, but his mouth. "Is that all you got, George? I thought you could punch. You're nothing but a sissy!". The problem for Foreman was, that the answer was yes, that was all he had. In his previous 38 fights it had been enough; 35 knockouts and in an average of under 3 rounds. He sent the heavyweight champ Joe Frasier crashing to the mat 6 times in 2 rounds. However, Foreman wasn't a distance fighter and he didn't have a plan beyond knocking Ali out within the first 5 rounds. Ali knew that if he could soak it up in those early stages, then Foreman would burn out and present Ali with the opportunity to make history. Ali rope-a-doped until there were seconds to go in round 8, when he chose his moment and landed a sequence of blows that one spends a career preparing for.

I'm known for my use of hyperbole and have no trouble comparing my long distance runs with the greatest boxing match of all time. The road is my Foreman; the seemingly invincible opponent that has destroyed even the finest athletes. I know to expect suffering in the early rounds; so I turn that into a strength by first accepting it and then preparing for it. I find myself screaming (in my mind, of course) at the road: "IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?!" My patience is rewarded in the latter miles once I've got the measure of my opponent.

In those last three miles, I let rip. Okay, so my pace still wasn't special, but to run faster in the last three miles than in any other part of the race, despite facing some of my toughest miles early on, is the stuff of legend. Ever since I was a child, I've dreamt I could fly. When I'm in the groove in those latter miles, I feel I'm in that dream world. I find myself in a state of delirium; smiling, almost laughing at the sheer audacity of sprinting on the 10th mile. As I finish, I'm left with the same aftertaste one has when coming off a roller coaster. Sheer exhilaration. Boy oh boy, do I want more of that!

The marathon throws up images of effort and pain. Of course, there would be little reward without either. But make no mistake, the beauty of running is in overcoming the pain and reaching this state of uncompromising joy. Even if it's for the briefest period, that feeling that you can go at full pelt forever is well worth the wait.

I timed in at around 85 minutes for the 10 miles; consistent with previous efforts. It's clear that my weakness is in the middle parts of the race, where my pace slows down by a minute a mile. I'll be addressing this with some gruelling fartlek and interval sessions over the coming weeks. Much suffering to come, but much joy to look forward to.