What do you do immediately after achieving a defining and utterly tiring goal? In my case, I had no respite as my flight back to the UK was scheduled for the same evening. The race was done but the mission far from complete. Moving across Paris on the Metro was arduous, painful even, but accompanied by a sense of sheer joy. The ache after a long run is actually rewarding; a continuous reminder of a job well done. This was the longest of runs and the aches had never been so bad, the feeling never so fulfilling. Somehow, I had enough left in the tank to make it back on time. To my genuine surprise, it was a flawless weekend. The fact that I'd gone it alone added to the sense of occasion and achievement. I can only thank God that I made it through unscathed, with perfect health throughout.
The recommended recovery time for a marathon is twenty six days; one for each painstaking mile. In the week after the race, I totally let myself go, not training at all and stuffing myself with all sorts of junk food. It's important to liberate yourself now and then and this was the one window of opportunity I had to satisfy my nutritious urges.
After a week though, the itch was back and light training resumed. Running was off the cards due to a strange, unpredictable acute pain in my right foot. An x-ray revealed it was mild tissue damage and not a break, suggesting rest was the sensible option. Not a huge blow given that I ought to have been taking it easy anyway. However, I don't usually conform to the status quo and, contrary to advice, resumed a more intense schedule, including some running, ahead of the Coventry half-marathon on May 23rd. My motivation is threefold: firstly, I love running and want to experience the atmosphere of a race as soon as possible. Secondly, I advertised this race as the final component of my "50 mile challenge" when I launched my latest fundraising adventure. Lastly, Coventry is home and the perfect way to sign off this season in front of family, having missed out on it in Paris. I also missed out on Coventry last year due to a cold; here's hoping my ongoing foot injury doesn't stop me this time.
Cross training is the way forward for now: lots of rowing, some cycling and back to the free weights. I've lost much strength having ignored these aspects, focussing solely on running over the last two months, yet I've never felt in better shape.
Thursday 29 April 2010
Saturday 17 April 2010
Marathon Diaries Part Three: The Race
After an agonising wait, the time had finally arrived to put to task everything I’d worked towards over the past twelve months. With every stride, I was one step closer to the dream of finishing my first marathon. But a four hour run warrants a degree of patience and longevity that it is prudent to break the 26.2 mile distance into small chunks. In my mind I had a four phase strategy: miles 1-8, 9-16, 17-20 and the final stretch.
My aim was to maintain a consist 8-minute mile pace for the first 16-20 miles, leaving me with ample time to hit the sub 4h and 3h 45 targets, whatever the last 10k threw at me. Indeed, the opening few miles of a race are usually an opportune time to get minutes in the bag, where one can clock even quicker miles without pushing too hard. In Paris, this proved impossible as the congestion of a big city marathon does not allow one to make short bursts and overtaking often presents a health hazard given all the elbows one needs to avoid. In fact, I found myself going slower than even in training and despite feeling fresh despite warming weather conditions, frustration was kicking in at the 10k stage which I arrived at in 52 minutes. To put this into context, in the Birmingham half I was there after 46. Still, phase one was almost complete and my body was holding up.
As I was expecting, the cardiovascular side was perfectly fine; by mile 10 I was well into my rhythm and felt I had much left in the tank. On the other hand, hip pains that were my main concern beforehand were worsening to the extent that I was now expecting to stop later in the race. There was at least some daylight between the runners now and I was able to push on ahead, getting to the half way stage by 1h 48. This is perhaps the most important stage of the race mentally, since for the first time you are able to count down the distance left to cover relative to that already conquered.
In anticipation of the wall, I cranked out my small stash of jelly beans for an invaluable sugar boost. The sun was well and truly shining down on us, but I tend not to sweat too much and on this most crucial of days, my bladder was holding up. I got to 16 miles at around 2h 11, on par with my effort in the kilomathon four weeks earlier. By now, hip pain was overshadowed by the familiar hamstring discomfort that had threatened to stop me in previous runs. The focus now was to get through to mile 20, as then surely the motivation to finish would be enough to get me through the final phase.
I was taking in many of Paris’s key landmarks along the route, but paying little attention to them. Instead, my personal highlight of the race was at the 17th mile where we passed through an underground tunnel that stretched for the honest part of a kilometre or so. With Eminem’s Lose Yourself blasting through my earphones and nothing but the runners in the vicinity, this was undoubtedly the most epic part of the race. My hamstrings were on fire now and lower down, my calves and heels were making their complaints too. The fun part of the race was over and the grunt work was in full flow.
My pace slowing, I laboured to the 20 mile mark and considered this testimony to all the hours of training. I had got there in 2h 47, on schedule, without stopping. My energy reserves were being depleted every few km, but every time I felt too hot there would be buckets of cold water to cool me down. When I needed an energy boost, endless supplies of oranges and water were picking me up. I was now entering the defining part of the marathon and had around an hour to finish 10k in order to meet my goals.
Completing the marathon without stopping was always a key ambition of mine. I felt the training would get me through to 20 miles and this indeed proved the case. But it came at an inevitable price of leaving me in excruciating pain. Now was the time to persevere through this pain, which would only get worse with more miles, to the end of the race. I was at the Wall, which I had envisaged in my head so many times. Every kilometre was torture and suddenly the belief that adrenaline alone would be enough seemed laughable.
The last 10k personifies the challenge of the marathon. By now, every muscle is screaming at you to stop. Except, if you do, it makes absolutely no difference since the pain persists. This is the ultimate mental battle that defines the fine line between success and failure. The temptation to stop and walk was massive, given that I could still get through in under four hours. But I entered the marathon with the inherent belief that I was bigger than it; that I could overcome any obstacle and endure anything that came my way. So in this sense, stopping was not an option.
To achieve this, I had to call upon the deepest of my mental reserves. I thought back to the darkest days of my life, as recent as three years ago but mainly my childhood, where day after day I would encounter torturous pain through my pancreatitis. Surely if I could manage the chronic pain and abdominal surgery, these final few miles would be easy enough, right? Wrong. The crucial difference is that with the former, one can at least seek pain relief and even when it doesn’t come one can win the mental battle because they are in an environment where everyone is fighting with them against the pain. In Paris, I was alone and nothing, not even stopping, would help the pain. All around me, runners were collapsing, packing it in, or walking. All looked dejected; as if they had lost the battle because the race had become bigger than their capacity to deal with it.
Two inspirations came to mind. Eddie Izzard; if he could run 43 marathons in one go, it was quite pathetic of me to struggle towards my first. I am no fan of Izzard or his comedy, but as a runner you must have the utmost respect for his accomplishment. Then Lance Armstrong’s mantra came to mind: quitting provides temporary relief, but a lifetime of regret. I hadn’t come this far to limp away in defeat. This was not the time for mediocrity; if I couldn’t rise above it now I may as well give up any pursuit of greatness.
So on I went. I thought I knew pain, but on this day, in these final miles, I finally realised what the marathon is all about. Overcoming barriers; not just the big hurdles but the impossible ones. Even though my pace had plummeted to 10-minute miles, I knew I was on the verge of making personal history. Glory awaited and the end was close. Five kilometres became four, then three, two and one. Then the final straight, where for the first time in the race I knew I’d done it. The emotions of the final 200m down Foch Avenue are impossible to pinpoint, but they were the sum total of the hardest struggle of my life. The last hour was nothing short of merciless torture. But when I crossed the finish line, I was so grateful for it. This is what I signed up for all those months ago. Even though I missed 3h 45, instead coming through in 3h 48, I realised the magnitude of what I had just pulled off. The tears that followed owed as much to this as they did the physical pain that had crippled my lower body. It was a pain that ripped right through me for a good hour after the race. As I sat on Foch Avenue, sharing the painstaking story of my race with fellow runners, I lost all sense of time. Even in this state of delirium though, I was careful to rehydrate and get energy levels back up.
In a defining image that will stay with me forever, I stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe, munching away at the halal burger I had just accosted, remembering the view from the top. I had visited Paris once previously, whilst a teenager in 2002. I thought then that the view was unbeatable, but looking around me Paris had never looked so damn beautiful.
This moment sits right at the top of my personal achievements. It was unthinkable a year ago. But there is nothing that can’t be done when the human spirit desires. In one sense, with over five million runners every year (and growing) worldwide, the marathon is the very definition of cliché. But I can assure you that no two runners will have the same story. Every race is a unique journey that ends with the same outcome for those who finish: sheer, unadulterated joy. These are the moments we live for. Many say after their first marathon that it will be years before they take it on again. But I have the bug and want to get back out there as soon as my body permits it. How can anyone get tired of feeling like this?
My aim was to maintain a consist 8-minute mile pace for the first 16-20 miles, leaving me with ample time to hit the sub 4h and 3h 45 targets, whatever the last 10k threw at me. Indeed, the opening few miles of a race are usually an opportune time to get minutes in the bag, where one can clock even quicker miles without pushing too hard. In Paris, this proved impossible as the congestion of a big city marathon does not allow one to make short bursts and overtaking often presents a health hazard given all the elbows one needs to avoid. In fact, I found myself going slower than even in training and despite feeling fresh despite warming weather conditions, frustration was kicking in at the 10k stage which I arrived at in 52 minutes. To put this into context, in the Birmingham half I was there after 46. Still, phase one was almost complete and my body was holding up.
As I was expecting, the cardiovascular side was perfectly fine; by mile 10 I was well into my rhythm and felt I had much left in the tank. On the other hand, hip pains that were my main concern beforehand were worsening to the extent that I was now expecting to stop later in the race. There was at least some daylight between the runners now and I was able to push on ahead, getting to the half way stage by 1h 48. This is perhaps the most important stage of the race mentally, since for the first time you are able to count down the distance left to cover relative to that already conquered.
In anticipation of the wall, I cranked out my small stash of jelly beans for an invaluable sugar boost. The sun was well and truly shining down on us, but I tend not to sweat too much and on this most crucial of days, my bladder was holding up. I got to 16 miles at around 2h 11, on par with my effort in the kilomathon four weeks earlier. By now, hip pain was overshadowed by the familiar hamstring discomfort that had threatened to stop me in previous runs. The focus now was to get through to mile 20, as then surely the motivation to finish would be enough to get me through the final phase.
I was taking in many of Paris’s key landmarks along the route, but paying little attention to them. Instead, my personal highlight of the race was at the 17th mile where we passed through an underground tunnel that stretched for the honest part of a kilometre or so. With Eminem’s Lose Yourself blasting through my earphones and nothing but the runners in the vicinity, this was undoubtedly the most epic part of the race. My hamstrings were on fire now and lower down, my calves and heels were making their complaints too. The fun part of the race was over and the grunt work was in full flow.
My pace slowing, I laboured to the 20 mile mark and considered this testimony to all the hours of training. I had got there in 2h 47, on schedule, without stopping. My energy reserves were being depleted every few km, but every time I felt too hot there would be buckets of cold water to cool me down. When I needed an energy boost, endless supplies of oranges and water were picking me up. I was now entering the defining part of the marathon and had around an hour to finish 10k in order to meet my goals.
Completing the marathon without stopping was always a key ambition of mine. I felt the training would get me through to 20 miles and this indeed proved the case. But it came at an inevitable price of leaving me in excruciating pain. Now was the time to persevere through this pain, which would only get worse with more miles, to the end of the race. I was at the Wall, which I had envisaged in my head so many times. Every kilometre was torture and suddenly the belief that adrenaline alone would be enough seemed laughable.
The last 10k personifies the challenge of the marathon. By now, every muscle is screaming at you to stop. Except, if you do, it makes absolutely no difference since the pain persists. This is the ultimate mental battle that defines the fine line between success and failure. The temptation to stop and walk was massive, given that I could still get through in under four hours. But I entered the marathon with the inherent belief that I was bigger than it; that I could overcome any obstacle and endure anything that came my way. So in this sense, stopping was not an option.
To achieve this, I had to call upon the deepest of my mental reserves. I thought back to the darkest days of my life, as recent as three years ago but mainly my childhood, where day after day I would encounter torturous pain through my pancreatitis. Surely if I could manage the chronic pain and abdominal surgery, these final few miles would be easy enough, right? Wrong. The crucial difference is that with the former, one can at least seek pain relief and even when it doesn’t come one can win the mental battle because they are in an environment where everyone is fighting with them against the pain. In Paris, I was alone and nothing, not even stopping, would help the pain. All around me, runners were collapsing, packing it in, or walking. All looked dejected; as if they had lost the battle because the race had become bigger than their capacity to deal with it.
Two inspirations came to mind. Eddie Izzard; if he could run 43 marathons in one go, it was quite pathetic of me to struggle towards my first. I am no fan of Izzard or his comedy, but as a runner you must have the utmost respect for his accomplishment. Then Lance Armstrong’s mantra came to mind: quitting provides temporary relief, but a lifetime of regret. I hadn’t come this far to limp away in defeat. This was not the time for mediocrity; if I couldn’t rise above it now I may as well give up any pursuit of greatness.
So on I went. I thought I knew pain, but on this day, in these final miles, I finally realised what the marathon is all about. Overcoming barriers; not just the big hurdles but the impossible ones. Even though my pace had plummeted to 10-minute miles, I knew I was on the verge of making personal history. Glory awaited and the end was close. Five kilometres became four, then three, two and one. Then the final straight, where for the first time in the race I knew I’d done it. The emotions of the final 200m down Foch Avenue are impossible to pinpoint, but they were the sum total of the hardest struggle of my life. The last hour was nothing short of merciless torture. But when I crossed the finish line, I was so grateful for it. This is what I signed up for all those months ago. Even though I missed 3h 45, instead coming through in 3h 48, I realised the magnitude of what I had just pulled off. The tears that followed owed as much to this as they did the physical pain that had crippled my lower body. It was a pain that ripped right through me for a good hour after the race. As I sat on Foch Avenue, sharing the painstaking story of my race with fellow runners, I lost all sense of time. Even in this state of delirium though, I was careful to rehydrate and get energy levels back up.
In a defining image that will stay with me forever, I stood in front of the Arc de Triomphe, munching away at the halal burger I had just accosted, remembering the view from the top. I had visited Paris once previously, whilst a teenager in 2002. I thought then that the view was unbeatable, but looking around me Paris had never looked so damn beautiful.
This moment sits right at the top of my personal achievements. It was unthinkable a year ago. But there is nothing that can’t be done when the human spirit desires. In one sense, with over five million runners every year (and growing) worldwide, the marathon is the very definition of cliché. But I can assure you that no two runners will have the same story. Every race is a unique journey that ends with the same outcome for those who finish: sheer, unadulterated joy. These are the moments we live for. Many say after their first marathon that it will be years before they take it on again. But I have the bug and want to get back out there as soon as my body permits it. How can anyone get tired of feeling like this?
Friday 16 April 2010
Marathon Diaries Part Two: On the move
The Paris mission was twofold. On the one hand, it would be effort enough just to navigate my way around the city and get to the race on time. My routes and schedule was clear in my mind: airport->expo->hostel->marathon->hostel->airport. Easier said than done given that it was my first time travelling alone. My limited exposure to French GCSE would be sufficient, I hoped, although in fact I was more reliant on the natives' ability to speak English.
So Saturday was mainly travelling from one place to the next. Not the ideal scenario for the day before the race. So much walking, standing and even jogging in certain instances left me feeling fatigued by the time I even got to the marathon expo. I was sneaking in short rests where I could but I feared all this movement would take its toll when it mattered the next day.
My concerns with fatigue and continued hip pain were quickly overridden by the sight of the Marathon Expo. It was here that I formally registered for the race and received my bib and other goodies. However, I was not expecting the sheer magnitude of the event, with stall upon stall of exhibitions. Somehow, there was even room for a bed company to make their pitch as well as a motor show. The prevalent theme was of course running and I did well not to give in to the temptation of spending money on merchandise. The Expo also boasted a 'Pasta Party'; with top quality, delicious pasta served in huge portions at just 3 euros. The perfect fuel for the exertions ahead. With its carnival atmosphere, I finally felt part of the marathon experience. Up to now, my involvement was restricted to emails but now I was in the heart of Paris, experiencing the same buzz of emotions and tasting the same quality pasta as the thousands of runners around me.
I'd loved to have stayed longer but I was in dire need of some serious rest. A few metro stops later and I arrived at the pre-booked hostel in the Latin Quarter. A wonderful area, perhaps too noisy, but only because there is so much going on there. The hostel itself lived up to its cheap price tag, offering basic facilities but getting the job done. It was very much in line with the honest nature of running a marathon and reinforced that this was anything but a holiday. I spent some time treating my legs to the treasured hot water bottle before crashing into an early sleep. One of my roomies ran Paris last year and ensured I'd have nightmares by offering spook stories such as the 'impossible climb' at km 36.
My sleep was minimal, but sufficient to give my legs the freshness they so craved on race morning. After a light breakfast and more hot treatment to the legs, I made my way to Foch Avenue, which is at the opposing end of the Arc de Triomphe to the Champs Elysees. The race would begin on CE but finish at Foch Avenue, with all gear dropped at the latter. There was no risk of getting lost en route, given that almost all passengers at this time (7am, Sunday morning) were dressed for the marathon.
The anxious long wait in the cold ahead of the race start (8.45am) was something to forget. Still, I was at the right place at the right time. I used the time to warm up, stretching everything I could all over. Inside my head a prolonged pep talk unfolded, the crux of which was that the time for bullshit was over. This is what I signed up for and I wouldn't have it any other way.
As I headed towards the CE I realised that part one was done. Now for the main course and the reason I was here in the first place. In four hours time, I'd know one way or the other if the mission was a success. The sun was out; not the best sign for the hours ahead, but for now conditions were good. The entire CE was flooded with runners, with precious little space to move and a deafening sound piercing the morning air. Yet this was the calm before the storm that was about to come.
So Saturday was mainly travelling from one place to the next. Not the ideal scenario for the day before the race. So much walking, standing and even jogging in certain instances left me feeling fatigued by the time I even got to the marathon expo. I was sneaking in short rests where I could but I feared all this movement would take its toll when it mattered the next day.
My concerns with fatigue and continued hip pain were quickly overridden by the sight of the Marathon Expo. It was here that I formally registered for the race and received my bib and other goodies. However, I was not expecting the sheer magnitude of the event, with stall upon stall of exhibitions. Somehow, there was even room for a bed company to make their pitch as well as a motor show. The prevalent theme was of course running and I did well not to give in to the temptation of spending money on merchandise. The Expo also boasted a 'Pasta Party'; with top quality, delicious pasta served in huge portions at just 3 euros. The perfect fuel for the exertions ahead. With its carnival atmosphere, I finally felt part of the marathon experience. Up to now, my involvement was restricted to emails but now I was in the heart of Paris, experiencing the same buzz of emotions and tasting the same quality pasta as the thousands of runners around me.
I'd loved to have stayed longer but I was in dire need of some serious rest. A few metro stops later and I arrived at the pre-booked hostel in the Latin Quarter. A wonderful area, perhaps too noisy, but only because there is so much going on there. The hostel itself lived up to its cheap price tag, offering basic facilities but getting the job done. It was very much in line with the honest nature of running a marathon and reinforced that this was anything but a holiday. I spent some time treating my legs to the treasured hot water bottle before crashing into an early sleep. One of my roomies ran Paris last year and ensured I'd have nightmares by offering spook stories such as the 'impossible climb' at km 36.
My sleep was minimal, but sufficient to give my legs the freshness they so craved on race morning. After a light breakfast and more hot treatment to the legs, I made my way to Foch Avenue, which is at the opposing end of the Arc de Triomphe to the Champs Elysees. The race would begin on CE but finish at Foch Avenue, with all gear dropped at the latter. There was no risk of getting lost en route, given that almost all passengers at this time (7am, Sunday morning) were dressed for the marathon.
The anxious long wait in the cold ahead of the race start (8.45am) was something to forget. Still, I was at the right place at the right time. I used the time to warm up, stretching everything I could all over. Inside my head a prolonged pep talk unfolded, the crux of which was that the time for bullshit was over. This is what I signed up for and I wouldn't have it any other way.
As I headed towards the CE I realised that part one was done. Now for the main course and the reason I was here in the first place. In four hours time, I'd know one way or the other if the mission was a success. The sun was out; not the best sign for the hours ahead, but for now conditions were good. The entire CE was flooded with runners, with precious little space to move and a deafening sound piercing the morning air. Yet this was the calm before the storm that was about to come.
Tuesday 13 April 2010
Marathon Diaries Part One: The final days
Having returned from Poland, I was in optimistic mood, with my longer runs out of the way and just some gentle 2-3 mile runs to finish off a largely turbulent training programme. One of the key revelations of the full marathon has been the importance of preparation off the roads. Running is the bread and butter of training; a simulation of the real thing is irreplaceable. However, so much work is needed outside of this to keep legs fresh, muscles stretched and morale high. I've developed an unhealthy attachment to my hot water bottles and long baths, without which I could not have survived the long runs.
In the final days, hot remedies and rest were very much the norm. Perhaps my most effective asset, though, came in the form of my sports therapist Patrick Cane. After experiencing some hip pain, and for the sake of regaining added freshness ahead of the big day, I underwent an intense session which seemed to help if not eradicate the underlying problems. Months of training and lack of stretching in the right areas meant my hip flexors had become ridiculously tight ("special" according to Patrick). It's all too easy to neglect certain muscles when they present no obvious problem, but they always catch up with you. There was now serious doubt as to whether they'd last the 26.2 miles on Sunday. There was only one way to find out though and that was to run the race and see what happened. Such uncertainty poisons the mind with pessimism.
To add to my woes, I'd been dealt the severe blow that my parents would not be joining me in Paris, for reasons out of our control. At short notice, my sister offered to join me, despite the high airfares. Her loyalty dwindles not under the scrutiny of financial strain, but I could not allow her to spend so much money on what would be a brief, focussed trip as opposed to a holiday. It almost seemed fitting too; almost my entire training regime had been done in isolation and so what better way to finish off the journey than on my own in a different country? It was a daunting prospect to be sure; I'd never travelled on my own prior to this and now had to hope that I'd be able to take care of myself after the race.
So there I was, on Saturday morning, heading to Heathrow to catch my flight for what would be an historic and defining weekend in my life.
In the final days, hot remedies and rest were very much the norm. Perhaps my most effective asset, though, came in the form of my sports therapist Patrick Cane. After experiencing some hip pain, and for the sake of regaining added freshness ahead of the big day, I underwent an intense session which seemed to help if not eradicate the underlying problems. Months of training and lack of stretching in the right areas meant my hip flexors had become ridiculously tight ("special" according to Patrick). It's all too easy to neglect certain muscles when they present no obvious problem, but they always catch up with you. There was now serious doubt as to whether they'd last the 26.2 miles on Sunday. There was only one way to find out though and that was to run the race and see what happened. Such uncertainty poisons the mind with pessimism.
To add to my woes, I'd been dealt the severe blow that my parents would not be joining me in Paris, for reasons out of our control. At short notice, my sister offered to join me, despite the high airfares. Her loyalty dwindles not under the scrutiny of financial strain, but I could not allow her to spend so much money on what would be a brief, focussed trip as opposed to a holiday. It almost seemed fitting too; almost my entire training regime had been done in isolation and so what better way to finish off the journey than on my own in a different country? It was a daunting prospect to be sure; I'd never travelled on my own prior to this and now had to hope that I'd be able to take care of myself after the race.
So there I was, on Saturday morning, heading to Heathrow to catch my flight for what would be an historic and defining weekend in my life.
Catch up
I haven't posted since coming back from Poland a week ago. So much has happened since then, both in Poland and with the running, that it's hard to summarise. Instead then, I shall break down my lifetime's worth of thoughts into chronological chunks.
For now, let me just give the headlines:
- A tense final week as hip problems posed a huge threat and circumstances at home meant I had to make the Paris trip alone.
- Alone I went and embarked on a weekend to remember: a hectic Saturday involved much travelling and little resting but got me where I needed to be.
- Sunday, race day and the climax of months of training and speculation: 3h 48, no stoppages. History is made!
- Now back in the country, revelling in the glory and basking in the pain.
First, a disclaimer for why I didn't post last week. Usually I'm eager to hype up big events in my life and have no problem with raising expectations. But when one wants something so much it's often torture to think about it, with the fear of failure crippling one's mind. There are few things I've yearned for as much as the Paris Marathon and there were so many things that could go wrong that I dared not allow myself the indulgence of thinking ahead. Best to keep a low profile and emerge the other side, whatever the outcome, I felt.
Now that I have emerged, I do have much to say. Let's start by winding the clock back a week...
For now, let me just give the headlines:
- A tense final week as hip problems posed a huge threat and circumstances at home meant I had to make the Paris trip alone.
- Alone I went and embarked on a weekend to remember: a hectic Saturday involved much travelling and little resting but got me where I needed to be.
- Sunday, race day and the climax of months of training and speculation: 3h 48, no stoppages. History is made!
- Now back in the country, revelling in the glory and basking in the pain.
First, a disclaimer for why I didn't post last week. Usually I'm eager to hype up big events in my life and have no problem with raising expectations. But when one wants something so much it's often torture to think about it, with the fear of failure crippling one's mind. There are few things I've yearned for as much as the Paris Marathon and there were so many things that could go wrong that I dared not allow myself the indulgence of thinking ahead. Best to keep a low profile and emerge the other side, whatever the outcome, I felt.
Now that I have emerged, I do have much to say. Let's start by winding the clock back a week...
Thursday 1 April 2010
Nowhere To-run
I've never been a keen traveller. So much walking and sightseeing usually leaves me too fatigued to enjoy the surroundings. Egypt was historic, but hot. Andalucia beautiful, but tiring. My latest trip, to Poland, is certainly not a holiday but nevertheless a welcome break during which I've developed a new found appreciation for venturing into new places.
The measure of a city for me now is the scope to run therein. My experiences in Jurata, a desolate coastal region on the Baltic Sea, and the urban setting of Torun, have largely been defined by my ability to keep up training. In other circumstances, and for most people, Jurata would prove a chore (poor food, little life and inconsistent weather). But it does lie on a promontory that seems to go on forever, converging towards the edge of the sea itself. A runner's dream. Torun, on the other hand, is full of life, culture and beautiful scenery. But there is nowhere decent to run! The Maths institute is close to a bridge, which overlooks the river and spans around 500m. I can do no better than just run up and down it around twenty times. It says a lot about me that I consider this bridge the highlight of what is actually an amazing city.
A keen runner will always pounce on the opportunity to cover new ground; for a budding marathon goer it's absolutely essential. Running is universal in that it can be done anywhere, any time (pretty much). Packing my gear was simple enough and finding water even easier: what more could I ask for?
Paris is now 10 days away. Whilst Torun is unideal for this final stage of training, I need only complete two 10k runs before returning to Oxford on Monday. The buzzword for next week is chill. Taking care of one's body off the roads is just as pivotal to training as running itself, especially at this crucial tapering stage. My legs are far from fresh and there are, as always, some real injury concerns. But right now I'm happy to count down the days to what could be an historic occasion.
The measure of a city for me now is the scope to run therein. My experiences in Jurata, a desolate coastal region on the Baltic Sea, and the urban setting of Torun, have largely been defined by my ability to keep up training. In other circumstances, and for most people, Jurata would prove a chore (poor food, little life and inconsistent weather). But it does lie on a promontory that seems to go on forever, converging towards the edge of the sea itself. A runner's dream. Torun, on the other hand, is full of life, culture and beautiful scenery. But there is nowhere decent to run! The Maths institute is close to a bridge, which overlooks the river and spans around 500m. I can do no better than just run up and down it around twenty times. It says a lot about me that I consider this bridge the highlight of what is actually an amazing city.
A keen runner will always pounce on the opportunity to cover new ground; for a budding marathon goer it's absolutely essential. Running is universal in that it can be done anywhere, any time (pretty much). Packing my gear was simple enough and finding water even easier: what more could I ask for?
Paris is now 10 days away. Whilst Torun is unideal for this final stage of training, I need only complete two 10k runs before returning to Oxford on Monday. The buzzword for next week is chill. Taking care of one's body off the roads is just as pivotal to training as running itself, especially at this crucial tapering stage. My legs are far from fresh and there are, as always, some real injury concerns. But right now I'm happy to count down the days to what could be an historic occasion.
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