Days to go 43
Miles today None – woohoo! Big one tomorrow – boohoo!
Miles this week 19.5 – plus 15 tomorrow
Miles last week 29.5 – plus plenty of walking in beautiful Wiltshire
Miles 2011 256.5
Other exercise Digging at the allotment
“Flip-flap, flip-flap, jog-trot, jog-trot, crunch-slap, crunch-slap,
across the middle of a broad field...”
If I may, I’d like to refer you to my post on 18 February 2011: training for a marathon is tough.
It seems to be taking over my life. At the moment, I think I’m running about eight hours a week plus showering and collapsing in a heap – aka recovery – time. I’m in danger of forgetting what my family and friends look like.
My days have become an endless round of dragging myself away from my snores, going to work, eating, coming home, running, showering, eating, going to sleep, dragging myself away from my snores, going to work...
Ad lib to fade.
Exhaustion hounds me. I hurt – all over. And I have no one to blame but myself. This brand of masochism is a solitary thing.
Once out on the road, I am unprotected – completely at the whim of the elements and tested by extremes.
On a sunny June day, when all the world’s relaxing beside a slow, lazy river in a shady hostelry garden, I am reduced to a sweating, melting blob – harpooned by heat, dive-bombed by wasps and gasping in the deep-fried air.
In the autumn, the wind steals my bobble hat and hurls leaves in my face. It cunningly snakes in through my seams, dripping the chilly November mizzle onto the tender spot in the nape of my neck.
The winter ice sees me on my posteriarse more often than my feet*. And I only warm up when I return to the comfort of home and a hot, hot shower.
* As does the mud of spring. Talking of which, you’d think that spring would be a gentle time for runners, but March can be raging and mad: blustery and wet – a close cousin to malevolent November. And, as we all know, April is the cruellest month.
A-hem – I seem to have gone off on one – as if I haven’t already griped enough about the weather. Terrible English trait. A pile of apologies.
So, returning to my point, training for a marathon is tough, and you can feel rather alone.
Don’t get me wrong, I do enjoy some quiet time – the opportunity to pull on my trainers and get outside to run the day out of my system, clear my head and have some stillness – but three or four hours of relentless pavement-pounding can get too much for anyone. The lonely runner mathematical conjecture states that “every runner gets lonely at some time”.
But help is on hand and there is plenty of information about how to make the whole business a little less arduous. For example, drawing up a sensible and realistic training schedule is a sound start. A healthy diet is vital. The right shoes and appropriate clothing really are a must.
This is all very well, but what of combating the hours of loneliness – the empty miles along endless roads of solitude; the flip-flapping across broad barren fields; the miserable splish-splosh through countless muddy puddles?
Some people use music to help them while away the weary, lonely hours. Some invest in gadgets and gizmos to motivate them through the miles. Meanwhile, others ponder life’s impenetrables or enjoy the scenery.
They come in all shapes and sizes, so it is essential that you find the right one for you. This really is a question of trial and error. Like finding the right brand of shoe, trying out a few models before settling on the one is probably the best way forward. I was lucky enough to find my ideal running-buddy on the first attempt.
SG has certainly made running a lot more fun and made upping the mileage in preparation for the marathon a lot less daunting. Together, we have covered near enough 1,000 miles – come rain or shine, snow or hail, calm or gale. Given our pace, that’s about 166 hours of running. And it has been fantabulous!
We talk endlessly about anything and everything – with a heavy emphasis on cake, admittedly – but we have touched on just about all bases. Americans reputedly spend oodles of dollars on therapy. SG and I get our talk-therapy for free. A bad day at the office, a miscreant cat, bad drivers, relationships, education, politics, religion, international relations – all scrutinised and solved by the time we have finished our circuit. We make light work of our miles with moan-power.
We also laugh – a lot. Maybe it’s the tiredness, maybe it’s the pain, or maybe it’s the hunger, but we can meet, make eye contact, groan, and then start to giggle inexplicably and uncontrollably. Before, we start to snivel...
Luckily, our highs and lows aren’t in sync. When I’m having a down-day, SG generally isn’t – and vice versa – and is able to encourage me along with gentle and supportive maxims like: “Winners aren’t quitters, and quitters don’t win” or “Shuddup and just keep running, Missus.” Such kind encouragement can really carry you on to the next milestone.
One of our circuits is really demanding. What am I saying? All of our routes are challenging, but one in particular passes through – let’s call it Bloominghillfordby – at about mile 10 and is the epitome of gruelling. This hill is vertical – we pass people in full climbing gear, crampons, ropes – the works.
On my own, I might be tempted to avoid it, run round it, tunnel it, never leave the house again. However, together SG and I have worked really hard and conquered it – or at least don’t sob quite so much as we approach it. In fact, we have tamed it, turning it into a motivational mantra. Whenever, we come to a tricky part of a route, we just chant: “It’s not Bloominghillfordby. It’s not Bloominghillfordby...”
There have been many days when running is the last thing I have felt like doing, but knowing that SG is going to be suffering alongside me has really helped me drag myself out.
That may sound like it came out all wrong – it didn’t. I wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for SG. It’s her fault I’m training for the London Marathon. So, thanks then, SG.
But you know, for all the (faux) complaints, grumbles and whinges, I’m thrilled to be doing it. So, SG, really: thank you.
I have never laughed so hard whilst in such dreadful pain and agony.
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