October 27, 2008 at 10:38 pm · Filed under Rambling, Travel
I’m as happy as a generally grumpy person can ever expect to be, but occassionaly I get it in to my head that perhaps I’d feel more at home somewhere else – the eternal grass is greener scenario.
This weekend, in search of lush lawns, I headed to Hebden Bridge.
Hebden Bridge is the UK mecca for guardian readers and “alternative practitioners”, and I’ve long held the view that the place would be enhanced by my presence. The “AP” euphemism was suggested by the local lesbian hotel and I’ve adopted it as a subtle way of getting this post past my mum.
I was accompanied by Lynn who was prepared to indulge my fantasy of returning to Yorkshire for a life revolving around yoghurt, communal vegetables, alternative practitioners, real ale and hill runnning (not necessarily listed in order of importance). Given that this weekend was forecast to be the wettest and windiest of the year, and even saw 1500 hardman mountain marathoners evacuated from the area by helicopter, I think it was incredibly public spirited of her!
My new home presented itself well, with a rather fabulous olde worlde railway station but friday night in dowtown Hebden was disappointly bereft of AP’s who appeared to have been replaced by spirit swigging teenagers – my favourite variety.
I’d planned an early start for our Saturday morning hike through the hurricane, but at 11am we were still struggling to swallow the locally sourced alpaca sausage that came bundled with the hotel room. I’d like to blame my sleep loving companion for the late start but I might have delayed the proceedings a little bit by leaving the walking guide hidden under the discarded and pre-requisite guardian on the Leeds train.
We got a map, which promptly disintegrated in the downpour and headed off with the plan to stick to the right handside of the river. A cunning plan, almost immediately rejected as we found ourself on a path, flanked on our right by a raging torrent and a strangely spotty youf holding a bottle of empty red wine. I thought he had puss coming out of his pores but apparently he’d just stuck his head in the river. A tick in the box for staying in London methinks!
The walk was random, preciptous and extraordinarily muddy but I enjoyed it immensely. My enjoyment always seems to be enhanced by adverse conditions. Seeing other walkers approaching me with a hang dog, god isn’t this awful expression, always makes me smile, and I think Lynn may have been cast in a similar mould.
Here’s Lynn, striding off in the wrong direction – in fairness the visibilty was somewhat impaired.
6 miles later we were sitting in the local cream tea house, being served by some of the local sullen teenagers – “What dya wan?!”
It’s a strange accent and in the mouths hungover teenagers it doesn’t go so well with the concept of “customer service”. Another tick in the box for London I’m afraid.
In order to swing the balance in favour of Hebden Bridge the hotel decided to throw a lesbian disco in our honour and although we did our best to miss most of it, we caught the tail end and were introduced to the hip and happening alternative practioners from the North Yorkshire vicinity. I have to say it was an eye-opener. My fashion sense clearly needs an overhaul if I ever hope to fit in, but I was pleased to discover that they still play the tunes from my early years at women only discos. 4 non blondes most definitely needs to stage a come back on my running playlist!
My dreams may have been shattered this weekend, but I’m not bitter. It ranks as one of the best weekends of the year and has given me a new found passion for running in wet and boggy conditions. I’ll be spending this weekend searching for good ole London mud and hills.
After any major event, of Great North proportions, me and OGB have a tendency to gather around a pint and discuss our potential prowess for next year.
So this year, as with last year incidentally, we planned to maintain our new found half marathon fitness by running at least 10 miles every week, thereby avoiding that tiresome fitness building phase before the next one. I also remember him suggesting we lose some weight, and while he couldn’t lose a stone without panicking his mother, I could easily afford to shed 5 of em, nevertheless I just nodded at him and ordered the next couple of pints.
Two weeks on from the beery bravado, I haven’t heard any hint of OGB sticking to the long distance running plan, he has however sent me begging requests to run another half in a foreign land. And he calls me expensive!
Although I’d planned a day of sheer indulgence, pouring over one of my accountancy text books, I was eventually shamed into heading out for my promised 10-miler. In fairness, I had also run out of other study avoidance techniques, there were literally no more clothes left to wash and iron and there really is a limit to the number of times you can scrub a bathroom sink.
I received a bit of stick from SHS1 in my last post, regarding my choice of running playlists. I think she may have hit the nail on the head really.
In retrospect, I feel some what betrayed by my body and the internal slob for last weeks failure to complete. Despite allowing both of them to convince me that I was facing imminent internal melt down, the predicted muscle damage failed to rear it’s head last week at all. I didn’t wince even slightly as I bounded down the stairs the next morning. That strikes me as a major cop out and I feel like the pair of them (body and slob) ganged up on me in a fairly outrageous fashion. Had they had a little private conflab, then come back to me with the view that the legs couldn’t be arsed to carry me any further and the slob was no longer having fun and just wanted to go home and play with the new computer, then I think I would have been quite reasonable about it.
In the absence of anyone else to blame then I have no alternative but to pick on the playlist. I started the Royal Parks Half with some fairly upbeat tunes but despite sticking somewhere near 60 songs on my list, they had run out by 10 miles. Then I had to scavenge through my iPod in desperation. There were no unplayed episodes of the Archers so I had to head to the audiobook section and the only unheard remnant in there was “Pontoon” by Garrison Keillor. I rest my case. That guy can induce a coma within 3 minutes, it’s a miracle I managed to push another mile out of those mutinous legs.
So today I refreshed my running inspiration and trogged up to Richmond Bridge and back.
Hip’s Don’t Lie – Shakira
Pon De replay – Rihanna
Jesus, Take the Wheel – Carrie Underwood
Jump – Madonna
Push the Button – Sugababes
Never Give Up – Melissa Ferrick
Ready to Run – Dixie Chicks
I Run For life – Melissa Etheridge
I’m not Dead – Pink
Run – Amy MacDonald
Breathe – Melissa Etheridge
Runaway – Pink
Get This Party Started – Pink
Of course 13 songs didn’t keep me going for 10 miles – I had to listen to that lot at least 4 times, so if I try that for another long run I’ll probably be chucking my iPod in the Thames.
This run was always going to be a bit hit and miss, booking two half marathons only 7 days apart and then going light on the training regime is only going to end in a world of pain.
In my mind I thought it would be interesting to see just how much pain would actually be involved – I was beginning to see it as an experiment in muscle damage.
Three days after the Great North Run I was still hobbling up the stairs and trying to recapture my youth sliding down the the bannisters. By Friday though I was able to move around without squealing and began to think this race might be a possibility afterall.
I arrived in Hyde Park to welcome a glorious autumnal morning and the classiest event set up I’ve ever witnessed. There was a farmers market in the event village complete with a wet fish stall and fresh bread counter. Someone tried to hand me a free sample of curry sauce and I was seriously tempted to quit the race and enjoy the grub.
Still unsure of my strategy for this event I propped myself against a tree and started reading through some outstanding blog posts. Speedracer happened to be deciding her strategy for running a marathon on an injured foot but as ever, her approach was gonna prove just a little too hardcore for me. Crippling yourself for two weeks is a step too far in my book, laying myself off work for a couple of days however, sounds much more like my cuppa tea. I did agree that hitting the finish line in 5 hours was going to be a waste of time though, I wouldn’t mind running over the line in 3:30 but if I had to walk, I wasn’t going to be interested.
I started running to Amy MacDonald and finally hit on the perfect motto for the event “I will run until my feet no longer run no more”.
Sorted!
It was a beautiful route, any event that forces street closures through central London has got to score brownie points. There is simply no better place to run. I was a bit worried to note that the route left the streets and headed into Hyde Park at mile 6 though. 7.1 miles looping around Hyde park was going to be a challenge.
At mile 3 my thighs started screaming in a mile 10 sort of fashion. This was going to be some battle of wills. I ran past 3 tube stations and tapped my pocket each time just to confirm that my emergency “get me out of here” oyster card was handy, but ran on regardless.
My energy was sapped at Hyde park, knowing I had more than 10k to go on familiar ground. Spectators and general park goers were getting fed up of the spectacle and started ignoring the fact that a race was in progress. I had to duck and dive through crowds and hop over extender leads as dog owners gave their stoopid poodles full reign.
There were 12500 runners in this event, almost a quarter that of the Great North, as a result, slow runners were a bit thin on the ground. In fact I seemed to be surrounded by those goddamn walkers. Run/walkers and just plain ole walkers. They were overtaking me on the hills again and was I being driven nuts.
At the 10th mile I actually stopped to walk just to see if perhaps it would be quicker that way, but no, I was even slower. At 11 miles something happened with my legs and the running got so slow I couldn’t even claim to be moving forward anymore, the garmin showed the damage – I’d lost a 6 minute advantage in the last 2 miles and my pace was well over 15 min miles. I walked off the edge and promptly threw up in the hedges.
Garmin stopped and I quit. My first DNF.
All I had left to do was join the dots.
I’m not too bothered by the failure, I wanted to see the affect on my body and I also wanted to know if I could persuade OGB and Tanya to substitute this event for GNR next year. It will be considerably cheaper.
In my opinion this is by far the better route, it was pretty well organised and had deluxe portaloos but the crowds were not a patch on the tyneside guys who truly know how to support crap runners. If you were further up the pack I don’t think you would have been tripped up by so many dog walkers.
I spotted JogBlog a few miles ahead of me but she’s been a bit slack with the race update. That’s the trouble with completing races – you get to nurse a legitimate hangover for hours whereas DNF’ers got to go home for a sober bath! Not the way forward.
October 7, 2008 at 12:50 pm · Filed under Event, Running
I love this event, it is a complete pain to get to, it costs a fortune, it’s almost impossible to get out of South Shields before night fall, but it still remains the highlight of my year. Grubby street urchins high fiving you, toddlers squirting bottled puddle water at your feet, spectators cheering and offering out ice pops, pizza and vodka. The folk from South Tyneside really get into the spirit of this event and you can’t help but feel privilidged to be part of it. At times through the race the emotion gets the better of me and I have to fight to stop myself blubbing.
I couldn’t fathom a way of setting myself a target for the 13.1 mile distance on the forerunner 405 so instead I had to set the pace of the virtual trainer and just watch my progress against my shadow. Being a “tad” heavier and not having shown an immense amount of commitment to my training this year I thought the best I could hope for was to aim for a 3:05 hr finish and so set the training buddy to 14min/miles. With the watch stuck on this screen I couldn’t tell what pace I was running at and so effectively ran the race blind. At each mile mark though I seemed to be gaining minutes on my buddy – I was kicking virtual sand in his face.
At mile 7 as was hosed down by a teenager in full firemans garb, it coincided with the end of the first episode the Archers and its replacement by P!nk’s “I’m Not Dead”. The combined effect was so refreshing that I experienced the best 20 seconds running of my life. I overtook walkers and everything!
Unfortunately in a half marathon, there is no escaping mile 10, it arrives like a soggy duvet and throws itself around your legs. At this point I was 9 minutes ahead of my target but with the duvet around my ankles I was losing minutes every few hundred yards. I was cracking up but at this time last year I had to step of the sideline to perform first aid on my thighs, something must have improved despite my preparations.
At 11 miles I had slipped back to only 6 minutes above the 3:05 target but I was smelling the sea air and getting all emotional again. My folks had driven down to catch me cross the finish line and started to feel a pb in my bones. I upped the pace at the 12 mile marker and kept looking down at my watch to see if I could get that the distance between me and my shadow to increase. It started to happen and I felt strength in my legs.
That final mile was exciting for me. It was just like the final leg of the Bushy park run, giving it all for a chance at some glory. At 7 minutes ahead of target I was struggling with my maths again to see how much I had to do to beat last year. The finish was coming upon me so quickly I didn’t think I had enough distance left to make the time but I was willing myself on anyway.
I crossed the line in 2:57:00 about 50 seconds slower than last year. Not a pb but I was so chuffed that I’d come anywhere near it. Here’s my thank god it’s over shot, I don’t think I look quite as happy as last year but then OGB had gone AWOL. His training had been a bit lacklustre as well but at the start line he’d decided he was going to push it anyway. When he wasn’t sitting at the agreed meeting point with my pint in his hand I assumed he must have been carried off in a helicopter. I was probably wondering what I was going to tell his mum as the photo was taken.
We found him eventually in an emotional heap after spending about 45 mins battling in the baggage bus for our clobber. Shoes and bags and shirts had been strewn all over and it sounded a bit like a blood fest. Luckily I got to avoid all that – that’s the benefit of running with fast friends, thay get to collect the bags while all you have to do is struggle over the finish and stumble into the nearest fish and chip restaurant.
Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention to arrive safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming: Wow!! What a ride!
