Wednesday 4 July 2012

Doctor doctor, I've got a strawberry growing out of my bum.

I'll give you some cream for that.

I've decided to blog on, even though I have nothing but an Autumn marathon planned. I thought I'd start with my words of advice to tennis players at Wimbledon.

The first two balls that you've been given will be fine. There's no need to reject one of them in favour of the third or fourth ball. Look, you've served a double fault, even with the balls you've chosen; it's not them, it's you.

You've just played a three-shot rally lasting less than 10 seconds; it's not made you sweat that much and you don't need to mop your fevered brow with a towel. Just get on with it.

Next time you're choosing your playing shirt, pick a size smaller; that way, you won't have to keep adjusting it after every point. For the longer term, ask your kit manufacturer if they've ever heard of Lycra.

In hamster news, we've just had a lovely 10 days in Cornwall, despite the best efforts of the British summer. We were able to confirm that wearing a hat really doesn't make you interesting...


This fence post is no more interesting than the average, despite its hat


...and here is a classic example of the exceedingly rare 'double plural with grocer's apostrophe'...



How many cakes?

I have undeniably been drinking too much cider and eating too many pasties and cakes, so I've gained 10lb; from now on, I won't be having cream with that.

Monday 4 June 2012

Why have champagne...

...when you can have real pain?

Huge congratulations to Justin, who has completed the Severn Challenge, winning every day in the process. A pretty awesome effort by a genuinely lovely bloke, who is probably too modest to tell anyone himself how fantastically well he did. If he could navigate, he'd be really, really dangerous; it'd save him having to overtake the other front runners at all.

Our reporter on the scene tells us that yesterday, Justin had finished the 60 miles, then later gone back out with Ken the race director to look for the other four remaining competitors...who got in at 3am. He then won the last day's marathon in a time of about 4.5 hours. Wow.

It looks like the others are going to finish the event, which is also a phenomenal effort. Well done, all of you! Five out of 21 suggests the event may be 'a bit too hard'...it really wasn't a field full of numpties.

I spotted GL Dave yesterday, atop Tower Bridge, a mobile phone clutched to one ear; 'I can see some barges, a river and a lady who looks a bit like the Queen; am I on course?' Fear not, Foggy, he's safe enough!

My feet are feeling a bit better today; they no longer fit SS formerly AE Dave's description of 'I have seen feet that look that bad before, but not on someone alive'. My right ankle is still swollen, but I've heard that bacon butties, tea and cake are the cure for that. My knees still itch from all the stinging nettles (did I mention there were one or two nettles?)

Now I've had requests for photos of my feet, so if you're of a nervous disposition, look away now...



I actually, genuinely, have blisters on my blisters!

A bit sore in places... Newtown, Shrewsbury, Welshpool and Ironbridge, mostly. You'll be pleased to learn that no peas were harmed in the making of those photos.

Mousers, thanks for your suggestion that I should write a book; I would, but nothing interesting ever happens to me. I must wear my hat more. Cheers!

Sunday 3 June 2012

Two ultra-runners and a triathlete shuffled off...

...this mortal coil and were met at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter.
'If you have about your person an item which symbolises Christmas, you will be admitted to Heaven,' intoned the saint.
The first ultra-runner pulled out a bunch of keys and said 'these represent church bells', while jingling them merrily.
The second ultra-runner pulled out a lighter (which he was carrying for a friend, obviously) lit it and said 'this represents a candle'
The triathlete reached into his pocket and whipped out a pair of woman's knickers.
'And what do these symbolise?' asked St. Peter, baffled.
'They're Carol's,' replied the triathlete.

Yes, I admit that I'm doped up to the eyeballs on painkillers, but there is method in my madness; as we assembled at Holt Castle (yep, it's a castle at Holt) the music playing in the background was a Christmas carol compilation. It was going to be one strange event...

We piled into a couple of minibuses for the trip to Rhyd-y-Benwych, one of the first of many words containing all the right vowels and consonants, just not necessarily in the right order. The buses had been hired from a school, so the seats were neatly positioned to give just enough leg room for the average ten year old. Never mind, starting day 1 as stiff as a board was good training for the following days.

Day 1 or  Out of Africa

The race was billed as five runs of marathon distance or longer, but for logistical reasons, the first day was shortened to 24.8 miles, so those that wanted the extra marathon were bused up the road by 1.4miles to make up the distance. Ten of us went, then ran back to the start; for a brief moment, I was second in the Severn Challenge. At least it was better than loitering under the eaves of the car park toilets to shelter from the rain...

We joined everyone else back at the car park and off we went, running up a boardwalk, then a path, then some rocks. I was joined by Ian (who turned out to be the Ian from Gears and Tears); we reached the Severn Stick a.k.a. the source of the Severn, I filled a small bottle with water from the source, ready to pour back in at the river's mouth, then turned round and went back the other way. Back to the car park, then on the road and down the hill. Down the hill seemed surprisingly uphill, considering. We took a right turn over the river at Severn-breaks-its-neck Falls (more of a small stumble, really) only to meet Sue and Not Lost Yet Dave (a different Dave altogether from NEY Dave, AE Dave and Swimming Dave) coming the other way. We decided that they were right and we were wrong, so crossed SBIN Falls from the other direction and headed on down the uphills towards checkpoint 2.

From then on, it was a case of 'Where's the river?', 'Nice solar panels! Wonder if they ever see any sun?' and 'Ooh, a Nine Bar!'...there were even some opportunities to mention two fish in a reservoir...

Sue, Ian and I arrived at the finish together; 'twas a nice run in the rain in good company. As the finish was about half a mile from its advertised location, this was a damn good effort. Ian had 26.4 miles on his GPS, which he immediately claimed as an ultra, even though he'd ducked out of the extra 1.4 miles at the start. I did forgive him, as he'd made his run harder by carrying a rucksack so heavy that it made NEY Dave's bike seem almost lightweight. I ate some excellent noodles, made with real excellents, but avoided the Nine Bars. We weren't last; NLY Dave had become Got Lost Dave at a diversion in the woods and there were two others behind him. I passed on the baked spud (later in the race, Jerome would do something very similar on a Mars Bar, but he ate it anyway) in favour of the chip shop, before we toddled off to Dolanog Bed and Breakfast. They were brilliant; we were welcomed with tea, coffee, barra brith with jam and butter; they have lovely views over fields, hills, cows and sheep; they sorted us out with a ridiculously early breakfast the next morning...and even gave me £20 for my charity (if you'd like to do the same, the link's over on the right!) We'll be going back, if only to use the white fluffy robes!

The race suffered its first withdrawal; a lady from South Africa hadn't healed well after the Edinburgh marathon and pulled out at the first checkpoint; from one hemisphere to the other to run 7.8 miles; in sympathy, I'm thinking of flying to Jo'burg for a 10k...

Day 2 or The English Patient

We were back at the start in plenty of time for the 7am kick-off of day 2. Ian's large sack (hey, anything that boosts a man's reputation) had rubbed his back red raw, so Squish became Vaseliner-in-Chief. Off we toddled up some hills, no sign of a river but there were some stinging nettles instead, some more hills, that's not the river you're looking for, find the Severn again, then join a canal instead.

We settled into run 7 walk three, for it was flat to downhill and a good surface. Ian was dropping back a little as his back was, er, just a tad sore, so my marvellous sherpas (take a bow, Debs, AE Dave and Jude) improvised an extensive dressing from duct tape and panty liners. You don't have to make it up.



There was no surfing allowed on the canal, though they were warning towpath users of an upcoming triathlon, whatever one of those is. We eventually left the canal for a checkpoint, courtesy of a sign so large that you couldn't possibly miss it; Got Lost Dave missed it. Do you want a jam butty or a peanut butter butty with that?

It was then onwards and upwards, though mostly upwards, towards the next checkpoint. The race directions, lifted directly from the Severn Way Walkers' Guide, had been remarkably specific til this point; it was all '...and then you'll pass Farmer Giles' field; don't forget to say hello to Bessie the Cow; ten paces after the stile there's a really interesting stone...'  but suddenly we got 'follow the track to Melverley.' This omitted one sharp left turn, an extremely elastic definition of 'track', a river crossing by road and a left onto a second footpath.  At least one runner got harassed by some bullocks; by the time we ambled through, they'd got a taste for intimidating runners and so trotted onto the path mob-handed. I unfurled the Pirate colours and gave them a charge, yelling and flapping my arms; it could've all ended in tears, but they ran away. I am Bullock Pershore, Worcestershire's answer to Crocodile Dundee...



We left Melverley in stile (if you get my drift) and had some navigation issues...though it turned out that we were right all along, before hooning it to the Wingfield Arms and the finish.

We decided to forego the meatballs at the campsite in favour of dining at the pub, which turned out to be a big mistake; it took 90 minutes from ordering til the arrival of the food, apparently because we were a large table. Run 45 miles then be left to starve; they were lucky we didn't eat the waitress. And was it worth waiting for? Nah.

GL Dave eventually rolled in, having got lost.

Bed at the Premier Inn in Shrewsbury, before  a 6am start for the 58 miles to Worcester on the morrow.

Day 3 or A Bridge Too Far

6am, off we go, minus another runner or two; damp grass, wet feet, blisters, uphill, nettles. Ian was sackless, Sue was looking strong. Eventually we found the river we were looking for and jogged into Shrewsbury. Ken the organiser (nice chap, really put himself out for the runners, had hair when he started, tore it out in lumps on receiving phonecalls from GL Dave asking if he was on course) had warned us that the bridge we were supposed to be crossing was closed; we were to use the next one...which was also closed.

We eventually crossed the river without having to swim, then toddled off on a good path...which got worse...and worse...and worse. Do you want stinging nettles with that?

We lost more runners at checkpoint one; but, fuelled by Super Sherpas, we toddled on up the road, up the hill, up the next hill, who's nicked the river? After a climb up Mount Sheinton, apparently the third highest peak in England, we descended to the river and eventually reached checkpoint two in Ironbridge.

The magic sherpas had appeared again, so I changed socks, changed tops, stuffed my face with food (jam or peanut butter? thanks to Pirates Debbo and Bryan, I had cheese and tomato, thank you very much!) and toddled on.

My feet were 'a bit sore' at this point, which had changed my gait, which made my ITB hurt, which changed my gait again, which made my adductors and hip flexors really hurt...and that, as they say, was that. Debbo had run with Sue and me from the second checkpoint; I heroically sent them on their way as my sub 24 min mile pace was holding them back; it had nothing to do with the fact that I wanted to sob like a big girl's blouse.

Bryan carted me back to Ironbridge in his car (sorry 'bout the sweat on the seat, mate!) and we adjourned to the Ironbridge Brewery with Denzil and Ian. Ian had pulled out at the second checkpoint; Denzil, sponsored by Nine Bar, had been assisting at the checkpoint.

Beer was sampled, home was reached, carryoot curry was munched, bed was gratefully fallen into. We'd lost Dave and Jude by this point (apparently they were 'on holiday' and had given up several days of it to support a race that Dave was too injured to run himself; now that's above and beyond the call of duty! Thanks folks!)

Day 4 or It's a Wonderful Life

Though I was down to one sherpa, at least I got to go to bed with her; the next morning, two hobbling runners were fed tea coffee and bacon butties. When the pain in my legs and the noise of the drumming rain woke me up at 0645 hours, I realised that I could in theory have been running for 45 minutes by then.

I've now popped my blisters, the soles of my feet hurt, my calves are killing me, my left ITB and adductors are throbbing...and my right ankle is swollen, which is odd as I don't remember hurting it.

The race is still poodling on; they were down to five starters today. Five from 21 with about 90 miles to go; it really is some challenge; it could only have been worse if it had rained, been largely uphill and featured more sting...oh.

Three unexpected days in the company of my dear wife? Don't mind if I do!

One of these fine days, I'll fill in the bits of the route that I haven't done (Bewdley to Stanley; Tewkesbury sownwards) and empty my bottle of source water in at Severn Beach...just at a more leisurely 20 miles at a time.

My heartfelt thanks:
 To AE Dave and Jude for being there for a long time when they could've been having a good time; you were a huge help, not just to me but to all the runners.

To Ian and Sue for their unfailingly good-humoured company during the bimble; thanks for putting up with the fish jokes; would you prefer a Nine Bar or a sherbet lemon?

To Ken, for being the most relentlessly positive race organising person, even under the most trying circumstances! I'm half way up a hill and looking at a wall; there are three sheep and some grass; am I on course?

To Swimming Dave, for good company on the coach, giving me my only chance to see him from the front.

To Jerome, for the 'lady problems' incident; what happens on tour stays on tour.

To all my fellow runners for their welcoming attitude to the slow fat triathlete.

and of course to my Squish, for her love, support and bacon butties; I couldn't almost do what I almost do without you. I love you.

When I did my last big event, I nearly died, but I did finish; this time, though I didn't finish, I didn't nearly die either. I may be a bit swollen, but not a pulmonary embolism in sight. I prefer it this way round, though if faced with St. Peter's 'Christmas test', I'll drop my pants and say 'look at that, it's a cracker'...



Wednesday 30 May 2012

Two ultra-runners and a triathlete were running a very hot race...

and suffering in the sun, when they came across the wreck of an old car. To ease the burden of the heat, they each decided to take one piece of the car with them as they continued.
The first ultra-runner took the washer bottle, saying 'when I get really hot, I can pour the water over me to cool off.'
The second ultra-runner took the back seat, saying 'when I get really hot, I can crawl under the seat and get some shade.'
'I'm taking the driver's door,' said the triathlete. ' When I get really hot, I can wind the window down.'

Today, I am, of course, wibbling about the weather; this is the curse of everyone who does outdoor activities. I'd love about 16 degrees, dry and cloudy, but Rule 4 applies: it is what it is.

To this end, I've got complete body waterproofs, sunglasses, a peaked cap and my wetsuit on standby, so I can cope whatever the conditions. I will nevertheless spend all day obsessively refreshing the web pages of several different weather forecast sites, before choosing to believe the one I like best.

I may take some time out to find my boomerang; I can't remember where I left it, but I'm sure it'll come back to me.

I shall take myself out for three miles of light jogging, do one last session with Kia-ora and her yogalates; never before have my facial muscles been so relaxed or my jaw so soft.

All that then remains is some more faffing and wibbling, followed by a very early start tomorrow.

NEY Dave (and maybe one or two other people!) may appreciate the irony of a present given to me my my dear wife recently. For the rest of you, it's an in-joke, fully explained in this blog if you're eaten up with curiosity:



Remember, kiddies, wearing a hat doesn't make you interesting!

I'm glad to report that the charidee donations have started to trickle in; thank you to Dis and Mr Frog! I'm hoping that, like the Severn, there will be a big gush and a flood in five days time. Blimey, is that a link to my Justgiving page, over there, on the right?

My plan is to blog every day; you can keep up with my astonishingly slow progress here, courtesy of my Executive 'Ead 'Itter, sherpa extraordinaire and lovely wife, Squish.

If you're particularly unlucky, I may tweet stuff from @Crash_Hamster (subject to being able to get a signal/find my phone/being arsed); it'll probably be fairly dull, but that's Twitter for you.

Rumour has it that this is actually a race, so if you want to see how comprehensively I'm being thrashed, there are apparently going to be reports here, daily.

If you've been with me on my journey to this start line, thanks for your help and support; if you were redirected here after looking up 'incomprehensible' in an online dictionary, I hope you're not too scarred.

Thanks as ever to my sponsors: Riverside Fish Bar, Pom Bears and Worcester Royal Infirmary for making me the finely-chiseled athlete that I am today.

I'm going into radio silence with two quotes from famous Daves:

'It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.'

 (Theodore 'Dave' Roosevelt; I may have cheated a little with this one)

and:

'Let's get out there and twat it.'

(Dave Lister)

Let's hope it turns out nice again.





Monday 28 May 2012

I put coffee in my hamster's bottle last night.

I don't want him falling asleep at the wheel.

I spent yesterday going through essential kit for the big day on Thursday (and bigger days on Friday to Sunday inclusive; if I make Monday, it's only a marathon...)

So what will I be taking? I'm always intrigued by what the good ultra-runners carry (generally 250ml of water, 3 fig rolls and a stone once trodden on by Joss Naylor) but as a slow, fat former triathlete, I have a love of a good gadget. Hence:

my IPlod, so I may listen to rock in a hard place;
a brand-spanking new Garmin 310XT, which has a reputed 20 hours battery life; the desire to know how far I've come is completely overwhelming;
some nice, isotonic gels, which don't make me throw up; at the risk of re-using an old gag, the hills will not be alive with the sound of Drew sick;
some water; lions drink it, but they're rubbish at ultra-running;
a good, honest cheese butty; apparently, real ultra-runners eat proper food, but I hate fig rolls;
lots of toilet paper; sometimes, I get to make like a bear;
Ute the lucky cow; everyone needs a little help from the random forces of good fortune;
all the compulsory stuff, such as a machete for the long grass, a folding bike for if it gets 'a bit difficult', a small box of live woodlice (purpose delightfully obscure), the usual nonsense;
and a small blue box, stuffed with salt pills and caffeine tablets;

I don't want to fall asleep at the wheel, after all.

Sunday 27 May 2012

I put on my kit and said to my wife...

'Do I look fat in this?'
'Maybe a little,' she replied, .but to be fair, it's a vey small bathroom.'

Weighty matters for today's feeble punnage. I am putting together a rough schedule of calories in and out for my Severn Challenge attempt.

Let's assume that I cover 45 miles a day at 150kCal a mile; that's 6750 kCals burned; throw in another 1500 for basal metabolic functions and that's a total of 8250 used.

Let's assume I can absorb about 200kCal/hour every hour; this may be a bit simplistic, but this is a blog not a scientific paper so ner! That's 4800kcal in.

Subtract one from t'other and that's 3450kCal a day of deficit, which give or take a lettuce leaf, is a pound of fat lost. Throw in the loss of a few lb of glycogen (which hopefully I'll have plenty of, what with the pies I've been eating'n'all) and I reckon I'll be aboout 10lb down by the end of the event.

If you too would like to be ten pounds down by the time I finish, there's a handy Justgiving linky in several places on this page! Thanks in advance!

Saturday 26 May 2012

I hear that at the Severn Challenge, they're making you camp.

Well I've got some 80s cheese on my IPlod and I'll be wearing tight lycra, but I don't think I'll be camp.

Ooh a double entendre on temporarily living in a tent/being theatrically effeminate; not since the 'sex with a chihuahua' joke have I stooped so low.

I'm not spending four nights in a tent, even though they look very nice'n'all. Many moons ago, I hurt my neck playing rugby; over the years it's given me progressively fewer and fewer problems, but it can still play up if I'm tired and it gets cold and in a draught. This takes the form of enough pain to stop me putting my feet on the floor the next day, which would obviously put me out of the Severn Challenge, so I'm not risking it.

It may be theatrically effeminate of me, but it's also very sensible. Camp? Me? Only in the one sense...

Friday 25 May 2012

I saw a man at the Olympics...

...carrying a long, thin piece of carbon fibre.
'Are you a pole vaulter?' I asked.
'No, I am a German,' he replied, 'but how did you know my name is Walter?'

It has occurred to me that I am spending the Queen's Diamond Jubilee weekend in *cough* athletic endeavour, so just to be perverse, during the Olympics I shall be holding a street party.

Thursday 24 May 2012

Two runners training for an ultra...

...when one of them falls down a deep hole.
'Have you broken anything?' asks the first.
'No,' replies the second, 'there's nothing down here to break.'

I could've gone with 'can you call me an ambulance?', 'Dave, you're an ambulance' but the former links better into the fact that  AE Dave's stress fracture of the shin is as confirmed as stress fractures generally are; it will be me and 21 other hardy souls tackling the trip down the Severn.

The taper provides too much time for thinking. On Sunday, my daughter had spaghetti hoops for lunch (yes, just spaghetti hoops; the NSPCC phone number is 0808 800 5000.)  She has long since graduated from Alphabetti Spaghetti, but it got me thinking:

assuming that all 26 letters are included in AS (as aficionados call it) and are included equally, there's a 1 in 26 chance that any given letter is an 'O';
assuming that all letters are made in different moulds, then mixed together before being put in tins, there's a high probability that an individual tin will contain more of one letter than another;
assuming that there are (say) 200 letters in a tin, there's a 1/26 ^200 chance that a particular tin of AS may, when opened, turn out to be indistinguishable from a tin of spaghetti hoops.

Now briefly consider the good 'ole British National Lottery; if you buy one ticket, your chances of hitting the jackpot are just a little better than one in 14 million, or about 0.000007%. This means that to 4 decimal places, the odds of you winning whether you buy a ticket or not are exactly the same at 0.0000%.

My odds of winning the Severn Challenge, with 22 competitors are probably marginally better than those of hitting the jackpot in the National Lottery or opening a tin of Alphabetti Spaghetti and finding it's actually Spaghetti Hoops, but I'll settle for my highest ever race placing; I was once 25th in a Santa Dash, so I'm in with a decent chance.

Wednesday 23 May 2012

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Because it was there. There was something within the chicken that made it think 'I wonder what's on the other side?' and it ate away at the chicken until one day, the chicken thought 'I'm just going to take a look.'

That chicken, by crossing the road, won the admiration of many other chickens and became a hero to chickenkind. Or got run over. It really doesn't matter, except possibly to the chicken, but that chicken will always be my hero, for trying when others found it too daunting.

I have many heroes; if you've ever done something amazing, if you've ever pushed on when something has been difficult or seemed impossible, if you've ever become an overnight success after years of hard work (and I know your story) you're probably already on my list.

Some are perhaps obvious; people who are famous for their deeds:
Bob and Sir Ian, who are forgiven every subsequent hint of fallability after Headingley 1981; total belief that nothing is impossible.
Charles, for having the courage of his convictions when both Church and state said he was wrong
'Titus' for 'I am just going outside and may be some time'; nobility, courage and sang froid in the face of certain death

Some will never be widely known:
John, for an Ironman finish that was a total triumph of will over talent; I'd never seen someone outside of elite sport wring so much performance from their body; one of the very few for whom the phrase 'he gave 110%' is appropriate
Kath, for doing what she does, giving what she gives and doing it one one kidney (and that's her mother's); utter courage and self belief
Simon, for even thinking that running in snowy wastes immediately after desert heat was a sensible idea

And some I've added this year:
Claire, for a full life well lived and tragically curtailed. She can have my last mile.
Kaz, for her ten in ten marathons. What tremendous guts and self-belief
Darren, for his 6:29ish at the London Marathon...on a broken leg. I'm hoping for your pain management skills...

I'm lucky enough to count as friends some pretty amazing people; each and every one of you will be giving me inspiration during my little jogette. Please just take a moment to consider, without false modesty, the remarkable things that you've done. It's ok if you're a stranger on the internet, you can join in too; some of my best friends were once strangers on the internet.

I hope you're smiling now; if not,think again and TRY HARDER! It's not about crossing the road, it's about daring to try.

Friday 11 May 2012

Einstein came up with a theory about space...

...and about time too!

Yes, the blog has returned from the dead, or at least the archived.

I've been having a tough time of it over the past few weeks; my Achilles has been niggling and I've had to nurse it along, which has curtailed my running; my mojo was last seen going on holiday to Portugal with its parents, though thankfully it has been returned largely unharmed after it terrified its captors with off-key versions of The Ace of Spades; weight loss has been akin to a faster-than-light neutrino (I was hopeful for a while but it turns out to be an optical illusion)

My 'B' races didn't quite go according to plan; I woke up feeling dreadful on the morning of the Worcester Marathon so didn't run; for the Stratford Marathon, even the ducks were moaning that it was 'a bit wet', so the organisers shortened the race to a half marathon only. I ambled round with Squish in 'just too fast to die from hypothermia' and came home for an afternoon of blankets and hot drinks. As we passed two by two up the gangplank at the finish, they promised to post me a medal, but it's not arrived yet.

I lost a week of training (and of my life in general) because I  felt grotty; this handily coincided with my GP having cut my thyroxine dosage three weeks earlier. After a small discussion, I'm now back on the original dose and feeling good again.

It seems that Hasn't Entered Yet Dave is definitely not going to enter, thus disproving the power of the collective subconscious; meanwhile Already Entered Dave is crocked and, like the Vatican delegate to the World Birth Control Conference, may have to pull out at the last minute. It may be just me and my IPlod; the conversation will be less stimulating, but at least the songs will be in tune...

AE Dave and I had been logging some pretty good training miles til that point, including a trip round the Mid Worcestershire Ring and a couple of outings that saw us recce the route from Bewdley to Tewkesbury. I think it's only fair to throw in the following photo at this point, so that those of you who haven't seen it before may be as confused as we were...



We were working on Dave's 'random but radical' run-walk method which involves 23 run/7 walk; it really does work very well for me and I expect to be employing it during the race.

We had got some pretty good 'very entertaining when you've run a long way' material too, to include tractors as the One True God (and featuring diggers as false prophets), membership of the Fukawi tribe and a whole series of obvious double entendres about having been up Madge Hill; as an aside, who said that this race was flat?

Since the potential demise of AE Dave, I've been out on a few decent long runs in the ever-deepening bundu which passes for the British countryside; it's hard work running through long grass, so I have devised a cunning tactic; apparently there are around 25 entrants for the Severn Challenge; my plan is to let at least 20 of them break the trail for me, so that I may have an easier run. Please note therefore that if I am seen pootling along at or near the back, this is NOT because I'm fat and lazy, but a deliberate strategy.

On our earlier runs, we were congratulating ourselves on how dry the trails were, and commenting that if ever it rained lots, it would all get very muddy and claggy and generally hard work; good job it's not rained so much that the river has flooded since then...

I can't do much more in terms of training, I've now just got to hold it together until race day. As Einstein never said, I should do relatively OK; well, in theory anyway.

Monday 5 March 2012

Mommy, mommy, why am I running round in circles?

Shut up or I'll nail your other foot to the floor.

This is largely the story of the Raceways Half Marathon, held at the ever-enticing Long Marston Airfield. I'd picked it to be a convenient (Saturday), easy-to-pace (four laps of 5k plus a twiddle) race to test my Hadd training to this point. Although, as befits an airfield, it was flat, it is also, as befits an airfield, open and exposed to the elements...and by my calculations, the course contains 21  180 degree dead turns in 21k.

I was hoping for a PB (anything under 1:39:48 would be fine) but it was not to be. The ever-strengthening wind in the home straight put paid to that; I've also managed to hurt my Achilles, which probably cost me a bit of forward momentum in the closing stages and a couple of days of icing/heating/elevating to boot. I may also not quite be fit enough, though this race is 8 weeks earlier in the year than my PB effort, so I may yet be able to gain 3 sec/mile/week and be (slightly) better than I used to be.

Even putting a hat on this race and calling it Erwin wouldn't make it interesting, but there is plenty of good news to take away; I averaged a heart rate of 169 (84.5% of my max) for 1:43:58 and remained below my lactate threshold. Hadd training is obviously working and my lungs are back to where they were before the DVE/PE incident. I just need to fix my Achilles and get back to it!

Wednesday 22 February 2012

I came last in the pancake race

...because I'm a useless tosser.

I thought I'd post some Shrovetide musings about the origin of Pancake Day traditions. Lent, obviously, has been around since shortly after Jesus said 'I need to be alone; I'll be back in about 6 weeks,' so let's call that about 2000 years (8 o'clock)

Pancakes may have taken a little inventing, so we'll allow a few years, but according to Wikipedia, pancake races were alive and well by 1445 (quarter to three).

Refined sugar became affordable to the proletariat in what, the late 18th century, so let's say quarter to six (1745); I have no idea when lemons became commonly available in Britain, but as they had to be transported from the Mediterranean, it's probably fairly recently.

So where did the tradition of sugar and lemon juice on pancakes come from? How long ago? How long does something have to have been happening to become a tradition? What did people have on their pancakes before sugar and lemon juice?

There's a joke that's really apposite for Shrove Tuesday, but it involves copious numbers of racial stereotypes which are considered inappropriate in the 21st century (after 8pm); if you substitute the PC equivalent of '...and a blonde' it becomes a proper bag of spanners and doesn't work...

...so though I'm not going to post it, please feel free to laugh uproariously or frown disapprovingly and call me a useless tosser; it is Ash Wednesday after all.

Monday 20 February 2012

Doctor, Doctor, sometimes I think I'm a wigwam...

and sometimes I think I'm a teepee.
"It's clear that you're too tense"

I have of late been suffering from the twin curses of the serious endurance athlete (*cough*)...tiredness and sore legs. Now as Already Entered Dave has rightly pointed out, running 760 miles in four and a half months may have something to do with it. I know that some of you would tweak the proboscis of such distance in hearty contempt, but I'm not a high mileage Hamster, so this is a lot for me.

The tiredness is easily managed by sleeping more (it's worth reading the whole blog just for that insightful nugget of ultra-running wisdom) but I've been radical and innovative with the soreness; I've been consciously relaxing my leg muscles before dozing off. This was taught to me as a general form of relaxation by my dear ole mom in about 1972. Hi mom! She reads every word, you know! Hey, if you don't remember the Seventies, you weren't there, man...or something like that. Anyway, I cranked up Slade on the Iplod and applied the technique to my poor sore legs in particular. it worked!

I really thought I was on to something and that my fame would spread far and wide through the endurance sport world, but it turns out that someone beat me to it; it seems to be remarkably similar to the Alexander Technique. Bugger, beaten by new-agers again! First Lananininoonoo and her yogalates, now this! Bet they didn't do it to Slade, though...

Blimey, the comments have been flooding in, inasmuch as two is a flood. Mouse posted this about mental strategies, which is worth repeating:

"Well if you've got checkpoints, how far apart are they? They give you the same xx amount of runs of xx amount of distance in the same way that IM Germany is 4 x 10k (so is Copenhagen which was quite useful for me not being confused for the following year). The JW Ultra is 3 x 10 mile runs and so on and so forth.

Although, sometimes this method is broken down into a different strategy if you are running in company (has Dave entered yet by the way?) because then it's a strategy of only telling the fish tank joke once 45 mins and other such nonsense to pass the time.

Do your route combos take you back past home? That would be an unmanageable strategy for mices because we'd just pack up and go indoors for a Mars bar instead of carrying on...."

I think that the first paragraph sums it up nicely, though on the longest days, checkpoints are about 13 miles apart; this may need an alternative plan. Hasn't Entered Dave hasn't entered (unlike Already Entered Dave) but I'm sure that the fish tank joke will be making a regular appearance. I shall be modelling my mental strategy on the excellent lateral thinking of our local Royal Mail sorting office; they have quite brilliantly eliminated the problem of discarded red rubber bands by  changing them for buff-coloured rubber bands. Brighter than a marmoset in a highlighter factory, I'd say.

And yes, my multi-routes often involve passing the front door to Hamster Mansions, but I keep going coz I'm well 'ard, me!

In training news, my long run is up to 18 miles and I've started to add some running at 80% max heart rate (or 'a bit faster' as I like to think of it). Intense, yes, too tense, not yet!

Tuesday 7 February 2012

Doctor, doctor, I keep thinking I'm a moth...

'Ah, you want the psychiatrist, just down the corridor'
'I know that, but I saw your light was on...'

I got down to my longest run of the campaign so far (16 miles cross country, through the slush that typifies the Great British Winter, in an average of 10:13 min miling for a heartrate of 70.5% of maximum, thanks for asking!) and it got me thinking of the psychology of being out for a long time while operating at low intensity. Just how do you break it down into manageable chunks?

I know that some people view it in the same way as eating an elephant (one bite at a time) but I have long been a fan of breaking it into a few shorter runs; this is something that I discovered at IM Germany where the marathon is a four lap affair; thus the run was 4x 10k plus the finishing chute, which is psychologically pretty straightforward.

I suppose that wondering how to break down a long run into manageable chunks is in itself a technique for breaking down a long run into manageable chunks, but if you ponder this too hard, it will cause a breakdown in the space-time continuum, form a black hole and wipe out all existence in the universe faster than you can say 'who let the marmoset drive the Large Hadron Collider?' Messy, very messy.

So what was my radical discovery? Er, nothing very original, really; I ran three of my different, shorter routes, connected up with small additions as necessary. Thus, 16 miles became 3x 5.something mile loops and all was well. I finished feeling strong and ready for another marathon or so on top.

Naturally, this will be no use during the Severn Challenge; I reckon it's going to be a case of running (a word I use in its widest context) from one checkpoint to the next and letting the overall mileage take care of itself. Pass the elephant, I can eat a whole one!

In other dramatic news, I can finally reveal that I shall be running the Severn Challenge for SSAFA Forces Help. If you'd like to donate, there's a handy button over there on the right and another one at the bottom of the page; thank you kindly for your support!

Friday 27 January 2012

What's worse than a giraffe with a sore throat?

A whale with a thyroid problem. It's OK, I'm allowed to do thyroid jokes; I've been there, I've suffered. After Greenpeace's recent attempt to roll me back out to sea, I'm probably allowed to do whale jokes too.

After reading Jj's rather splendid Maturing Nicely blog I've been pondering weight loss and weight gain...and it turns out to be as you might expect: it's easy to put it on and a lot harder to get it off. Remember, I have a brown belt in physiology!

Let's assume that a hypothetical person (we'll call him Erwin H., because we don't care for Erwins and it's an anagram of 'whiner') eats a Mars Bar's-worth of unnecessary calories per day. Erwin stores as fat 280 calories every day; with 3500 kCal/lb gained, that's 2st 1lb of weight gained in a year. In five years, he's pretty much doubled his bodyweight and even wearing a hat doesn't make him interesting.

To get Erwin back to a normal BMI, we have to ease him off the Mars Bars or get him to burn more calories to compensate. He's going to have to run a couple of miles to use 280 calories and another four or five each day to burn a pound of fat a week. That's forty five miles, each week, every week. Crikey. You're going to have to ditch the confectionery, Erwin, and probably another 400 calories besides!

Add in the fact that Erwin's basal metabolic rate falls with age (he needs fewer calories to maintain his vital functions) and this year's balanced intake/expenditure is next years gain of 10kCal of fat each day...or a pound of lard a year. Depressing, no?

Well not really; it's still a case of eating less and moving more, just that it really pays to watch the food intake, even down to that last Mars Bar. Or you could always buy an interesting hat.

Wednesday 25 January 2012

Sex appeal.

Please give generously.

I shall, as is my wont, be completing the Severn Challenge for charity (I do a lot of good work for charity but don't like to talk about it.) I also once won a pair of sunglasses for improving from dreadful to almost average during one day of a stage race, though I don't like to talk about that either. Neither does my partner in crime from that glorious day, 'Hasn't entered yet Dave'...Remember, finger on the picture at the top of the page, chant 'enter, enter', that's the spirit.

I notice from the disreputable online haunts which I frequent (and you probably frequent too) that it's that time of year again. You know, when people start asking 'How do I raise money for my cause? They want £1000 in return for giving me my London Marathon place.' Or 'Please will you cough up some cash so I can have a free trek down the Inca Trail/ to the top of Ayers Rock/ into the Number 2 reactor at Fukushima; if there's any left over, I'll donate it all to Save the Marmoset.'

It used to be simple back in the day; you asked for sponsorship to run a marathon and people sponsored you to do just that; nowadays it's all cake sales and 'Bring your Marmoset to work' days (or 'the first £900 goes towards my NBC suit')

I can promise you that you'll get none of that from me. I'll be running the Severn Challenge because I want to and entirely at my own expense; if anyone would like to donate to my chosen charity, I'd greatly appreciate it, but there's no obligation and no pressure. No marmosets will be harmed if you don't, I promise.

'Hang on a minute,' I hear you mutter, 'you've wittered on about the 'appeal' bit, but you promised us sex.' Well, I'm now below twelve and a half stone and have the finely-turned legs of a Victorian dining table, but I'm no Brad Pitt. Sorry.

Monday 16 January 2012

What's white and enforces the law?

The Fridgealante.

I returned from my run the other day to find the emergency services on my drive; police, ambulance, fire brigade, the lot; they were about to take down the front door with a battering ram.

'Oi!' I shouted, not unreasonably, 'What do you think you're doing?'
'Sorry sir,' replied a young constable 'but the staff at the chip shop hadn't seen you for so long that they got worried and called the police!'

Weight loss is going quite well. I'm down to 12st 7 unofficially, so only a fortnight behind schedule; I've also run two consecutive 50 mile weeks and I'm feeling good.

I also note that Chrissie Wellington is following my lead in not racing IM this year; for me, it's all about the run!

Sunday 8 January 2012

Core blimey

guv'nor, that's not a very original pun...but I have been indulging in a regular* stretching and core strengthening programme, courtesy of a DVD presented by an Aussie woman named Sherelle...or LeAnni...or one of those New Age names. I read an article recently that claims that your memory starts to deteriorate in your mid forties; I would post you a link, but I can't remember where I saw it...

The DVD is called Yogalates and is, unsurprisingly, a combination of swimming and kite-surfing. They are two activities that, in the comfort of one's own lounge, mostly involve stretches and core work. Leonora (or whatever her name is) is one of those incredibly flexible, yet irritating, people, who have you bending into positions you've not been able to explore since puberty hit and your bones calcified; you, sweating, panting, shaking, hurting; she, comfortable, relaxed, talking in one of those singsong voices that  grown-ups use to small children.

She makes manifold interesting statements during the DVD; 'feel where the breath is moving in your body' (my lungs, mostly); 'keep breathing' (world-class advice); 'this exercise will aid your digestion' (that's a euphemism for 'make you fart a lot' right?)...but it is, amazingly, starting to work. My heels are getting alarmingly close to the floor during downward-facing dog; my 'warrior' is looking more warlike; I almost know my 'balasana' from my elbow. My hips are feeling looser, I'm sitting up taller and I've survived a fifty mile week unscathed.

So is it making any difference to the quality of my running? Absolutely no idea, but I'm going to stick with LaRochelle and her strange contortions for the duration and see what happens.


* remember, regular doesn't mean the same as frequent; Halley's Comet is pretty regular at once every 76 years.

Tuesday 3 January 2012

Bad science

I'd like to endorse my new 'Chocolate Biscuit Diet', possibly the most exciting concept in weightloss since fat people were invented.

On New Year's Day, I had a large lunch (beef, Yorkshire puds, the works and very nice it was too) then ate nothing but chocolate biscuits (and drank tea and water) for the next 24 hours.

I weighed myself before bed on NYD and came in at a whopping (sorry, too much tabloid TV) 12st 13.5lb. In metric, that's about as much as a small island off the Scottish coast.

Having been for a run the following morning (after chocolate biscuits for breakfast) I weighed in again (same scales, same spot on the floor) at 12st 9.25lb (in metric, about as much as Rockall) an immense reduction of 4.25lb (one of the Inner Hebrides) in a day! I owe it all to chocolate biscuits.

Send me a one-off fee of £9.99 (or local equivalent) and I'll tell you which brand of chocolate biscuits I ate; send me an extra £19.99 (or local equivalent) and I'll even send you a box.

Now that's bad science.