Eye is healing
Got medal, got t shirt
4 lap bands, 1 hospital band, 1 athlete band
Always wear a helmet...
NICE sling!
NICE bruise too
Hole
Scrape
NICE BRUISE!
Friday, 6 September 2013
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Challenge Vichy Race Report
If things always turn out the way you expect them to, there
really wouldn’t be any point in trying anything new; it’s the surprises which
make life interesting… and Challenge Vichy turned out to be so interesting that
it had a hat on.
The Atomic Hamster Challenge Vichy Wear the Fox Hat Tour
2013 (the Number and Neighbour of the Beast) rolled into town on the Thursday
before race day. Wear the fox hat? Vichy is a pleasant town on the banks of the
River Vish*… within minutes of arrival, I’d decided I was going to enjoy the
weekend.
The Hotel de Grignan (comfortable enough, but very basic
unless you got a free room upgrade, like we didn’t…though Mr A did) was our
base for the hostilities; no restaurant, no kettle, surly staff who put the ‘non’ into ‘Grignan’,
but conveniently located for the town and a pleasant 2 mile walk along the Vish
from Race HQ.
The excitement started on Friday with registration and the
race briefing. We even had a quick dip in the River Vish to acclimatise ourselves
to the pleasantly warm water. No sharks, a few ducks, slightly uphill on the
way out and downhill on the way back. As long as your navigation wasn’t really
poor and you went over the weir or salmon leap (viewing Samedi après-midi,
1400-1800) it was un morceau de wee wee. Registration was really easy, the expo
was fine, I even treated myself to a Challenge Vichy cycling top.
Race briefing went ‘blahblahblah no drafting blahblahblah
turn left for lap 2 and right for home blahblahblah dangerous crossroads blah
prize money.’ There was no mention of a chicane, though this may have been
useful information to impart. They invited questions. Someone stood up and said
‘I wasn’t listening to a word you said, but I’d like you all to know I have a
coach.’ Willies were about to get waved, so we made our excuses and left. Just
in case we too could catch the coach, we resolved to carry a few Euros in
change.
We went to the pasta party in the evening; this was a
sensible decision as it wasn’t open until 7pm. Lots of tables, but the food was
a little disappointing; it seemed to consist of that vegetarian stuff that
people serve as an accompaniment to meat. If vegetarians care about animals,
why do they steal their food? Things looked up when we found free, real beer.
Things looked up even more when we discovered that the rabbit food was merely a
starter; there was then a tonne of pasta plus carbonara and Bolognese sauces.
Some of both, sir? Don’t mind if I do. More beer, Orangina or both? Brilliant.
Apple tart, chocolate sponge and custard for pudding? One plate or two? Damn
fine splendid effort.
Another swim followed on Saturday morning as the buoys were
back in town; one lap of the two lap course, uphill on the way out, downhill on
the way back, miss the weir. Not quick, but it wasn’t supposed to be. Rule 1
applies.
Racking was on Saturday afternoon; after 90 minutes queuing in
the sun for IM Nice in 2008, my expectations were low. We were straight up, no
bull, walked to our racks by the local English teacher, who then ambled us
through the T1 and T2 procedure, mount and dismount line, changing tent et al.
It took about 20 minutes. Absolutely perfect; chapeau, Challenge!
We’d decided to call in at the Hippodrome on the way back to
the hotel, as athletes got to watch the local trotting races for 3E and it
would pass some time. Though the’drome was next to the Vish, we had to trek
across the track to get to the actual entrance. When we eventually got there,
it turned out to be free, so we watched three races, plus a borzoi race a
trotting rig, plus a triathlete race a trotting rig in a weird duathlon. Yes,
we did; you really don’t have to make it up. The triathlete was rubbish and all
the rigs in Pirate colours were rubbish too. Terrible Marceaux; honestly. It
was time to leave…
Apparently it was really dangerous to cross the Hippodrome
track in case you got run over by a horse, even if they were half a mile away. Better
stand an extra metre from the barrier, just to be sure, monsieur. We got ¾ of
the way across then had to retreat due to the appalling risk. We got home just
before dark thanks to the gratuite ferry; don’t pay the ferryman? No, sir, not
on the Vish. Admittedly, there were upwards of 20 people on a ferry which
proclaimed its maximum capacity was 12 passengers, but it was gratuite and we
could swim, so it was worth a go.
Up at pet de moineau, shove down food, don kit, head off to
the start. Organisation was slick, meet up with Gavo and acquire new friend in
Dave669. Give me a P; P. Give me an I; I. Give me an R; ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!!!
Into the Vish, off goes the hooter, start to swim… and have
an asthma attack. I know people refer to this as a panic attack, but mine
really wasn’t. I’m calm, I enjoy OW swimming, but nothing will move to allow me
to suck the air in. Everyone goes past. Eventually, I get a rhythm and spend
the rest of the dip overtaking people. I had a lovely dive in at the Australian
exit… My time of 1:24:something was embarrassing and I’m already into ‘just
enjoy the day’ mode. Rule 4 applies.
I was damn slick* in transition (about 5 min with a long run
in) then time for a ride.
I knew the first part of the bike was uphill, so went out
nice and easy; a steady stream of half-Challengers and nageurs merdes went
past. There was Vivian and Rick; not in my age group, I think they were the
young ones; there was Erwin, not wearing a hat, not being interesting; and now
Arnie, wasn’t worried about him, knew he’d be back.
The bike course was a two lapper, no real support in the
villages; there was the odd construction worker and motorcycle cop, but no
other village people. We went through Olhat, which was nice the first time, but
the second time it was old hat. We did pass Rue des Prunes; you probably would.
The road surfaces were more English than German, but that
was ok. The snag was that the course is largely flat, so if someone turns on
the wind machine, you’re at risk of being blown off (and not in a good way.)
For the second half of each lap, someone did turn on the
wind machine. Rule 7 applies.
I caught up with Jase, who was magic; we’d natter for a
while then he’d shoot off ahead, only to reappear behind me a few miles later;
I have no idea when I passed him. Hope you got your finish, mate!
Dave669 had long passed me and disappeared off into the
distance, stopping alongside me just long enough to explain that he had a
picture of himself in his attic*. He’s 97*, you know…
Towards the end of the bike, ATOM caught me and we played
piggyback back towards T2. There was a nice little downhill with about 5k to
go, so I dropped onto my aerobars to enjoy the free speed. We were approaching
a crossroads so dangerous that there may have been a horse coming, so to slow
down any reckless triathletes, the organisers had popped in a cheeky chicane;
you’ve all seen ‘em, same principle as they use to stop children running into
the road.
I didn’t see it till it was way too late. What follows is so
gory that Meatloaf almost sang a song about it. I hit the brakes fairly hard,
realised that that wasn’t going to help so prepared to deploy my Joe Newton
School of Bunny-Hopping Remedial Class
Kerb Mount. I failed dismally, and the rest as they say, is physics… followed
by some pathology.
Ding, bang, ow. Time didn’t slow down, my life didn’t flash
before my eyes, not even the good bits. My trusty Gherkin says I was doing 22.9mph,
then about 22.9mph less than that. What’s the last thing to pass through a fly’s
mind when it hits the windscreen? Its legs. This was a rare exception to Rule
8.
Some spectators appeared concerned. They provided ice, a
towel, a cushion and phoned the race doctor. Gavo stopped to see if I was ok. Top Pirating, sir!
The doc arrived in a car with an attached flashing blue
light.
I explained that it wasn’t un club de knitting and that
nothing** was broken. He squirted a phial of saline into a cut or two, taped me
up with some gauze and allowed me to continue as long as I promised to toddle
into the medical tent at the end for a stitch or two. It was a reasonable deal,
the helpful spectators had put the chain back on the bike, so off I went.
Absolutely nothing hurt.
The last few miles involved crossing a rickety bridge,
avoiding the swinging blades, dodging the rolling boulders, jumping bales of
hay*and definitely not turning up the entrance to the Hippodrome (eh, ATOM?)
Into transition, caught up with Gavo, changed into running
shoes and charged* out onto the run course… and then things started to throb a
little. Someone (no names no pack drill, begins with G and ends with ‘avo’)
forgot to remove their cycling shorts, so had to stop, but it didn’t take long
for him to pass me again as I whinged and whined my way onto lap 1.
At the start of each lap, the course passes through the
grandstands adjacent to the finisher’s chute… and there was Squish. I stopped
for a kiss; she seemed mildly surprised by my appearance. I explained that I’d
had a brief face-ground interface but that all was well.*
A few hundred yards later, in the off-road twiddly bit in the
darkest depths of the Parc Omnisports Pierre Coulon, I discovered I wasn’t
feeling terribly British, so had a bit of a sit down. Parts of me were a little
sore and I’d had enough; I was going to pull out.
Except it was no good pulling out in that god-forsaken spot
as I could’ve died and no one would’ve noticed, so I resolved to stiffen my
upper lip and walk to aid station 2 before being a sissy. Rule 10 applies
throughout.
At aid station 2 was a man dressed as the love child of a
Dancing on Ice competitor and Noddy Holder. This was enough to make anyone run,
so I tucked my arm across my body and legged it.
Now I couldn’t pull out before Aid Station 3. By the time I
got there, I was a bit sore from having to hold my arm in one place; if only
there were some sort of handy mechanical device for securing an arm across a
body…
… so with a spot of schoolboy French, some bleeding and a
Degree in Charades, I got a sling, some coke an orange and a part in the next
Bond film*. Onwards to Aid Station 4.
Who’s that behind me? Look it’s 669 Dave! How are you going,
mate? Rubbish, but I’m having fun, so what’s happened to you? Fell off my bike…
Along one side of the Vish, fail to catch the gratuite
ferry, fail to find the coach that we were promised at the race briefing so
obliged to walk, have a chat with Dis, who was supporting at the town bridge,
cross the bridge and drop into AS4 on the other side.
Aid Station 4 had an in charge medic and a not-in-charge
medic who actually did all the work; her work was, in my case, to repair AS3’s
sling with some Micropore tape. AS4 also featured a couple of lovely French
ladies who chattered amiably and volubly to me, despite my having no idea what
they were saying. I was, however, getting the hang of ‘tombe en velo’…
Tally ho down the other side of the Vish, climb the 20
random stairs. I’m acquiring a bit of a fan club by now; tombe en velo, bon
courage, chapeau, nutcase, that sort of thing. My favourite was ‘did you know
you’re covered in blood?’ Hadn’t noticed, madam *
Head up, don’t let ‘em see they’ve hurt you, complete the
lap, pack in with some degree of pride.
Hang on, you’ve bought the event cycling shirt; you can’t
wear it if you don’t complete and it cost 30E, ooh look, here’s AS5, those
oranges are nice, wonder if there are any lizards about?
Fantastic, AS6! Ooh, just water, that’s a bit odd, still
transition is just over the bridge. Bridge on the river Vish, sir? Tally ho.
AS1 again? Hello!
The bands for laps system at Vichy involves getting one at
the beginning of each lap, so I already had a black one; hmm, might as well get
the second one. Thank you very much, could you put it on my wrist please,
because my hand is stuck in this sling and doesn’t quite work as well as it
normally does. Murky buckets!
Ooh look, there’s one of the chaps who scraped me up off the
road! He’s fixed my sunglasses and popped down to return them to me! Thank you
kindly, sir!
Someone stops in for a walk and a chat; it’s Julie from
Absolute Tri and she’s on her last lap; she spots that I’m covered in blood
(obvious) and that I’m originally from Birmingham (psychic!) Can she get under
13:30 from here? Easily! Go! Results say 13:15, so it looks like I was right!
Ooh look, here’s AS2 and Noddy again, oranges please, head
up, march on.
AS3, NICE SLING! Hello Gavo, you’re going like a train, sir!
Bridge, AS4, chapeau, steps, AS5, AS6, bridge, lap 2 complete!
Reasons to be cheerful, band 3. Thank you very much, could
you put it on my wrist please, because my hand is stuck in this sling and doesn’t
quite work as well as it normally does. Murky buckets!
Yay, Squish is alongside me! I’ve got company. Hello, Noddy,
this is my wife. Do I want coke? Got any beer? You have? Cheers!
Darker now. Squish, this is AS3, they made my sling!
Ooh, hi, it’s Magic Jase, sneaking up from behind again! Hi
mate, how’s it going? Enjoy your finish.
What’s the time? I have no idea, my Gherkin’s somewhere in
my sling. Completing 3 laps then being pulled off (but not in a good way) is a
respectable way to bow out. Whaddya mean, we can make it?
Time for Band 4: Thank you very much, could you put it on my
wrist please, because my hand is stuck in this sling and doesn’t quite work as
well as it normally does. Murky buckets!
This is going to be dark and lonely; me and my darling
Squish against the world.
Greeted by AS2 yelling ‘God is alive!’ and doing the down on
their knees worshipping thing. We have to sign their shirts; they even have a
marker pen for this purpose. I’m sort of enjoying this!
Au revoirs to AS2 and 3; welcomed into AS4 by a chap with a
torch. They team us up with Alain, who is doing his first Ironman; he has a
headtorch. We natter; he knows London and Reading because he works for EDF; he’s
done UTMB but otherwise did 6 bike rides and 5 swims; he can’t do front crawl.
I’ve found another proper Pirate!
We pass another competitor on the final bridge (rule 5
applies), then we send Alain down the chute first so I don’t spoil his finish.
Lights, camera, action! My first after dark finish, ATOM
gives me the Pirate flag and I milk the applause for all it’s worth!
I get my medal from the second female finisher; ATOM points
out that if I’d hurt myself a bit more, I could’ve got the first female
finisher. I’m not fit and I’m not fast, but look behind me, I’m not last! A
kiss for my brilliant wife and then into the athlete’s village, where the beer
is excellent and the pancakes are crepes.
As I’d promised to go and see him, I nipped into the medical
area to track down the doc, but was told he’d gone home. I was quite happy to
sneak away, but then someone found him and he suggested a trip to l’hopital. I
declined gracefully, but he pointed out that he’d done me one favour by letting
me finish, so I wasn’t to push my luck and ask for two.
So it came to pass that I got a ride in a French ambulance
(feux bleus but no woowoos) accompanied by St Squishy of Nice, reprising her
Keg Killer role.
First up was reception, featuring the second comedy question
of the day: do you have your passport?
Yes of course I do, I never complete an IM distance triathlon without it*
Yes of course I do, I never complete an IM distance triathlon without it*
I could see the problems mounting up before my eyes, but
they were actually entirely unconcerned. All my treatment was carried out to
the highest standards and there was no man at the door with a bill (it must
have been a duck with a hat on.)
I had my best comedy routine on; we soon had eachother in
stitches, as I received ‘deux points’ from the Vichy jury. I’ll get one of my
colleagues to nip ‘em back out again at work on Monday.
X rays were taken, checked and discovered to show that
nothing was broken; dressings were placed on the road rash, drugs were offered
and declined, and we left, well equipped with notes, radiographs and letters to
British physicians, at 0230 on Monday.
It was a long old day, my slowest ever IM finish and I think
I might have joined the Pebble Club for Faster Bike than Run Leg…
… but I actually enjoyed it, in a perverse way. It was very
well organised, the town was nice, it’d be a really quick course in perfect
weather; in a few years, when the town gets completely behind it and its
reputation spreads more widely, it’ll be an absolute classic.
I’d like to thank:
new friend Jase for the company on the bike;
new friend Julie for her company on the run;
new friend and proper Pirate Gavo for stopping when he saw me in a heap;
new friend and proper Pirate Dave669 for his kind offer of a lift back to our hotel after the race; he’d hung around after his 12:37 finish to make sure I was in OK, which is a brilliant thing to do for someone you met for the first time at 0615 that morning… and then I ungratefully went by ambulance;
new friend Alain for his company, headtorch and banter in a foreign language on the last half a lap of the run; a proper Pirate!
old and loyal friends ATOM and Dis for rescuing my bike and kit from transition and returning it to the hotel… then looking after me for the remainder of the trip. We’ve done 2 road trips together and I’ve ended up crocked on both occasions; sorry!
darling wife Squish for covering the last 13 miles with me, despite having done a 1900m swim/56 mile bike/ 6.5 mile run earlier in the day. I was walking sufficiently fast that it made her run; sorry. She’s also having to nurse me back to health for the next few days. I love her.
The organisers, volunteers, medics and staff of Challenge Vichy; it was an excellent race!
new friend Jase for the company on the bike;
new friend Julie for her company on the run;
new friend and proper Pirate Gavo for stopping when he saw me in a heap;
new friend and proper Pirate Dave669 for his kind offer of a lift back to our hotel after the race; he’d hung around after his 12:37 finish to make sure I was in OK, which is a brilliant thing to do for someone you met for the first time at 0615 that morning… and then I ungratefully went by ambulance;
new friend Alain for his company, headtorch and banter in a foreign language on the last half a lap of the run; a proper Pirate!
old and loyal friends ATOM and Dis for rescuing my bike and kit from transition and returning it to the hotel… then looking after me for the remainder of the trip. We’ve done 2 road trips together and I’ve ended up crocked on both occasions; sorry!
darling wife Squish for covering the last 13 miles with me, despite having done a 1900m swim/56 mile bike/ 6.5 mile run earlier in the day. I was walking sufficiently fast that it made her run; sorry. She’s also having to nurse me back to health for the next few days. I love her.
The organisers, volunteers, medics and staff of Challenge Vichy; it was an excellent race!
*May not strictly be true
**
Except my helmet, Monaco, sunglasses, bike shoes
Thursday, 4 April 2013
Back from the dead
So what's been happening chez Hamster? Quite a bit, I suppose.
I have been on a calorie-counting enthusiasm since last October. This, much to my surprise, has resulted in me losing some weight. I now weigh in at just under 11st, which is pretty thin for a fat lad.
Interestingly (as in 'wearing a really nice hat' type interestingly) this has resulted in my half marathon PB reducing to 1:34:11 (to include 20k in under twice my 10k PB, so that's due for revision at some point) which is about 5.5 minutes faster than when I was previously really in shape.
I'll be taking this exceptional form *cough splutter* into a marathon in about 3 weeks; now that will be entertaining.
Til then, I really am better than I used to be...
I have been on a calorie-counting enthusiasm since last October. This, much to my surprise, has resulted in me losing some weight. I now weigh in at just under 11st, which is pretty thin for a fat lad.
Interestingly (as in 'wearing a really nice hat' type interestingly) this has resulted in my half marathon PB reducing to 1:34:11 (to include 20k in under twice my 10k PB, so that's due for revision at some point) which is about 5.5 minutes faster than when I was previously really in shape.
I'll be taking this exceptional form *cough splutter* into a marathon in about 3 weeks; now that will be entertaining.
Til then, I really am better than I used to be...
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...
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...
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!
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!
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'...
'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:
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.
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
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.
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!
'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...
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.
'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.
'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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
"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!
'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.
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.
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