Well, it's been over two years since my last post. As my friends and family will know all too well (by virtue of my incessant whining), I have been battling with some very persistent and debilitating injuries, but finally I'm getting back to a point where I can run with some regularity, and so I would like to revive the old blog. I managed to run this year's Cardiff Half Marathon in a reasonably respectable time of 1:41 and am now hoping to build (sensibly!) on that, starting with the Lliswerry 8 in January and the Kerzerslauf (Switzerland) in March.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It's quite clear to me now that I lost my sense of perspective, trained through injury and overloaded various parts of my body. Of most concern was the inside of my left ankle. Diagnoses varied from the achilles tendon to the tibialis posterior nerve and treatment from steroid injections to pure and simple rest. And it is the latter which has proved most crucial. I have ditched my orthoses altogether, as I'm convinced they were instrumental in my ankle nightmare. They were originally intended to treat chronic shin splints, about which I blogged here. But as I feared, they were too much of a quick fix, a 'silver bullet'. In truth, while my shin splints cleared up, the overloading issue just resurfaced elsewhere.
However, during my numerous consultations with physios, podiatrists and - most of all - an ankle specialist, I did learn something important about myself: I'm not built to run marathons. The arthritis in my big toe joints prevents my feet from fully pronating when I run, or indeed walk, and the resulting supination (or underpronation) overloads various muscles and tendons in my lower legs, chief among which the tibialis posterior muscle. In fact, I was rather grimly told to 'run as much as I can while I can'! I sulked about this for a while, wondering why some people could run 80 miles per week without breaking down. Then I snapped out of it and realised how lucky I am, for the enjoyment that I have had - and continue to have - from running.
So here I am, about to re-launch my running 'career' under a new motto: everything in moderation. Of course, that doesn't rule out cross-training ;-)
Thursday 16 October 2014
Monday 7 May 2012
Cardiff Try a Tri
Pretext/ramble (feel free to skip!)
For a couple of months I dithered. I knew I had to get to grips with swimming and cycling but was overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task. Where should I start? It wasn't until October that I bit the bullet and signed up for swimming lessons. At the same time, I joined Cardiff Triathletes: a double whammy. If the lessons didn't help, then the coached sessions with Triathletes would (or vice versa).
In the end the swimming lessons proved hugely beneficial. They provided me with the basics, so that I could swim at least a length or two of front crawl. At my first Triathletes session I felt like a total idiot, but once I got over my ego I started to make genuine progress. After a matter of weeks, I was able to swim a kilometre or so without stopping. I may not have been particularly quick, but I was at least covering the distance. One discipline down, one to go.
Around the same time, I invested in an entry-level road bike. My first ride was the 15-mile journey home from Halfords, which went pretty well. My second was a 60-mile round trip to a friend's house over the Welsh border (I was living in Herefordshire at the time). I can still remember the shock to the system. As soon as I entered Wales, the roads seemed to soar into the sky (in reality they rose by only 700 feet over 4 miles). After 27 or 28 miles, the combination of distance and elevation killed me off and I reluctantly dismounted and pushed my bike for a few yards. Again, my ego was taking a bit of a bruising. As a runner, no matter how tired I was, I could almost always muster up a second lease of energy. As a cyclist, apparently, I had next to no will power.
During a pub lunch I refuelled with lasagne and new potatoes. The trip back home was already haunting me. What had I been thinking? From no cycling at all to a 60 hilly miles in a day?! Surely I had bitten off more than I could chew. As it was, my concerns were largely unwarranted, not least because the homeward leg involved a few hundred fewer feet of climbing. Quite literally, though, my first long bike ride had been a steep learning curve. But then, everyone should be served up a slice of humble pie once in a while!
Somewhere along the line I decided I should enter a sprint triathlon, just to dip my toe in the water, so to speak (sorry!). I signed up for the Cardiff Try a Tri, scheduled for 6 May 2012. It would be my first triathlon, consisting of a 400m swim, a 16km bike ride and a 4.6km run (somewhere in between a supersprint and sprint tri). A good indicator of swim-bike-run fitness, I thought. I was full of enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, by the time the big day came around my cycling had become pretty sporadic, entailing a few last-minute sessions on the turbo trainer and next to no long rides. Swimming had been a touch better: I had regularly managed one or two sessions a week. In truth I had been focusing on running, with a marathon coming up in the last weekend of April. Wait, a marathon one week before my first triathlon? Yep. Race calendar fail!
Cardiff Try a Tri
The format, as for all triathlons, was swim-bike-run. Based on my predicted swim time I had somehow been placed in the penultimate (second fastest) wave. Before my wave set off, I sat with my sister and niece (who had come all the way from Pembrokeshire to offer a little pre- and post-race support!) and together we watched Annie and a friend of mine get their own races underway. Then it was time for my pre-race briefing. My concentration wavered as I kept half an eye on Annie, but I was pretty sure none of the important stuff had gone over my head.
Just as I was getting into the pool, another friend of mine (Mark, who had been in a much earlier wave) laid down the gauntlet: "I finished in 1:04", he said with a nonchalant shrug. That was bloody good going, I thought! I had reckoned to finish in around that time, but who knew what my legs would be capable of?
There were 12 swimmers per wave, split into 6 lanes. My lane partner hadn't turned up, which meant I could thrash about and swim in zig zags all I liked. Just as well, really: my technique is a bit messy! With a swift countdown, I hurriedly put on my swim hat and goggles and pushed off for my first length. I went off a bit quick and definitely slowed after the first 100m or so, but was pretty much level with the two swimmers in the next lane. Things seemed to be going pretty well. Wait, how many lengths had I done now? Twelve or 14? It felt like 14. At the next turn I popped up my head and asked an official "two more to go?". He seemed to agree. I belted out another couple of lengths and then started to clamber awkwardly out of the pool, only to be bullied back in by the same official armed with a red float. "Two more!", he barked with the kind of authority that was usually accompanied by shiny black boots and a military uniform. Obligingly, I sloped back into the pool and swam another (slightly fatigued) couple of lengths.
I checked my watch as I headed out of the door into transition 1: 8:13 (the official results added a minute to that time, though my overall time wasn't affected). Anyway, I was pretty happy, if slightly cold and disorientated as I hotfooted across the gravel car park in my bare feet. I had resorted not to don any extra layers for the bike (just the tri suit), and was relieved to find the air temperature wasn't as cold as expected. I also went without socks, brushing a few stubborn stones from the soles of my feet before clipping on my cycling shoes. I jogged up to the mount line, hopped onto my loyal steed and fumbled around with my pedals until my shoes clicked into place. Immediately I closed down and overtook the next cyclist before beginning the first uphill drag.
The bike leg was pretty tough, with one or two testing (but relatively short) inclines. I made good ground, overtaking about half a dozen cyclists during my first circuit (the bike leg involved two laps of the same loop). By the beginning of the second loop I had caught up with my most stubborn opponent yet. I sat back a few metres until the next incline and seized my opportunity to pass him. He didn't like that. We reached the top of the climb and I put my foot down on the fast, downhill stretch that ensued. I must have hit about 35mph, prompting one marshal to scream "TAKE YOUR TIME!" as we approached a hard left turn. Despite the reckless descent, my newfound friend was still tailing me like a bloodhound.
On the very last incline, he finally overtook me again and murmured a few words as he passed. It could have been something pretty harmless like "on your right", but being highly strung and fiercely competitive, I was pretty sure he said "see you later, mate", and I wasn't going to have that. With about half a mile to go I powered past him again and into transition 2, completing the bike leg in 33:05 (miraculously the fifth fastest split in the field -- not bad for a runner).
Oops. What had I done? What I should have been doing was spinning in an easy gear to ease my legs into the run. Had that guy totally played me? Did he want me to see the red mist? Or was I just thinking too much? Well, the damage was done and I could feel my calves cramping up before I'd even changed into my racing flats. To make matters worse, you-know-who beat me out of T2 by a good 30 seconds! OK, legs, let's reel him in. Legs? Hello? Oh dear...
I hobbled out of T2 like the Tin Man and tried to appease my twitching, cramping calves by taking tiny heel-heavy strides. I must have looked a picture. After a kilometre or so things weren't getting any better: I couldn't feel my feet at all and certainly couldn't muster up any power. How frustrating was this?! Running is what I do. I should have been tearing up the course. Instead, I was helplessly watching an inferior runner (but superior triathlete -- credit where credit's due!) pull away from me. As if to mock me, another competitor bounded past like I was standing still (the winner, it turned out). I tried to inject some pace and at last my legs started to respond. It was too late to make much of a difference but I could at least finish with some energy and pride. I passed my friend Gareth just before the final descent to the finish and tried to offer a few words of encouragement. Whether I found enough breath to do so I can't recall.
The sight of the finishing funnel was a huge relief. I strode over the line and half collapsed into a friend from my Tuesday night swim session. Looking down at my watch I was pleasantly surprised: my total time was 1:03:25, making my run almost bang on 20 minutes (roughly 7:00/mile). It hadn't been my primary goal, but I had edged ahead of Mark into 8th place of a total field of 85. I was happy with that. That is, of course, a lie: I'm never happy. After all, there's always room for improvement! But I need to learn to recognise my achievements. And this was definitely an achievement.
Just as I was getting into the pool, another friend of mine (Mark, who had been in a much earlier wave) laid down the gauntlet: "I finished in 1:04", he said with a nonchalant shrug. That was bloody good going, I thought! I had reckoned to finish in around that time, but who knew what my legs would be capable of?
There were 12 swimmers per wave, split into 6 lanes. My lane partner hadn't turned up, which meant I could thrash about and swim in zig zags all I liked. Just as well, really: my technique is a bit messy! With a swift countdown, I hurriedly put on my swim hat and goggles and pushed off for my first length. I went off a bit quick and definitely slowed after the first 100m or so, but was pretty much level with the two swimmers in the next lane. Things seemed to be going pretty well. Wait, how many lengths had I done now? Twelve or 14? It felt like 14. At the next turn I popped up my head and asked an official "two more to go?". He seemed to agree. I belted out another couple of lengths and then started to clamber awkwardly out of the pool, only to be bullied back in by the same official armed with a red float. "Two more!", he barked with the kind of authority that was usually accompanied by shiny black boots and a military uniform. Obligingly, I sloped back into the pool and swam another (slightly fatigued) couple of lengths.
Waiting for the green light - I'm in the near lane
I checked my watch as I headed out of the door into transition 1: 8:13 (the official results added a minute to that time, though my overall time wasn't affected). Anyway, I was pretty happy, if slightly cold and disorientated as I hotfooted across the gravel car park in my bare feet. I had resorted not to don any extra layers for the bike (just the tri suit), and was relieved to find the air temperature wasn't as cold as expected. I also went without socks, brushing a few stubborn stones from the soles of my feet before clipping on my cycling shoes. I jogged up to the mount line, hopped onto my loyal steed and fumbled around with my pedals until my shoes clicked into place. Immediately I closed down and overtook the next cyclist before beginning the first uphill drag.
The bike leg was pretty tough, with one or two testing (but relatively short) inclines. I made good ground, overtaking about half a dozen cyclists during my first circuit (the bike leg involved two laps of the same loop). By the beginning of the second loop I had caught up with my most stubborn opponent yet. I sat back a few metres until the next incline and seized my opportunity to pass him. He didn't like that. We reached the top of the climb and I put my foot down on the fast, downhill stretch that ensued. I must have hit about 35mph, prompting one marshal to scream "TAKE YOUR TIME!" as we approached a hard left turn. Despite the reckless descent, my newfound friend was still tailing me like a bloodhound.
On the very last incline, he finally overtook me again and murmured a few words as he passed. It could have been something pretty harmless like "on your right", but being highly strung and fiercely competitive, I was pretty sure he said "see you later, mate", and I wasn't going to have that. With about half a mile to go I powered past him again and into transition 2, completing the bike leg in 33:05 (miraculously the fifth fastest split in the field -- not bad for a runner).
Half way through the bike leg, eyes on the next cyclist
Oops. What had I done? What I should have been doing was spinning in an easy gear to ease my legs into the run. Had that guy totally played me? Did he want me to see the red mist? Or was I just thinking too much? Well, the damage was done and I could feel my calves cramping up before I'd even changed into my racing flats. To make matters worse, you-know-who beat me out of T2 by a good 30 seconds! OK, legs, let's reel him in. Legs? Hello? Oh dear...
I hobbled out of T2 like the Tin Man and tried to appease my twitching, cramping calves by taking tiny heel-heavy strides. I must have looked a picture. After a kilometre or so things weren't getting any better: I couldn't feel my feet at all and certainly couldn't muster up any power. How frustrating was this?! Running is what I do. I should have been tearing up the course. Instead, I was helplessly watching an inferior runner (but superior triathlete -- credit where credit's due!) pull away from me. As if to mock me, another competitor bounded past like I was standing still (the winner, it turned out). I tried to inject some pace and at last my legs started to respond. It was too late to make much of a difference but I could at least finish with some energy and pride. I passed my friend Gareth just before the final descent to the finish and tried to offer a few words of encouragement. Whether I found enough breath to do so I can't recall.
The face says it all
The sight of the finishing funnel was a huge relief. I strode over the line and half collapsed into a friend from my Tuesday night swim session. Looking down at my watch I was pleasantly surprised: my total time was 1:03:25, making my run almost bang on 20 minutes (roughly 7:00/mile). It hadn't been my primary goal, but I had edged ahead of Mark into 8th place of a total field of 85. I was happy with that. That is, of course, a lie: I'm never happy. After all, there's always room for improvement! But I need to learn to recognise my achievements. And this was definitely an achievement.
Monday 30 April 2012
Greater Manchester Marathon - Race Report
Most marathoners, myself included, are control freaks. Through their respective rituals and practices, they will try to manipulate every possible variable of a race: hydration, nutrition, comfort, pace/speed and to some extent even the course itself (don't go too wide on that corner!). But the mere mention of one particular variable will strike fear into the heart of any long-distance runner seriously gunning for a shiny new personal best: wind. No, not the kind that prompted Paula Radcliffe to take an unscheduled roadside toilet break during the 2005 London Marathon, but the kind that sweeps almost unnoticed across flowery meadows before hitting you square in the face with all the subtlety of an anvil.
For almost every kind of weather there is some line of defence. Hot and sunny? Don't sweat it: just don your cap and sunglasses and take on plenty of fluids. Pouring with rain? No need to get all pissed off: you'd only be drenched in sweat otherwise. Even snow and ice can be negotiated pretty well in the right footwear. But wind? Well, the best you can do is tuck in and 'draft' behind another runner, preferably one bigger than you are. Then again, there aren't many big guys towards the front of the pack and, man, why is this guy going so slowly?! See what I mean? That's why I and -- I suspect -- most of the other 7,999 runners who had signed up for the Greater Manchester Marathon were anxiously checking the long-term weather forecast up to a week before the big day.
Never before have I been kicked so hard in the teeth by Carol Kirkwood (for those of you not resident in the UK, she's... no, wait, you have Google! Look her up yourself, damn it!). Meteorologically speaking, Sunday 29 April was a truly vile prospect: 5°C, heavy rain and, crucially, gusts of up to 45mph. As the big day encroached, the long-term forecast proved uncharacteristically accurate. What's more, the conditions were set to gradually deteriorate right up to Sunday morning and then improve again! (As I write this on Monday afternoon, I'm considering stripping down to my underwear, such is the intensity of the sun effortlessly beating its way through the tinted glass of the conservatory roof...) It was as though the running and weather Gods had got together for a piss-up and chosen us as the butt of their cruel, drunken practical joke. Well, all I could do was suck it up and take it like a man. Albeit a martyred one. Probably a contradiction in terms, right? Yep, thought so.
For almost every kind of weather there is some line of defence. Hot and sunny? Don't sweat it: just don your cap and sunglasses and take on plenty of fluids. Pouring with rain? No need to get all pissed off: you'd only be drenched in sweat otherwise. Even snow and ice can be negotiated pretty well in the right footwear. But wind? Well, the best you can do is tuck in and 'draft' behind another runner, preferably one bigger than you are. Then again, there aren't many big guys towards the front of the pack and, man, why is this guy going so slowly?! See what I mean? That's why I and -- I suspect -- most of the other 7,999 runners who had signed up for the Greater Manchester Marathon were anxiously checking the long-term weather forecast up to a week before the big day.
Never before have I been kicked so hard in the teeth by Carol Kirkwood (for those of you not resident in the UK, she's... no, wait, you have Google! Look her up yourself, damn it!). Meteorologically speaking, Sunday 29 April was a truly vile prospect: 5°C, heavy rain and, crucially, gusts of up to 45mph. As the big day encroached, the long-term forecast proved uncharacteristically accurate. What's more, the conditions were set to gradually deteriorate right up to Sunday morning and then improve again! (As I write this on Monday afternoon, I'm considering stripping down to my underwear, such is the intensity of the sun effortlessly beating its way through the tinted glass of the conservatory roof...) It was as though the running and weather Gods had got together for a piss-up and chosen us as the butt of their cruel, drunken practical joke. Well, all I could do was suck it up and take it like a man. Albeit a martyred one. Probably a contradiction in terms, right? Yep, thought so.
On the morning of 29 April, 8,000 marathoners awoke at some unearthly hour and gingerly pulled back the very corner of their net curtains to peer outside. Faced with incontrovertible evidence of those dreaded weather forecasts, some 3,200 runners turned over and went back to sleep. I, on the other hand, had made a 300-mile round trip for this event and had resorted to run whatever the conditions. As an added incentive, I had been kindly put up by my cousin and her fiancé, Mark, who would also be running that morning (somehow it's always more motivating to do these things in twos).
Mark and I drove separately to the start as we would be heading in different directions after the race. Once we had parked, we figured we should do a bit of a recce of the finish area. "May as well get used to the cold", I thought as I pulled on my gear (racing shoes, running tights, a base-layer vest and t-shirt) along with a bin bag sporting head and arm holes. I soon realised I had underestimated the temperature. After 20 minutes of milling around outside, my arms and hands were genuinely painful. Mark and I agreed to keep warm in my car until the start -- I headed straight there while Mark took an unenvied detour to the portaloos. When I got back, I rifled through my running bag for a long-sleeved top. Hadn't packed one. What an idiot. Despite all my preparations, I had made a total rookie error.
Mark got back to the car to find a gibbering wreck in the driver's seat: what was I going to do?! I hadn't even started the race and could barely feel my extremities! Mark said he had a long-sleeved top I could borrow, but it was locked in his car, the key to which was now at baggage collection a 10-minute walk away. We looked at our watches: 30 minutes until the start. Selflessly, Mark set off to get his key anyway, but after 20 minutes he still hadn't reappeared. Something must have gone wrong -- we would never find one another now. I frantically scanned the contents of my car: compression socks! I pulled them over my arms and looked at them. They covered my arms pretty well but the parts meant for the feet were flapping about annoyingly. Thankfully, there was a pair of scissors in the first-aid kit in my passenger door. I customised my socks. There. Now at least my arms would be warm.
I jogged over to the start and jumped the barrier to the section for runners targeting a 3:00-3:29 finish time. We were given a motivational speech by Ron Hill, the legendary runner from the North-West who had been only the second man to break 2:10 for the marathon (none of the UK's current marathoners are quite as fast). "I'll settle for an hour slower than Ron", I thought (3:10 would also be a 'good for age' time for entry into the 2013 London Marathon). The gun fired without a countdown and the pack of around 4,800 runners moved off quickly and smoothly.
The first few hundred yards were downhill and I immediately settled into quite a nice rhythm, hitting both of the first two miles in 7 minutes dead (to finish in 3:10 I would need to average 7:15/mile). Since the course looped around South Manchester, the landmarks were few and far between. In fact, they were pretty much limited to Old Trafford. No matter. It was at least largely flat. I got chatting to a fellow called Rob and together we eased our way to 10km at between 7:00 and 7:10/mile. I can't recall much of our conversation but do remember Rob geeing up the spectators in crowded areas. The energy generated by the crowd gave me (and others too, no doubt) a huge boost, so I stole Rob's tactic and started to shout and whoop whenever I saw a reasonable number of onlookers. To my surprise, they didn't look at me like a complete loon but cheered and egged us on with unbounded enthusiasm. What a buzz. I was so grateful to all those members of the public who took to the streets to support us. They probably don't realise how much of a difference they made.
I unwittingly left Rob behind at a water station and -- just as unintentionally -- sped up, logging mile 8 in 6:53. Maybe I needed a pacer. I had, after all, been overtaking other runners pretty steadily: at the start mat my position was 379th; by the 10-mile marker it was 269th. At that point I struck up a conversation with a Scouser called Jamie. He was aiming for "anything below 3:30", but seemed to be running way in excess of his expectations. This was his first marathon (poor guy!), though he had done a handful of half marathons. Together we maintained a steady pace (between 7:04 and 7:16/mile) for the next 10km or so and tackled the only real hill of the course. We were mocked by spectators on more than one occasion for doing "too much chatting and not enough running". Apparently we were enjoying ourselves too much! I moved ahead of Jamie as the course narrowed along a muddy farm track and ultimately lost him at about mile 15. I would have no more running companions, but that was perhaps for the best, as it can be all too easy to lose concentration at this point.
The biting north-north-easterly wind was starting to become more of a factor as we edged north-westwards. I held my pace and passed a few more runners, feeling strong while others seemed to flag. By mile 20 I had gained another 46 places and was sitting pretty in 213th. In fact, my time by that point (2:21:14) pointed towards a 3:06 finish.
Then out of nowhere, things really got tough. The proverbial 'wall'? No, I had prepared for that. In retrospect it was a combination of things. For one, the wind was no longer just a factor: it was my main obstacle. Strong gusts were hitting the thinning pack head-on. The wind lowered the temperature further still and we were pelted with hail. The runners around me no longer flagged but slumped and in some cases pulled up. As though sympathetically, one of my left calf muscles knotted suddenly and tightly before releasing again: a warning sign. A month or so earlier I had strained my Achilles tendon and now the tightness in that area, which had been perceptible since about mile 10, was spreading steadily upwards.
I tired, slowed up, got frustrated and sped up again, prompting another intense shooting pain in my calf. "Don't do this to me", I muttered to my own body, foolishly expecting it to take heed. Instead, the cramps got more regular and more intense, so that my entire left leg buckled under load. "OK, I'm giving this too much thought", I decided. From then on, as far as I was concerned, my legs were no longer part of me. I shifted my attention to the people and places around me. I remembered that my best friend, Brett, would be somewhere around the 25-mile mark, waiting to give me a final push. It was the perfect focal point.
I would love to end this report with some tale of superhuman stamina and endurance, but in truth I plodded my way to the finish line on auto-pilot. One or two people passed me but, miraculously, between mile 20 and the finish I managed to climb another 30 rungs up the ladder to 183rd of 4,760! (Apparently I wasn't the only one having a hard time towards the end!). I managed a spurt of sorts in the final strait, focusing solely on the finish line and completely blanking out the encouragement offered by my uncle and cousin who had come to see me at the end. And it was just as well they did: when I sidled over to talk to them I was so cold that my words were slurring as I spoke, and I was shivering uncontrollably. My uncle offered me his coat and hat and I did away with the silly foil blanket I'd been handed. I later heard tales of runners being treated for exposure. The conditions had been cold and miserable, but at least I had made it!
So, the all-important question: what was my finish time? Well, I came home in 3:10:36 -- not bad considering! I suppose that's not fast enough to qualify as a good-for-age time, but on the advice of a friend and fellow runner I'm going to call the organisers of the London Marathon to find out, just in case. A wise man once said: if you don't ask, you don't get.
See my GPS data here.
So, the all-important question: what was my finish time? Well, I came home in 3:10:36 -- not bad considering! I suppose that's not fast enough to qualify as a good-for-age time, but on the advice of a friend and fellow runner I'm going to call the organisers of the London Marathon to find out, just in case. A wise man once said: if you don't ask, you don't get.
See my GPS data here.
Sunday 11 March 2012
Bath Half Marathon
It had been some five months since my last half marathon, so I figured I would be in good shape for a PB in Bath. Recent events seemed to suggest the same. Although my pace had dropped off against headwinds at the Llanelli 10, I had still managed to average 6:37/mile. If I could grit my teeth and average the same pace here, I would come home in under 1:27 and knock over 2 minutes off my existing PB. I felt pretty good, so I saw no reason why not.
I was in the white wave, which (if memory serves) was the quickest pen after the elites, though there were some suspect looking runners in there -- I don't think it was particularly well policed. When the buzzer sounded, I eased away at what felt like a pretty comfortable pace. After a mile or so I saw Annie with her auntie and uncle and gave her a high five.
We headed into the first of two circuits and up a reasonable incline for perhaps half a mile. The weather was warming up, so I tried to take on fluids whenever the opportunity arose. I was running remarkably consistently -- 6:38, 6:41, 6:40, 6:40, 6:46 -- but I started to notice the mile markers creep ahead of my Garmin splits. I clocked 10km in 41:30, but didn't see a timing mat until about 30 seconds later. Perhaps I was looking for excuses, because pretty soon afterwards I started to find things tough.
I kept my pace below 6:45/mile for the first 7 miles but at that point my legs started to feel heavy. I couldn't put my finger on why. The temperature? Well, it was warm but not sweltering. I think what was more likely was that I hadn't given my legs enough time to freshen up after a couple of pretty hard mid-week sessions. On Wednesday I had run a 5-miler at 6:30/mile and then on Thursday a 7-miler at 7:00/mile. Either way, my hopes of a PB started to slip away.
My split times hovered between 6:50 and 7:00 and by mile 13 I remember feeling pretty exhausted. You know when there's only a mile to go but a mile feels like forever? That pretty much summed it up. I managed something of a spurt in the finishing strait (I maintain that you can always manage a sprint finish, no matter how dreadful you feel...) and crossed the line in 1:29:47 -- 14 seconds outside my previous best. D'oh!
Just time for one last excuse: the course came up a couple of hundred yards long on my Garmin, according to which I was actually on for a PB by about 30 seconds. Garmins aren't always 100% accurate, but when I spoke to other runners they said the same. Oh well. I figured I had done pretty well to hold on for the last couple of miles when every sinew of my body wanted to stop. That PB would just have to wait for another day!
I was in the white wave, which (if memory serves) was the quickest pen after the elites, though there were some suspect looking runners in there -- I don't think it was particularly well policed. When the buzzer sounded, I eased away at what felt like a pretty comfortable pace. After a mile or so I saw Annie with her auntie and uncle and gave her a high five.
We headed into the first of two circuits and up a reasonable incline for perhaps half a mile. The weather was warming up, so I tried to take on fluids whenever the opportunity arose. I was running remarkably consistently -- 6:38, 6:41, 6:40, 6:40, 6:46 -- but I started to notice the mile markers creep ahead of my Garmin splits. I clocked 10km in 41:30, but didn't see a timing mat until about 30 seconds later. Perhaps I was looking for excuses, because pretty soon afterwards I started to find things tough.
I kept my pace below 6:45/mile for the first 7 miles but at that point my legs started to feel heavy. I couldn't put my finger on why. The temperature? Well, it was warm but not sweltering. I think what was more likely was that I hadn't given my legs enough time to freshen up after a couple of pretty hard mid-week sessions. On Wednesday I had run a 5-miler at 6:30/mile and then on Thursday a 7-miler at 7:00/mile. Either way, my hopes of a PB started to slip away.
My split times hovered between 6:50 and 7:00 and by mile 13 I remember feeling pretty exhausted. You know when there's only a mile to go but a mile feels like forever? That pretty much summed it up. I managed something of a spurt in the finishing strait (I maintain that you can always manage a sprint finish, no matter how dreadful you feel...) and crossed the line in 1:29:47 -- 14 seconds outside my previous best. D'oh!
Just time for one last excuse: the course came up a couple of hundred yards long on my Garmin, according to which I was actually on for a PB by about 30 seconds. Garmins aren't always 100% accurate, but when I spoke to other runners they said the same. Oh well. I figured I had done pretty well to hold on for the last couple of miles when every sinew of my body wanted to stop. That PB would just have to wait for another day!
Sunday 4 March 2012
Llanelli Half Marathon
I ran this event as a pacer for Annie. It was her first ever half marathon and she had convinced herself she needed company, though I was equally sure that she would have been fine on her own. She had prepared reasonably well, peaking at 12 miles on her long training runs and competing in the Lliswerry 8 and Llanelli 10 in the weeks leading up to the event. Anyway, Annie has in spades something that all long-distance runners need: dogged determination. Based on her times in other events, I figured she could run a 2:10 and paced myself accordingly.
The Llanelli Half uses the same Millennium Coastal Path as the Llanelli 10, so we were both familiar with the course (and the blustery conditions!). We set off at a sensible pace, hovering around the 9:50/mile mark. We were towards the back of the pack but certainly not propping up the rear. In fact, we seemed to move steadily through the ranks, especially as people tired in the latter half of the race.
The course is really quite picturesque, stretching out along the seafront. The wind can be an issue but it didn't seem to be on that day. That was, not until the final few miles. At about 9.5 miles, the whole field doubles back on itself and if there's going to be a headwind at all, that's probably when. We saw our mile splits drop steadily: 10:06, 10:30, 10:48. But then Annie's tenacity kicked in and we completed mile 13 in 10:16 before finishing with a flourish. In the end we missed out on the 2:10 by a mere 43 seconds, but I couldn't have been prouder of Annie.
The Llanelli Half uses the same Millennium Coastal Path as the Llanelli 10, so we were both familiar with the course (and the blustery conditions!). We set off at a sensible pace, hovering around the 9:50/mile mark. We were towards the back of the pack but certainly not propping up the rear. In fact, we seemed to move steadily through the ranks, especially as people tired in the latter half of the race.
The course is really quite picturesque, stretching out along the seafront. The wind can be an issue but it didn't seem to be on that day. That was, not until the final few miles. At about 9.5 miles, the whole field doubles back on itself and if there's going to be a headwind at all, that's probably when. We saw our mile splits drop steadily: 10:06, 10:30, 10:48. But then Annie's tenacity kicked in and we completed mile 13 in 10:16 before finishing with a flourish. In the end we missed out on the 2:10 by a mere 43 seconds, but I couldn't have been prouder of Annie.
Sunday 26 February 2012
'Chilly' Duathlon, Castle Combe - Race Report
This was my second crack at the 'Chilly' Duathlon. Unfortunately I had come down with a cold which, by the weekend of the race, was verging on a chest infection. But I had paid up and was looking forward to this, so decided I didn't want to miss out.
A few people from my triathlon club were there, but since I'm a relative newbie nobody really expects anything of me. Just as well ;-)
The format was as last time: 2-mile run, 10-mile bike, 2-mile run (although in practice the bike leg was short.
I knew a couple of the guys from the club were no better than me as runners, so I lined up behind one of them and decided to keep him in my line of sight for the first two miles. The little whippet went off at 5:40/mile pace, but he eased off a little and I just about held on to complete the first 2-mile run in 11:47 (see GPS data here).
T1 went relatively smoothly, though I've since been told I need to cut my transition times pretty much in half. It's 'free time', as my triathlete friends say. My lock laces might have saved me a few seconds, but I think I could do with some triathlon cycling shoes with nice big velcro straps instead of road shoes with fiddly ratchet fasteners.
Anyway, onto the bike. I managed to average over 20mph on this leg, but that didn't stop me from being overtaken by what felt like every man and his dog. In fairness, I had barely done any training in the saddle. But I have a turbo trainer on its way in the post and will be hitting the hills at weekends, so all that will change. By the end of the bike leg I was just about in the top half of the pack, clocking a time of 27:19 (see GPS data here). Not bad, but not great either. So, what did I have left in the tank?
Well, not a great deal. That familiar feeling of cramp was looming, so I hobbled out of the transition area in much the same fashion as I had at my last duathlon. Methinks many more brick sessions are in order! But similarly to last time, I did manage to loosen up after a mile or so (pity I had only one more mile to make it up!). The final 2-mile leg took me 13:10 - a massive 1:23 behind my first leg. (See GPS data here). On the plus side I ran the second mile of that leg more than 30 seconds faster than the first mile. Every cloud and all that! Plus, my overall time was a couple of minutes faster than last time :-)
All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. There was a good sense of camaraderie. And caning myself over two disciplines for the best part of an hour beat moping around the house in my dressing gown, Lemsip in hand. And besides, I'll be back! I'll even wear the shades again, just to look the full part ;-)
Results
Run 1: 11:47
T1: 01:06
Bike: 27:19
T2: 01:07
Run 2: 13:10
Total: 54:31 (putting me 108th of 240 finishers)
See official results here.
Bike splits:
A few people from my triathlon club were there, but since I'm a relative newbie nobody really expects anything of me. Just as well ;-)
The format was as last time: 2-mile run, 10-mile bike, 2-mile run (although in practice the bike leg was short.
I knew a couple of the guys from the club were no better than me as runners, so I lined up behind one of them and decided to keep him in my line of sight for the first two miles. The little whippet went off at 5:40/mile pace, but he eased off a little and I just about held on to complete the first 2-mile run in 11:47 (see GPS data here).
In the fray during the first 2-mile run
T1 went relatively smoothly, though I've since been told I need to cut my transition times pretty much in half. It's 'free time', as my triathlete friends say. My lock laces might have saved me a few seconds, but I think I could do with some triathlon cycling shoes with nice big velcro straps instead of road shoes with fiddly ratchet fasteners.
Feeling the after-effects of a fast 2-miler in T1
Anyway, onto the bike. I managed to average over 20mph on this leg, but that didn't stop me from being overtaken by what felt like every man and his dog. In fairness, I had barely done any training in the saddle. But I have a turbo trainer on its way in the post and will be hitting the hills at weekends, so all that will change. By the end of the bike leg I was just about in the top half of the pack, clocking a time of 27:19 (see GPS data here). Not bad, but not great either. So, what did I have left in the tank?
Well, not a great deal. That familiar feeling of cramp was looming, so I hobbled out of the transition area in much the same fashion as I had at my last duathlon. Methinks many more brick sessions are in order! But similarly to last time, I did manage to loosen up after a mile or so (pity I had only one more mile to make it up!). The final 2-mile leg took me 13:10 - a massive 1:23 behind my first leg. (See GPS data here). On the plus side I ran the second mile of that leg more than 30 seconds faster than the first mile. Every cloud and all that! Plus, my overall time was a couple of minutes faster than last time :-)
All in all, I thoroughly enjoyed myself. There was a good sense of camaraderie. And caning myself over two disciplines for the best part of an hour beat moping around the house in my dressing gown, Lemsip in hand. And besides, I'll be back! I'll even wear the shades again, just to look the full part ;-)
Just after the finish - looking far too fresh
Results
Run 1: 11:47
T1: 01:06
Bike: 27:19
T2: 01:07
Run 2: 13:10
Total: 54:31 (putting me 108th of 240 finishers)
See official results here.
Bike splits:
5:19; 5:14; 5:17; 5:28; 5:37
Sunday 19 February 2012
Llanelli 10 - Race Report
The first ever Llanelli 10 was run along the picturesque Millennium Coastal Path. With such fantastic scenery, a reasonably flat course and good organisation, I expect the number of participants to grow steadily from the 250 or so who turned up this weekend. Overall, this was a thoroughly enjoyable event.
If only my performance had lived up to the setting! A friend of mine had laid down the gauntlet and challenged me to run this at 4:00/km pace (which would make 1:04:22). I knew I had it in me and so attacked the race from the off, hitting my first two mile splits in a steady but comfortable 6:18 and 6:26.
Thereafter, as I'd suspected, the weather came into play. The mistake I made was trying to maintain my pace against the headwinds, which turned out to be a pretty futile task. My split times dropped to 6:34, 6:39, 6:41, eventually bottoming out at 6:51 for mile 8. By that point I was really frustrated. Through sheer doggedness I managed to regain some kind of form and ran the final two miles in 6:35 and 6:34 respectively. My official finish time was 1:06:25 (the course also came up a couple of hundred yards long on my Garmin). I crossed the line with mixed emotions.
Positives:
- This was a PB performance (I hadn't run a 10-mile race for quite a while).
- I dug deep and finished relatively strong.
- I know that, if I play it right, I can better this performance at the Bath Half Marathon in three weeks' time. Bring it on!
Official results here. My Garmin data here.
Distance: 10.00 miles (Garmin: 10.08 miles)
Position: 29 of 250
Avg pace: 6m 39s / mile (Garmin: 6m 35s / mile)
Conditions: Windy, 7°C
If only my performance had lived up to the setting! A friend of mine had laid down the gauntlet and challenged me to run this at 4:00/km pace (which would make 1:04:22). I knew I had it in me and so attacked the race from the off, hitting my first two mile splits in a steady but comfortable 6:18 and 6:26.
Thereafter, as I'd suspected, the weather came into play. The mistake I made was trying to maintain my pace against the headwinds, which turned out to be a pretty futile task. My split times dropped to 6:34, 6:39, 6:41, eventually bottoming out at 6:51 for mile 8. By that point I was really frustrated. Through sheer doggedness I managed to regain some kind of form and ran the final two miles in 6:35 and 6:34 respectively. My official finish time was 1:06:25 (the course also came up a couple of hundred yards long on my Garmin). I crossed the line with mixed emotions.
Positives:
- This was a PB performance (I hadn't run a 10-mile race for quite a while).
- I dug deep and finished relatively strong.
- I know that, if I play it right, I can better this performance at the Bath Half Marathon in three weeks' time. Bring it on!
Official results here. My Garmin data here.
Distance: 10.00 miles (Garmin: 10.08 miles)
Position: 29 of 250
Avg pace: 6m 39s / mile (Garmin: 6m 35s / mile)
Conditions: Windy, 7°C
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