Not my thing patience, or swimming for that matter

A debilitating compulsion to experiment with myopic “recovery” plans has left me ruefully sitting on the platform once again; the 18-week-to-go-carriage pulled out of the station last Sunday, I was not on board, I was left waving my mechanical allegory a pitiful adieu. 18 weeks is a countdown milestone for me, as it was the starting point of my training plan for Paris. Filled with fartleks, hills, sprints, long runs, short runs, fast runs, slow runs, striders and well, that’s it I think, said plan has been forced to make a B line for the bin (recycling of course).

I only have myself to blame; I charged into recovery mode around three weeks ago (ignoring some sound advice from seasoned peers). Damnit, who ‘charges into recovery’? That shouldn’t even be a term, or maybe it isn’t. It’s probably just me; perhaps I just invented it. Anyway, I dutifully ignored every flare my foot was sending out as I tore around five mile loops with horses willing but carriage buckled. ‘My foot hurts, stop being a pansy, suck it up Morrissey’… (c) Gollum.

                                                                                                                                                        

This latest tale of woe transpired two weeks ago, the Thursday run left my foot feeling sore and tight, the Saturday run… well… I knew things had gone very wrong – the remnants of my injury (plantar fasciitis) collapsed once again when I overtook a girl at the furthest point from home (why is it always the furthest point from home?). It was awful, I knew I had damaged it again, but I was overtaking a girl! What was I to do!? Enter the ego, stage left; I lumbered home at the same 7:30 min/mile pace (which was a protracted brain fart of an idea) burdened by the loathsome truth that my usual enthusiasm (that I’ll need in the run up to Paris) had landed me into some murky injury waters once again.

I’m floundering about in hiatus mode again. I’m probably a little cranky and I’m definitely agitated. Running makes me happy, so without it, I guess I’m not. At least the weather sucks (for runners that is – I’d imagine any soul under the age of 18 is doing a daily merry dance) – I couldn’t have run safely anyway. I can also take some solace that my humour is shared by the rest of the country as we prepare to bend of the barrel and empty our sparsely laden pockets into the well oiled hands of an incompetent fleet of wbankers.

Moan moan moan.

An inability to carry out a patient recovery aside, do you know the other thing I’m crap at (there are only two): swimming. It’s true; I’m a god awful swimmer. I’m the guy that dunks himself into the shallow end of the 25 m pool and if you were a bystander, you’d swear I was a dolphin. I certainly look the part. I have a little checklist of items to get through before I depart the safety of the shallow end: I adjust my goggles (glugging a layer of saliva into them in the vain hope that they won’t fog up this time); I ensure my swimming hat’s middle band of white runs from front to back (slight OCD); I lurch forward - as I have no glasses on - shuffling down the lane as I strain to see the stamp-sized information board directing me to swim anticlockwise; finally, I set my watch. Ready, set, go... I fire down the lane in an explosion of splashes calling on all to note my aquatic adroitness. After a sleek and nimble start, I begin straining fast - the body movements become laboured, my arms start to burn, and I begin chugging more than kicking. Worringly, the cogs are beginning to seize and this is half way down the lane, ¼ of the full distance! I invariably reach the turn completely shagged, but push off the end with a hefty (cheating) wallop on the side of the wall in the hope that this new found momentum may be difference between life and death. On a few more metres and I’m at the point of near delirium; I’m convinced I’m going backwards, no it’s ok, it’s just a 'relative' thing - some fossil in the slow lane has used a strong breast stroke to push on ahead of me. Races with the elderly aside, my breathing isn’t breathing anymore, it’s gulping; half air, half water. With no rhythm to speak of, I start wavering wildly around my own lane (blindly ignorant of directions to swim anticlockwise). Time starts assuming an elastic state and I've lost track of how long it’s been since I held the side of the pool. Mentally listing the loved ones I wish I was kinder to over the years, I spot that sweet incline of tiles at the bottom of the pool through clouded goggles. Not a moment too soon, sanctuary is near, which is beoming a pressing neccessity as I'm fit to die. The last stretch tends to draw a blank until but I invariably float in to the finish, as soon as a mere fingernail rests – rather than slams – the sides, BOOM… I’m on my knees, head out of the water and straining to mask piecing gasps for oxygen (the top half of my mouth inhales wildely, the bottom busies itself spluttering out gallons of pool water). It's a unique ability if you think about it. Unperturbed, I clumsily mash the stop button on my watch - I mentally record a 1 minute 3 seconds. Nice. 10 recovery minutes later, I hurl myself down the left hand side of the dividers again in an effort to match my PR. Nine more of these puppies to go.

God I can’t wait to be running again.

121 days to Paris

Motivation

Sold out – Paris that is, not me. The 2011 Paris marathon has hit capacity for ‘Joe Blogs’ entrants. I don’t know why that’s made it more exciting, but it has. In fact, I’m jittering with nervous enthusiasm again just thinking about it. I feel I’m part of an exclusive club – if being ‘1 of 37,000’ is exclusive (that may be straining the definition of ‘exclusivity’ now that I think about it). Anyhoo, I’m in, and the die is cast.

My apologies I’ve been remiss in updating the blog. I’m sure you have all - all 19 of you that is - been aching for a new update with hourly screen refreshes. My excuse: I’m flat out busy with work, and who can really turn down work these days! Just look at the IMF, look at the debacle they’ve taken on… just to make a few bucks before xmas presumably! I can picture the scene in the kitchen in the Chopra household 30 minutes after ‘Chopper’ arrives home from Afghanistan and Mrs ‘Chopper’ is back from tennis club:

Mrs Chopra: “You take your ass over to Ireland, take the reins, earn some money and get me that ski lodge”

Mr Chopra: “Ireland, are you for real!”

Mrs Chopra: “Do you want sex any time this century”

Mr Chopra: “Yes Dear, I’m on the ryanair website as we speak”

Editor (me) – we’re all answerable to someone after all

Right, so, injury woes. Welllllllll, deep breath, it’s a bit of a long story that I’ll sum it all up as follows: I got scan results that gave me the all clear about two weeks ago, I try the odd 5 mile jog but my foot consistently hurts the very next day. So I talked this through with my physio who assures me that this is to be expected. She also mentioned that my strength exercises were not just for Christmas, her words, so I’m calf raising like a Kango hammer these days. It’s a bit of odd scene that I tend to limit to our home. So, overall, I get about two 5 mile jogs in a week with some cycling and swimming heaped in for good measure. Hardly the conditioning of champions, or sub 3 hour marathoners, but it’s all I got so I’ll make do.

Seeming as I needed a motivational pick-me-up to get through this exceedingly long rehabilitation period, I’ve started questioning what’s motivating me. It’s not the €300 bet (oh, sorry Bec, did I forget to tell you, the lads were taking the mickey and they goaded me into it – they questioned my pride for God’s sake, what’s a male to do!).

So, that digression aside, here are the 3 main events that I think motivated me into doing the marathon…

Several months ago, myself and three other buddies were lying down on the leeward side of Mt Mangerton (outside Killarney, Co. Kerry). We were tucking into one or two bottles of Heineken having successfully tackled the mountain. It was on a Saturday of a stag and we were all in relaxed and jovial form – full the brim of hearty banter that is all too rare now as we get older and ‘grow up’. The rest of our hiking troop had marched ahead – eager to complete the mountain in record time. We had stayed behind as we were eager to adopt a different approach; soaking in a glorious view, a warming sun, and some sparse alcohol. For whatever reason, the subject of running came up and I mentioned that I was thinking about taking my new hobby more seriously – I was going to try and run (1) a 10 mile in under 60 minutes and (2) a marathon in under 3 hours. Unsurprisingly, this exchange of views was more one way traffic, but none of my friends dismissed me out of hand (completely). I wouldn’t say they believed that I could definitely do it, but they thought I might be able to do it. As the weeks passed and as I began discussing this with others who knew me from my team sports days, I started thinking about it a little more. It really resonated with me… maybe I could do it… maybe I should definitely try and do it… maybe I’d regret if I didn’t at least try and do it.

Now I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for inspiring quotes. My PhD thesis is littered with them; I’ve one or two in my room; and of late, I’ve begun sprinkling them around this blog too. When I was initially getting into middle distance races, I came across this quote from the 1952 Olympic marathon winner who won the race having never run a marathon before (he decided to run it a few days after winning the 10km!). He is quoted as saying, “If you want to win something, run 100 metres. If you want to experience something, run a marathon” (Emil Zatopek). When you talk to people who’ve competed in marathons (and even those who have injured themselves in the process) most of them will echo his sentiment. A marathon was always on my bucket list, but now more than ever, I want to feel it and live it.

However, the final inspiration probably lay in a feature length film/documentary I watched in May of this year: Spirit of the Marathon. Released in 2007, the film captures “the essence, drama and unique spectacle of the famed 26.2-mile race”. It charts the progress of five runners, - three amateurs and two elites - as they train for and ultimately run the Chicago Marathon. It's an inspiring show, I won't go on abou it, but when the credits rolled by, I think that was most likely the point that I knew I wanted to run a marathon.

Why I made the bet, if I’m being truthful, that’s probably for my ego. I need to know that I can still excel in a sport that I always looked at and thought… I could do that (if I wanted to).

Happy Trails

137 days to Paris

Let's talk about yoga

That's yoga Jim, not Yoda, although the force would come in handy these days...

Now, my yogic prowess is questionable at best - I’m about as flexible as the Titanic was. This disabling lack of limberness is all the more disappointing as it’s not exactly the most taxing of activities. As a male, I can grudgingly accept that I’m not as good a F1 driver as Fernando Alonso, soccer player as Wayne Rooney or rugby player as Brian O’Driscoll. However, it’s a bitter pill to swallow when my own mother can probably outperform me when call upon to touch ones toes. 

I joined a beginner’s yoga class about 6 or 7 years ago in the college gym. Two weeks into the eight week term, my fellow neophytes were rapidly extending limbs to extremities unimaginable to my rigid mind - they seamlessly slipped from one pose to the next, propped by nimble muscles that held strong in glorious displays of amateur abilities. These arty exhibitions stood in stark contrast to the giraffe in the corner of the room. My own body shook widely when called upon to assume the simplest of poses. Where the lithe bodies of my peers gracefully assumed a stream of flexed body positions, I audibly flapped around like a fish landed onto the deck of a trawler . It seemed to pain our teacher just to look at me.  My version of the ‘V’-like ‘dog pose’ invariably resembled a ‘W’; arms and legs fired out to all four compass directions. At the conclusion of the two month course, while the rest of the class would be advancing onto the intermediate group, my teacher felt it best if I stayed behind to repeat (thankfully she whispered her  assessment  to me in private to save my blushes). I didn’t return.  

In an effort to avoid further shame - or at least to confine it to the four walls of a living room - I bought a yoga DVD last week. Not just any yoga DVD, one for old fogies! I figured a normal DVD mentored by some 20-something-year-old elastic band would sweep through the positions and I wouldn’t be able to keep up (again). Given my penchant for protracted flapping, the pace of a DVD aimed at the 60 year old market seemed about right. In a way, I thought myself to be an embarrassed genius. Unfortunately, the DVD is paced sooooooooooooo slooooooooowly, that I’m blissfully snoring on top my resurrected yoga mat by the time old dear gets around to the first pose. Keep this up and my body is doomed for evermore to be as pliant as concrete. I still can’t touch the top of my socks when bending over (unless I cheat and bend my knees). 

In running related news, I'm awaiting the MRI results; hopefully I’ll have word towards the end of the week. As for my burgeoning golf career - I'm tied in 17th place going into the closing day of the Sinapore open.

154 days to Paris

Full Stop

An aim of mine when I decided to kick off this blog was to – at the very least – update with weekly anecdotes. I felt this would paint the trusted representation of the journey. I’ve never been one for keeping diaries (too lazy and easily distracted); maintaining a blog would be the kick in the arse needed for consistent input. In years to come, I wanted to accurately recall the journey, rather than blatantly revise it with epic fibs and untruthful revisionisms, regardless of the outcome. 

I had this notion that the journey would be rough in places, especially around the 2^nd month (circa Jan ‘11). The sadistic side of me relished the thought of visiting some dark physical and mental places during long lonely trails; my aim was to scribe my recollections of these miles with positive insights and fun recollections. Sadly, I didn’t anticipate that I’d have such a downer this earlier in the whole process – I’ve struggled with the motivation to write this update. But, it may be therapeutic, and I’ll keep it short. 

I had started out several days ago so hopeful – I was convinced I had left the foot heal long enough. Regular ice and strength work were now normal activities in my daily routine as I laid the groundwork for a full recovery. Sadly, a casual ‘test’ 5 mile run last Sunday went fairly badly, my foot ached towards the end and things didn’t improve the next day.

Leaving it another day, I got in touch with my physio on Tuesday… her concerns mirrored my own – it was unlikely that we were still dealing with a normal strain. She’s fearful that the stone I hit may have chipped some bone which triggered various ancillary issues and protracted healing. At this point, an MRI is my only option so that we can develop a plan of action. This necessitated a visit to the doctor on Thursday for his referral letter - €50 for a 2 minute Q&A and a rubber stamp. Why is it that I need a doctor’s referral for an MRI when he knows significantly less about the whole experience, asks several pointless questions, and subsequently voices a recommendation for an MRI based on nothing more than a clumsy unskilled prod of my foot. Galling. 

I’m in bad humour about this anyway, so being ripped off by an aged clown doesn’t help. 

I await the MRI which takes place next Thursday, and I guess I’ll take it from there. Damn.

In unrelated news, my Wii avatar’s career (on Tiger Woods Golf 10) is progressing nicely after a slow and somewhat faltering start. Although he has failed to make the cut in any tournaments yet, he has bucket loads of potential. We're going to work on that potential this Saturday.

162 days to Paris.

Slowly does it...

Last week’s proverbial testing of the water didn’t go as well as I had hoped. Accompanied by Garry (who was on his way to soccer), I cautiously navigated my way around a complex of grassy pitches for 20 minutes (in strict accordance with my physio’s guarded instructions). Sadly, my foot felt vulnerable from start to finish and I decided not to push it again for the week (retiring to the couch once again).

With my recovery in hiatus, daydreams of runs were once again forced to play a poor substitute role. Worse still, my mischievous lower limbs had rustled up a fresh affliction: plantar facilitis – an infamous and painful inflammatory of the tissue in front of the heel – has affected both feet; possible due to the recovery core exercises addressing my ligament problems! When I think back - this all could have been all avoided by going around 1 stone!

Anyway, a phone conversation with my physio anesthetised my latest foreboding – she calmly assured me that I was making progress; the bruising and ligament damage was approaching a clean bill of health, and the plantar facilitis could be addressed with more kneading of the area with my trusty – and multifaceted – golf ball. Explaining this peculiar need for mechanical movement of my legs under my work desk was an amusing distraction for many of my colleagues but my discipline appears to have paid off. A week on, I was ready to try again – last night, I tested the joints with a 30 minute run at about 7.5 minute/mile pace. It went reasonably well and despite my foot feeling a little tight, I’m very hopeful.

In theory, my plan for the next few days involves taking today off; jog for 40 minutes tomorrow; day off; 50 minutes jog; day off; 1 hour jog; day off, and then… hopefully… fingers crossed… touch wood… I’m recovered; ready to go back to my club, and start gearing towards Paris again.   

On an equally positive note, a friend of mine from hockey days in College is targeting Paris too. Unlike my good self, she is the veteran of 3 marathons, the latest being the ‘09 New York Marathon where she finished in 24^th place (2h52m21s). In a word, she’s fast. She also reads this blog (hi Jill) so I won’t wax too lyrically about her – suffice to say that it’ll be nice to have someone to bounce training programmes, experiences and everything else off. Not to take away from this cyber portal, absolutely not, it’s just… well… as the Boolean technologies go, it’s just a little too logical.  

172 days to Paris

Choo choo

Today’s a big day – I’m hoping to get back on the horse. Over the last few weeks, I’ve been chugging down arnica tables every two hours with mechanical precision, plastering my ankle and arch with generous heaps of ibuprofen gel, resorting to endless laps in the deep end of a local pool while aqua jogging, and just for good measure, several hours of being screamed at to spin harder in satanic spinning classes. I’m exaggerating slightly (about the satanic bit), but I have been trying my best to stay fit and nurse my way back to the roads.

It hasn’t been entirely dull; I was helping out with minding Rebecca’s Mum’s golden retriever for a few days (Leo). This entailed several extended walks during the exceedingly early hours for my four pawed friend. Although I wasn’t technically meant to be out walking this early in my rehabilitation, I enjoyed it, especially when the sun came up. The down side was embarking into the pitch black and wandering down an old railway line that is enclosed on all sides by eerily still trees and solemn looking stone bridges. My protection for these walks was a pooch that has all the ferocity of a… well.. tongue hanging, slobber soaked, tail wagging golden retriever! The only time he perked up for a ‘kill’ was when a mouse scampered out in front of us… that’s how intimidating Leo is, a mouse fancied his chances. At all other times, he busied himself sniffing and peeing. Thankfully, the robbers, thieves, pimps, drug pushers, murders, and aliens I anticipated under each bridge and behind most shrubberies didn’t materialise – Leo’s somewhat suspect protective instincts remain unchallenged. As for my rehabilitation, although my ankle and arch tightened during these walks, it felt OK. Several days on, I’m only vaguely aware of any trouble.

In the absence of actual running, I did the next best thing – I read about other people doing it. The good news: a raft of various running novels, runner’s world magazines, and Internet ramblings has continued to wet my appetite. Although the magnitude of the task is beginning to dawn on me, I still feel good about it. Now – hopefully – with all the rehabilitation at an end, I’m ready to start ratcheting up my body for training (which should kick off in December). Today, I’m starting off with an easily paced 20 minute jog on the grass with Garry after work. I’ll take stock afterwards and take it from there.

                           

Baby steps.
180 days to go

Trainspotting

At the risk of sounding dramatic or flogging an analogy, I feel like I spend my days train spotting at the moment. The trains represent days of the week – they’re just passing me by, I’m stuck waiting on the platform absentmindedly wrestling nervously with my watch.

At the beginning of this week, I thought that I wasn’t far away from getting back out on the roads. I secretly held out hope that I’d awake in the morning with all of the bruising and pain a thing of the past. Unfortunately, when the morning arrived, and as soon as I swung my feet out to the ground, I could feel that all too familiar dull discomfort. So there I was, sitting on the edge of my bed cheering my spirits with a new mantra – ‘tomorrow… it’ll be fine tomorrow’.

My hope wasn’t blind – it was based on effort I was putting into recovery. I had been doing my best to look after all three issues: I rolled around a golf ball under my foot for about an hour every day in an attempt to break down the scar tissue at the base of the arch, as well as the bruising from that devil-stone from three weeks back (up by my toes). I could feel a dull pain from this routine but nothing too dramatic – certainly nothing worthy of tapping out. As for what I thought was a tendon issue by the ankle – I would dig around here as much as I could as it was the source major discomfort – a sharp piecing ache pleading with me to stop. I used to let Bec have a good dig around until her thumb gave out (it was excruciating).

So off I trundled to my physio on Wednesday morning in the hope that I could get back out by the beginning of next week – after all – apart from the ankle, everything felt good (the bruising on the base of my foot was now barely noticeable). Sadly, I had a bombshell awaiting me. That tendon I was digging at was actually the ligament that supports the arch. I was only the second person my physio had ever seen damage it in any way. Worse than that - Rule #1 with ligaments, you leave them alone. I had exacerbated the damage by insisting to knead out non-existent scar tissue. The needles you see below were just part of the recovery plan – it looks like I have several weeks of spinning and aqua jogging ahead while I let that ligament recover and work on my core muscles. I’m also back to normal shoes for a while as my arch has been weakened by my insistence to collapse in on them in order to diminish the pain of the bruised foot in the top corner. I don’t think I’ve ever experienced such a snowball effect from running over one stone.

                                                                                                 

Obviously, the Cork to Cobh race is definitely not going to happen now – it’s in 3 days, it’s 15 miles long , I have lost the race fitness I was assembling, and oh, yeah, I’m crocked. It was especially disappointing to receive my race number in the post earlier this week – only to have to deposit it in the bin. Sad really, as I was really looking forward to running through Glounthaune (the half way point in the race and my home since I was a child). It’s not a huge setback for the training; the race was only ever meant to be a barometer of my progress. At the end of the day, the race isn’t going to happen and I have to get on with that. Poo.

Spinning classes, ah how I haven't missed spinning. In truth, I had forgotten how hard spinning actually is. As a general rule, spinning instructors tend to be Hitler-esque in their zeal but the last class’s Fräulein was particularly forceful in her directions. My thighs are killing me – so I’ll try some aqua jogging this afternoon instead - or maybe age is catching up with me and I'll give the thighs another day off.

In truth, it’s a long way to Paris. Time to get stop the train spotting for a while, get off the platform and come back in a few weeks.

192 days to Paris

Injured

Injured, and quite depressed about it.

At the risk of self-diagnosing, I’m going to shoot ahead and self-diagnose (in a long winded way synonymous with blog posting types and those that need a forum for their rants). I’ve pulled a muscle (please don’t let it be a tendon – although it does feel like one) that runs over your arch and along the foot. I think it all stems from the under-foot bruising I had after the stone I hit a few weeks ago. You may recall me waxing lyrical about my barefoot shoes and the advantages of the feedback from the road. Well, this feedback is great in healthy strong feet – your gait is forced into an efficient state that the human form can support with its web of muscles, tendons, and such that have evolved over the millennia. The problem is when you are carrying an injury. That injury pain may be more than the road feedback – so I think my gait morphed into a stride that minimised a mixture of (1) road feedback and (2) injury pain. So now I was running with a form that strained muscles unused to the stresses of road running and un-cushioned from the repetitive impacts from the road.

Looking back, I think I pretended my bruising wasn’t sore – I was desperate to continue training for a number of reasons (I was excited about Paris; the Cork to Cobh race was coming up; and I had just joined a running club in which I was eager to impress).  By forcing the running on the morning after I hit that stone, I strained that lateral tendon on the bruised foot, and 2 weeks on, while trying to minimise impact on (1) my bruising and (2) my ankle (both of which are on the outside of my foot), I’ve managed to strain a muscle on the inside of my foot over the arch. It feels stupid now, I should have rested, but I was desperate to go out running and I felt it was worth the risk.

My foot swelled up something ridiculous after a run last Monday night. I’ve been icing it and resting it the best I can but I’ll just have to wait for the swelling to go down and haul my ass back into the physio. Time will tell as to the extent of time I’ll be out – I think best case scenario is 2 weeks.

I want to stay positive, but I’m ridiculously disappointed that I’ll miss the Cork to Cobh 15 mile race. I can ill afford the monetary punishment associated with injuries. But, more importantly (for me at least), there is also the physiological side – running is a major source of enjoyment now. It’s an outlet I feel I can control and my gut tells me I could be good at it. My work life is in the doldrums at the moment so it’s great to have this positive outlet in there.

Things aren’t all bad mind, myself and girlfriend have moved out into a cosy little house down a quiet avenue in Blackrock which we love. Amusingly, it’s all of 50 metres from the old railway line that I run around Mahon. Coincidence, I can assure you. The other positive – the Sunday market ; this was always going to fit nicely with a foodie.

So I’ll keep the spirits up, and if I’m out for long, I’ll take up yoga as a means of increasing flexibility. My flexibility has always been poor (comparable to an iron rod) and that can’t help with the staving off of the auld injuries.

Stay positive (a note to myself but you can do it too)

199 days to go

Paris, here we come!

I’m booked in – Paris here we come! Race no. 12360 awaits my chest and, unsurprisingly, I’m very excited. I’ve strategically chosen Paris. I’ve been trawling through a mountain of literature on the subject – heavily researching some of the more fundamental preparations – and Paris in April appears to make a lot of sense. An April effort should allow me to squeeze two attempts into 2011. Oh and another solid reason for running the Paris marathon is it’s in Paris – why not!

Training for marathons is tough – they typically require around four months of specific and targeted training. I say training, it’s basically rigid body conditioning. From what I understand, these training months will require me to steadily increase more miles every week as I push my muscles, joints and tendons to breaking point with endless slaps of the asphalt and countless gasps for air. Depending on the programme – and my body’s limits- I’ll be aiming to run around 60 miles during peak weeks and perhaps as much as 750 miles over the whole of the four month programme (maybe more). Needless to say, that not the exciting part… that’s the necessary evil that will get me to the starting line at 8am at the Arc de Triomphe on the 10th of April along with 39,999 co-runners (that’s the exciting part).

From what I’ve garnered from this terrifying research project I’ve set myself, I shouldn’t really be targeting a finish time too rigidly at this very early stage. It being my first marathon – I’ve a hell of lot to learn about my body, my stamina and my mentality. I do have a window in on each of these from my two 10 mile races where everything, and I mean everything, begged me to stop around the 8 mile mark in both races… Jesus, what’s it going to be like after 18 miles of a marathon. Or 25 for that matter! Stop panicking Elmer, it’s a bit early for that.

Sorry. Ok, its news to no one that I want to run in ‘two hours and something’, but my training programme won’t involve ‘As many miles on Monday morning at 6.5 mins/mile, 5 miles on Tuesday at same pace, etc’. Instead, it’s all about pushing my pace into a comfortable zone that will allow me to clock more miles. “Run hard but get those miles, miles, miles”… it’ll be all about the miles. Did someone say miles? They will make or break my marathon. Forget the time, just get over the line… then look at the time.

That’s it… it’s to be that simple (or at least it is with the training programme I’ve chosen to adopt). No heart rate monitors, no carbon dioxide counts, just miles. I will have some variety in the programme (tempo runs, hill runs, and so on), but when March comes round (in 6 months time), I’ll have enough feedback from my body to know my pace for Paris. Hopefully I’ll listen to it and ignore the bet. Don’t get me wrong, it may be the necessary pace for ‘2 hour and something’ (it would be great if it was). But it also may not be.

It’s nearing the end of September now, so that leaves me October and November to start preparations. I’ve joined Leevale AC which puts me in some good company (Ireland’s Silver medal winner from the Europeans aside), I’m training with the winner Marathons, Irelands No. 2 in the woman’s 5k, the World No. 6 in sprint triathlons and many more souls I have yet to meet. That’s exciting. The coach also seems really good too – old school, which I like (he represented Ireland in the Berlin Olympics in the marathon).

So that’s it. There are probably easier means of sightseeing the French capital, the infamous Paris open top bus for instance, but I’ve decided I want to see as much of it as I can from the streets (squeezed into 2 hours and something minutes).

On your marks, get set… go!

202 days to go.

Sleep Running

I'm slightly concerned that I'm becoming obsessed with running. Let's look at the evidence: I talk about running to the point of nausea (for my friends at least); I have several "running friends" (ala The Inbetweeners); I'm joining a club (I'll let ye know how that goes); I try to get 5 runs in a week (so that I don't get annoyed); and I do get annoyed with elements of my life that may be adversely affecting my running. Oh, and I'm slowly building up a library of running books. Hell, I scour the Internet looking for running articles, and I follow several running blogs (they really are a portal into the very essence of the sport). My girlfriend has rightly pointed out that I go through phases that require me to become obsessed. Most people - when they decide to take up running - go out and run, I have to research the topic, buy books, watch DVD's, attend clinics, and experiment with barefoot shoes that may make my gait more efficient and my body less prone to injury! I couldn't just go out for a few miles in asics like normal people.

Speaking of injury, I'm dealing reasonably well with my slight ankle sprain. I called into Sinéad (my physio) on Friday for a 30 minute torture session on my sprain. During this half hour misery session awash with excruciating agony and piercing aches, she revealed she used to run barefoot during her early years and never suffered any adverse affects. This is good news for my little experiment. With that, I drove down to Mahon this morning with a very hungover Garry, and we went for a very tentative 5 mile loop - I nursed my foot while he nursed his throbbing brain. My ankle felt ok, the sprain is definitely better, but I am worried about the bruising under my foot from hitting that stone. That still aches - I suppose time will tell.

I am probably more concerned, worried even, about being off the road for any sustained period again in the future. This rising apprehension has to do with my state of mind. Last week, I actually went sleep running! I kid you not: in the bed, tucked up, under the sheets... my legs were going ninety! How do we know this for sure, my ever suffering girlfriend was kicked by a torrent of heels at around 3:15am. When she managed to turn me the other way, she got a fist full of scrawling toes at around 3:17am

Bec: "Elmer, what's wrong with you?"
Elmer (sleepily): "ammmm, I think I was running"
Bec: "Of course you were... lie on your back please"



Are these the actions of a man who would deal well with being off the road for an extensive period. Absolutely not, and that is why this runner is obsessed with avoiding injury.. .if only for the preservation of my mind, and Bec's lower limbs.

Run clockwise you fool

Last week’s 5km personal best didn’t come from nowhere; I had ramped up my training significantly by doing some interval work, increased distance, and some hill running (not a difficult task when your postal address is “The Highlands”). I was out on the roads 5 times a week and clocked up around 80 miles over the last 3 weeks. I had been using a training programme pilfered from the internet geared towards half marathons (as I’m registered for the Cork to Cobh 15 mile race on the 3rd of Oct).

This newfound professionalism – having commenced all of three weeks ago – was also timed with a transfer of footware in order to develop and sustain a more efficient running gait. Anyone who’s seen me run over the last few months probably noticed I pranced more than I ran - I used to bounce down the road, unwittingly putting as much effort into going up… as I did to going forward. With this in mind, I started off my pursuit of an efficient, injury free running form by adopting the ChiRunning programme; I bought the book, the DVD and attended one of Catherina McKiernan’s running clinics. The programme is a great fit for the basics, but I feel that it falls short when pursing competition running. In addition, it’s very easy to slip out of good form when you’re tired… and I was getting tired a lot!

So I started researching and the more I’ve read on the topic, the more intrigued I was by the school of thought that advocates minimalist footware. A friend of mine swears by his barefoot five finger shoes - I know, I know... they look weird... you should see them on! But back to my story (drama), he managed to sell me a pair that were the wrong size for him but perfect for me (which reminds me Garry, I owe you money – presuming you’re reading this which you may not be… you’re not even a blog follower! I’ve put a reminder in my phone).

The objective of the shoes is to help the runner to stop heel striking, bounding and/or any other adverse habits picked up over time. These habits are either inefficient or harmful to the ankles, shins, knees and hips (runners' hotspots for injury). When running in them, your body begins to intuitively adopt a gait that minimises foot impact as a sort of ‘self preservation’ because you get 100% feedback from your foot strike. Normal runners are a bit like driving a crap rental car (say... Opel Corsa) with no feedback from the steering wheel – you just don’t know what the car is doing and you’ve no idea how you’re getting on when cornering hard (for those of you who corner hard in rental cars).

Sorry, I diggressed (you may need to get used to that), so I started training and racing in Vibram 5 finger shoes and haven’t looked back since. Unfortunately, whilst not looking back, I also forgot to look ahead… and last Friday, I hit a large stone/boulder while out on the road. As you can imagine, you only get marginal protection from lacerations/thorns/pebbles/etc from these shoes and little or no protection from large stones. The impact left me with some pretty severe bruising under my right foot (which I tried to make nothing of at the time... but it hurt). So when I woke up for Saturday’s early morning interval run with Phil on the Glanmire GAA pitches, I probably "nursed" that foot a little in a shoe that offers zero protection and zero support. I ran anticlockwise for over 7 miles at a fast pace (as I was doing interval training) which meant 56 right angle bends off my bruised foot. When I awoke on Sunday, the tendon below the ankle (the one you use for lateral movements) ached . I phoned the physio for confirmation of my suspected problem two days later and she confirmed; I’m out for a while (a week at least until she examines it). Sod it, it’s 3 weeks until Cork to Cobh!



So in conclusion, my tendon hurts, the bruising under my foot hurts and my ego hurts – mainly down to the stupidity of it… why did I go out that day… and if I had to, why did I run anticlockwise!


Run clockwise you fool, CLOCKWISE!

Excited

I’ve been running now for about 7 months and in that time, I guess I’ve competed in 11 races (some good, some bad, all tough). That hardly makes me experienced but I’m learning all the time and getting a bit faster as I progress. This Wednesday, I ran my fastest 5km race yet in a BHAA event in Togher. I crossed the line in a time of 18:23. I was stunned – I had no idea this time was in me (yet). The oddest thing of all was that I was in a place that made me feel in control throughout (which was a first I can assure you). It felt great, really great - I've been on a high since and I’m finding it difficult to think of anything else. I'm practically punching the pillow as I go to sleep visualising future races. I almost feel empowered by it, it’s coursing through my veins and I couldn’t hold back my enthusiasm... so I had to share it.

Most of all, it gives me hope that I can do this running lark... that's important, I've a feeling I'll need that in the coming months.

Would we say it's too early to panic?

I’ve heard honesty is the best policy. Oh oh: so if I’m honest, up until now, my running “career” has been supported by several months of blundering and amateurish training. My Irish kin must be so proud – I do no speed work, no intensity training, no hill training, no scheduling, no special dietary requirements, and I entertain no sacrifices. Since I started, my training and race selection can be best described as random at best. I also continue to drink, eat and generally do whatever takes my interest; there has been many mornings and afternoons that I have used my ‘training runs’ as a means of combating a hangover! Come to think of it, I was out drinking the night before the race I won the bet – my last drink was a sambuca C/O a buddy wishing me luck in the race!

But marathons are a different animal – they’re hard, callous, gruelling and uncompromising. If you don’t respect them, they’ll spit you out with debilitating injuries that you’ll carry around like shrapnel scars after the war. These 26.2 miles are a graveyard of injuries, mental anguish, and marooned dreams. That’s if you make it that far – leading up to the race, one’s knees, ankles and hips are endlessly pounded into the ground for the months of necessary conditioning work.

They also say it takes 5 -10 years to develop a top marathoner who typically runs 100 to 150 miles a week! Without ever having run a marathon before, and with no sustained pedigree in any road races, I’m hoping to chase the heels of the elite; I’ve set my sights on a 2 hours and something marathon!

Let me put a few things in perspective – if I could sustain the pace that I ran my fastest ever 10 mile race in March of this year, then I’d finish a marathon in around 3 hours and 16 seconds! That’s the first unsettling fact. Now for another one, it’s so hard to run a marathon in around 3 hours, they’ve set it as the benchmark for entering the Boston Marathon (the original and most famous marathon in the world). Damn’it to hell, it’s beginning to dawn on me that this is a gargantuan task.

So no, I don’t think it’s too early to panic, quite the opposite actually.

The bet

I won that ‘top 20’ bet in a 5 mile race at the far corner of Ireland (near Mizen Head) in a race that - if I were honest – just about counted!!! It was a ‘local’ meet and the standard was below many of the more established races run in Cork. Despite being forearmed with this motivational spur, I was still nervous at the start. You never know who lines out for any race (for instance, that race was won by the guy who won the Limerick marathon this year in a time of 2h 36 mins) and maintaining a constant tempo throughout this run was going to be demanding such is the volume of hills along the route. Finally, for the first time in my running career, I had some expectant support on hand (my girlfriend and many drinking buddies from Crookhaven were out in force). So winning the bet in a village where I spend much of my summer was a delicious sensation and I bathed in the winner’s limelight for some days - such that it was for a 30 year old who came 15th!!!

Me giving out to my supporters on my way to victory... (15th)

In fact, I was so delirious; I let my ego write a new cheque for my body to cash shortly thereafter – to run a regulation distance marathon in ‘2 hours and something’ before Dec 31st 2011. For some time now, running a marathon has been on my bucket list, so why not ratchet up this running lark - if I’m going to run one seriously, why not give it everything I’ve got!

The bet in question is with my buddy Jer (the winner gets either (a) €100 or (b) a free night on the piss– it is Ireland after all) and with 3 other amigos in work (John, Seán, and Bryan) who are in for €20 a pop. So that’s it – I’m accepting no more bets and no other conditions. All I have to do now is run a marathon in under 3 hours. Hell, 2:59:59 would suffice – although that seems a bit tight.

Right, super, amm… right, super…

Oh dear.

Hello

I’ll begin with the beginning. I decided to get into running after an overly zealous session of 'smack-talk' with some friends in work 7 months ago - I bet them that I could finish in the top 20 in a road race in Ireland by the end of 2010 (the only condition - there had to be at least 50 persons in the race). I made this bet on Friday; I bought my first pair of running shoes on Saturday; and ran my first 4 mile race on Sunday. The result sheets show that Ms Emer Morrissey finished in "119th" place that day. For the record, my name was - and still is - Elmer, I’m male(!) and at the time, I was 29; and I was off to a good start. And so began a love affair with my ego writing checks my body would struggle to cash.