Tiny Runner

Balmullo Mud Wallow

2011-08-12T19:02:00.005+01:00

I was pretty nervous about the final race of the fife midweek series. I had not run the route before but had found it on Garmin Connect and it was quite clearly more a hill race than a trail race. The first 2.5 miles were pretty much all up, with the route climbing to the top of Lucklaw Hill. Still, I like running downhill...

I drove over with Andrew and after entering we went for an early warm up. After the dynamic I was feeling a bit foggy so took my blood sugar levels and was horrified to find it was low. Not a good place to be before the race had even started... I rummaged in the boot for the old box of Viper that had been there for several months and added three scoops to the one already in my bottle. I won't pretend that it tasted good at that concentration.

My fears seemed well-founded as, over the first half mile, more and more people overtook me. Then the Viper kicked in and I picked up my pace. The grass sections had suffered from the recent high rainfall and had disappeared under inches of mud. Where there wasn't mud there was standing water. I began to enjoy myself. The final section of ascent after a stretch across a cow field was through shrubs to the summit. I felt great at the top with Fife spread out below. My concentration on the descent was good and I pushed hard. Getting back up the mud slide was pretty tough, and grasping a bunch of stinging nettles for leverage was unwise.

My blood sugar high ran out with about three quarters of a mile to go but I could see the farm buildings that heralded the finish line and focused on catching and passing whoever was one place ahead. I think I took three places. Finally the only person still feasibly catchable was Amie and I pressed on and on but she was running really well and despite going all out she finished two seconds ahead of me. I pulled up, suddenly fearful of the worsening tunnel vision. I got my keys off Ron, unable to understand what he said to me, and headed back to the car. I filled up on sugar but before I came fully to my senses I decided to get changed in the car park. I blame Andrew for not sending me to the changing room! I recovered pretty quickly and headed into the hall for the prize giving. I came fifth in the race, which was enough to secure second overall in the series. I got a really smart, engraved medal in a presentation case.

Hill race or not, this is a fantastic course. Loved it :)

Chariots of Fire and the Twisted Chicken

2011-07-31T22:44:00.006+01:00

I have emerged from the Tour feeling a little bit battered. Like I've run a marathon, only with a whole load of emotional turmoil thrown in. I finished the fourth leg in tears, my blood sugar levels trailing in the surf. Before we even made it to the turning point (mud flats and a deep sea marker post) my blood sugar had plummeted. The tunnel vision was setting in and the urge to stop and lie down and make the world quit spinning was gnawing at me like a starved hyena.

I staggered home, against the odds, and Dan, perhaps spotting my inability to walk in a straight line, procured lucozade from a Dundee Hawkhill Harrier. I plodded back towards the car and was stopped along the way by Jocelyn, who taught me how to run downhill a couple of years ago (suicidally), and whose happy chickens lay the best eggs in Fife. The other good thing (eggs aside) to come out of the race was the news that my club mate, Alison, had finished in first in that stage. She had been in second in every race to that point.

The final race was the twisted chicken run. I assumed that it would follow a similar course to 2009. I was wrong. Instead of the long flat cycle path the 5 mile route involved a frickin huge climb. The start was uphill, which my legs apparently decided was frankly silly, then there was a brief descent before another 2 miles of climbing. I got annoyed at being overtaken by a girl who I knew hadn't run the whole tour but enjoyed seeing the front end of the race (around 50 runners, mostly male, were ahead of me) going in the opposite direction. I hadn't been with-it enough to to see them the previous night. I also saw the strained faces of the hundred runners behind me. Wherever you are in the Tour of Fife it hurts and you give your all.

I sprinted downhill, knowing that the brief climb before the final descent was going to hurt because of the pace of the descent. My primary aim at this point, given that there was absolutely nothing left in my legs, was to not be beaten by anyone in fancy dress. There was a honeymooning couple (he was wearing a suit!) who weren't a threat but there was also the female contingent of Corstorphine who had donned neon tutus. This fear carried me up that final climb and forced me to run as hard as I could to the finish. I am happy to say that the only (female) runners ahead of me were Julia, Alison, Gillian and Louise (I'm not including the girl who had taken a mid-week break).

Last time I ran the Tour of Fife I managed a top twenty finish. This year I finished fifth. Not too bad.

Tour of Fife: Up Hell TT

2011-07-30T22:41:00.005+01:00

Having realised how bad I was at ascending I really wasn't looking forward to the uphill time trial. In 2009 I ran it in 14.59. Ideally I wanted to knock a minute of that.

In the car Ron told me that my plan to start fast and slow when it got tougher was dumb. Well he didn't exactly say dumb, more laughed. Loudly. So, despite the fact that my nearest rival was starting 30 seconds behind me, I set off steadily. As I feared / expected, Louise caught me. She caught me far sooner than I expected. Still, I was mentally prepared for this. I picked up my pace and stuck with her. As we reached the slightly less steep section I pushed myself well and truly into the red and got away. I stayed in the red, driven by fear and determination. The lactic acid building in my legs was nearly unbearable. I came over all Jens Voight: 'SHUT UP LEGS!!'.

With 800 metres to go I felt like my lungs were being crushed. Unfortunately yelling at your lungs is counterproductive... The cheering at the finish carried me over the line. I was doubled up and gasping. It felt like hell. But it had only been 13 minutes and 35 seconds of hell. Nearly a minute and a half faster than last time, over 2.25km (600ft ascent).

Ten minutes later, I felt fantastic. Awash with endorphins and not depleted after the short but intense effort. Perhaps next year I can look forward to this stage! I went for a warm down across the hill top. The evening light danced across the rolling vista, utterly spellbinding.

Two top coaches and the devil...

I settled into the back of Ron's car with a Maximuscle protein shake and a sense of satisfaction.

Tour of Fife: Tarvit Trail Race

2011-07-30T17:15:00.008+01:00

Photo of Fife AC's Tour Team by David Smith

Although I had started out hoping for a top five finish, being fourth was horribly frustrating. I had about a minute to make up... and Louise was only a handful of seconds behind me.

I had settled a little and was able to absorb some of the atmosphere, I sipped at my bottle of Maximuscle Viper topping up my blood sugar levels. I found a map, tried to figure it out, then jogged around to the finish. I clocked the sharp rise of the road, the ninety degree turn and the beautiful, although softish, croquet lawn. The runners at the start were calmer, teasing, but also looking around for their newly discovered rivals. I, for example, knew that to get into third I had to overtake and maintain a lead over Gillian. I also knew that I had to stay ahead of, or very close to, Louise.

The route was three laps mostly through woods. Each lap included a couple of sharp uphills followed by a steep descent which allowed me to catch Louise - who had got away on the ups - and pull away. The second lap told me two things: one I wasn't going to catch Gillian, and two, I needed a decent cushion for fourth place before we headed to the Lomonds for the Up Hell TT where I wouldn't get any descent to make up for my poor climbing. No polka dot jersey for me... I enjoyed the second half of the second lap but ran scared into the third, knowing I could lose time on the hills again. By this point I was running with two Fife AC men: Laurie and Dave. They passed me on the ups (a familiar story by now!) and moved aside to let the flying, semi-controlled Tiny Runner pass on the downs. They got ahead on the road and I galloped along behind them through the field. In the woods I was sent on ahead by my Fife chaperones (Dave caught me again by the end). I pushed hard on the final drag, knowing that once I got to the corner it was flat. The finish was fabulous: on the lawn in front of the Tarvit mansion house. I downed a bottle of Maximuscle Viper then caught up with Rambo (canine).

I got to meet Horatio Henderson (above from roadrunpics), whose photo I saw on Mary's blog. He is as handsome and lovely as I had envisaged, but also pretty licky. His mum, Amanda, won last year's tour.

Tour of Fife: Black Hill

2011-07-30T16:35:00.005+01:00

When I ran the Tour in 2009 I finished in the top 20. This year I was hoping for top five. I hadn't banked on quite so many hills.

The Tour kicked off with the Black Hill race. It would be 'undulating'. Excellent, undulating I could manage.

A medium sized herd of horses and ponies watched over the start.

The start was a dusty scrabble as racers vied for position, overall and amongst their categories, male/female and also vets.

There were five or six women towards the front of the senior female race over the first half mile before the first two, Alison and Julia, pulled well clear. Behind them Gillian, Louise and I. The three of us stayed within sight of each other as we turned into the forest. As we began the ascent - and 'undulating' turned out to mean 1,329 feet of ascending - Gillian and Lou overtook me. I could just about keep up with Louise. As the climb rose, then levelled, then climbed again, Louise and I repeatedly swapped position, Louise was ahead on the ups and I would catch up and pull away on the levels. I struggled, horribly, over the summit and set off downhill; I opted for my favourite semi-controlled falling/sprinting. Passing people (all men unfortunately) on the descent involved running through nettles and scratchy shrubbery. Fun :)

I held my position after emerging out of the forest and back along the undulating (yes, really) track to the final hard uphill pull to the finish.

4.94 miles, 36 minutes, 12 second, 4th woman

Photos: top Road Run Pics, second, Paul Roarty.

Jens Voigt not required: Newburgh 4.2M

2011-07-21T07:29:00.004+01:00

Coming so close to the half marathon and the night after training I wasn't expecting to enjoy this race. My legs were stiff with delayed onset muscle soreness and my mind full of memories of just how much Dundee hurt. Jens Voigt (well the Jens Voigt soundboard) filled my mind: not the helpful 'shut up body' but 'oooh this is going to hurt'.

I arrived at Newburgh an hour before the start. Little sailing boats skimmed the surface of the Tay as the evening sunshine sharpened the colours of the water as it split behind the boats. I love evenings like that, when it has rained all day but the sun has broken through in the evening allowing everyone to get out and do the things that make life good: cycling, sailing, running, stuff.

My legs were stiff but my head was happy. At sign on I met Graham who was racing just a matter of months after heart surgery. Humbling.

I found an area of soggy grass for a jog, watched by two local children who later enthusiastically joined in with the dynamic warm up.

Despite announcing that I was going to run easy I found myself eyeing up the competition. Alison, obviously, but she was out of reach. There was also a sleek, tall Perth Road Runner who looked fast.

On the start line Andy and I squabbled over who was going behind who (we both thought the other should be nearer the front) and then we were off. I went off quite fast, remembering that once we left the road the path became too narrow for overtaking. This obviously meant that on the narrow path I was towed along faster than I had planned. As we reached the section of road the Perth Road Runner came by me so I pressed hard to keep up. So much for taking it easy. She was strong on the road but slowed when we turned off onto a boggy track. I overtook through a puddle, loving my Inov8s, and pushed myself to accelerate away. A safe distance acquired I settled down and began to enjoy myself.

When the path turned onto the undulating stretch before the incline I concentrated on staying relaxed, shortening my stride on the ups and lengthening on the downs. The incline wasn't as steep as I remembered and the summit came quickly complete with two horses watching the entertainment. The final stretch by the river was narrow and heavily impinged by butterbur with the occasional nettle. Running in single file I was unable to see where the third female was. As we emerged onto the final stretch before the finish I looked back but couldn't see beyond the runners right behind me. A helpful Fife spectator told me 'it's all men!'. Good news. I crossed the line happy, muddy and in second place. My time was 29.29. A PB by 5 minutes.

I eschewed the famous Fife AC cakes, opting for the Maximuscle protein shake and banana I'd bought with me, but enjoyed a cup of tea.

Fantastic evening.

Dundee Half Marathon

2011-07-17T19:39:00.006+01:00

My Garmin stopped working at 7.17am this morning. I made breakfast but couldn't stomach it. The road to the finish (where I was leaving my car) was closed. Otherwise everything was looking good since the promised lightning storms had switched to warm sunshine.

Ben, Julia and I abandoned my car near the finish then drove in Ben's car up to the start at Camperdown Park. Once signed on I began my warm up. Lots of Fife vests and Neil in girl's shorts again.

The race started uphill, around two miles of climbing through trees on wet earth, I was knocked into a puddle and scratched by something, probably a scratchy plant. Emerging from the trees and looking forward to the descent I found instead a steep descent and a headwind. I had moved up to second in the forest and pulled myself into first (female) on the descent. I had no idea what the pace was so just kept running at a pace that hurt. On the flat, through the surprisingly picturesque meadows along the green cycle route, I felt good. When a woman passed me I tucked in behind to shelter from the wind. The pace was really comfortable and I began to enjoy myself. A sharp swift rise out of the park and I felt suddenly weak and like I really, really wanted to pull up. I took a gel and tried to drink from a plastic cup at the second water station, having taken the cup on the run I was disappointed to discover only about 2 cm of water left in the bottom.

Another woman overtook me and it occurred to me that I could stop and walk, and wait for Ben. Then I thought of the Jens Voigt* Soundboard: 'shut up legs', 'shut up body'. A nagging stitch was shouted down with an internal Voigt monologue.

The route then took a strange 300m diversion up and down the same stretch of road and I realised that the first five women were all within a minute of each other. Half of me thought 'great I can still get them' the other half considered the more probable possibility that the ones behind would get me.

At this point Bill Smith a Fife AC athlete who was waiting for another Fifer ran with me for a few hundred metres, picked up my pace and sent me on my way. This worked quite well, but for some reason running uphill into a headwind along the side of a dual carriageway is strangely disillusioning for me and I slowed down again. Sometime later, having collected John, Bill caught me and encouraged me to join his pack. I tucked in behind them. By now I was in fourth. I switched off my brain and followed the boys.

Bill tried to talk me into catching the woman in third but every time I raised my game she did the same, remaining some 200-400m out of reach. John, in an act of tremendous generosity told Bill to go ahead with me and run me in. By now I felt horrendous, very hot and lightheaded. Bill gave me exactly what I needed: short, clear instructions and points of information. Even in my befuzzled state though I cottoned on to the fact that the 'half mile' he promised was nearer 1K. He told me where to run and when the route was about to turn.

I squeezed the gap down to about 50-60m but just couldn't close it before the line. I crossed the line and hit the deck. The world spun around me. Graham appeared between me and the clouds and then a paramedic joined him. I did my best to explain to the latter that I was fine, just dehydrated but still got taken to the ambulance. Even with a bottle of water in me my blood pressure was apparently 'very, very low'.

Looking for Ben I found Neil who had had a much worse day than me. He was in second place until a few metres from the line when he was struck by a paralysing stitch and finished fourth.

I got a prize, which is the easiest route to a happy Tiny Runner, but I still felt frustrated by my performance.

*Jens Voigt is a brilliantly funny and likeable elite cyclist, currently cycling the Tour de France

Soundboard

Photo from Roadrunpics.com

Shell Bay Sandy Slither: setting the goals on shifting sands

2011-07-04T17:50:00.005+01:00

6.1 miles of sand, trail, steps and sea. Mostly sand and mostly wet. This was my first attempt at this race, and quite possibly my last.

Having been off of running with shin splints it seemed quite a good idea to do a race on a soft surface, however I don't have as much leg strength as I would like, so found the heavy sand and the tough climb to the cliff top really hard work.

At the start it looked as though the weather would hold so, having discussed clothing options (and boys, obviously) on the longish warm up with Amie, I decided to pin my number on my bra top rather than my Fife vest.

The race set off from Lower Largo at a smart pace before bunching at the gateway onto the first beach. The sun was still out and strong on our backs, the wind in our faces. I tried to keep up with Amie but she was running too well and my new focus became getting some distance between myself and Rhona (another Fife AC runner). This was tough work on the sand, especially as the guys I was running with kept knocking me off the firmer sand. I'm pretty sure it wasn't on purpose, they were just using the same elbow power on me as on the guys and I was about 50 lbs lighter... Before long the men had pulled away and I was running alone into the wind. I made up some ground over the short trail section before losing it again on the next beech. By the time we reached the climb to the cliff top my blood sugar was running low and my legs were heavy with lactic acid.

Rhona overtook me on the way up and I overtook her on the way down - thanks in part to my fabulous inov8s which allowed me to run down the wet grass without falling. On the final beach Rhona was running behind me thus sheltering from the wind, trusting in my relatively fast finish I steadied up to force the issue and she passed me. We were level 600m out when we got to the pipe. I made it over easily enough but when I hit the unexpectedly deep sea water on the other side the sudden stop sent me head over heels and under the icy water. I was completely submerged. I came up gasping, spluttering seawater and shivering. My body then refused to move. It was like one of those dreams where you are trying to run from something and you try and try but your body feels like it's encased in concrete.

There was about 600m of soft sand between me and the finish line when the rain began to crash down. I had salt water in my eyes, ears and lungs and a body that was using the waterlogged ears as an excuse not to listen. I felt more like stopping than I ever have in a marathon but I staggered to the end.

Rhona tried to shake hands but as she took mine I winced and pulled away discovering in that moment the cut to my palm. Rhona had blood streaking down the back of her thigh. I had cut my knee and turned 1 sock red. Looking around I saw most people were bleeding, having fallen on the cliff top descent or the seaweed covered rocks.

Amie and I went for a warm down (more a warm up at this point) before heading to Ron's car for dry clothes. I was cross with myself for slowing up on the final beach, an act which, because of the fall, cost me second place. Ron told me to learn from it and move on. Mum said exactly the same thing when we spoke on Skype at the weekend.

It seems strange to be dissatisfied with third place, especially when the two runners ahead are good runners. This time last year I wouldn't even have dreamt of getting placed. Now I've come third three times in a row: at the Chariots 5K, the Hill of Tarvit and the Sandy Slither.

I am forever moving the goal posts.

On the way back we talked with Ron about next year's London Marathon. Once more the goal posts disappeared over the horizon... Just how close can I get to a sub-three hour marathon?

More to the point, having just fallen in the north sea and struggled to complete a 6 mile beach race, I had set my goals once more on shifting sands...

It is probably too late now for the Tour de Fife (sorry, I've caught le tour bug again (go Cavendish!)) but between then and now I'm upping my protein intake with Promax and increasing the strength training in a desperate bid to gain some strength for the hills... I haven't shifted the goals for that one - I just want to do better than I have before ;)

Wedding on a bike and espresso books

2011-04-30T13:13:00.007+01:00

The most overhyped day of the decade dawned bright and chilly. I toasted the morning with coffee and Viper before heading up to the gym.

The obsession with the royal wedding in the press and on television very nearly ruined the whole thing for me as by the time the day finally came around I was fed up of hearing about it. Living in St Andrews 'where they first met' the overload has not simply teetered on the edge of being too much, it has dived in and rummaged around in the depths of vomit-inducing commercialism. The shops have been smothering themselves in anything related to William and Kate for weeks.

Years from now, if asked where I watched the royal wedding I will say (truthfully) that I watched it on a bike in a gym in St Andrews. I then went for a swim in a completely empty pool (empty of people, not water). Although I found the month-long buildup distasteful, I will admit that once the presenters stopped interviewing people with the most tenuous connections to the either Kate or William, I was quite moved by the ceremony. It was the first time we were allowed to react to any part of the event without being told what to think and feel. I thought it shockingly inappropriate, for example, for the BBC presenter to point out that William and Harry were walking under the same arch through which they followed their mother's coffin. Why say that?

After my gym and swim I went into the office to pick up some books, including my new 'espresso book'. I wouldn't have known that that was what it was if the Universal Short Title Catalogue project team hadn't had a visit from Robert Darnton, director of the Harvard University Library last summer. The book is a facsimile of Harvard Library's copy of Imprimeurs Parisiens, libraires, fondeurs de caractères et correcteurs d'imprimerie by Philippe Renouard. It was, originally, printed in Paris in 1898. This means it is out of copyright. It has taken the mass digitialisation of out of copyright books to make print on demand books affordable. Indeed 'espresso book machines' have now found their way into libraries and book shops across America. It is a revolution in the history (and future) of the book but I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it.

I sat in the garden with an espresso and my espresso book until the urge to run crept under the edges of my concentration. I normally like to run away, out of town, but I wanted to pick up tickets for the a cappella concert and absorb some of the festival atmosphere in town. I looped through the town centre before heading, briefly out onto West Sands and home. Ron's training plan lists runs by time, rather than length, so I just enjoyed running around in the sunshine, not thinking too much about distance or pace.

In the evening Becka, Kati and I went to the a cappella concert in St Salvator's quad (the site of the town's wedding breakfast). The fantastic arts faculty band, Dry Island Buffalo Jump were on top form as were The Other Guys who became an internet phenomenon with 'Royal Romance' (almost half a million views on YouTube at the time of writing). Their version of Gangsters' Paradise (Golfers' Paradise) was witty and well performed but the highlight was the performance of 'Royal Romance' with a life-size cardboard cutout of the royal couple (which blew over in the wind).

Despite my reservations I had a wonderful day.

St Andrews 5K

2011-04-21T08:35:00.003+01:00

Delayed post, from 21st April...

Last night was the first race of the Fife AC midweek series.

I've never really enjoyed the St Andrews 5K, but I've also never felt so awful during and after the race as I did this year.

I warmed up enthusiastically and felt good for the first 100m, then the heavy-legged feeling set it, I stumbled in the few yards of sand leading to the sports fields, and felt the lactic acid seeping into my quads. This all within the first half mile.

Running a race, however short, just over a week after a marathon is never going to be pretty...

I opted for zoning out and just keeping going. My breathing was ragged, not in an asthmatic way, but in an overweight person climbing stairs kind of way. I plodded through the first two laps and then talked myself into one more loop. I don't actually have any recollection of the final half mile or so but it may have blurred with the memories of the previous laps.

Over the line, half out of the finish chute, I tried to stop the world from swaying. I felt like I was on a boat. I knew I needed sugar and eventually made it over to my bottle of Viper. Dan called over a Fife AC athlete from Kirkcaldy, who was also a GP. He pointed out I was hyperventilating and encouraged me to drink. He also told me that the muscle breakdown during a marathon releases an enzyme into the blood which takes about three weeks to clear.

Steven, who'd had a great run considering recent (and long-running) injury problems, took me back to the pavillion and I gradually recovered over sweet tea.

With the midweek series it's not really possible to catch up on points if you miss a race. So, even though the race was pretty terrible, I still got my attendance points and some for coming 8th (woman, 51st overall). 20.09 is, technically, a PB but I covered the first 5K of the Cupar 5 in 19.26... I was a bit disappointed and am hoping that the proximity of the marathon explains it :(

Lochaber Marathon 3:25:06

2011-04-12T16:19:00.011+01:00

Getting to the start of the Lochaber Marathon has been, well, a marathon. Getting to the end of it was one of the toughest things I've done.

It was my fourth marathon, my fastest by a long way, but also the most painful, mentally and physically.

Saturday 9th April

The third train of the day was the most dilapidated, and longest - time wise that is, it only had 2 carriages - but also the most fun. There was a buzz of nerves and excitement running through 50% of the passengers. The same 50% who were wearing t-shirts from running events across the world. A man with a London Marathon bag and an Abbey Runners jacket sat down next to me. I asked how many marathons he had done and he suggested I didn't ask. On the return trip he, Andrew, admitted that Lochaber was number 44. This is amazing for anyone, but Andrew is also partially-sighted.

Sunday 10th April

Awake when the alarm went off

1 bottle of Viper

Cereal, toast, fruit, coffee

Hot bath

Another bottle of Viper

Gentle stretching

Change into race kit

At 10:15 I went over to the Sports Hall and tried to stay relaxed, went through the dynamic warm up (lots of odd looks).

Janet came over to say hi. She trains over at Kirkaldy so I hadn't met her before. Fife vest was a good choice...

The race briefing began at 10:45, then everyone headed over to the start (through the desolation of a not-yet-open funfair).

A few minutes after 11am the race got underway. I was very aware of where the other women were at the start and set off too fast, probably because of this. The race wound through a park, passing the ruins of Inverlochy castle before emerging onto the main road.

For the first 8 miles or so I felt pretty comfortable so didn't worry that the miles were going by a bit too quickly. I was keeping pace with Erica Christie and didn't want to ease off...

The headwind began to get quite tiring so I caught up with, then settled behind, a group of three men. The advantages of being small are sometimes quite big. The group began to slow, so, when a whippet-like man floated by I tucked in behind him. Whilst the threesome had been too slow, this guy was too fast. I didn't dare get dropped and face the wind alone so clung on doggedly for a few more miles. Eventually we caught another group and I dropped off, after a while that too slowed and I bit the bullet and headed off alone.

The water stations on this course are spaced at bizarre, uneven intervals (based on lay by location) and this included there being nothing for 6 miles in the middle. It was a hot enough day for sunburn and I quickly became dehydrated. A side effect of this was that I began to feel too sick to get the gels down. The energy drinks on the course were orange Lucozade, which I try to avoid as it has in the past triggered my asthma.

As I turned for home I was battling nausea, leg pain and slight dizziness. I was also running alone. The runners going the other way were a great help, particularly the women who were cheering each other on. I had counted four women ahead of me on the approach to the turn, but was aware of lots more women pretty close behind me. I was pleased to see Janet running well.

I was lifted again at the sight of two more Fife AC vests but otherwise the whole of the second half was a struggle. At 18 miles, with eight to go, I seriously considered throwing the towel in. I wasn't going to get under 3:15 and I'd never felt so bad so early into a marathon. Every passing vehicle seemed to mock me with its motorised-power... Then a boy at a water station shouted, 'come on Fife lady! You're in fifth!' and I decided that stopping just because I wasn't going to run a particular time was stupid when there was the possibility of getting a decent placing.

From this point on I began passing men who had stumbled into a walk, each encouraged me as I struggled on. Then, from nowhere, a woman flew by. My fifth had turned to sixth. I began to imagine all the women behind me catching up and kept going.

Around mile 23 or 24 I saw that the woman who had overtaken me was walking. I had a target and a focus. I pressed harder and got back up to 7:15 pace, it hurt like hell, but I wanted to be fifth. Funny how a number can mean so much at these times!

At mile 25 I risked taking on Lucozade and was lucky. The section through the park and by the castle was undulating and tricky underfoot but a girl on a bicycle with tassels on the handles was so excited to have found a woman runner that I couldn't do anything to disappoint her. Unfortunately I may have ended up frightening her as the massive headwind at this point was really tough and I had no pride left. I was using a child as a windbreak... She noticed quite quickly and moved aside, thinking she was in the way.

The final 'point two' hurt but the finish line looked good and strangers were shouting my name. I dashed at the line, grinning like an idiot and wondering how I could have possibly considered quitting.

I walked, well hobbled, around the shinty pitch for a few minutes, hoping to ease the stiffness, but heard Janet's name over the loudspeaker and headed back to see her finish.

...

Although I was pleased that Janet got a trophy (1st Vet 45) at the prize-giving, I was a little disappointed that, considering there were 'over 70 prizes' there was no recognition for having come fifth.

I can't say that I enjoyed the marathon, but I did enjoy going to Fort William.

One of the highlights of the day was having Mum and Dad fight over the phone to hear all about the race. After my race had been dissected, I asked about the perros's dog show and got in trouble for laughing when Mum told me that Budweiser had won the obedience class...

3 hours, 25 minutes, six seconds: dehydration, sunburn, four blisters, one medal

...

I'm now getting quite excited about Berlin in September. You have to love German enthusiasm, they don't have a marathon, they have a 'marathon party'. I'm hoping that it's going to be the party where I break 3:15 and get into the championship race at the London Marathon next year.

They come not single spies

2011-04-06T13:16:00.003+01:00

Marathon training unspotted by niggles, time constraints, sickness and a multitude of other disruptions is proving elusive. My training had been going pretty well until I picked up a minor ligament strain during a track session. My ability to heal is on a par with that of Cesc Fabregas.

Healing requires rest, physical and mental, both of which have been in short supply over the last three weeks. Working hours gradually increased to about 18 hours / day, 7 days a week and my sleep reduced to 3 hours or so. Immediately after the injury I switched to cross training for a week, but events sent me after the solace that only running can bring.

There is a line in Hamlet 'when sorrows come, they come not single spies but in battalions' and, as with many of Shakespeare's observations, their pithiness does not detract from their veracity. On the 14th March I got an email telling me that, due to a surgical error my cousin Carole's heart operation had not gone to plan. I tried to concentrate on work, went out on the bike and convinced myself that everything was going to be okay. That Saturday I headed over to Tentsmuir for a 22-miler. On the run I allowed my thoughts to uncoil and process. It is a particular attribute of long distance running that, after 40 minutes or so, the mind and body settle into the rhythm and thoughts are less hampered by emotion. I thought of Carole. By the end of my run I was quite convinced that she was going to be okay.

Two days later, I got back to the office from the gym at 9.30pm and opened my email. Carole had passed away.

I had only got to know Carole after my Grandfather moved back to Hertford a few years before his death; every visit I made, bar one, coincided with one of Carole's visits. The three of us would go over to the coffee room and laugh at reminiscences.

After my immediate family I only have relatives on my Grandfather's side. Three have passed away in just over a year.

The following Sunday I went back to Tentsmuir and set off on a 16-miler; for once that steady rhythm didn't provide solace, after 6 miles I upped the pace to sub-7 minute miles, at 14 I eased off and ran the final 2 at 8/mile.

I have lost track of what training I have done and should do, my ligament is still sore and my taper enforced solely by long train rides to and from the funeral.

On Saturday I will be back on the train, crossing to Scotland's west coast for the Lochaber marathon on Sunday. I am unsure what to expect, but I plan to leave the last few weeks out on the course.

STUFF I LIKE. Part 1: I don't like the drugs but the drugs like me

2011-02-27T10:13:00.004Z

This post follows from the fact that at every race I have been to since returning from injury at least one person has jokingly asked if I'm on drugs...

After the Edinburgh relay on the 23rd May I didn't run another step until the 7th October when I went out for a 2 mile jog. I was off all sport for most of that time so, following Jez's advice (sort of), I started racking up the bike miles. In October I ran 19 miles and cycled 252. Jez had suggested a bit of cycling, not 50 mile adventures but I got hooked.

Illness, injury and no exercise had left my body pretty weak, hence Jez suggesting the lower impact cycling. Not wanting to get injured again I decided to start taking glucosamine and chondroitin supplements every day (rather than periodically). I ordered Ache Free from Maximuscle">Maximuscle then got seduced by the idea of Immune Support.

I had to gain weight too, but I was keen to gain muscle, obviously. I massively increased my protein intake (again, following Jez's advice!) but supplemented it with CLA-1000 (conjugated linoleic acid) to help my body composition. The most recent addition to my supplement shelf is branch chain amino acids, again from Maximuscle">Maximuscle (their stuff seems to be good quality and it's easier and more economical to order everything from one source).

The final part of my new regime came from reading this on the French Runner's World:

"Une étude récente du pôle nutrition du ministère de l’agriculture américain montre que les propriétés antioxydantes des fruits comme les framboises et le cassis sont dopées par l’alcool"

The good stuff in fruits like strawberries and blackcurrants is boosted by alcohol. So I've added the occasional cosmopolitan, and eat apples and pears with my evening glass of wine...

So, seriously, no I'm not on performance enhancing drugs, but I am oiling the wheels!

Cupar 5 and Fife AC

2011-02-26T22:57:00.005Z

When, in 2008, I told Steve R that I intended to run a marathon (and take up running) he didn't laugh but instead told me to join Fife AC and run some races. I was slow on the uptake of the former, thinking I would be too steady, but at the races Steve took me to he introduced me to several Fifers and I eventually made my way to training.

In 2009 I ran the Cupar 5 in 34 minutes and 33 seconds. I was in Paris last year, so this year's race was to be the yard stick with which to measure progress. After testing myself with some 800m reps I decided that I would be happy if I could sneak in under 32 minutes. Then, whilst getting lost in the car in Cupar, panic began to creep in. It came under the guise of not getting parked and finding the hall in time, but it was all about the time I had set myself, and the pressure to prove to myself that I really have moved on in the last couple of years...

Parked and registered, I jogged the half mile down to the start, the beginnings of a stitch nagging at me. I did the most dynamic warm up I could manage without falling over anything.

The road was quite narrow at the start and I didn't get away from the line very fast, then I picked up too much speed and had to ease off a touch. I ran the first half of the race at the very edge of my ability, tucking in behind bigger runners (anyone basically) to dodge the wind. Still my hands froze. But it's not the cold that bothers me so much as the fact that running into a direct wind is the surest way of triggering an asthma attack.

Given a choice I would always opt for running into the wind on the way out rather than the other way around, so I guess the conditions suited me in that at least!

At the turn I was urged to keep my pace by Dave, so I set off in pursuit of those ahead, I caught a few men but the ladies were running too well.

Having been pinballing from group to group I was suddenly alone. On the inclines I shortened my stride after Ron's advice on Tuesday, it doesn't feel natural to me but it does make it easier to run over the summit without going jelly legged.

I had set my Garmin to show only pace and distance on the main screen, so didn't know my time until I had crossed the chalked line: 31:19. I was thrilled.

It was a class field: 49 runners ran under 30 minutes, 2 under 25! I was 10th woman, 78th overall out of 296.

When it comes to starting running relatively late, Fife AC is a great place to start.

Photos: David Sibbett (top); David Bauchop (bottom)

Scottish National Cross Country and Sunday Long Run

2011-02-23T21:20:00.007Z

Having spent much of Friday night and Saturday morning listening to the wind trying to break in through my bedroom window I wasn't overflowing with enthusiasm for the cross country at Falkirk. The prospect of driving 1 hour 30 in each direction didn't exactly fill my with joy either.

But on arrival the atmosphere began to lift my spirits. I headed over to Callendar Park where many clubs had set up tents on the hill overlooking the start and finish. Fife don't have a tent but they did have my number and I eventually found them. I did quite a long warm up before heading down to the start.

The start was uphill and my breathing felt pretty ropey but it eased after about half a mile. The course was undulating and most of the mud was on sharp corners and hills, which made for a few mud monsters.

As at the last x-country, I ran the second lap slightly faster than the first and slowly clambered up the places. Eventually I caught up with Amie and we ran side-by-side for a while and together we bridged the gap to the group ahead of us and tried to pick our way up the field. Running with a club mate turns out to be an even better form of motivation than trying to beat them... Although I was quite upset when another Fifer, who I had overtaken around 600m from the finish took me on the line! I did sprint the final 150-200m stretch but, even at top speed, I'm not particularly speedy.

I would like to think that it's because I am endurance-inclined but, since an ultra runner came in three and a half minutes ahead of me, that sounds more like an excuse than a logical explanation.

201 finishers: 1st, Freya Murray in a ridiculously fast 28:38, Fife runners in: 31:02, 31:07; 31:11; 32:42; 34:11; 34:38; 34:38; 34:43; 37:31; 39:42; 42:40; and 44:45.

It is particularly interesting to see how two groups of Fifers appear to have raced as a bunch.

I was pleased with my position and my time; I ran 34:38 in the mud and rain, only marginally slower than the 34:33 I produced in the Cupar 5 (a flat road race) in 2009.

The next day I drove over to Tentsmuir Forest and tricked myself into running 20 miles. Having fallen for the 'I'm just going to do 12 miles' trick before (where at 10 miles, you decide 14, at 12, 16 and so on) you would think I'd have wised up by now. I struggled for motivation for the first 16 miles, although my mood was lightened at various points by 2 pairs of swans on Morton Lochs and dozens of huskies...

At first it was just one husky running with a woman who was riding a quad bike, then it was a whole pack. The pack were sat up on the roofs of their kennels watching me with bright blue, inquisitive eyes. I adore dogs (to the point of thinking life would be better if I were one - assuming that that one was owned by people like my parents) but, in the middle of a forest, being watched by a pack of very still, very sharp eyed and slightly wolfish dogs was just a tiny bit unnerving! Still not huskied out, as I swung by the car to swap an empty bottle of Viper for a full one, I came across two more huskies enjoying a drink before being put back in the car (not mine, sadly).

I really, really need a dog for my running. I envy Joad for his pointer, Mercury.

Whether it was the extra long drink of Viper or the realisation that I actually was going to manage all 20 miles (and there were only 4 of them left), I picked up the pace (albeit only by 10 seconds a mile) and really enjoyed the final miles. The hovering dusk changed the forest: a herd of deer, possibly Montjac, wandered across the path ahead of me, failing to see the runner in the hi-vis jacket. As the temperature began to drop, it altered the smell of the forest to a fresher earthy-pine. Not the kind of pine you get in air fresheners that, frankly, smell like toilets, but the real, open your lungs and draw it in kind of pure musk.

I got home and ate. I can't remember what but I'm sure it was good.

New Shoes

2011-02-18T13:50:00.005Z

Since starting running in 2008 I have been through almost a dozen pairs of shoes (including spikes and trail).

I have twice as many running shoes as all my other footwear combined.

It's not that I have a thing for trainers, so much as a belief that the right pair of shoes will help me run faster - and if not run faster at least let me clock up the miles without injury.

Like a good bibliographer I began at the beginning: Asics. They have a great feel and snug fit but I think that they have almost too much support; they make me lazy. Then (since so many sixteenth century book catalogues only treat the first half of the alphabet before running out of time, money or inspiration) I switched to the far end of the alphabet: Saucony. Again, they were really comfortable and plush, but all the softness encouraged me to heel strike heavily when tired.

Having spent several months of last year on crutches with a foot injury I started searching around for yet another pair of shoes to raise my hopes then crush them.

The problem is that every time I have been to a shop to have shoes fitted they have given me a different diagnosis. First I was an overpronator, then an underpronator, then a neutral runner. I finally realised that it's not that some stores are more competent than others (I went to 3 well respected stores in Edinburgh, one in London and one in Paris), it's that my running style changes as I get tired. I'm not convinced that I do underpronate, but I suspect I am a relatively neutral runner who heel strikes and overpronates when tired. Since the marathon is 'my distance', I can expect to be running at least the second half of most of my long runs tired.

I was quite excited by the prospect of Nike's 'dynamic' shoe and ordered a pair of Lunar Elite (marketed as a style for any type of runner, so I decided they would suit my multiple styles) but at the back of my mind assumed they too would soon be discarded.

When they arrived I was concerned by how unlike (what I had come to view as) a running shoe they looked like. The first few runs felt a little unprotected, lacking the cradled feeling of their more chunky cousins. But as I ran them in they began to feel really good. I found myself heel striking less heavily and putting more of my weight onto the balls of my feet. I have run 407 miles in them and my only regret is that I will, eventually, wear them out...

A benefit of blogging is that you sometimes get sent free stuff to try. I make a point of never promoting anything unless I would choose it above its competitors. I love Maximuscle products, for example, so don't promote other nutrition companies.

So it was with great ease that I accepted the offer of a pair of bespoke Nike trainers. They will be replacing the pair whose demise, when it comes, may require some form of counselling.

I had the choice of any running shoes within the NikeID range. Obviously it had to be another pair of dynamic shoes, but apart from that I was a bit lost so went to Nike Running and let the shoe finder pick for me. It chose these:
Nike Lunar Glide+

So I went to NikeStore to design and build my shoe. Colourwise I've opted for red, white and blue to match my Fife AC vest, but with all the other options it's almost too bespoke for daft people like me: I was tempted to order my shoes in different sizes, just because you can. You can also choose width and firmness. Fortunately I work with bibliographers so there is always a plentiful supply of rulers for measuring foot width over lunch.

I may be disproportionately excited about the forthcoming arrival of my new shoes... but seeing as my feet will hit the ground tens of thousands of times during the Lochaber Marathon in April, I'd like them to do so in style and comfort :)

Sunny Running

2011-02-15T20:08:00.008Z

Becka, Mum, Bud and Oli

Mum, Bud and I

Last weekend I ran 18.1 miles in 2 hours 27 minutes and miserable weather. My lungs felt terrible my Ventolin got abused. This weekend I flew south with my housemate Becka and my running kit. We arrived at the parents' (who helpfully moved to sunny climes a few years ago) on Saturday afternoon having left Fife at 5am. I got up early on Sunday morning and set the alarm off. Flustered I then rummaged in the kitchen for breakfast and found homemade blueberry muffins. Turns out they make for pretty good pre-run fuel. An hour later I was dressed and heading for the door. Budweiser, our Norfolk Terrier, sat in the hall looking cross. I would swear that he was thinking: 'why doesn't someone put her on a lead? Last time she did this we had to go out in the car to find her! I mean, I like the beach as much as the next dog, but I go in the car'.

The morning chill stung my hands as I headed out in shorts and a thin top. I went through the woods, the almond groves which were in blossom (pink and white) and through the orange groves (orange and green). I was averaging 7.30/mile and feeling pretty good. The plan was to run 15 miles (my training plan drops back to a medium-long run every 4 weeks), so I felt that the pace was okay. I headed along the old river bed and out to the port, then along the seafront to the Arenal. The last mile felt really slow but was 7.28. Having told Mum that I would be running 7.44 I beat them there so jogged on the beach then waded into the sea. Turns out that even bright blue seas in hot countries can be really, really cold. Mum and Becka arrived with the dogs and five of us went to find a restaurant serving Coca Cola and tostado. I only drink Coke in Spain after sport. Weird. Budweiser wore the smug look of a dog whose hunch was proven right. Mum and Becka had taken them for a walk up by the windmills before meeting up with me. No doubt Bud was thinking 'If you're looking for The Girl you should try the Arenal first. That's where she usually goes when she runs away'.

Calpe Rock

For lunch we headed to Calpe where all three of us had lenguado (lemon sole) then walked out on the new walkway below the Calpe rock. Apart from falling asleep in the back of the car on the way back it was a perfect day.

All photos from Becka

Devil's Burdens 2011 and a tasty, eventful weekend

2011-01-24T15:39:00.006Z

My team for the Devil's Burdens relay fell apart with one week to go. I was sat in the back of Tom and Jocelyn's car on the way back from the x-country when the news came through. My disappointment was short lived though, as Jocelyn wove her organisational magic and crow-barred me into a new team, pairing me up on leg 1 with Lorna.

The weather had cleared, taking with it the freezing temperatures. The last paired event I remember (bar the three-legged race which Clare and I won several primary school years in row) involved ponies. This time I had to get up and over East Lomond under my own steam... The first section in the woods was steeper than I was expecting but I coped better than expected once my legs had come to terms with the fact that up was going to be the only direction for a while. Lorna and I had slightly different paces, so I ran just ahead with the punch card. The final pull to the top was steeper than my ankle joints would bend and my calf muscles felt like they were being torn apart like cheese strings. At the summit I unfurled the card and furrowed my brow: I really must get my hands on some contact lenses or running glasses, or lasers... Eventually I squinted the numbers into focus and Lorna and I were soon plummeting off the top. The run across the valley was great fun, if precarious, and I chatted happily at Lorna (I don't think she was that bothered).

David, Lorna's husband, was taking photos just before the end (and just after I nearly fell in a ditch), then it was a brief section on track and the hand over.

Our mission complete, Lorna and I added a few layers and headed back up the same route, turning off after a couple of miles through Maspie Den where we encountered a cross child, a wriggling boxer puppy and, a little later, two beagles.

The run back was glorious, I felt (optimistically) full of the joys of spring.

In typical Tiny Runner fashion I survived the vertiginous descent from East Lomond without a scratch, then, when we jogged back up to David on our warm layers mission, I ran through a gorse bush. Our route back through Maspie Den emerged at the scene of my 2009 Tour of Fife warm up de-skinning but I made it over that most dangerous speed bump unscathed. Then, believing myself safe, parked outside the house, I lent into the back of the car to collect an escapee muddy sock, fell into the car and split the inside of my top lip on the keys. I got the hat trick the next day at the gym in a incident involving a lack of watch, a steam room and an interesting conversation. I don't cook my broccoli that much.

----

In the evening I went for a jog with Becka then home to eat sweet potato and some hugely disappointing trout. Later I mulled over which was better for recovery: Rego or vino. Wiggle stock Rego shakes at a good price, and they are very palatable IMO, but Tesco have Maurel Vedeau Sauvignon Blanc Grenache at half price at the moment... Unable to decide I opted for a little of each, though not in the same glass.

----

The promised Sunday sunshine didn't happen, but it was dry enough, so after two cups of Lavazza and a couple of slices of malt loaf (I'm developing a dangerous obsession with malt loaf since my memory of its squidgy perfection was triggered by Twiggy, AKA the Prince of Darkness consuming an entire loaf (over about an hour) after the x-country last weekend. Plus, he's a racing snake so it has to be good running fuel ;)) and a ridiculously lengthy parenthesis, I donned cycle gear and set off into the Fife countryside.

My legs were pretty shot from the Devil's Burdens so I had found a reasonably flat route (250m elevation over 25M). It included a stretch of road I hadn't ridden before, the A916 from Craigrothie down to Cupar, it cuts down the side of the hill just like a mountain road, complete with crash barriers. I decided to pretend I was a lone rider in the Tour de France, flying down a mountain stage (ignoring the fact that it wasn't a mountain and I wasn't flying).

After detouring via Balmullo and Leuchars I headed home, exhausted. After a quick shower, Becka and I went up to the gym, Becka to swim, me to play in the pool, mostly on the bottom.

We got back just in time for me to Skype with the perros before dinner, a stew of sweet potato, chickpeas, kale, spinach, broccoli, cherry tomatoes and carrots.

Apart from the delayed onset muscle soreness, the gorse bush, the split lip and the steaming, it was a fantastic weekend.

East District X-Country Championships, Livingston

2011-01-16T17:45:00.004Z

Last weekend's East District x-country championships was a veritable mud fest, accompanied by wind and water moving at alarming speeds. Despite the weather it was still a great course.

The start was into the wind (up to 50mph) and, although I had intended to start conservatively, everyone else went steaming ahead and I didn't like that, so I picked up the pace. The first sharp and very muddy turn came quickly, and nearly stole one of my spikes as we swung around for a tailwind. The route then went up by the side of the woods, over snow and ice (and mud, obviously) out into the open and then into the woods. The section in the woods was fantastic; sheltered from the elements and great underfoot, the short, sharp undulations seemed to suit me and I regained ground lost on the opening stretch.

Knowing that emerging from the woods meant facing the full frontal assault of the wind, I pushed harder on the incline out of the woods to catch a runner ahead. Then I did the tactical / selfish thing and tucked in behind her until we turned side on to the wind again. Another short climb onto the most exposed section, then the course wound back down until there was nothing between us and the finish except a mud hole and a second lap.

It crossed my mind that all the changes in speed (which I've never really risked before) might make for a painful second lap but, although fatigued, I still felt pretty good and ran the second lap slightly faster than the first.

250m from the end I slipped in the mud hole but managed to stay moving and pressed for the line. I thought I had overtaken 3 runners but the last one apparently got to the line before me :( They might have been right as I was sprinting and she was running, so I got halfway up the finish chute before managing to stop (and she was only just over the line at this point...). I guess that will teach me not to cut it so fine.

That annoyance aside I had a good run - and enjoyed it!

So the next day I set off again:

Sunday Long Run and Nutrition Stuff

The skies had cleared but the wind was still over enthusiastic. On tired legs I set off on a 14 miler that I have run twice before.

It begins with a long slow climb (426ft over 4.5M) before dropping down to Pitscottie and winding through Dura Den and Kemback before climbing back out and up to Strathkiness (370ft climb in 1.7M). Then it's downhill for the final 4M.

This time the first 6.18M (4.5 of which were uphill) was straight into a killer headwind. This meant that the final 5.5M had a killer tailwind. The hill out is pretty steep 212ft in 0.47M but the tailwind meant my pace didn't drop below 6.5mph.

I hadn't taken enough fluids with me, but what I did take did the job from an energy point of view. I've abandoned Lucozade in favour of Maximuscle Viper. I use the powder so that I can alter the concentration. So far Viper seems to be keeping my blood sugar levels more balanced. I had taken a couple of gels with me but didn't need them despite lowering my glycogen stores the previous day. I'm hoping that this continues to work. I've also become much more focused on eating low GI foods at the right times too, which is helping.

I'm trying to get 57% of my calories from low GI carb sources, 28% from fat and 15% from protein. On an average day that's about 65 grams of protein, which is forcing me to be more inventive with my pescatarian diet! There are 4 calories per gram of protein and of carbohydrate, and 9 per gram of fat.

Something is working, anyway, as I ran the 14 miler in 1 hour 55 minutes (total ascent 2057 ft). The last two runs on this route (January and March 2010) were run in 2 hours 14 and 2 hours 12.

I think I'm getting keen on the science and nutrition because I'm not really sure what's changed to make me faster - and I certainly don't want it to be a passing phase! I think I'm also, finally, in the right shoes, but more on that anon.

This weekend it's the Devil's Burdens. I'm running leg 1 with Lorna, who is, by all accounts, super fast. I might be faster than I was, but I'm not that fast... I'll take a lasso just in case.

The plan is then to run back to Falkland and save Sunday for my long-neglected bike.

2010 and the road to nowhere

2010-12-27T08:30:00.010Z

There is a lacuna ahead of me, a void between intent and reality.

Although you have to be careful when plotting routes using GPS mapping programs to ensure that the road is a road and not a track, it is, generally speaking, quite rare that you have to check that the road actually exists. Unless you're in Spain. Maps are drawn up before the roads are completed, some roads are then not built, or laid somewhere else, or started and then left leading to nowhere. I had previously encountered the signposts (reading: 'en mal estado') that are a substitute for actually repairing the road. Those signs always made me suspect that the road in question had been out on the town the night before. My Garmin has complained in the past of roads that were 40ft to the side of those mapped, but the road that had never even been started was new to me.

I carefully plotted out a route on my Garmin and set off. After 3.5 miles I found myself facing a large gate, a forest to my left and almond groves to the right. Thankfully this was a bike not a run, and the bike in question was Mum's rugged mountain bike (a filthier version of that in my memory). I set off across the almond groves.

I used satellite rather than road maps to plan my next run, I set off on the same route as the bike, intending to head across the almond groves this time, and with Mum on the bike. I followed Mum and the road down to, and through, the orange groves. I was cruising along the road by the river (sans river) when I suddenly found myself sans road and vis-à-vis a waist-high chunk of candy-cane-coloured concrete. A 30m stretch of road had fallen into the dry river bed.

My parents moved from Lluca, near Javea in September, to a hillside settlement nearer Javea. It has taken a few days to get the lie of the new land, but I conclude that the running here is better than Lluca (even though the two are not so far apart - a factor that had prevented panic at the sight of the non-existent road as I knew the direction of the nearest alternative).

I have run or ridden almost every day (including Christmas and New Year's) in the warm sunshine that has kissed goodbye to 2010 in this little orange-dotted outcrop of Mediterranean rock.

Runs that ended 2010:

6* 400m hill reps;
a steady-state 8.61M in 1 hour 2 mins;
a Christmas morning 6M run of 1k cruise intervals (45 mins) through the orange groves and along the coast from the port to the Arenal, ending in a glass of Cava and orange juice and a run with the Norfolk terrier;

a 12-miler @ 7.50 mins/mile;
8.5M of cruise intervals (4*800m, 1*1600m, 2*800m)

2011:

I have 8 races in the next 8 weeks, two half-marathons in March and Lochaber Marathon in April. Weird to think I didn't run a mile between the Edinburgh May Doom and October 2010. That lacuna has lapsed into memory, a memory that I carry on every run, that spurs me to run better and wiser.

Maybe 2011 will be the year for the sub-3:30? Here's hoping.

Nix et Candor

2010-12-05T10:16:00.008Z

I have a love-hate relationship with snow, like everyone who drives, but the desire to run in Tentsmuir on a beautiful day was enough to get me in the car on Saturday morning. The road between Leuchars and Tentsmuir hasn't been treated, or much driven, and is consequently a single track through deep snow. I might have turned back had I thought it was possible. In part it wasn't possible because there was only a single track and maneuvering would probably have got me stuck, but also because it wasn't dangerous (nowhere to slide to should the car decide to go skating) and I have a Swedish housemate who would have been very disappointed with me. Snow doesn't stop them, but they do switch to winter tyres... (incidentally Mum's Swedish friend in Javea, Spain, used to race cars on a frozen lake in her misspent youth, prior to opening a health shop).I had been out for a run on the Old Course earlier in the week in my Saucony hybrids (rugged, slightly water resistance trainers) and found the ground pretty slippy so I opted for my Asics x-country spikes. They were a good option as the whole of Tentsmuir, beach included, was under several inches of snow.
From the car park (4 cars) I ran back up the road towards the paddocks and took some photos of the horses before turning off along the track.A ranger had driven a loop around the tracks making it possible to run in the tyre tracks. The woods were incredibly quiet and ghostly beautiful.
The only footprints ahead of me belonged to deer and, possibly, some sort of wildcat.After a 4M loop through the forest I headed for the beach but it was mostly only good for photos.I headed back into the forest and did alternative short and long sprint intervals. Tough going in the snow.

I'm really pleased I didn't turn back on the drive there, I would have missed something truly special.
All this snow has curbed my cycling so I headed for the gym on Sunday: 40 min spin bike, 5k treadmill run at 1% incline (19.53 mins), strength and conditioning, 30 min spin, 4k steady at 10% gradient, 200m swim.

The swim was meant to be 1.5k but I had begun to sink. Just as the x-country time at Broxburn had surprised me, so did the 5k personal record (although treadmills, even with a slight incline, are easier I think). I hadn't realised how hard I'd pushed myself until I got into the pool and sank.

Loch Rannoch, Beinn a'Chuallaich and Great Company

2010-11-29T15:53:00.009Z

The St Andrews Reformation Studies Institute heads to the Highlands en masse once a year for intellectual and spiritual edification. The intellectual comes in the form of papers by anyone from first year PhDs up. The spiritual is provided by the hotel's 'whisky snug'. Despite the deep sofas and warm fire most people use some of the free time to head for the hills.

This year my passengers and I arrived at lunchtime and while they headed for the fireplace I pulled on cycle gear and headed off around Kinloch Rannoch. Being small and puny, people never think I can actually do half the stuff I habitually do do. The first of several conversations along these lines began in the hotel lobby:

Me: Do you know if the roads around the Loch are clear?

Man on Desk: I live 40 yards from the hotel.

PAUSE

Man on Desk: I think they're clear for a mile or so. Depends which side of the Loch.

Me: hmm, well I plan to go around it, so both sides.

Man on Desk: You do know it's quite a long way?

Me (giving up): yes, thank you.

...

On return:

Man on Desk: How far did you get?

Me: All the way around, the roads are pretty good.

Man on Desk: You've not been gone long.

I show him the stats on my Garmin to prove that I have indeed cycled around the Loch (I should mention that it's actually only 22.63 miles, but I'm assuming when guests normally head off with the same mission they are on mountain bikes and/or stop for a drink). He agrees to find somewhere warm and dry (and secure) for my bike.

Second Conversation:

Colleague: Are you coming up Beinn a'Chuallaich with us?

Me: I'm going to run up it.

Colleague: Don't be ridiculous, have you seen the weather?

I think these conversations arise in part because I'm small and puny, but also because if you haven't tried to do these things (with decent equipment) you don't realise they're easier than they sound.

So, Beinn a'Chuallaich: A group of ten of us set off in three cars to the foot of the walk and after getting a description of the route and promising to come back down if the weather closed in, I set off up a farm track. A blanket of snow made it hard to see the beginning of the route so I beat a retreat and waited for Big Andy to point out the route from the farmhouse. His description of the actual route is way better than mine, so if you're interested in hills, take a look at his post on Walk Highlands.

Once I had been set off along the path, which was easy to follow despite the snow, I found the going pretty easy. I had just got a pair of Inov8s from Run-4-It (they arrived after I'd left but MW picked them up before his later departure from St Andrews) and they held the snow really well. They also remained waterproof for about 90 minutes (although I think melting snow had got in by way of my socks). With the advantage of lighter kit and good shoes I got most of the way up before the snow began. I hung around for 5 minutes before deciding to head back to the group. Once we had reunited I found that MW (the aforementioned bringer of the shoes) was actually a very, very fast walker, so I was able to play terrier, running ahead a bit, walking with, getting left behind, running to catch up. On the ledge before the summit, we paused, trying to see a way up a sheer peak covered in thick, icy snow. I wasn't sure about continuing but once the others were in sight again MW pressed on. By the time they had reached the ledge we were clamped limpet-like to the wall of snow. The 6 below (once 8 but two beat an early retreat) watched as we inched around to an easier ascent then bounded skywards. The view from the top was magnificent but the wind was too. Frostbite was a distinct possibility. My kit was warm enough on the rest of the hill, but on the summit I was so cold I couldn't bring myself to expose my face for the photos when the others arrived (we'd been there 15-20 minutes already). Big Andy, a century Munro bagger, promptly wrapped me in his spare jacket upon arrival. The others stayed to enjoy the view and take photos, but MW, thankfully, agreed to go down with me before I froze.

We ran the first mile or so of descent to get warm before falling back to a walk, enjoying the sun setting across Loch Rannoch.

There is only one way to top an afternoon with excellent company and that is to spend the evening by a roaring fire with them. I enjoyed getting to know the M.Litt students, something I have largely failed to do in previous years.

The return journey was verging on traumatic. The weather set in, heavy and menacing. The roads were mostly compacted snow and ice, or deep snow. We stopped briefly in Dunkeld for lunch but the snow fall only got heavier. The roads were busy but the vast majority of drivers were sensibly moving at 10-20mph. Those that did slide off the road didn't go too far, or take anyone else with them. Since an accident on black ice about 8 years ago I've been pretty terrified of the stuff. Fortunately I had calm passengers and a good car. I switched on my Seat Leon's ESP and let it self-correct.

The gods were clearly on our side as every member of the institute made it home safely (some poor souls just behind the last of us spent the night in their cars), our driving time was about half way between MW (3hrs) and one poor car load's 7hrs.

All in all, a really great weekend of work and play.

Photos above by MW, below by Andy:

Antwerp

2010-11-24T20:03:00.016Z

Antwerp is a city of supremely sedate cyclists. Like little horses the bikes wear their panniers with their handlebars held high, the riders sit upright and by-and-large obey the traffic laws.

I didn't get to cycle in Antwerp, so I just took some photos of the bikes...

But I did get to run in Antwerp and discovered that the law-abiding citizens have an annoying habit of only crossing roads when the little green man says so - regardless of whether there is no traffic for 1/4 mile in each direction. Fine when perambulating in search of bikes to photograph, less fun when trying to run without freezing to death. When I made it down to the river though I was able to follow the bike path (which scooters used too...) and enjoy the sights.

The best sights in Antwerp cannot be seen on the run. The Plantin-Moretus museum was the reason I was in Antwerp in the first place, and it didn't disappoint. As a trainee book historian and bibliophile, the sight of so much printing paraphernalia sent me weak at the knees.

The Universal Short Title Catalogue team were fortunate in having such a wonderful venue for the launch conference of Netherlandish Books.

A C16th map of Scotland, a form with the type set, copper engraving with print:

Music folio: printing this many pages of music was expensive, labour intensive and a very long job. Only a rich printer with several presses could accomplish this, unless - as was the case with Parisian printers - several printers and booksellers collaborated on the project.

East District X-Country, Broxburn

2010-11-21T21:23:00.006Z

Having been ill and injured most of the summer - pretty much since the London Marathon - and only back to running and biking for a few weeks, it was with some trepidation that I turned up at the east district cross country at Broxburn. I got stuck in traffic twice on the way and began to think that I wasn't going to make my race.

I usually struggle with my blood sugar when races start at lunchtime, but have had much success with Viper. That and liquorice allsorts...

I lined up on the start line determined to have a good time, even if I came in last. When we set off I felt really good and found myself chatting to other runners. Realising that this probably meant I wasn't pushing myself hard enough I picked up my pace. I started passing people, slightly baffled and suspecting that I was about to come unstuck. But I didn't, I kept running and passing people.

The Fife AC men who were yet to race were spread out around the course cheering on the Fife ladies. As I headed into the second lap Graham B shouted encouragement and claimed I was the leading Fifer. I assumed he was mistaken. The only time I've ever been at the front was when Neil Y put me there (see The Tortoise and Hare relay).

The final half mile was pretty brutal but the course itself was great, fairly muddy and with a couple of steep climbs, but ultimately good fun. A boy passed me on the final stretch so I chased after him and crossed the line gasping for air. Having learnt my lesson after the Dunfermline mud bath I immediately topped up my blood sugar and put on warm clothes.

I was very pleased with my time (25.04) and with my placing (21st) but am slightly anxious that this was a one off...

Monikie Practice Rides

2010-11-21T19:59:00.002Z

Having entered the Monikie Winter duathlon series I decided to head over for a couple of practice rides.

On the first one I took Matt, one of my housemates, with me - and lost him. I had assumed he was just behind me...

After discovering that slamming on the brakes at 30 mph on a wet road was, largely, a bad idea, I took the opportunity whilst facing backwards (a newly realised effect of sudden braking) to look back up the road for Matt. I couldn't see him so assumed he'd turned off early (he had) and was heading back to Monikie ahead of me (he wasn't).

I went for a warm down ride before heading to the car and finding no Matt. After a wee while I decided to give him a call. He was at a dual-carriageway... Judging by what he later told me, it seems that the dual-carriageway was the only thing that prevented him from continuing towards the West Coast. I failed in attempting to direct him over the phone, so put my helmet and gloves back on and headed off towards where he possibly was.

The search and rescue attempt was, eventually, successful and Matt followed me home. Whilst looking back to check Matt was still with me as we reached a t-junction, I came to a halt and forgot to un-cleat. I did a fine impression of a falling Redwood.

----

The second attempt at a course recce was less eventful but a whole lot windier. I sandwiched the bike with a couple of runs and finished the whole off with a pot of Earl Grey at the cafe. The second round was slower (about 0.5mph overall) but I'm putting this down to the wind and the fact that my legs were still heavy from the x-country (odd, really, as only 3.5 miles).

I've no idea how I'm going to manage two laps of the bike course in February... I think some more targeted training is in order.

plough the fields and scatter

2010-10-21T19:21:00.006+01:00

We plough the fields and scatter the good mud on the roads...

I have bounced back, to sport, to life, just in time for the ravages of a Scottish Winter.

I feel like a kangaroo on a massive caffeine high in the Antarctic. Happy but slightly baffled.

Since leaving the crutches behind and escaping from the clutches of Ninewells Hospital (the two entirely unrelated) I have mostly been playing on Trekkie as I'm terrified of a repeat performance of The Foot Injury. I've been out for a few 3-mile runs but they really don't satisfy my desire for escapism and the hefty endorphin rush of a good few hours exercise.

Trekkie is quite pleased about this, although we have decided that our night-time forays should perhaps be shelved until spring.

Whichever direction I plan to actually head off in I usually begin by cycling up to Strathkiness and taking a right down the hill to Edenside. I love this hill. I get to play rocket-ships as (two 90-degree bends aside) it has a landing strip (i.e. 200m slight incline) before joining the main road. Unfortunately the exact same spot of road that usually sees me hitting top speed is also, right now, covered in mud.

The first time I went that way it was fresh, wet mud and the spray went everywhere (Trekkie is too noble a bike to wear mudguards): on my shoes, my legs, up my back, in my face and, delightfully, in my mouth (I only cycle with my mouth open when 'waaaa hoooo'-ing).

I have since discovered that the one thing worse than wet mud is mud that has dried solid. My first experience of this (downhill to Edenside, naturally) nearly put me in a hedge. It was like taking on the Paris–Roubaix, I half expected a farmer to step out and the bottom and present me with a sett.

After a few experimental rides to see how far my health and foot would carry me, along with the purchase and fingernail snapping application of new pink tyres, I plotted a 48-mile loop and sett (ha!) off. It was a glorious Autumn-Winter cross-over day, cold but not too windy, and with one of those clear high open skies you only get on the coast.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/ride/united-kingdom/st-andrews/374128706019717875"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Playtime&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;br/&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/find-ride/united-kingdom/st-andrews"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Find more Bike Rides in St Andrews, United Kingdom&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

Apart from an early steep descent the first hour was pretty much all uphill. I saw lots of horses grazing in the rolling fields and a group of six Shetland ponies rooting about a mud patch and looking longingly at out-of-reach-grass (sadly little ponies will eat and eat until they get sick, at worse contracting laminitis, so this wasn't deliberate cruelty). They all watched the strange lycra-clad creature with bemusement, before returning to watching the grass grow.

As I reached the final summit and saw the sea below I felt a curious joy and pressed on towards it. Flying downhill, legs spinning hopefully (I'm desperate to break 40mph) I felt a sudden jolt, the bike bucked (growing up on horseback saved me a fall) and the rear wheel started making a flap-flap-flap sound. I realised that the leg spinning was a bit too easy. The chain had broken and the rear wheel flat. I skidded to a heart-pounding halt on the grass verge, yanking my feet out of the cleats. I had mistaken small rocks on the road for mud and they had jumped up at Trekkie's undercarriage and broken him.

As the nearest civilisation (Leven) was within sight and downhill I decided to try to fix the tyre so I could at least roll into town. I eventually prised the inner tube out and located a 2mm hole. After about 20 minutes a moped pulled up, with a bike mechanic on it. No jest. He too tried to patch the inner, but it was beyond repair. He put the bike back together in seconds and gave me directions to the nearest bike shop.

So I have now experienced a mechanical at speed and walked over a mile in cleats. The latter was certainly worse.

A couple of hours after The Incident I was back on the road and heading for my planned pit stop in Anstruther. I rolled in around 4.30 (the time I had told Becka I was planning on getting back to St Andrews...) and settled at an outside table (I could hardly leave Trekkie alone after what he'd been through) with coffee and sandwiches (I felt like I'd escaped from a Steig Larsoon novel). I texted Becka not to expect me home before 6.15 and enjoyed the calm after the storm.

The ride home from Anstruther was 2 miles shorter than planned due to a closed road, and I was thankful for this as the lactic acid set up camp in my thighs. I was dog-tired and never so pleased to see St Andrews spread out below me as I crested the final climb.

Despite all that happened, I think I love my bike even more than I did before...

Runner, interrupted

2010-08-27T14:38:00.004+01:00

The further I travel from Fitness the more elaborate my daydreams become.

I haven't run since May, so despite possessing entries into the Berlin Marathon and the Great North Run, I will be running neither.

Instead I concoct plans of the great feats I will attempt once I am cured both of this injury and the return of an old illness. My brain has taken on the personality of a stubborn foal, scatty and refusing to focus on work. Instead it drifts away to thoughts of mountain marathons; a return to Loch Ness; cycling the Camino de Santiago de Compostela; cycling up Mount Ventoux; learning front crawl... no that last one is probably beyond me.

I have been attempting to fulfil my sporting needs vicariously, and largely unsuccessfully. I was glued to the Tour de France, desperately wanting the world's most determined bag of bones to beat Contador on the time trial. After 'chaingate' it just didn't seem fair for Schleck not to win.

Then there was the athletics from Barcelona to fuel my daydreams... and yet I am about as strong as a new born foal and equally determined to exceed my own abilities. The desire to run before walking is strong.

Next weekend I hope to make it over to Edinburgh to watch Jez and co. in the Duathlon Worlds. Another day, another fix.

This afternoon's Great Plan involves two mini lop rabbits and a really tiny showjump.

The unbearable ache of stillness

2010-08-06T18:57:00.003+01:00

My running 'career' has gone through a decline and come limping out the other side, broken and beaten.

Somewhere, deep in my soul is an ache, a memory, of running; a memory of putting on familiar running kit, lacing shoes and heading out. I miss the feel of the miles passing underfoot and with them the calm and peace. There is nothing like a 14-mile run to process a jumble of thoughts into something sensible.

Running is good for the soul, it makes you a better person. The long distance runner understands effort and pain and the joy of finishing over winning. The broken runner is grouchy and impatient to get back out on the road.

Like a car left idle too long I am beginning to rust. My lower back and neck have resorted to their pre-runner state: creaky, tight, painful...

The surgeon said that I could do some upper body work but nothing else. If I can't run, cycle or cross-train I don't want to go to the gym. If I can't have running, I don't want anything.

The ligament in question (top of right foot) is taking its time with the healing process so it looks like I'll be on crutches a while yet.

Edinburgh marathon and the Hairy Haggis Relay

2010-05-26T13:39:00.002+01:00

Last year Joad had his first DNF in a marathon, afterwards he blamed Scotland.

I think that if the Edinburgh marathon is your only taste of Scotland then his response is partly understandable. I'm not saying that I don't like Scotland, personally I love it and never want to live anywhere else. But I have to agree with Joad that the Edinburgh Marathon Festival (as it is now known) is an organisational fiasco.

By expanding it the organisers have ruined it. The average time to get by car from the finish back into Edinburgh was about 3 hours. The queue for the buses (which were a mile away and uphill) was about 600m long. The water stations were few and far between and only offered very small bottles and after last year's heatwave I was very surprised that the organisers hadn't thought to book showers for the course just in case. Media reports of residents lining the streets to shower runners with garden hoses were overblown. If they were doing so they weren't until much later (after I, for one, had already run).

So, my personal experience: I caught the bus out to somewhere near the start of my leg and waited. By the time we handed over the chip I had been standing in hot sun without shade for some time. The chute threw me into the mass of marathon runners and I did my best not to get in their way.

The route quickly left civilisation and headed up a shadeless country lane. There was little room to pass the slower marathon runners so I was constantly dodging about and hopping on and off the verge. This section of the route was very undulating and, as an out-and-back, pretty demoralising. I began to get very thirsty (a bad sign as you shouldn't wait to get thirsty to drink when running) and hot and fed up. The increase in numbers from previous years meant a tightly packed field who I couldn't easily get around. This only got worse on the return when the outgoing and incoming runners shared the same narrow road.

The undulations and constant swerving around tired runners were doing my foot (still injured from London) no good at all and I dropped off the pace. With half a mile to go I tried to press home, only to discover that the route was actually over a quarter of a mile longer than the organisers had led me to believe. I crossed the timing mat tired and hurting.

I found the leg 4 runner of our second team looking after the bags. Mine wasn't there. Our leg 2 runner had taken my bag instead of the ones from the leg 1 runner. This scuppered my plan to get suncream on my face and shoulders. I also had only the small bottle of water from the end of my leg to reduce what was by now dehydration. The people manning the station wouldn't allow me anymore (they actually had tonnes left at the end...).

So I was faced with waiting in the hot sun with no protection and no fluids until the leg 3 runner from the second team finished. Unfortunately as the leg 2 runner in his team hadn't turned up (she had missed the changeover and continued running) he hadn't set off until all the others had long gone.

Consequently I had to wait, looking after bags (and wondering where mine was, complete with phone, money, house keys etc) for several hours. I got sunburnt, very dehydrated and, I think, a bit of sunstroke.

The bus from the changeover to the finish was so inconveniently placed, and the signs pointing so inconveniently in the wrong directions that it would not only have been quicker to walk but it would also have required less walking. I had by this time developed huge blisters on the back of my feet and very, very burnt shoulders.

On finally arriving at the meeting point and finding other St Andrews historians in the usual pub it gradually dawned on me that not only were none of them actually from my team, but my bag wasn't there either.

Chris (my team's racing snake and leg 1 runner) arrived having been trying (in vain) to round up the rest of the team. He was carrying my bag.

We headed for the buses back to town (as noted above this involved more walking and queueing). I was so thankful that I hadn't just run a whole marathon, especially when I saw that they had chosen double-decker buses. Now that's real smart. When you've just run a marathon stairs are a serious obstacle.

Unless the organisers change the route (wouldn't it be nice to finish in Edinburgh, no?), reduce the entries, and promise to have contingency plans for something as changeable as Scottish weather, I won't be running again. I had considered doing the Edinburgh marathon instead of London but as things stand, absolutely no way.

prevailing winds

2010-05-17T15:10:00.002+01:00

"I am but mad north-north-west: when the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw" - Hamlet

Recovery from the injured foot is taking longer than I had hoped. I have run no further than 2.5M since the marathon.

Instead I've been spending time in the gym and out on my bike when the weather allows (I don't cycle in the rain, I just don't)

At the weekend I went out on Trekkie into a rare south-westerly wind. The first half was horrendous, into a fierce headwind. My legs burnt and my toes turned to ice. Then I turned my back to the wind and had the time of my life.

Cycling the super-smooth, softly undulating road from Cupar to St Andrews with the wind behind me at top speed was just amazing. It was like cycling in a vacuum, the wind behind seemingly breaking the air before me.

But the wind direction is back to normal now and I am faced once more with next weekend's insane objective: as part of a competitive Hairy Haggis relay team I will be expected to *race* 8 miles.

This is not going to be pretty.

But I can't let down my team mates (like last year, and especially because of last year), and most importantly I can't let down DeafBlind Scotland.

So if you're feeling the remotest iota of pity PLEASE, PLEASE sponsor the Modern History department's various endeavours:

LINK HERE.

Thank You

Virgin London Marathon 2010

2010-05-03T12:58:00.005+01:00

The evening before the marathon I was sat in the hotel bar watching Arsenal not playing as well as they should. As I'm quite used to that state of affairs the background nerves were clearly a pre-marathon thing. I took the ice off my foot and headed for the bar. Half a pint and some more ice.

Generally having to ice something as running-vital as a foot before the race is not a good sign. That combined with the knowledge of poor preparation made the half pint inevitable.

Mum and I were staying in Sutton which meant a 5 am wake up for 5.30 breakfast. The buses left at 6.15 and my plan to catch up on sleep on the journey was unsuccessful.

The buses deposited us on the wrong side of Blackheath and the signs sent us in the wrong direction. We arrived, finally, at the entrance to the Green Start (good for age and celebrities). As Mum wasn't allowed through we sat in a band stand and watched the arrivals.

Minnie Mouse came and sat on the adjacent bench. She had a red number so was in the wrong place. After a few moments she dived into her bag and got out a hairbrush, clips and a can of hairspray. I shot out of the bandstand every time she started spraying, which was bizarrely frequently. I kept expecting her to come out with a banana or sports drink, but it was always the hairspray. Mum and I looked at each other; she clearly had no idea what lay ahead.

Mum set off towards mile 3 to watch the elite women and meet up with our relatives: Virginia, Clifford, Amanda and the gorgeous Lauren and Sam.

Meanwhile I headed into the Green Start. The forecasted hot, hot sun decided to manifest itself in the form of heavy, cold rain. 3,000 people promptly tried to fit into two changing tents. A fellow fifer, Lynne spotted me and came over. We discussed our plans whilst sitting on a thermal blanket (a sheet of silvery plastic to be precise) before deciding that it was time to brave the cold, wet sun and get in the toilet queue... a major benefit of the Green Start is that there are several thousand fewer people. We said goodbye at the start pens. Runners chatted nervously with strangers. With five minutes to go I pulled off my charity shop top and lobbed it out of the pen.

We set off pretty quickly (I was over the start line in 14 seconds) and apart from a few stretches of narrow road, smoothly. As the green start blended into the blue I could feel the temperature of the massed bodies. The rain had stopped and the atmosphere was muggy and hot.

I saw Lauren on Clifford's shoulders and looked around for Mum, saw Virginia and shouted to her. She turned and saw me. Mum missed me.

By mile 6 I had clocked several sub-8 miles (not the plan at all, too fast given the training and food poisoning and everything). As we wound up a small incline I felt a sudden sharp pain in the outside of my right knee. I tried to stretch and run at the same time, no doubt looking rather absurd. It crossed my mind that I might not make it to the end. By Tower Bridge the knee had eased off and the damaged ligament in my right foot was throbbing. But it was Tower Bridge, HALF WAY! By now I knew I could finish, albeit slowly. Mum and Virginia were stationed somewhere just beyond Tower Bridge. I didn't see them and they didn't spot me. As I headed off towards the Docklands, aching and in pain and slightly despondent, I began to see the elites heading for home. After the first few there was a short gap and then I saw the tall, thin silhouette of Andrew Lemoncello.

Andrew is a Fifer despite training in Arizona these days. He still mentions his club in interviews and his results frequently decorate the Fife AC bulletin board. There had been considerable hype about Andrew as this was his first marathon. Andrew was part of the elite field, alongside Dan Robinson, some commentators felt that he had taken the place that was rightfully that of Andi Jones. As Andrew was the first Brit home he proved that that elite place was most definitely his.

When I saw him pass I knew he was in the top ten of a very strong field. He was running alone but looked strong. It gave me the lift I needed as I headed out to the Docklands.

I can't say I enjoyed the Docklands this year. In fact I think I got gradually slower and slower. Eventually I came to the conclusion that - all things considered - finishing would be good enough. A nanosecond after this decision had been reached, Lynne passed me, calling for me to follow. I got hit by the right kind of wind - a second one. I kept up with Lynne for several miles before the pain in my foot and the tightening of my lungs forced me to let go. If it hadn't been for her timely intervention I might still be hobbling around the Isle of Dogs.

I knew that Mum and Virginia were waiting around the 23 mile mark. I looked in vain, as did they. It turned out that letting Mum witness runners at this point was a mistake as she has declared that she will NEVER run a marathon after seeing so many faces set firmly in a thousand expressions of pain. I pointed out that once you get to mile 25 it is interrupted by a flickering smile that turns into a grin as you get closer and closer to the end.

Unlike last year, I was quite happy with my time and continued to lollop along, admiring what I had missed last year: Parliament, Big Ben, the Thames, the people! I finally hit the gas with 400 yards to go, there was a medal ahead with my name on in!

As I crossed the line and was hit first by a flood of relief, then of pain, then of joy (medal around neck) Mum and Virginia were still desperately scanning the passing runners at mile 23...

I hobbled very slowly along the Mall towards Horse Guards Parade. I changed my water-drenched top for the marathon t-shirt (not quite as XXL as last year) and headed for our designated meeting place. There were lots of people there, but none of them mine. Eventually Leanne found me and we tried in vain to contact Mum and Virginia. I was so tired I actually dropped my iPhone on the wet gravel (I love my iPhone far too much). Finally Leanne found my people for me and we headed up towards Soho for Pizza Express. I ordered a Niçoise with a side of garlic bread. The waiter pointed out that the salad came with bread. I pointed out that I had just run 26.4 miles (Garmin measured).

I think somebody stole my half pint as it disappeared rather quickly. I had to order a second.

Post Marathon Decisions:

Send Virginia and Mum on a 'spotting people in a crowd' course
Stop expecting Arsenal to actually score.
Book accommodation nearer the start
See Jez (physio) more frequently
Find a pacemaker for Berlin
Train properly for Berlin
Drink more beer

Peak Physical Condition

2010-04-18T11:51:00.005+01:00

In peak physical condition I am not...

Bruises from the Ceilidh dancing at J and P's wedding decorate both knees and elbows. In 2008 J & P came up to Inverness to support me in my first marathon so I could hardly sit out the Ceilidh dancing at their wedding for fear of damaging my super-primed marathon-fit body. Oh, no, wait, I almost forgot, I don't have a super-primed marathon-fit body. That's okay then.

I went on a last medium-long run on Saturday, so spent Sunday with my blistered feet up watching the movies sourced for me by Alphabet DVD store, St Andrews: School for Scoundrels, Brothers in Law, Look Back in Anger and Brighton Rock.

Look Back in Anger and Brighton Rock were dark and atmospheric and both kind of sad. Brothers in Law is one of those brilliantly innocent comedies, fast-paced and thoroughly entertaining. School for Scoundrels was surprisingly avant garde with a final, knowing address to camera. All, I must say, had excellent make-up ;)

On the train to London I'll be watching Run Fat Boy Run and Chariots of Fire (and maybe Rocky).

The first obstacle before then is to survive a session with Jez... IMO the BEST sports physio in Scotland, but also the most sadistic. [BTW Jez has NO appointments until May]

After that I might wrap myself in cotton wool or maybe compression gear...

The London Marathon and the Uncertainty Principle

2010-04-16T11:46:00.005+01:00

Sometimes in physics, knowledge of an aspect of a physical thing (like the speed of a particle) prevents us from knowing another aspect (i.e. where the particle is). In other words: the more precisely we know one thing, the less we know of the other and vice versa.

I know how much training I have done for the marathon: not enough, certainly, but I also know how far and how fast I ran every training run. I know that gastroenteritis prevented me from running for the final week that could have made a difference. I know that last weekend's attempt at a fast last third of the long run was a failure... But what I do not know is how this will pan out on April the 25th as I struggle around the streets of London.

No training plan seems to tell you what to do if you get injured or miss a week through illness, they don't grade the importance of different runs and, although they tell you that if you follow the sub-3.30 marathon plan you should finish in that time, no-one seems to know what the impact of not having done certain runs might be.

So, despite all the information I do have, and I am very geeky about logging all the statistics of my runs, I have absolutely no idea what pace to start at, nor what time to tell friends I will be at different points on the course.

I should be faster than my first marathon but slower than my second, probably. I ran the first in 2008 when I was still new to running. I'm hoping that the miles between will have have some long-term physiological impact. I'm really hoping...

Not even Heisenberg can tell me what pace to run at. There is simply too much uncertainty.

(any advice would be very welcome)

Never eat sushi in Paris

2010-04-12T17:00:00.004+01:00

Considering (panicking because of) my shoddy preparation I had decided to push hard for a 22-miler on the 4th, then a 20-miler on the 11th, then into the taper.

I was undone by a fish.

Considering that fish are the only animal I eat I think think this is very unfair. I was so sick that the dog got worried.

I was still staying in Paris with Suzie, Michel and little Muffet (Jack Russel, fox Terrier cross) and had plans to run a new route around the central and eastern districts. Whether or not I would be able to run the next day was the first thing to cross my mind as I threw up for the first time (of hundreds, no exaggeration). After a couple of hours of being sick I'd realised that I might have to wait a day or two before I could run. After three hours Suzie and Michel called the S.O.S. médecin. He arrived half an hour later to Muffet's delight and gave me an anti-nausea injection to mine.

I was due to travel back to Scotland (train all the way) on the Monday and, having looked at the horror that was late purchase ticket prices I decided to see how far I could get. My cousin Virginia met me off the Eurostar and put me on the train to Scotland.

I stayed in the house trying to eat for the next few days before venturing out to work and to run at the end of the week. On Saturday I went for a 20-mile run.

I was hoping that by slipping that sentence on to the end of that paragraph it would get by unnoticed for the idiocy that it was. But alas I've now drawn attention to.

I was actually quite looking forward to the run. I'm happiest running in the countryside, the air clean in my lungs, the noise of wildlife and the world moving slowly about its business. I decided to be kind to myself and plotted a flat route (there is really only one) out on the coastal path to Tentsmuir, loop around the forest and home the same way.

The run out to Tentsmuir was everything a run should be. My legs warmed up quickly and the 9-minute-mile pace felt easy, I greeted the bored looking bull lying by himself in a field just outside the forest and gratefully accepted the soft shadow granted by the trees. I followed the road until my watch beeped then turned off into the forest. I ran along happily on a firm grass track for half a mile before realising that the beeping had been to tell me to turn back not turn off.

I retraced my steps and headed off again, this time in the right direction. As the firm spring grass gave way to thick, loose mud my steps lost their bounce. I tried to keep my mind focused on the pace and my wandering thoughts on happy things like the freshly-clipped horses drowsing with the sun on their backs. Finally the heavy going gave way to uneven grass and eventually road.

This coincided with the two hour mark when I was supposed to up the pace to 8-minute-miles. It took a while but once I'd got there it was easy enough. Again I ran along full of the joys of spring. The road from Tentsmuir to and through Leuchars was uneventful but as I headed up the incline just beyond the RAF base a couple out walking refused to share the pavement and an oncoming car meant I had no choice but to stop, dead. After that my muscles simply refused to function, they were like King John's Castle at the start of the Grand National: just not interested, and slightly forlorn. I plodded onward the pace back at 8-50/mile.

I was finally rescued by Rebecka on her bike. She cycled next to me and, over the final mile I picked up speed (although my Garmin tells me not as much as I had thought) before coming to a very abrupt halt and then jogging a mile back to the bottom of the car park. Rebecka rescued me a second time by producing a bottle of water from her backpack. I had drained my own supply by mile 19.

So what have I learnt?*

1) NEVER eat sushi in Paris.
2) ALWAYS take extra fluids, especially if it is unseasonably warm
3) ONLY add an off-road section if you're feeling particularly masochistic

*the caveat being that i tend to make the same mistakes a few times before actually learning from them enough to stop doing it.

I'm going to run the London Marathon in a meerkat costume

2010-04-01T16:43:00.006+01:00

My training hasn't been nearly as serious, or as sensible, as it was in the run up to last year's London Marathon. I'm trying to train in Paris, which is polluted (as is any city I guess) and overfull. There have been pleasures though. The Champs de Mars and the Eiffel Tower for example : Last weekend I decided to vary my long run routine (running round and round in circles, mostly) and, whilst in Brussels (more library fun), I downloaded a 21 miler from Mapmyrun. It started well, along the Avenue de cygnes, then along the Seine beside the bouquinistes where I was tempted to stop off just in case they had any interesting books. Then the route turned off up towards the Bastille. At Bastille my GPS got confused and I ended up running a complete circle (now that's a lot of road crossings...) before it decided on a direction. The long loop through the northern suburbs of Paris was pretty uninspiring and currently very dusty as the metro is being extended up there. The route then redeemed itself, turning into a quieter area and passing along the side of a tranquil canal. This then progressed into a touristy area that was almost impossible to pass. I got frustrated, then came across the Moulin Rouge and finally the Arc de Triomphe before swinging back around the side of the Palais de Chaillot (which has a great exhibition on about the C16th self-publishing arcitect, Jacques 1er Androuet Du Cerceau) and across the river to the Eiffel Tower and back along the Champs de Mars. Anyway, maybe it was all the road crossings or sightseeing, but I was about 20 seconds/mile off the pace. I've been getting endless niggles from running on hard, slopping pavements and have been running much less than I should be... I can't see how I'm going to run London in sub-3.30. Let alone faster than last year. The only option left to me (the only one which lets me save face that is) is to run in a meerkat costume. No one could expect a PB in those circumstances, right? Or maybe I can blame Paris? Will they let me back?

Internet coutersy of The Frog and British Library on the cool side of the Bibliothèque National de France

courir à Paris

2010-03-15T12:52:00.003Z

Crossing the road in Paris is extraordinarily difficult. The Homme Vert lights up, you take a step out... and have to leap out of the way of a speeding vehicle. I've been conducting research into this and it seems that the drivers of Paris have decided en masse to ignore pedestrian crossings. In fact I have a sneaking suspicion that they are actually in competition to see who can knock over the most pedestrians in one day.

So where does one go to run? Last weekend I went out to the Bois de Boulogne and, although it's a great place to run, I wanted to run nearer the flat. Located in the 15th, it's within a mile of the Champs de Mars (the park in front of the Eiffel Tower). The Champs de Mars is only about 1.5 miles around but it has a great atmosphere for running. In the evening it's where the fittest-looking runners go to do speedwork. At the weekends runners of all shapes and sizes make use of the firm dirt park. It's also pretty cool to run in the shadow of the Tour.

I had decided to make a long run out of laps of the Champs de Mars and the jardins des Tuileries (on the other side of the river, to the West of the Louvre). Getting between the two meant sharpening the senses and taking on the traffic. Tuileries was packed with tourists, so gave me some practice for running in the crowds of the London Marathon.

However, jumping on and off pavements has left me with a damaged ligament in my left foot. Merde. So no running today and back to the Champs de Mars speedwork on Tuesday. J'espère.

Losing Grip (but gaining a t-shirt)

2010-02-28T20:18:00.003Z

I like plans, structure, data... geeky stuff.

Stuff like weather and illness and injury can ruin it all.

For the last London I was über disciplined, I followed Jez's schedule and put aside almost everything for training. This year has been a little different.

Things were going well, I was up on long run distance and building up the lost fitness. There was the Tortoise and Hare which went well and a few decent hilly long runs (one went up and down so much the total elevation was close to that of a munro!). Then I got a cold. A bad cold. But it was just a cold. One long run and a few asthma attacks later and it was a chest infection.

My Peak Flow metre readings were pretty rubbish. I thought about it a while before trying to get a doctor's appointment. I ended up on steroids (the wrong kind) and antibiotics with the strict instruction not to even think about running. Or, added the doctor as an afterthought, going out on my bike.

Within 24 hours I had realised that this didn't mean I couldn't train on my bike indoors.

The first few sessions were pretty poor as I had a bit of a temperature and couldn't really breathe. Then I discovered the Doctor Who fartlek. I can't get enough of this, even though, as Iron Man superstar Graeme Stewart has pointed out, it's not particularly structured. But it did win me a t-shirt ;) see: graemestewart

But I'm leaving my bike behind (I've not broken the news to him yet) next week and heading to Paris to spend quality time with Latin books printed between 1500 and 1540. I'm away for a month so no iPlayer (for the Doctor Who) and no Trekkie (the bike). Hopefully the marathon schedule will get back on track along the Seine.

Granddad Eric 1917-2010

2010-02-24T15:36:00.011Z

One of the greatest inspirations in my life has been my Granddad. Born on 20th October, 1917, to a life of fly-by-night poverty (but not misery), he learned, from the determination of his father and the versatility of his Italian mother that anything was possible.

His father David Aylott, senior was a pioneer of the British film industry (he made his first film over a century ago: see details on the Internet Movie Database). Eric and his big brother David (IMDB confuses David Aylotts senior and junior) followed their father into the business, working as make-up artists and - by all accounts - anything else the films required, including extras.

Eric's post-war films (Eric and David served with the RAF):

Village of the Damned (1960) (makeup artist)
Follow That Horse! (1960) (makeup artist)
School for Scoundrels (1960) (makeup artist)
... aka School for Scoundrels or How to Win Without Actually Cheating (UK: long title)
Operation Bullshine (1959) (makeup artist)
Look Back in Anger (1959) (makeup artist)
Alive and Kicking (1959) (makeup artist)
Ice-Cold in Alex (1958) (makeup artist)
... aka Desert Attack (USA)
The Moonraker (1958) (makeup artist)
The Young and the Guilty (1958) (makeup artist)
Small Hotel (1957) (makeup artist)
Brothers in Law (1957) (makeup artist)
Lucky Jim (1957) (makeup artist)
The House of the Arrow (1953) (makeup artist)
Cairo Road (1950) (makeup artist)
The Hasty Heart (1949) (assistant makeup artist) (uncredited)
... aka Hasty Heart (USA: poster title)
Landfall (1949) (makeup artist)
Brighton Rock (1947) (assistant makeup artist) (uncredited)
... aka Young Scarface (USA)

The brothers' realised that success in life required a willingness to adapt and figure out solutions. They were blessed with a liberal dose of ingenuity, which led, ultimately, to the creation of the world's first ready-to-wear false eyelashes in the 1940s and the founding of their make-up company Eylure. By the 1960s their eyelashes had hit the mainstream and anyone could get their little bit of Hollywood glamour. My Granddad got a great deal of pleasure from creating beauty and from transforming ordinary life. Making up a cleaning lady into a Hollywood star was as much fun as working with Elizabeth Taylor or Sophia Loren.

His stories, of which there are a great many, often revolved around a crux, a problem overcome. A burnt cork rubbed on a bald head served (from a distance) instead of artificial hair for a bald man who had to jump into water. The eyelashes were the natural progression of his and his brother's phenomenal ingenuity.

The last time I visited his house I noticed that my 92 year old granddad had wedged a piece of card behind the lower side of a mirror hung up behind the mirror over his basin. This provided a 360 degree view of his head (normally two mirrors opposite one another give only one side at a time), thus overcoming the stiffness of his neck. Proud to the last, my Granddad always dressed impeccably.

The most noticeable aspect of his stories was that he and his siblings and friends were always up to something. He recently told Mum and I of a young boy who he had to (whilst still a youngster himself) 'take under his wing' because no-one had yet taught him how to go apple scrumping. Other stories included the nettles and the communal toilet, which I won't go into and the time that a bunch of them got stopped by the police because they had tried to sell their car to a man at a garage whilst on the way to see - with view to purchasing - another car. Overexcited by their adventure they had come across as plain shifty.

Although quite capable of getting himself into trouble (when he was abroad with the RAF neighbourhood misdemeanours were still laid at his mother's door: 'it was thy Eric!'), his curiosity and innate friendliness saw him led astray by pretty much every film star he worked with. Richard Burton had a particular knack for getting my Granddad in trouble. On one occasion this played out in a week-long evening snooker tournament in a London pub near where they were filming, that the two of them had no chance of winning. As their losses mounted (in the form of having to buy pints for the locals) Richard's desire to play increased. Granddad did not let him down and on the final night they won. The locals had no idea who these daft gluttons for punishment were.

Many of these stories were retold over lunch or at his sister's house on a Saturday morning. The two of them gleefully recalling their halcyon days. After his elder sister's death in January he announced 'she's left me carrying the can'. At the wake he joked that he had better have a word with the priest. Last rites.

With his passing a great dynasty has come to a close. All the children and grandchildren have gone in different directions. Granddad never really understood why I would want to run marathons (although visitors were made to look at the photos!) and he found the idea of me teaching undergraduates side splitting. From his perspective I was barely older than them. What is 10 years when you're in your nineties? But I think he was proud of me and I was - and am - certainly proud of him.

This photo was taken just after I learnt to swim (a full length without arm bands). He had had the cup engraved ready...

I miss him, and will always miss him, but he gave me the greatest gift possible. He taught me that anything is possible. Anything.

Esio Trot and the Speedy Hare

2010-02-08T14:10:00.003Z

Despite waking to grim drizzly weather, I was looking forward to the Tortoise and Hare relay. Not least because I had secured myself a very speedy hare in the shape of Neil Young. Neil is a triathlete but is concentrating on running at the moment as he's in the championship race at the London Marathon. That means he'll be running with the Kenyans...

The bit I wasn't looking forward to was the running home afterwards. It's good to practice running on tired legs. Apparently. So the plan was to make a 'long run' session out of a race and a slow run. I like long runs but not in the rain, and not carrying my race kit on my back. But since it was forecast to rain on Sunday (and Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday (ad infinitum)) anyway I thought I might as well get wet just the once.

Neil and I arrived early at Giffordtown where it was still raining. I attempted to defrost my feet on the radiator in the girls' toilet. Neil set off early to check out the course. I hung about in the hall as long as possible before donning a bin bag (I had remembered to put a head hole in it this time but not arms) and jogging off towards the woods. The start was 0.6 miles away, which I wasn't expecting and, as it wasn't visible until the last minute, I contemplated panicking.

I got there in plenty of time and caught up with Jennifer (sometime nemesis, although I suspect she is faster now) and Mary 'Yak' Hunter. Neil told me that the course was 1.8M per lap. Turned out he lied, but only by a bit. I clocked 1.91 the first time and 1.94 the second. I asked Mary: who, out of her and Peter was the real tortoise? She replied: 'I am a bona fide toilet'. I suspect she had other things on her mind.

The hares went first, and went fast. After the first turn I could see Neil at the front, stretching out the field. After just ten and a half minutes of running (through a light bog) Neil came barreling down the finishing straight. His pace carried him a good way along with me as I headed off alone. Very alone. Running at the front of a pack is rare for a woman (in a mixed race), rarer still for a Tiny Runner. I wasn't quite sure how to do it. I opted for somewhere beyond the lactate threshold and glanced back every time a turn in the course afforded a good view of my chasers. A boy in a red top appeared from nowhere and skipped passed, revelling in the mud. I was caught at the line by Jennifer and handed over to Neil who charged off after the red top boy's hare. I had caught my breath but failed on my quest to locate sugar (despite Carolyn's assistance) by the time Neil returned (faster than the first lap!). He had pulled us back into a good lead. I doubted I was safe from red top boy but was determined to hold onto second.

I decided to press hard over the first half mile. Generally if people can't see you they won't chase you. I eased back a little on the hill as my breathing was getting very laboured. Some Fifers loomed out of the forest and told me to keep the pressure on. I tried to work out who I was supposed to be pressuring. I was about to find out. With 0.7 miles to go I pushed for home, expecting Jennifer to be gaining on me. At no point had I seen the small boy who had arrived on my heels. That would be the pressure thing then... 30m from the line I heard someone breathing behind me. No time to look I ran full tilt, I didn't want to undo all of Neil's hard work.

We finished second. Happy.

I put my bin bag back on to jog back to the hall. Jez made a comment about my not being able to afford a jacket. I had good reason for the bin bag. I wanted to keep the clothes I was running back in as dry as possible.

We were amongst the first back, so got first pick of the cakes and hot drinks. I'm not normally a post-run cake fan, but I made an exception as I wasn't finished yet.

After the prize giving (where I actually won a prize!!) I got a lift back as far as Cupar from Jez. Jez drove through Cupar and out the other side before letting me out. Something about being a responsible therapist...

Dog Tired

I adjusted my back pack, set my watch and headed homeward. From the first step my quads felt heavy, like I was running in mud.

Nine miles to the house door. Not far. But I had 2*2 miles at race pace and 2M of warm up/down in my legs to start with. Within a mile I had eased into 8.30 mins/mile but by Diarsie I was nearer 9 mins/mile. I picked up again nearing Guardbridge and enjoyed stretching out down the hill. Then I lolloped along the coastal path until I ran slap bang into the wall. Since there wasn't much I could do about it, and I didn't want to injure myself or make myself ill, I eased back to 10 mins/mile and toddled along, vaguely comfortable, giving my body time to metabolise fat. About a mile and a half out something kicked back in. The wall was down, my spirits up. I bounced off.

When I got home I was surprised to feel the weight of my back pack as I swung it off. I decided to weigh it: 3.5kg.

I then decided to make an attempt on my body weight in pasta. Sadly I wasn't successfully, but not for lack of trying.

In hindsight I suppose I will have to admit that Jez, as usual, was right. Another mile would have been a mile too far.

Postscript

Although a bit sore on Sunday I didn't have DOMS. I'm wondering if the 9M warm down had anything to do with it?? Anyone know?

Devil's Burdens Hill Relay

2010-01-26T13:15:00.005Z

560m ascent.
6.66 miles
1:35:35

After my first marathon I knew, straight away, that I would run another. After leg 3 of Fife AC's Devil's Burdens I swore never again.

I got a lift with Ron M and attempted to pick his brains about hill running. The fact that a semi-fit road-runner was about to take on leg 3 of Devil's Burdens seemed to amuse him greatly (and frequently). I began to have doubts about what I'd let myself in for. It was only 6.4 miles, right? What with the hills in the way, maybe 1hr 30mins. Bogs and snow should add another 8-10mins. Then I could run back along the leg 4 route to the hall and eat soup happy in the knowledge that I was progressing nicely along the marathon schedule...

Right.

I had been given a rather speedy chaperone (John, many thanks!) who took off out of the dell at a worrying pace. He dove straight off the path, looking back over his shoulder: 'well, we've got to go up. Might as well go now'. I followed. I struggled.

John bounced up ahead, occasionally checking I was still there. Sod the 'imaginary rope' I wanted a real rope.

We came out of the woods and set off across the fells.

'This way' said John, heading a good way left of the line of runners ahead of us. I followed. Having studied the map (and committed it to my Garmin's generally more reliable memory) I was pretty sure we were closer to the route than those already heading up Whitecraigs.

I picked up the pace as the ground leveled out and was promptly advised to take it easier. Sound advice at this point.

Road running with occasional track or grass or sand does not, cannot, prepare you for this kind of ground. Clumps of heather, that gave or didn't, underfoot; unseen bogs... then there was the snow that had crusted over in parts. This meant running like a cartoon villain to try to stay on top. Then the inevitable disappearing leg trick. I was so busy picking my way across the quagmire that I had almost forgotten that there were two summits ahead.

John was still gamboling happily ahead, pausing every so often to check I was okay. Not once did he look frustrated at my slower pace. Quite the gentleman. Even in fact when overtaken by pals!

The first ascent was pretty tough, but the second, up West Lomond, was a kind of hell. Sections were so steep that my feet and legs couldn't create an angle acute enough and I had to grip handfuls of heather. Before even reaching the false summit my calves felt like they were ripping into strips like that stringy, plasticy, cheese that I can't remember the name of. John began cajoling me with promises of reducing time: 5 minutes then it's downhill all the way home!

With the summit came a wave of joy which was swept aside as I saw what I had to go down. Quite sheer. Very uneven. I let the controlled falling begin. I was passed by men I'd fought out the ascent with. Now that was NOT fair. I found a decent section of snow and flung myself down it. Snow I understand.

Although relieved of the calf pain the traverse meant that my ankles were turning over on themselves. Twice I stopped dead as pain shot up the sides of my shins. Finally we were down and on the track.

As we turned the corner in the forest I recognised the track and knew I could push home. We picked up the pace (on a slight descent) to sub-7 minute miles. John was finally able to stretch his legs a bit! Then I was faced with an incline. It was a very small incline but the body has memory. It was like I'd hit the wall. My body was suddenly very, very heavy. I thought about the gel in my pocket. I saw John gaining distance and knew I was beat. Then the guy who had trodden on my hand (and not apologised) at the top of West Lomond passed me. Now that was not going to be allowed. Teeth gritted, deeper breath, I pressed on again. John and I came down the hill at full tilt. On crossing the line I hit the brakes and gasped half blinded. NEVER AGAIN.

After my sojourn on the hills I was a dirty muppet but a kind Innes still gave me a lift back to the hall (so much for running back).

Later it turned out that the other runners heading up Whitecraigs were amongst the trend setters who went the wrong way.

Later it also turned out that I forgot the excruciating pain and decided that there was unfinished business up there... Maybe I will do it again.

en mal estado

2009-12-30T08:49:00.008Z

I left the snow and cold of Scotland in Scotland and travelled south to The Parents for Christmas. This has had a good impact on my return to running.

The parental unit live on the side of a hill, so all running from the house is hill running. I like to go out the back of the estate on to the road which is en mal estado; 'in a bad way' is a rather sweet expression to warn drivers that a small car could be lost forever in one of the potholes. Last summer the road (which descends into track after about a mile) wasn't quite this bad but the torrential rains brought by the storm of a few weeks back (really torrential) has made a mockery of an already amusing road sign.

In many ways my running has been en mal estado of late. But running in the warmer climate is helping me get back on my feet (so to speak).

I decided to attempt a medium long run for the first time since I was ill. I ran down the hill from the parents, across the valley, over the (smaller) hill and out to the sea at the Arenal. After 5.6 miles I met up with Mum and we ran together in a loop that finished along the front of the Arenal beach. Glorious! The sun was beginning to set in oranges and pinks against the Montgo as we walked to cool down. On the cool down we met The World's Smallest Puppy wrapped in a cashmere shawl and shown off by proud parents. Puppies leave their mummies much younger in Spain and it can be a bit of a shock to see them trotting about when they are so ridiculously small. I suppose 'in the wild' it would be much the same.

Our own dogs were back home, after their morning beach adventure at Denia beach (where dogs are allowed in winter) and, possibly because of a recent surge in the number and length of walks and runs, they were en mal estado.

the sea came in

2009-12-15T15:22:00.003Z

For once I had decided to be sensible. I had done exactly what Jez told me to do, slowly upping my post-sickness mileage week-by-week. This meant that yesterday was my first 'proper' training session in forever.

Meetings and marking meant I couldn't get out before 4pm, and it was already getting dark... I wound through town and around the cathedral ruins for a mile before reaching the beach, where it was light enough to make out that there was a crescent, about 450m long that wasn't too soggy.

I measured out 400m. Put down my bottle and jogged away, then ran hard back. After two reps it was warm enough to remove a layer (I had gone out in 4 layers...) so I put my jacket with the bottle. After six reps it was pretty dark but I could follow my footprints back and forth so I continued. I pressed harder on the eighth rep (it was the fastest of the set) and reached - gasping - for my bottle. It was beginning to float. My jacket was soaked. The tide had come in.

The fact that I actually found this almost funny told me more about my training session than the Garmin data. This was the best session I had had since the whole Dundee Hospital Thing. I went back to the office invigorated.

Here's hoping it is the beginning of a return to form...

Free Fruit Box

2009-12-08T11:01:00.004Z

Anyone want a free box from Graze?

Enter this code: Y2X8JT1N
Here:

Okay, I admit it... I have become slightly obsessed with this.

It's either that or sulk about still being a Rubbish Runner :(

Sunshine and fruit boxes

2009-12-04T14:40:00.003Z

Fabulous weather today, I ran out along the back of West Sands, amongst the oyster catchers, before returning along the beach. I should've worn sunglasses, but not wearing them meant that I could appreciate the fact that is was sunny enough to need sunglasses on a December lunchtime in Scotland.

Got back to find my first box from Graze. Great excitement.

White grapes, red grapes, dried morello cherries and pitted kalamata olives with herbs.

Excellent timing as I have the remaining chocolates from the quiz-by-chocolate sitting on the shelf behind me.

The red grapes met their maker before this post was finished...

All New Me, Maybe

2009-12-03T13:32:00.004Z

Okay so I've decided to put a stop to all the baking. Well after this weekend, or maybe Christmas... In the hope of achieving healthier, running-focused energy I have signed up for one of these to be delivered every week:

First one is coming tomorrow and I am SO ridiculously overexcited. You grade the ingredients on the website and they send you stuff you like, only you don't know what you're getting until you open the box. This is WAY better than an advent calendar. [image above is clickable]

I decided to start practising my new healthy eating regime yesterday by ending my beach run at the grocery shop at the West Port end of South Street. By the time I got back to the office I had eaten the dates, an apple, a fig, and one of the pears. Add to that the tomato and avocado in my brown bread, prawn, avocado and tomato roll at lunch and I'd surpassed the target set by our lovely Nanny State by 4pm. Yay me.

Unfortunately there are a few too many days when there is neither time nor inclination to visit the grocers... Not-So-Yay me.

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

2009-11-30T18:05:00.005Z

Silence in Blog-sphere is never good. The silence of a blogging runner suggests that they're not running, and if a runner isn't running what are they doing? Indeed what are they?

First I picked up injury upon niggling injury until running was simply out of the question. This led to an increase in cycling... Then that started to hurt too... Then I woke up in the night screaming in pain and got a ride in an ambulance to Dundee Hospital.

W.B. Yeats wrote 'Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold' and, propped up, drugged down, in Accident and Emergency I replied to news that I would probably have to have my gall bladder out with a horrified 'but I'm running the London Marathon in April!'. The centre fell through. The A&E doctor looked utterly nonplussed, pointing out that April was a long way away...

THE SECOND COMING

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

W. B. Yeats

Anyway, as it happened, I spent a week in Dundee before they decided that they weren't going to operate (although there was a 'yet' somewhere in the conversation) but informed me that I also had gastritis. That explained why I hadn't been able to eat anything (not even soup) all week.

I left hospital tired, still pretty sick and all too aware of how fast my body was de-training itself. In fact it took to de-training with an alarming alacrity.

But who is a runner when she isn't running? What does a runner do with the time and energy normally burnt up on the beaches of St Andrews?

Bizarrely, it turned out that this runner is a baker of cakes and cookies. Stage one was an obsessive perfecting of marble cake; stage two a brief foray into brownies, stage three was (indeed is) the lebkuchen... I force fed my friends, colleagues and housemates, wondering slightly guiltily whether I was breaking the ice of subconscious glaciers and thinking along the lines of: 'if I'm going to get slightly softer around the edges, I'm taking you all down with me'.

I am baking a little less of late and running a little more. I am working on the centre, making sure it can hold. I started with 'runs' of two miles with a walk break in the middle and built up, over 20 days, to today's 4-miler with strides. Not a marathon, but it's a start...

Honestly Mum, it's not far...

2009-10-02T22:05:00.014+01:00

The day before Mum was due to arrive in Scotland I walked past Spokes and noticed a secondhand Bianchi ladies' road bike. By the time Mum arrived my machinations were complete.

I was still fulfilling my promise to show Mum the Fife coastline, only I expected her to follow me under her own steam. No tandems Mum, oh no!

Mum hadn't sat on a bike in a year or so, and never on a road bike. After a very quick adjustment period she was off. We followed the coastline around to Anstruther and stopped for lunch.

Mum treated herself to a rare ice cream

We wandered around the harbour (actually Mum walked, I wobbled on my heels because I was wearing cleats) looking at boats. Then we found an Irish Bear:

He was so big he didn't fit in the camera frame...

Then I made Mum cycle all the way home.

What I didn't know was that Mum had plans of her own.

The following day we headed out to Lochearnhead for a punishing schedule of fun: hill walking, and jumping recklessly from tree tops.

The latter made less reckless by the harness and the fact that it was organised monkey fun. On the monkey theme, I snapped this little guy at the Scottish Wildlife Centre:

Where we also compared the meercats:

and then there were two!

A holiday in Scotland in September? Simples!

First Monster Duathlon - Part II

2009-09-13T17:38:00.013+01:00

We walked down to the side of the Loch and drank tea whilst waiting for the R.I.B. to return. The ride on the boat was thrilling. I was very happy to learn that Lorraine was also treated to a boat ride (which wasn't in the race brief). Her driver must have enjoyed himself as she tells me that all the passengers (led astray by Lorraine, I suspect) urged him to go faster...

Bike Transition (the lack of people is due to my speedy team mates - the field spreads out across the course very quickly as competitors are moved around the course pretty quickly after finishing their run leg).

My New Pals:

Arriving at the transition area I went to find my bike. It was there (which was fortunate) and it was un-chipped (which was pleasing). I loaded my bottle, attached my inhaler with purloined tape (second use of first aider of the day), then went and got some food. Everyone seemed happy and relaxed in the sunshine. The atmosphere had more of that of a festival than of a race. This changed as news that the leaders were on their way reached us. I quickly changed kit and collected my bike. The field was pretty spread out at the front and Lorraine appeared rather unexpectedly. Her number had been obscured so I didn't get the 2 minute warning that I was anticipating.

The cycle began with a long climb, made worse by the fact that the incoming cyclists (still completing the previous leg) were clearly having a great time zooming downhill. The route then looped down onto the marathon route and the memories, mostly fond, of My First Marathon came flooding back. The sharp little undulations tested my tired legs, but the fact that the promised 16km turned out to be over 18km tested my heart. I cycled like I've never cycled before, knowing that my team mate was waiting ahead to take the team home.

The sign for transition came suddenly and I hit the brakes. I managed to get my shoes out the cleats, tangled my bike in long grass as I ran next to it, dropped it, and ran for Colin. The transition was downhill. I didn't slow up. I handed over our timer and took out a steward. I was done. Colin was off.

I went back to my poor bike and apologised.

I made it back to the stadium and meet up with Andy and Colin. Lorraine was yet to get back. It turned out that after her leg, the competitors were taken back across the Loch by aforementioned speedboat, then transported back to the stadium by bus on the north side of the Loch (thus avoiding too much traffic on the route that cyclists were still racing on). However, because the teams were spread out, and the fact that the bus driver refused to leave without a full load, she was going to have a very long wait. But Lorraine saw a car and ran towards it. Inside was Gavin Hastings. She asked if she could have a lift and jumped in.

The whole team ran and cycled well and all were pleased with our performance. We were less pleased with the hour-long beer queue. I decided to 'do a Lorraine'. I walked up the line and found 'My New Pals' (see above photo). They very generously agreed to order our beers too. We sat in the sunshine (yes, non-Scottish readers, it was STILL SUNNY) drinking beer and sharing crisps before heading home. Happy.

And a very happy Colin...

First Monster Duathlon - Part I

2009-09-13T09:53:00.011+01:00

The First Monster Duathlon consists of 120k relay around Loch Ness, starting and finishing at Inverness.

After the heavy rain of the preceding week we were blessed with beautiful sunshine.

Andy set us off at 7am with a fine 8.85km run, largely along the Great Glen Way; he handed over to Lorraine who continued for 8km through the moorland section.

Whilst the majority of runners at my transition were ambling around with cups of coffee and danish pastries, I trusted to my teams' time predictions and started warming up. With 250 runners still waiting for their team mates, Lorraine swept into the transition area and I was off.

The early morning wait at transition meant my feet were frozen and as I headed off up the 2km climb, my breath clouding in the still-chilled morning air, the soles of my feet felt oddly round. They took 5km to defrost.

The 12.2km route dropped sharply after the initial climb and the steep downhill sections were rocky and took a lot of concentration. I went over on my ankle several times. Going into the forest the dappling early morning sunlight made it harder to see the ground and I stepped on an imaginary rock crossing a river. Naturally I was a little surprised by the lack of resistance provided by said imaginary rock. Despite these technicalities I was aware of the truly fabulous scenery and took the time to greet the Highland Coo who was standing at the fence, leaning out to look up the path for more runners (boy was he in for a good day - there were 250+ behind me).

After the very fast downhill run I hit the 4km road section which began with a gentle incline. The sudden decrease in speed seemed to shock my legs and they felt heavy and slow. I was horrified by how slowly I was running, sure I had 'hit the wall' until I looked at my watch and found I was still under 8 mins/mile. I took a gel - more for psychological reasons than physical - and pressed on hard after the runner ahead. I tried and tried, but didn't quite get him before the transition. Colin was ready and waiting, I handed over and sat down heavily on the grass. The ever-brilliant first aiders, who had so far had little to do, fed me glucose. I eventually found my way to the bus and clambered on. I looked around, there were some seriously fit people on that bus. I felt a little intimidated. The bus took us out to Urquhart Castle. Meanwhile Colin was flying along his 16km run, which the organisers, rightly, describe as 'a really tough run'.

The glucose had hit my blood stream and, on arrival at the Castle, excited about the forthcoming boat ride, I queued up with the boys to get my photo taken with the Page 3 models provided by The Sun. I took photos of the trebuchet and made lots of New Friends. We travelled across Loch Ness by R.I.B. It was a real adrenaline rush. The competitive side of me was pleased that everyone on my cycle leg would also have used a load of adrenaline on the water.

Part II to Follow, including: Photos from the boat ride; the bike stages; and how Lorraine got a ride in Gavin Hasting's car...

Run Bike Swim?

2009-09-07T18:49:00.005+01:00

My runs are pretty short at the moment. Under 10 miles! But the shins are holding up and the hamstrings, though tight, haven't screamed too loudly yet. The lack of contact lenses is still proving problematic. I nearly ran into the side of a car, which - rather belatedly - I realised was occupied by a waving historian. To my defence I add the fact that he had stopped in the middle of the pavement (presumably wondering why I wasn't returning the wave).

I decided to try a different route on the bike this weekend. Don't worry, I have GPS. It's another 30-miler but with an additional 500ft of ascent. Bad idea. Really, really tough route. I swear I never got to do the descent bit!

But I did get a new Animal of The Week, a veritable poster child for the Samaritans. He was a stunning, polished liver-brown pine marten who zigged and zagged in front of me in a bizarrely suicidal fashion until I told him he was too beautiful to die. At which point he stopped, looked at me quizzically, then darted into the undergrowth.

Sadly no pictures of Mr Pine Marten, instead I offer you a picture of a river attempting to swallow a town. There used to be a bank and everything. The potential for triathlon training was (just) outweighed by that of drowning...

But I get up again...

2009-08-30T14:42:00.005+01:00

The shins had been taking their time to heal, so for a few weeks now my Sunday long run has been a ride.

30 undulating miles on Fife back roads.

The route starts with a 10km climb, before descending into the valley and climbing straight back out again. It then winds its way across the hills towards the sea which comes into and out of view tantalisingly before the route swings around onto the main coastal road, with the sea sitting faithfully on the right.

Today's ride was truly exhilarating, or at least the second half was, the cloud cover eased off towards the coast and the combine harvesters were busy giving the golden fields a crew cut. I suspect that they will turn the pretty gold fields into chunked mud before next weekend. Quite why they feel the need to turn the soil so rapidly after harvesting, I have no idea. They always do though.

Busy with my musings I caught up with a car. No really. He was probably looking for 'The Secret Bunker'. It's not really all that secret, he needn't have been crawling so slowly. It's fully signposted. Frankly I think they should make it more exciting and just provide potential visitors with a grid reference.

Anyway, I have recently upgraded my pedals for clips-ins. This means that my feet are firmly attached to the bike. Good and bad. The benefits include a massive improvement in cycling economy, greater speed, easier climbs, more stability.

The downside, the obvious downside, is that your feet are firmly attached to the pedals. When approaching a junction you must twist you heel out and away to free a foot ready to balance as you draw to a stop. This is fine, so long as you don't then lean the other way, a hazard made more likely if you look down at the foot you are trying to free... This has happened three times (two of them outside my own house), but each time, quite impossibly, I have freed the other foot whilst falling and hopped ungracefully back to balance, dragging my bike with me.

Whilst cruising on the easy undulations on the road to Crail I saw a herd of deer with two birds of prey circling above. I pulled up to watch, un-clipped my right foot and promptly fell over to the left. Fortunately this meant landing on grass. It had to be done, and I'm pleased to have got it out of the way.

Tour of Fife 2009, or 'Why I Run...'

2009-08-03T11:25:00.005+01:00

This was before I'd taken the skin off my knees...

Before the Chariots Race.

Tour of Fife - Arso Vertitus

2009-08-02T17:58:00.003+01:00

The final day of the Tour of Fife. Already a vague sense of sadness...

The race is named Arso Vertitus as most of the 904ft of ascent (and descent) happens over about a mile and a half. Runners rarely practice downhill running, yet are unwilling to concede places as they thunder down the hillside largely out of control. I decided to try out the race name before the start of the race. Running sideways (with alternating leg cross-overs) may have saved me from The Stitch, but today it nearly took me out of the running (hah!) altogether. I hit a speed bump (why was it in the forest anyway??) and went for a flying lesson. I thought I must have done some serious damage as there was a worried looking crowd gathering. Knees felt bruised and had a few little grit holes in but minimal blood. Nikki hauled me to my feet. I continued my warm up on the grass.

As the race started I could feel the scraped knees stinging each time I bent my knees but I had a greater problem to concern myself with in the form of Scottish Hill Runner, Jocelyn Scott. I had just over 2 minutes on her overall but I knew that this was her race. Not only is she quick on the way up, but she descends like a mountain goat. I knew I had to keep her in range as long as possible. She had a storming race and beat me easily. I don't know yet by how much...

As always with the Tour, mini races develop throughout the week. I picked out my nemesis - a Carnegie Harrier who I beat at the Alloa half marathon by 5 minutes or so - at the beginning and repeatedly failed to catch her. I hoped that my endurance training would pay off as the week progressed but it wasn't to be. There were other women nearer in the series than her, but the Harriers' vests (luminous green and orange) are both memorable and asking for trouble..

I managed not to hold anyone's hand in the pitch-black tunnel this year, but - as last year - my shoelace came undone and I lost 2 places retying it. I got one back before the end.

The downhill sprint sent shock waves through my shins but I cut my losses and kept going. I tried copying Jocelyn's long stride and low arms but didn't seem to go any faster. The regained place came in the final, flatter stretch, the second remained just out of reach at the line.

It has been hard, some bits have hurt so much I've wanted to cry and for a brief moment today I wondered if you can get lactic acid poisoning, but, overall I've had a fantastic time. The tour is really tough but it is also a great social occasion, perhaps because of that. Traumatic events tend to bring strangers together...

A mention is due to Jennifer Cruickshanks, at fifteen the youngest runner in the Tour. She kept me on my toes the first couple of races and then held out remarkably through the rest of the Tour, beating many fully-fledged grown ups (including men) into the bargain. Apparently there were also two septuagenarians this year, so a humble congratulations to them too.

Tour of Fife - Run Forest Run

2009-08-01T19:37:00.005+01:00

"And I figured, since I run this far, maybe I'd just run across the great state of Alabama. And that's what I did. I ran clear across Alabama"

After last night's rain and general misery I was relieved to see that it was going to be warm and dry by 2pm.

I woke early and struggled to eat. I opted for Maximuscle bars. They are, as my PhD supervisor declared, 'actually rather nice'.

I collected Alex and Andrew from Fife Park and headed over to Tentsmuir. Alex was left in charge of the car keys whilst Andrew and I headed off for a 1M warm up. We went through the dynamic warm up together, although I opted out of anything which hurt my shins. My shins were pretty sore today and I probably shouldn't have raced in the Fastwitch trainers (lightweight and less cushioned) but I appreciated their drainage capability when I sloshed into an unseen puddle.

I started slower than normal but found it reasonably easy to move back up the field. Worries about the shins - and the pain - faded quickly.

Alex handed me a lucozade as I headed off into lap two (that's what I'm after in the photo) I took a couple of swigs then chucked it as Alex had promised to pick it up - and did. I was running with a completely different set of people, some so-far-faster, some slower. The accumulating tiredness seems to impact runners in different ways.

With 1.5 miles to go I decided to try and see how many names of Tour de France cyclists I could remember... The plan was to keep my pace for the next mile and then use up anything left. Hence finding ways to distract myself until then. The pack I was in the middle of didn't seem to be breaking up and I wasn't confident enough to deviate from plan A. Then Nikki passed on the hard shoulder and, worried that there might be a secret Mark Cavendish waiting to take us by surprise in the last 400m, I went with her. Everyone around me seemed to go for home at the final corner and I was surprised to find myself pulling away.

I crossed the line, shook a few hands then collapsed on the grass.

Alex arrived a few minutes later and hauled me to my feet. Along with Andrew we collected sandwiches and snacks from the car and headed for the beach. Having decided to paddle, it didn't take long before Andrew and I went one step further and decided to swim - in running kit. The North Sea is bloody cold, but oddly exhilarating. No doubt my shins appreciated it. We jogged to warm back up, or possibly down, then tucked into the sandwiches in the sun.

I had a really enjoyable day - even the racing!

Tour of Fife - Up Hell Time Trial

2009-07-31T15:59:00.004+01:00

Long is the way
And hard, that out of Hell leads up to Light.

John Milton, Paradise Lost

DOMS - Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. Just thought I'd put that one out there.

Last year my Garmin broke and I had to guess at time and speed. This year I kind of wish it had.

Between races 1 and 2 I climbed 8 places. I went into tonight's race 31 seconds behind my nearest rival. But within 20 seconds behind me were 2 more women...

After tonight I suspect I'll have dropped back a few.

I sat in the car with the heating on as long as possible, hoping the rain would ease or stop. Rain clouds were billowing around the top of East Lomond. I felt just like I did at last year's Arso Vertitus when Stevie Boy had to use reverse psychology simply to get me out of the car.

Jogging down the hill can be really demoralising because it concentrates the mind on how far you have to come back up again... Fortunately, chatting to Nikki (erstwhile marathon training partner) kept me from thinking too much on it.

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of heav'n.

(Milton again)

Nikki proved helpful on the way up too. She had set off just before me and I caught her up 650m from the top: she responded to my plea - 'come with me' - and helped me keep pressing into the gloom. The sound of the finish reached us before the rain allowed us sight. Nikki pulled away. I tried to chase but my lungs started to tighten up. My legs turned to jelly as I gasped and wheezed across the line.

I hadn't taken my inhaler because I never get wheezy in wet weather. Lesson learnt (Mum, if you're reading this I promise not to do it again!). Ally walked me back to the car, talking me into staying calm (hard to do when you can't breathe). Every time I started to panic she reminded me to breathe slowly. It made all the difference.

I recovered quite quickly and headed back to the start where I found Nikki wandering around in a wet shirt... I lent her a gillet until Robo came to her rescue.

Tonight my legs ache. They ache like I've been on an 18 or 20 mile training run. Tomorrow is flat and that makes life okay.

VLM - Any Act of God

2009-07-31T15:53:00.004+01:00

In this morning's post...

How do they define 'any act of God', legally speaking?

Tour of Fife - Chariots of Fire

2009-07-30T15:02:00.005+01:00

I was born in the year that the film, Chariots of Fire, was produced. Like Abrahams I went to Cambridge and like Liddell I (now) live in Scotland. I too have a penchant for running on West Sands. That's where the comparison ends, sadly. My feet are not as fleet. My faith not as firm.

I spent the afternoon filling the office with the uplifting music from the film in the hope it would inspire me to run faster. When I was actually racing I completely forgot about it...

After suffering last year in the deeper sand, I test ran various types of shoes in the weeks before the Tour, concluding that Walshes may be super fast on the hard stuff, but ordinary trainers keep you afloat in the soft stuff. Considering that my weakest point in races is the middle, and that is where the soft sand comes, I opted for the latter.

Despite bad memories of last year's windy slog, this year's race was actually pretty good. The sand was firm for the most part and the deep stuff wasn't as tough as I remembered. The wind was coming from the West, so was side-on for three quarters of the race. The conditions were, for West Sands, almost perfect.

To top off the great conditions I finally scored a point back from The Stitch. Before the race I was sure it was going to plague me, I did loads of sideways warm ups, covering over a mile before the race (obviously not all sideways). I have Ron to thank for the lack of Stitch and will be forever grateful, at least until it happens again.

My pace was fairly consistent, there was no saggy middle section this time, but I pressed for home a little too early when I mistook a photographer for the finish line (damn the lack of contact lenses, once again!). However by that time there were quite a few spectators and Pride kicked in, so I kept pressing for the line.

The course was 4-500m short but, as I finished 5 minutes faster than last year, I count that as a PB. Only William, my mini lop bunny, could take that long to cover a lap of the track.

All in all, I was happy as a William.

They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and be not weary...

Tour of Fife - Chicken Run

2009-07-29T22:02:00.005+01:00

My mission over the five races is to conquer The Stitch. Taking Ron's advice I pulled back the pre-race snack and had a Maximuscle Extreme Viper. I stopped drinking 40 minutes before the start. And found a secluded spot for a dynamic warm up, overlooked only by ponies who, no doubt, long ago concluded that humans were a bit daft anyway.

I had a bad start as I had positioned myself too far back and nearly got tangled up in someone's iPod wires. The race started downhill, which was extremely confusing as I'm pretty sure that I have never done a Fife AC race with a downhill start. This is also the first time EVER that I have wished there was less downhill. On Monday Jez informed me that my shins were sore because I have shin splints. After pointing out that doing the Tour was ill-advised, Jez knew me well enough to then show me how to strap up my shins for damage limitation.

Going along the path towards the woods my body seemed to recall the previous year when this race was the last and followed a steeper route. As we turned off that route onto the flat path towards the chicken farm I felt a sudden spring in my step. I suspect that it is the same feeling that Oliver (see previous post) gets when Mum parks near the vets' but then takes him for a walk on the beach.

As I neared the turn point the Speedy Boys started zooming passed in the other direction. I looked out for Steve, he was top ten. I started counting how many women were ahead before realising that the whole cancelling-my-contact-lenses-to-pay-for-my-bike thing has its disadvantages.

Turning for home gave me a real push but, as I repeatedly tried and failed to catch the woman in front of me, I began to have bad thoughts. Why don't I just stop? As I thought my watch beeped to announce another mile had passed. Only 2 miles to go. That's nothing! That's just a mile for each of the marathons I've run since the last Tour. With that psychological kick up the behind I pressed on, all thoughts of walking gone, a slight sense of shame remaining.

I ran harder at the final uphill stretch, knowing that, from the top, it was then downhill all the way.

I crossed the line in 37.08, completely spent but slightly annoyed at myself for not running faster.

I confess myself disappointed. I failed to spot a single chicken, let alone a flying rooster.

The shins seem to have survived. I live to race another day.

I don't want to put you off your tostado, but this is the first time I've seen a cockroach in one of these restaurants...

2009-07-22T11:09:00.005+01:00

Mum and I have got into a routine.

Budweiser (Norfolk Terrier) wakes me by head butting me in the stomach. I post him into the garden. Oliver (14yr-old Jack Russell Terrier) remains asleep. I drink 2 glasses of water and eat toast. I go back to bed for 20 minutes. Oliver wakes up and is ejected. I get changed.

Mum and I take the car to the coast, Javea offers us the Arenal promenade or the Port. We like both. I warm up, do intervals, am greeted or ignored by other runners, suffer in the heat, warm down, meet Mum. Then we find an open restaurant and order coffee and freshly-squeezed orange juice, and tostado con tomate. Sometimes Budweiser and Oliver come too. Oliver (a bit blind and a lot deaf) chases after other runners expecting them to be me. Oliver is obsessed with keeping his pack together. Budweiser is obsessed with chasing cats, of which there are many scrawny, vaguely feral specimens. That's why they don't always come too.

This morning I ran fartleks, then swam in the sea whilst Mum found a restaurant. This gave her ample time to explore the facilities. Arriving, I am greeted by: 'I don't want to put you off your tostado, but this is the first time I've seen a cockroach in one of these restaurants'. It doesn't put me off.

These are the precious hours before the hoards descend. There are dozens of runners; cyclists with smart bikes and all the kit who don't seem to be going particularly fast; old ladies swimming in tent-shaped costumes; sweepers and cleaners; skaters and walkers; dogs on leads and off; fishermen packing sardines into boxes of ice.

The sun dries my swimsuit in seconds. I enjoy my tostado.

I could get used to this.

Spanish Sun

2009-07-19T15:15:00.007+01:00

I have been slowly turning myself brown.

The tan lines mirror my running kit. With the Tour of Fife looming this, though a holiday, is no time to ease off the training. I have run over 56k since arriving last Sunday in temperatures as high as 38 degrees (in the shade). I have run from the casa, through the hills to the sea; I have run from the Arenal to the Port (and back); I have run through the woods by the windmills with a fabulous view; I have used the 650m-long coastal promenade for interval training; and I have run around the villas behind my parents' house. It is perhaps not surprising then that my tan is short-, socks- and top-shaped.

On one run from the Parents' to the Arenal I was given water by the Guardia Civil. You don't say no to the Guardia. They're the military wing of the police, or, rather, the police wing of the military. Anyway, they're scarey, but also - frequently - damned sexy. So two good reasons not to say no to water proffered out the car window.

Like Mother Like Daughter: Bouncing back from the broken collar bone, the Mother has joined me for stretches of our runs. She has come back faster. It is something of a pity that the Mother wasn't there for the Guardia. She likes them. Last year she was eyeing up two Guardia men on motorbikes outside Poppy's gym when a man leant out of a car window: 'What about me!'. It was the Dadman. Oops.

A final note before I go and find an inflatable to inflate and float upon with a cool, non-alcoholic San Migel (Tour of Fife looms). I have discovered how to DO front crawl. It has only taken over a quarter of a century. I credit the performance-enhancing (no doubt Rebecca-Adlington-disdained) Orca swimsuit that I got über cheap from Wiggle. Now I just need to find a triathlon that allows flippers and I'm away...

Newburgh 5

2009-07-09T10:15:00.013+01:00

Race descriptions can be misleading...

Newburgh 5: advertised as a 4.5-mile race.
My Garmin measured it as 4.64.
'mostly flat' = 161m of elevation over the course.

Still, since at least 3 miles were flat, I suppose the latter is accurate enough.

The queue to register stretched the length of the hall, up the corridor and out the door. Whilst waiting, Steve talked me out of wearing my new (orange!) Saucony 'Fastwitch' racing shoes, not because of the colour but because he had run the course before and knew that it wasn't exactly even underfoot.

At the start (after attempting a dynamic warm up) I got into a discussion with some of the other Fife AC girls and we came to the decision that our club vests were heavy and unflattering. Graham walked into this conversation, and sensibly turned it towards race strategy: line up on the right-hand side. This was good advice for the first, 90-degree turn.

It is not often that I say that I should have gone off faster, but, on this occasion, I should have gone off faster. The course very rapidly becomes a single-file track, which continues for close on a mile. I got stuck, frustrated, and promptly developed a stitch (despite the dynamic warm up!). As the path opened out I began dropping on and off the edge of the best path in order to try and creep up a few places. I passed Steve, Steve passed me. DG passed me and I tucked in behind him, I kept in touch for a minute or two, before he pulled away.

I was just beginning to enjoy the race in the cool evening sunshine when it turned onto the undulating climb and my quads began their familiar complaint. Up the last and steepest section of the climb I was overtaken by a super speedy Really Tiny Runner in a Fife AC vest. I think he was under 11. I stretched out on the downhill section, tripping on the ridge of mown meadow as I crossed to get a better line for the fast-approaching corner.

As we turned into the wind the Really Tiny Runner slowed. I told him to tuck in behind me as I passed and he did. I was accelerating to try to connect with the runners 20m ahead and lost my Really Tiny Runner.

Before long we were back on the single-track path. Tired, I kept part-turning my ankles on jutting stones. Each time the surprise (not the pain, which was negligible) made me cry out like a wounded dingo. The man in front kept looking over his shoulder in concern, which provoked a little guilt...

As we re-emerged onto the road I picked up speed. At the final corner I counted four people within reach and took the gamble between gaining four places and falling over before the finish. It paid off.

I think my time was about 33.55. Reasonable. Could do better?

I kept myself away from the post-race cakes, opting instead for sweet black tea and a Maximuscle recovery bar.

Photos: Brian R. Smith (left),
Pete Bracegirdle (top)

Coconut Ice

2009-07-02T23:26:00.004+01:00

Sitting in the bath, eating a bowl of pasta, for no particular reason I started wondering how you know when running has gone from hobby to something more serious. I idly sculled an ice cube across the surface of the cold bath water.

Maybe my progression from serious hobbyist to taking-it-way-too-seriously-for-an-amateur can be marked to the time I added a longish cycle to the back of a long run. I burnt out (in the blood sugar sense) at Crail, a pretty little village on the coastal route back to St Andrews, and - having entrusted my bicycle to a group of Saga holiday makers - I shot into the nearest shop and bought... coconut ice. That amount of sugar is normally a rather dangerous prospect for a hyperactive Tiny Runner, but in this instance, perfect.

I should perhaps explain the cold-bath-pasta-thing. Both the consumption of carbs and the ice bath are most effective immediately after a hard run. Also, if you are eating hot pasta you are less likely to notice the discomfort of the cold bath.

I read books and articles about running because I am an academic. But sometimes, a glass of wine is better than a recovery shake. Although, that said, that too could be the academic in me speaking...

My First Duathlon

2009-06-25T10:40:00.003+01:00

Monikie Sprint Duathlon

I have been cycling for just over a month and took possession of my first road bike 19 days ago. Last week was my first week of proper running after the hamstring injury. So it was clearly time to enter a duathlon.

The series is based in the hidden gem that is Monikie Country Park. The 5K running course winds around the two reservoirs on mostly (slightly uneven) grass. You get great views of the pack stretching out ahead and behind on the opposite sides of the water. I didn't get a stitch until the final kilometre which is either progress or a sign that I simply wasn't trying hard enough.

My run time was pretty rubbish, the final mile pitifully slow.

In the transition area I found my bike, helmet and sunglasses, got the bike stuck in the rack, wriggled it free and jogged alongside, out of the transition area. The lady I had tried (and failed) to catch on the run was quicker through the transition and had eeked out a 50m lead. It was with the greatest surprise that I passed her within the first kilometre.

After a slight incline the course drops away pretty sharply. I love going downhill, it's like ski racing, the razor edge of judgement: speed versus stability and the economy of the line itself. I took a 90 degree turn at 26mph. I prefer not to use the brakes, it seems such a waste.

The second half of the course is almost exclusively uphill. I began to feel the burn. With 3k to go I finished off my raspberry lucozade. With 1.5k to go I decided to press home. My quads had reached that painful level of lactic acid accumulation that is only bearable for a limited amount of time. Unfortunately the 20k cycle turned out to be a 21.11k cycle. I was spent. I got overtaken and had nothing left with which to fight back. Entering the park I gave one last push to the finish, emitting a sound somewhere between a female tennis player in the final throws of a grandslam final and a disgruntled puppy, and was close to tears as I crossed the line.

20 seconds later I was standing astride my bike, breathing heavily and grinning like a maniac.

Jez insisted that I go for a jog to cool down and I discovered that some joker had swapped my quads with jelly.

But, pain and jelly aside, that was fun!

I have entered the First Monster Duathlon in September as part of a team of fellow Fife AC runners. I can't wait!

London Marathon post-event tourism

2009-06-16T13:44:00.009+01:00

Finally got the FLM photos through. There is a clear difference between these and those of Loch Ness last year.

The finish line photo in particular is nothing like that from Marathon No.1: gone is the smile of joy and disbelief... In it's place agony and relief.

The photos do, though, serve up a little vicarious pleasure - I get to see myself running past the landmarks that I was too distracted to notice at the time :)

A Very Pretty Bicycle

2009-06-08T18:53:00.005+01:00

After weeks of thinking about getting a road bike, or more precisely, thinking about how said bike could be acquired with minimal funds, I finally broke (found a way).

I went to Spokes, my [friendly, helpful, informed and honest] local bike shop, to see if they had anything secondhand or affordable. They didn't. Then whilst my downed guard was dealing with disappointment, my subconscious spoke out: 'do you do finance'? They did do, and I am now officially contributing to the credit crunch.

I am now, also, the very proud owner of a Trek 1.2 WSD 2009 road bike, and she is beautiful, and she is FAST. My average speed is 1.5 mins/mile faster than on the MTB.

Were my bank account endowed with the ability to think, it would be ruing the fact that my office is less than 80m from both a running shop and a bike shop. Thankfully there is no wetsuit outlet in St Andrews...

A Thousand Far Eastern Photo Albums

2009-06-08T18:48:00.007+01:00

My return from injury has not been easy. After a week of staggering for 3 miles or so with an unwilling body, I set off for a gentle 5-mile run. The expected rebellion of the body never came, so I extended the route into a favourite 8-mile hilly loop (St Andrews, Edenside, Strathkiness, St Andrews). I was especially amazed by my ability to run as I had taken the new bike out for a blast the day before...

On my return I refuelled in the (sunny!) garden with TK and JS before donning my 'wetsuit' (not a proper triathlon one, in fact the broken zip-pull means I can't get in or out of it without assistance, and it's a bit baggy and holds water in the fabric better than my bath sponge) and cycling over to West Sands.

The winds were mild (for the east coast of Scotland) but the waves were pretty rough. Before continuing I should explain (if only to prevent a worried email from The Mother) that the beach descends very slowly out to sea, in order to not be able to reach the ground you would have to swim a long, long way out.

So, rough - but shallow - seas: I struck out until I was in about four and half feet of water, then began to do battle with the waves. Harmless fun, I thought.

The Far Eastern tourists on the beach apparently didn't think so... After I had reassured them that I was in fact waving, not drowning, they proceeded to take endless photos of the crazy girl swimming in a rough and frozen sea.

Miles covered over the weekend by land and sea: 55.

If I wasn't such an absolutely rubbish swimmer, who sticks doggedly to breast stroke when all around are doing the crawl, I'd consider becoming a triathlete.

Bad Decisions

2009-06-02T12:52:00.004+01:00

There is a particularly unpleasant kind of bad decision: the one where you teetered between two choices, really thought through the options, and then proceeded to take the wrong path.

I had my first experience of an international conference last week in Geneva. Multiple sessions take place simultaneously, so a decision is required. When there is only one panel which you want to go to, it doesn't matter so much if it turns out to be not quite what you had hoped for and anticipated. But when you decide between two similarly inviting panels and then find yourself sitting in one which just doesn't do it for you, you imagine the other panel and its greatness. You imagine the question session spilling over the allotted time, filled with eager minds' astute queries. You imagine a standing ovation.

Another example of this is the one also associated with proud foolishness: do I run on this injury? Is it really that bad? Can't I just keep going? Won't it ease as I run? Again, it is followed by that bitter kind of regret. The hamstring goes, and you're off running for weeks.

Luke Rhinehart (George Cockcroft)'s novel, The Dice Man, depicts a psychiatrist who plays out his life by the roll of a dice. The consequences are hilarious and awful (occasionally simultaneously so), but at least he can't regret the moment when he chose to make the wrong decision. It is a kind of rejection of responsibility: since chance does the deciding, there would/could be less regret.

Maybe I should train by the Die. Roll a one and it's intervals, a six and it's a 20-mile run. Maybe I shouldn't. Either way, I'll probably regret the decision I made to make/not make decisions.

Edinburgh Marathon Relay

2009-06-01T12:03:00.008+01:00

London had ruled me out of the full marathon, and the torn hamstring had ruled me out of the relay.

This year's relay had appealed on so many levels - competing with friends, the probability of a sub-3 between us, the chance to knock 10 mins off my own time from last year... so it was with great regret that I pulled out.

I decided to knock back the bitterness and come along to support.

My train arrived late (quelle surprise) so I cut off the first city centre meanders and cycled hard out towards leg 2. Roads which weren't blocked by the interminable tram works, were shut for the marathon. I had expected the latter, but forgotten the former. I am not a particularly accomplished cyclist, or indeed a particularly well-miled one. But the thought of getting up at 6am and missing everyone was enough to spur me on to cycle until my thighs burnt and the top gear wasn't high enough. Averaging 25mph (damned traffic lights!) I finally caught CH with two miles to go. I was able to cycle on the other side of the cones parallel to him. With the finish in sight I pressed him to speed up, and he did. I then felt a little guilty as he began retching...

We collapsed on the grass in the sunshine and waited for team members to come and go. The second team (The Racing Snails) had been boosted by a fantastic run by SM who put recent doubts through the shredder with a 1.06 8-miler. News that Modern History 'A' (The St Andrews Chariots) already had a good 20-minute lead on the Medievalists cheered us.

The tiny, sinewy female leaders passed in the other direction. I was awestuck. How can people run that fast for so long? Because it is partly an out-and-back affair, at this point the return runners had just 5 miles to go. All of them looked pained. I reflected that it must be pretty tough having the final leg relay runners joining at this point, as they sped past, fresh legged.

'My' team finished in under 3 hours. I won't say I wasn't a little jealous for not being part of it, but that was easily outweighed by the pride: the boys done good. Next year I hope to even the gender balance!

It is still possible to sponsor the teams, who ran for DeafBlind Scotland: Here

She is Suffering

2009-05-20T14:30:00.007+01:00

I'm walking with a limp, not because it hurts to walk (although it does, a bit) but because I am scared of doing more damage to my hamstring. I have a race in 10 days

After last Thursday's training session I thought I had pulled it. I saw Jez on Monday and he passed an alternating current through my upper leg. It is a proper diagnostic tool, he hasn't gone all Dr Frankenstein on us. The scratchiness increased as it passed over the offending spot. This means it's not pulled, it's torn.

I really did feel like crying. NO RUNNING! What about Edinburgh? Also, this is very probably my fault. Going back into full training too soon is a bit daft as the muscles are still tired (my weak, tight glutes could also have been a factor) and low on glycogen. So I'm a fool and that makes it worse.

The good news is that I may still be able to run Edinburgh, but I'm on cross-training until then.

So I'm walking with a limp and sleeping with my leg raised on pillows and feeling very sorry for myself.

It'll take more than a bottle of Rioja and a new Manic's album for this one...

The Wilderness

2009-05-15T15:21:00.007+01:00

The days and weeks following a marathon are a kind of wilderness. You feel as if there are birds of prey, circling above you...

The first week seems slower, calmer, slightly unreal. You cannot imagine how to fill the empty, non-running hours. Sunday feels wasted without the usual three-hour adventure. You still try to fit the rest of your life into the spaces around the running hours, even though they are currently empty. You leave the void untouched, as if somehow sacred. It is like the end of a love affair.

You find yourself listening to sad jazz albums and getting slightly morose. Then you start to run again and the sad jazz is re-shelved.

But the feeling that you can run and run forever is slow to return. Those first few runs are a serious effort. You are dictated to by the heart rate monitor, and you find your heart rate gets too high, too quickly. You have to run slowly.

As you get back to training your pride pushes you back to speed but your muscles stay heavy for days. You feel old (I'm twenty-seven). You sleep a lot.

You pack your diary with races. They start too soon:

6th May Strathkiness-Blebocraigs (4.5M, multi-terrain)
31st May Edinburgh Marathon Relay, the Gosford Leg (8M, road)
3rd June The Hill of Tarvit (5.36M, multi-terrain)
21st June East Kilbride Half Marathon (13.1, road)
8th July Newburgh 5 (4.5M, multi-terrain)
29th July to 2nd August Tour of Fife (5 days, 5 races, multi-terrain)
13th August Balmullo (4.9M, multi-terrain)
6th September Great Scottish Run Half Marathon (13.1M, road)
18th October Ceres 8 (8M, road)

The eagle circles...

Something of this poem by Longfellow draws me in:

The Day is Done

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

Strathkiness - Blebocraigs

2009-05-08T12:40:00.010+01:00

What not to do, lesson two: Run a race 10 days after a marathon.
[for lesson one: see racing before long run]

Last year's hot and dusty Strathkiness - Blebocraigs race was replaced by a wilder version: fierce winds and light rain.

I warmed up with Steve, then jogged around to the line. We set off fast up the first incline, straight into the wind. Before long all the runners were on the far right as if blown across the road. The incline dropped away sharply on the Highland Coo corner.

It is ill-advised to run flat out downhill, but we did it anyway. Part way down the road there is a sharp left onto a steep mud track. Dave (Thursday evening coach) was marshaling the corner, he laughed at my white knee high socks which were about to become black knee high socks.

My legs were empty and my lungs on fire. I sucked at my inhaler to no avail. Soon I was walk-jogging up the hill. This seemed to pay off as gradually my lungs calmed and air flowed once more. I regained the places lost by walking. There were more undulations before the final sharp hill and I could feel every step of the marathon pulling at my tired muscles. I had the sensation that they were somehow physically empty. That the muscles were hollow like a calamari fish, and inside them was nothing. I counted the women within reach, just two, as I came over the top of the hill I switched gear and passed the first.

The grass track was downhill, slippery and uneven. Running fast was a serious risk. I overtook the second woman by dropping off the edge of the track onto the even rougher field.

The track leveled out and joined a road. 500m to go to the finish line and I heard someone shouting encouragement to the woman I thought was way behind me. I pressed on, running, again, beyond my means, and held my place to the line.

[what not to do, lesson 3: warn the runner infront that your friend is catching them up]

I was dizzy and disorientated. Steve guided me back to the hall and forced sugary drinks down me. Somehow I had finished over a minute faster than last year.

I went to training the next day to talk to Dave about the socks.

26.67 Miles and not a giant clock in sight

2009-05-08T12:28:00.003+01:00

26.67 Miles:

8:45 8:06 7:49 7:42 8:12 8:03 8:05 8:05 8:00 7:58 8:07 8:09 8:10 8:05 8:04 8:04 8:38 8:43 8:25 7:36 8:46 8:47 8:55 9:04 8:33 8:42 5:25

Reading Joad's blog I feel a little hard done by.

Most of the sights, Tower Bridge aside, come in the final miles of the London Marathon. Having run beyond my means, I was too far gone to notice anything. I didn't see Parliament, or Big Ben and had only the vaguest notion that the Thames was on my left.

I have qualified for good for age (for a girl - the caveat annoys me but the men's times are way beyond my reach) so I get a guaranteed place in 2010. I will have to take more notice of the sights next year...

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more

2009-04-30T09:34:00.014+01:00

Marathon number two: London, 26th April, 2009

The weather forecaster cheerily announced that it was going to be hot and sunny for the London Marathon. For runners that's a bit like spectators having barbeques along the course; both sun and charred food lead to more spectators and therefore more cheering, both though are also hell for the runners.

Training in Scotland doesn't really prepare you for running in 17 degrees. I guess I should learn to run faster, then I could get to the end before the sun has had a chance to do its worst.

I woke before my alarm and went to breakfast at 6am. Porridge, sultanas, a small coffee and a slice of brown bread washed down with water and rasberry lucozade.

The first train into Canary Wharf broke, so the second one was packed (and annoyed). At London Bridge we switched to Southeastern, the destinations on the departures board having been supplemented by 'blue start', 'red start' etc. I went to platform five, as advised. It was eight deep. Then they announced a platform change and hundreds of runners cascaded up and down a flight of stairs to the new platform. Before long, and indeed before the arrival of a train, they had another change of heart and the runners had another very untimely workout. I saw one girl in tears and understood.

Blackheath was clean and oddly rural in the morning sunlight. I walked up Tranquil Vale (no metaphor) thinking of friends on other start lines across the heath. There are three starts, which join along the route amid inexplicable booing after a few miles.

The early miles were frustratingly slow and crowded, and actually pretty boring. The temperature was rising fast enough to make me thirsty for water by 3 miles. Whilst we ran, over 35,000 kit bags, handed over at the start, were being transported to the finish on a giant convoy of lorries.

I had my name on my shirt but got stuck in the vicinity of Darth Vader who kept the crowd busy with witticism. Gradually I pulled away, admittedly the acceleration was partly driven by a desire not to be beaten by a man in fancy dress. People began to shout encouragement. I do not know how many hundreds of times I heard my name, but each was precious.

Out of the voices rose one I knew and my head snapped round like a robot: Lisa! Big smile and onwards, onwards.

The Cutty Sark, erstwhile runners' visual treat, was shielded as if too many eyes would stall its recovery. We zigged, we zagged and got way too close for comfort. I became aware of the sounds and smells of other runners, got all introspective... and then suddenly we were free and our senses bombarded once more by the bright colours and loud noises of the crowd ('be not afraid, the isle is full of noises, sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not' The Tempest).

The music along the way seemed sporadic, but uplifting when it came. It was probably partly responsible for my running mile 20 in 7.36. The crowds built up and up. I saw Sammy Wanjiru (eventual winner) pass on the other side of the road, he had lost his pace makers and was ahead and alone. He looked strong and determined, like he would break the world record as he hoped.

From mile 18 in the Docklands I was in a whole world of pain. It is a strange feeling, if you start thinking about the thing, whilst running. You are doing something intensely personal, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to stop or slow, forcing your legs to keep turning over when each falling foot heralds a shudder of pain through the thighs.

You no longer care about your appearance, whether you have spilt gel down your top or wiped it through your hair, whether utilising the on-course showers has rendered your lemon yellow vest see through. Every atom of your being is focused on a single aim: Just Keep Running.

And yet, you do still know that you are a spectacle, one person among thousands, forming the oddest, most agonising, street party. Everyone around you hurts like hell and still they run, still the crowds cheer... and each time you hear your name your sinking heart swells a little more with pride and you carry on.

Then some bastard lets go of the whole fragile balance of pain and pride and grit and stops dead in the middle of the road and you stumble trying not to crash into them. In that moment they are utterly alone: just one person in pain on the streets of London.

Some, even then, re-emerge and hear the roar of the crowd, hear them yell that it is not far, 'you can do it' and they lurch off in an agonised shuffle amid cheers of approval.

The willingness, eagerness even, of the crowd to pour so much of themselves into complete strangers in recognition of the spectacle their endeavour provides is impossible to comprehend. When I tentatively tried to pick up my flagging pace in the final mile I was greeted by a roar of approval. A woman's voice rose above the rest: 'Beat all the men, Soph! Beat all the men!'. I hoped she meant to do so in the race, not as a general philosophy or life practice.

Desperate to keep the clock from moving to 3.41, I made a dash for the line and made it in 3.40.49.

If you had told me beforehand what time I would get, I would have been disappointed. But the marathon changes you. I had forgotten that such things as time fall into new perspective, or at least a little closer to the truth of one's genuine ability, during the course of the marathon. It is easy to forget, oddly, that it is a bloody long way...

Because of the crowds (of runners), following the direct route is impossible. My Garmin GPS showed that I had covered almost half a mile more than a marathon: 26.67. It is a Beast that, two marathons in, I have finally learnt to respect.

Going Long (it was all yellow)

2009-04-20T17:45:00.021+01:00

My longest run before London: 22 miles
What not to do the day before: race.

Guess what I did... On the 4th April I took part in the Scottish National Road Relays at Livingston. Just over 5k, but even that is not advisable before a long run. Although the bizarre man in the waterproof orange jumpsuit 2 miles in was worth the race. Worryingly he had a camera, even more worryingly (or less??) he had a policeman standing next to him. All enquiries have so far led nowhere.

Because of the race I decided to treat myself to a flat route. There is only one flat route: St Andrews, Guardbridge, Leuchars, Tentsmuir, Leuchars, Guardbridge, St Andrews. I don't really like out-and-back runs (you spend 1/2 the run feeling like you're going the wrong way) and, the loop around Tentsmuir forest aside, that is exactly what this was.

There was little en route entertainment - marching RAF soldiers (who heckled me and got heckled right back), Ben (sponsor him here) on his way home from his run, and my iPod. I don't use the iPod on roads, so switched it on in the forest. The first track was 'Yellow' by Coldplay. Coldplay and motivational are rarely happy bedfellows. Clearly I had clickwheeled the wrong playlist. I had meant to play the listing 'High Voltage'.

That said, it got me thinking: right now in Scotland, it really is ALL YELLOW:

So, the next weekend, for my 18-miler, I found a nice hill to run up. That was much more interesting. But it was still All Yellow:

Occasionally the endless carpet of yellow gorse was broken by mere splashes of yellow at the roadside.

Even a harmless picture of lambs was invaded:

I ran across the shoulder of higher ground that dips down towards the sea on three sides and saw Lots of Interesting Things.

Interesting Things tend to make me start pondering how to save the World, or at least the United Kingdom. Latest plan: total nuclear disarmament. Fill the penis-envy void by spending the spared money on buying everyone a really nice car. Simple. What's the point in lining up row on row of impossibly appalling weapons that no civilised country should ever actually use?

If these new cars were all made in Britain we get ointment for the credit sores. Bonus.

Anyway, the meandering thoughts meandered me down the valley to Kemback, the most idyllic place in Fife. Pictures speak louder (and in my case, probably more succinctly)...

There is only one downside to Kemback, there is a Really Big Hill between it and St Andrews.

But there are some stunning views:

and... at the risk of sounding like a dog, faced with anything from a walk to a biscuit:
My Favourite:

Highland Coos!

Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light - John Milton, Paradise Lost

Alloa Half Marathon

2009-03-24T19:31:00.010Z

The Alloa Half is almost picturesque, the first few miles and the last few miles are the problem. They are frankly uninspiring. But across the valley lie a sequence of folded hills, the kind that look like they have been covered in a hand-painted carpet of soft greens. Close up the beautiful dappled carpet of myriad hue is in fact an impenetrable mesh of gorse and prickly things and gheep poo, beyond which lies a Lady Sheep in deepest slumber waiting for her prince to wake her... Wait, no, this has gone all wrong! A fitting start to the blog of a half marathon that began about as badly as a half marathon can.

My Garmin woes dropped to the lowest depths of misery when, at 9.40am, I went to strap on my watch only to find that it was reading 7.48am. No pressing of buttons, no shaking, no threat would tease it back to life. I had no other watch. No way of knowing the time. I stuffed it into the bottom of my bag and jogged angrily (oh yes, angry jogging is a fine art, well-practised by Tiny Runner) round to the start.

Without a watch to show me my pace I set off too fast and quickly developed a stitch. Just after the 2 mile marker, it suddenly turned into an unbearable stabbing pain below my right rib cage. I staggered up onto the pavement and tried to stretch. I jogged a few steps. Stopped. Stretched. Watch hundreds of runners pass me. Stretched. Cried out in pain. Stretched harder. Thought it was all over. Then, as abruptly as it had got worse, it eased. I set off steadily, and then built up to my original pace – or a watchless approximation of it at least. I wouldn’t see the runners, in whose company I had passed the first two miles, again until miles 10 and 11. I pushed hard on the downhill stretch, fell over a partially deflated football, failed to notice the girl with the pompoms, briefly enjoyed the sunshine and then turned into the dreaded back straight.

I had been following the ever-changing weather forecast all week and knew that this section was going to be roughly 4 miles into a direct 23mph wind. I tried to shelter behind other runners but the ones at the front soon tired. Before long I was in a group of 3 who, without any kind of verbal agreement, developed a rotation system. There was no point in sitting behind a tired runner who would only get slower, but equally there was no point in being the guy at the front and wasting all your energy. So we took turns.

Finally turning out of the wind, I braced myself for my first view of ‘the hill’. It turned out to be a relatively short slope. Hard at mile 10 but, as a Fifer, anything short of mile upon mile of ‘undulations’ (Fife AC euphemism for f’ing hilly) is pretty much okay. Admittedly the pictures (those where you can see my face, see ‘Track Tiny’) don’t look good, but it was so ‘not-too-bad’ that I had breath and energy to say hi to the horses who were wondering how so many people could completely ignore them. Actually, I bet they were enjoying it; they had the best seats in the house!

I finally made it to the 12-mile marker and hit what was left of the gas. Around ¾ of a mile later there was a sign reading 1-mile. Huh? Note to organisers: Don’t make runners do maths at this stage, don’t confuse them, don’t leave up the marker for the first mile if it is towards the end of the final mile! After 12 miles of running just below my lactate threshold, the last thing I’m capable of is logical thought. There were no more signs and it wasn’t until a boy in a St Andrews Uni vest yelled at me that it was only 400m that I felt secure enough to use everything up. The final 90 degree turn revealed the clock. It had just gone over 1:38, and I knew it had taken me twenty seconds to cross the line. My heart leapt and I pressed and stumbled over the line. Chip Time: 1:37:45.

Track Tiny

2009-03-24T18:59:00.007Z

Here beginneth the masterclass in keeping out of the picture...
Hide behind a pack of men

Then run away before they can get a second shot...

Failing that, find a Really Tall Man and hide behind him.

This is Where's Wally for runners!