unironedman

“The problem is all inside your head”
She said to me
“The answer is easy if you
Take it logically
I’d like to help you in your struggle
To be free
There must be fifty ways
To leave your lover”

’50 Ways To Leave Your Lover’
Paul Simon

It took quite a while of pounding the pavements and putting sports-shoe execs’ kids through college before I unravelled the secret to running faster times. And that was to run faster. No need to thank me. Scour the interwebs all you like, climb a Himalayan mountain in search of a running guru; hell, go and live with the Rarámuri in Mexico… you won’t find a better answer. If you want to fun fast times, you have to run faster. This beautifully simple and ruthless slide rule works across all distances too.

Now, the hard part is actually prepping your body, and here things can get a little sketchy, admittedly. But again, most of it is down to hard work, consistency, and looking after the old bod. Can’t run good times if you’re injured, nor can you turn in good times if you are dog-tired. Over-training and junk miles can do that too. Few of us can reach the mind-numbing totals of 150 miles per week, as per Sabastian Sawe, winner of the London Marathon, and world-record holder. That’s a marathon every day from Monday to Saturday, with a day off for good behaviour on Sunday. (Disclaimer: I very much doubt that this is actually how he plans his running).

But just to labour the point once more: sometimes you just have to push it. And push it past where you think you can go. And here’s where Paul Simon comes in to play. No, not actually play, though that would be nice… I mean when it comes to making a new plan. And leaving your lover.

The new plan is the 5k attempt. And the lover is the marathon. And so, ever since I disgraced myself in the most wonderful and charmingly naive fashion in the 1998 Dublin Marathon, I spent many years kicking myself up and down the tracks and trails of Kildare and beyond in the quest to improve my time. My first plan was to try and actually run a marathon. As opposed and walking and stumbling. Getting close to five hours was the goal, and once surpassed, it was about knocking minutes off to get closer to four than five. I seemed to hit something of a wall as I got closer to the mythical four-hour barrier, and things stalled for a while.

Until I got a plan. A proper one. One that told me each and every run I needed to do, both in terms of distance and pace. Because, my dear friends, as we all recall from our happy days in maths class (TIME, DISTANCE and SPEED), with two of the three figures, one can always work out the third. In this case, pace is the critical one. The plan did not skimp on training either; six sessions a week. And it worked. Here is the blog.

Speaking of figures, the quest for sub-four rather seared some numbers into my brain. Well, the part that deals with running. Those numbers were five, four and one. Rather than be a bore (too late! ed. ha ha!), I’ll write that in a way runners can understand: 5:41, or the time one needs to run each kilometre, in minutes and seconds, if you want to make your goal. Petrol heads may know this as 9:09, of you’re wedded to the Imperial system. Same thing. Same result.

All that training is habit-forming, and this is the consistency you need to get results. If there is a downside, it’s that running at that pace can become the norm. For me, it ended up as the yardstick against which all else was measured. And this becomes a problem when you decide to try and run a fast 5k. A troublesome divorce may be required.

I’ve already filed the paperwork. Here it is:

My ace lawyer on the case is someone I’ve drafted in from Team Adidas. My Adizero Adios Pro 4’s. And the court date is set.

I sure hope I get to keep the dogs…

So running this week consisted of four runs, in preparation for next week’s five runs a week stint. Tuesday was the benchmark 5k. Gary asked me on the start line what made me think of doing the Bob Heffernan Run and I said ‘you did’, though he couldn’t recall doing so, and in fairness, neither could I. This is a well-known event in the race calendar, and is run on roads around Johnstown Bridge between Kildare and Meath. It is a memorial run, and attracts hundreds of athletes from surrounding clubs. It’s flat, and fast. The idea was to put down a marker for me, and so Gary and I found ourselves on a somewhat damp and blustery evening, counting down the seconds to the off.

I made a few amateur errors which I have taken steps to correct. I am squinting at my watch of late. On a good day, I can just about make out the three sets of stats on display; distance covered, time, and pace. The holy trinity. On a bad day, however, not least when one is surrounded on all sides by hundreds of runners and you are going at a decent lick… well, those figures are illegible. At the first beep to signal 1k, a quick glance at the watch suggested 4:15 pace. Which all but holed any chance of a good time under the waterline. And there was a road sign that said 4k to go. Not sure about you, but I much prefer any distance markers to keep it simple. 1 mile. 2 miles. 5k. 10k, etc. And to further confuse matters, the next watch beep seemed to flash up a big ‘1’ on the screen. One what? One mile, one kilometre? One pepperoni pizza? My watch is set to metric and we’d well passed one kilometre. No idea…

Then there was 3k to go, according to the next sign. With no idea of pace. And to further confuse my addled brain on a new and unfamiliar route, the race organisers decided to dispense with the ‘2k to go’ sign altogether. So I was unsure where I was when I hit the last sign with one kilometre to go. But I had already given up on the whole thing. I pushed on a bit and was dismayed to see the clock ticking towards 21 without a chance of getting under, until I crossed the mat and stopped the watch and realised it was a chip timed race so the clock time was a good 15 seconds ahead. So actually it turned out to be 20:52. The breakdowns were: 4:00, 4:06, 4:18, 4:19, 4:06. And as you can see, I was bang on schedule at the first k, but I misread my watch. Also worth noting that the 3rd and 4th kilometre of a 5k is where you lose the time. So that needs work. 3rd fastest time, it turns out.

I ordered some glasses retainers, and they arrived in jig time. Tried them, and they work a treat. If I slip them off, they sit neatly under my chin without any discomfort. But they’ll stay on for the 5k. That’s at least one problem solved. Another issue is knowledge of the course, and this won’t be an issue either.

Thursday was a modest 5k in the park by the river, and then Saturday, around midday, I took off up through the park and onto the canal and back towards the town, hopping off at Louisa Bridge to cut through the estates and find the lake. I had started lively enough at 5:30 and after 8k, I was up to 4:48. And I wasn’t even wearing my magic shoes 😉 Things slowed down after that point, as I was crossing rutted fields. Plus I ran into a herd of cattle that needed to be skirted to avoid becoming a headline in my local paper (‘Runner Trampled to Death in Cow Horror’). A short dip in the lake, then home for 12k in total.

And today (being a Sunday), I arose early and joined Gary for a modest 13k in Donadea Forest. It was a lovely run, with shade and coolness from the already hot sun. Ireland heads into a heatwave today. And by that, I mean three days of sunshine. The place is literally going to melt. We can’t handle the heat.

In other news, I am pleased to see that the other Gary (of I Like Margarine fame) is back. Here is the blog link, you idle feckers. And back with a bang. But don’t just start reading the ‘dear claude’ series of blog posts at the top. No. Go back to the start about a week and enjoy them all in order.

Other fun stuff this week: Odi woke me early for a wee, before the run this morning, and it was that awkward time where it’s not worth going back to bed. When he finally came back in from examining the garden in great detail, he jumped up on his couch and tipped a basket of washing over himself. I watched this small drama literally unfold from the table whilst having my breakfast, and it was all rather slapstick. He ran into the bedroom to escape the clothes monster. It reminded of me of when we first adopted him and he tipped over a drawing board in my office and scarpered into the garden like a scalded cat. Bless his little cotton socks!

Speaking of drama, another vignette presented itself during yesterday’s run in the park when a Jay crossed my path, pursued by an angry Blackbird. Hopefully the chicks, the subject of the Jay’s attention, no doubt, were unharmed. And yes, Jays gotta eat too…

Be safe out there, folks. And trust me on the sunscreen…