unironedman

IN WHICH WE SWAP OUR MUCH-LOVED AND WELL-TRAVELLED TOWPATH FOR, EM, ANOTHER TOWPATH, AND PROVE ONCE AGAIN THAT WE ARE NOTHING IF NOT CHILDISH HERE AT UNIRONEDMAN…

Another week has passed, another week closer to Abingdon Marathon. The weekly challenge called for 60k, and I had my doubts as the days passed. Monday is a rest day, so it was Tuesday before I knocked out a reasonable 6.7k tempo run in the park. But then I was rehearsing on Wednesday, and the weather was a pox, so I just couldn’t be arsed to drag myself out the door at nine o’clock in the evening, in the dark. This meant I had burned both of my rest days, and would have to run each day ’til the end of the week.

I made up for it, somewhat, with a 10k through Lucan village on Thursday evening, followed by a little less than 6k on Friday. On Saturday morning, I was out once again to a farm near Kilcock where I have been cutting some firewood. I spent a good few sweaty hours chopping and dragging, so I wasn’t sure how my body would feel about yet another run, but I tempted it with a promise of Guinness from a can later, and maybe a film, and so it responded with over 7k in the park.

The maths of the situation was simple. I was at about 30k, or halfway to the challenge total. Garmin, of course, likes to remind you of these challenges and delights in telling you to ‘Look out! Your competitor just logged a run!’ and periodically it will offer such cheesy phrases like ‘Time to go hard, or go home!’

Okay, look, Garmin. I am home, ok? I live here. Surely there’s a setting somewhere in the bowels of this damn watch I can turn off; it seems to be currently set to Macho Marine. I want something more genteel. How about ‘I say, I appreciate you’re busy, and possibly a little tired after a long week of work, but you might want to consider even a short run… if it’s not too much bother…’

All I had to do was set my alarm for 7.15 on Sunday, and get on the road by 8. That should give me three hours to play with, and be back in time to take Mum to church service at 11.30. And I needed to keep each 10k to an hour or less.

I set off just before 8 with the hydration pack on, and a couple of gels tucked away in the… damn… I left them on the table… oh well, I would be passing through Celbridge so there would be a shop open. First, up the Old Hill and on towards Barnhall, and into Castletown Demesne. The weather was perfect for running, and after the first sluggish kilometre, the body was warming up and I was getting down under the 6 minute mark.

I picked up a chocolate bar in the village, and then pushed on towards Hazelhatch and the Grand Canal. Here I picked up the towpath and headed west. The number of barges have grown steadily over the years. Hard to say how many are lived-in; certainly a few appear well looked after; others, not so much.

Next stop was Omer’s Lock at Lyons Estate, and then Ardclough. I pass over these bridges quite regularly, so it’s funny to be passing under them this morning. There are quite a few folk around; walking, running, out with their dogs. I make it as far as Ponsonby Bridge and the watch beeps to let me know we’re at 15k and my cue to turn for home. The trick with running a set distance like 30k is to run away from your house half the distance in an approximate straight line. You have no choice but to return!

Return I did, and I kept each kilometre below the six-minute mark and clocked up 30k in about 2 hours and 55 minutes, at a pace of 5:46.

And so we reached our target. And we have also reached a useful psychological marker for any marathon runner, prior to the race. Getting to about three-quarters of the distance is a good thing. Some go even further, but I am not sure it’s necessary. Once you have it in the legs, you have to convince your brain. Mind games will be played on any long run, not least in a marathon. If you are happy you have done the training downstairs, the tricks you have to pull upstairs are a little easier to manage.

I doubt very much I will run any longer than that this year.

And now, on to that childish thing I mentioned up above. On my trawls through YouTube, I was drawn to a certain sub-20 minute 5k attempt. Not unusual, as I have been watching quite a few clips on this, and the algorithm has not had to work too hard when it comes to dishing up the goods for me.

This particular attempt was by English Olympic gold medalist, Max Whitlock. Max is 33 years old, and is targeting LA for his final shot at Olympic gymnastics glory. He had undertaken this challenge at the start of the year, in conjunction with some running app company, and I sat watching the video, cheering him on, and realising the signs, after each kilmotre split, that his attempt might end up a little like one of mine.

And so it came to pass. 20 minutes and 25 seconds.

And then it dawned on me that I was six seconds faster than an Olympic gymnast about half my age. Like I say, nothing if not childish.

We wish Max the very best of luck for LA. (Though of course, he if meets Rhys McClenaghan, we hope he comes second…)

(We’re with Audrey on this one. And the truck made me smile when I saw it, so I posted it to Twitter with the caption ‘New Dickens novel just dropped…’)