Dozy, beachy, peaky, quick and stitch

Edges and skies

Skies and edges

Titles for this not-quite-weekly blogs usually hit me during a run, which is only right, because the words form easily during my weekly miles, but getting them on to the screen is far more torturous. The words above pretty well sum up the two weeks’ of running I’ve failed to record since my last post, though: Excessive weariness from running five times a week (transitioning from a four-run regime to a five has taken its toll); a Dorset beach run that took place in blue, crisp weather ; 24hours in the Peak District to stand at Sky’s Edge; a faster (flatter) parkrun; heartburn more than stitch, both in the digestive sense of the word and the Nora Ephron sense.

The seaside run was the Thursday workout, described on my Training Tilt Vegan Runners plan as ‘one-hour easy’. However, Thursdays with Kent AC coach usually requires some sort of tempo efforts, so I practised marathon pace. I am going to play safe and stick to 8:55-minute miles for the marathon. I would hope to sustain that on 21 April. It would result in a 3:53 time, so 6 minutes faster than Brighton last year and a full ten minutes faster than my PB (at age 53). I think that allows for the age difference with some generosity. You get roughly a minute slower with each passing year, I reckon.

Poole was so beautiful. I watched kingfishers dip and dive, and egrets pace delicately at the waters’ edge near the harbour. My sister and I had a jolly time catching up.

That weekend, my Hillyfields parkrun had improved (25:12), but my Sunday long run was lumbering and effortful, which I put down to alcohol and late nights. Worrying about my daughter, ill and unhappy in Taipei, was the preoccupation over the weekend. The sooner she’s in Europe and I can help in a more practical way, the better.

Worse was to come in the afternoon, which was given over to a very pushy salesman of solar panels. I’d telephoned a helpline (Government Approved!) about funding for greener, cleaner power to my homestead, and ended up drinking tea to an increasing Hard Sell. By the end of the ‘chat’ we were being urged to sign up to a non-refundable deposit for 14 thousand pounds’ worth of panels and piping and bird barriers and batteries. There was no possibility of funding. Rather than filling us with planet-saving smugness we felt bamboozled and none the wiser.

The episode sums up the conflict between my individual desire to be a better person and the uncomfortable possibility that my impulses may make life difficult not just for me, but for Rick. I end up feeling trapped and cowardly.

Sometimes I think I may set out on a run and not come back for a few days. We grow tentative as we grow old.

Existential fretting aside, I stuck to the training plan for the following week, but mixed things up a bit at the weekend, by combining a never-before-sampled London parkrun with the weekly long run: 16 miles comprising a five-mile warm up, a Thames Path parkrun and a further eight miles easy all the way home. The Thames Path is a relatively new parkrun, and it’s fun to run, the high point being the twirly-whirly path up to a Woolwich viewpoint I’d never visited before, followed by a quick twirl down. Other than that it’s flat and free of mud, so I managed my quickest time this winter (24.12).

Street art proving useful at Woolwich

Peaky refers to the following weekend’s trip to the Peak District. Rick had booked a hotel and dinner in Sheffield, where I lived as an undergraduate 1981-1984, for a Christmas present. It is a two-stage present, as one of our missions is to see the musical inspired by the flats in the second picture at the top of this page (Standing At the Sky’s Edge), which I barely registered as an undergraduate. My knowledge and memory of Sheffield City is shamefully hazy, as we found out over the weekend. I was able to locate The Leadmill, where I saw many gigs, and the arts tower, but the rest of the city seemed unrecognisable. We took a bus out to the Hathersage area and walked 15 miles back on the Sunday. I was extremely achey after a 31-mile weekend. All grist t’t’mill.

To Tuesday track night, and 8x500m repeats, followed by a six-mile recovery run this morning and the prospect of another early-morning six miler tomorrow morning. My legs feel as heavy those holding up the hi-viz in the parkrun picture.

Mudlarks

One of us went above and beyond…

Another wintry Saturday, another cross country, this time on Wimbledon Common. It felt good to get out of central London for the first time since the Boxing Day walk: the far reaches of the city’s south west felt like the countryside. This was a race I’d been looking forward to for a while, as I have fond memories of running the course many years ago, one snowy Saturday in December. Afterwards, we’d repaired to the pub for mulled beverages and mince pies, and all felt right with the world.

Wimbledon didn’t disappoint on 13 January 2024, either. The course took us round the pond, through woods, across greensward and through lots and lots of mud, jumping over logs and even a small stream along the way. As you can see from the picture, my esteemed running buddy performed a spectacular full-body plant in the muddiest, slippiest section. She urged me to run on while she wallowed brokenly, but I finished the last mile worrying about her bloodied kneecaps. Fortunately she limped through not long after I finished, but it wasn’t the way I’d planned to get ahead of her (our friendly rivalry is still going strong after a decade).

I cannot overstate the joy at the end of a gruelling five miler, those endorphins whizzing through the system, rejuvenating your tired old body and flooding you with such love for all your teammates that you even beam bad-toothily in the pictures (I am a self-conscious closed-mouth smiler, as was my dentally challenged mother before me). Who cares what I look like? I’m a Warrior Woman, as my friend Susanna, who took the photo above, captioned her WhatsApp. She’s also called me an inspiration, which I’ll take. What’s the point of being a 61-year-old cross-country runner, that rare breed, if you’re not inspiring younger women?

The race was a Surrey League fixture, which meant that all age groups took part so older stateswomen like me don’t really get a look in when it comes to placings and prizes. There are elite veteran women, such as the wonderful Claire Elms (a year younger than me and 5000m international champion in her age group), who measure up against the faster, younger ones, but the rest of us veterans bring up the rear, really.

Which is why it would have been great to take part in the veterans Cross Country champs in Wales, in March. However, we can only raise three women in the club’s V55 category who can represent, and one of them is less than keen, so it seems a lot of faff for not much reward. Maybe next year.

The picture at the end is this morning’s run. I’m missing track today as have to go to a lecture, so I rose early, met Sarah-of-the-broken-knees (still feeling sore) and Jaqui and attempted half a dozen hill repeats as the sun rose fierily and the sky turned icy blue. It was so cold. My face froze and I found I couldn’t move my lips, slurring comically when I tried to converse with my friends. It was worth it though, if only because I’m sitting here in the warm typing this mid afternoon, without the prospect of squeezing myself into a tight (still carrying that timber) sports bra in order to skate along to the track for brutal 400m repeats at 7pm.

Interestingly, on the subject of restrictive breast wrangling, Shortcuts on Radio 4 just now featured a young transgender man who states they have to raise £10k for gender re-alignment surgery, or wait seven years for the NHS to take on the surgery. My sports bra is as restricting as their breast bindings, I reckon, because I cannot abide the tiniest bit of wobble when I run. I often moan that running would be a damn sight easier if my chest was free of all this pointless fatty tissue, causing shocked scolding among my friends, who are proud of their bosoms. The best thing about winter, though, is that you can run in warm layers, hide any wobble and forget the possibility of sweat causing bra chafe. I’m in no hurry for the sun to burn hotter, and have already planned to avoid all race events this coming summer. I think last June’s North Downs Run in searing heat has really scarred me, and my right breast.

Last week’s running

Thursday: drills, dynamics, strides and one hour easy

Friday pilates

Saturday 5 miles cross country

Sunday 7 miles slow

Tuesday 5 miles (2m warm up/down and 3m hilly fields efforts)

Wed (tomorrow) 1 hour….I hope

Layers safely covering

Brands Hatch

Big Bobble has brewer’s droop in this pic

The irony of running cross country rather lumberingly in a muddy field adjacent to a race track where racers tend to move rather more quickly has not escaped me. As is often the case on these Saturday-afternoon torture sessions, I fantasised about jet-packs helping me up the hills: perhaps e-trainers for the middle aged, in the same way that many people in my age group have resorted to electric bicycles that assist on the long climbs.

However, the footwear of choice was, as usual, slightly heavy and unyielding trail shoes, which became yet weightier after a few immersions in thick mud, where the men’s spikes had churned up the racecourse before the women had placed a dainty foot thereon. The distance of the race: three laps of some unprepossessing suburban fields was eight kilometres. It felt longer, but so good when it was finally over and we’d wrapped up warm again and arranged ourselves for the photo opportunity. The fact that I’d not had time to don thermal trousers, fleece, padded coat etc, and only a few seconds to jam my big bobble hat onto the back of my head at an odd rakish angle, speaks volumes as to how late I was to the finish line party.

Either side of this main running event, the Vegan Runners UK/Rooted in Dirt training plan was slavishly followed. The one-hour tempo run that should have taken place on Thursday evening was undertaken on Friday morning, owing to work fatigue and biblical rain.

I can see the Thursday workout is going to be a problem. I want to fit in morning Bikram yoga, my work as a London walking tour guide and the evening track workout without keeling over at some point. Challenging.

The long Sunday run was supposed to be 75 minutes, which wasn’t so bad, and I fitted in about nine miles before repairing to the coffee shop with my running buddies to plan a June running break in the Isle of Skye.

The Skye trip, an imminent Dorset break, Sheffield at the end of the month and Berlin in February has necessitated an enormous train-related splurge on the credit card, which has frayed my nerves somewhat. I need to drum up more work, so will also commit to sitting at this laptop for longer while resting my legs and using my brain to write a new tour that I hope London Walks will accept.

At 61, I’ve accepted that I can describe myself as semi-retired without raising too many eyebrows, but I still find the ‘R’ word somewhat shaming, as I won’t be in receipt of my state pension for another six years. Living off the last of the money my aunt left me in 2018, my meagre income from part-time work and my husband’s income until then will be difficult, not least for my self esteem.

Next week’s tasks will involve an attempt at achieving a work/life balance.

running this week:

Thursday tempo, commuted to Friday am: 5 miles

Saturday Cross country 4:5 miles

Sunday: 9 mile LSR

Tuesday track 5x800m plans 2 miles warmup/down

Wednesday easy run: 4 miles

Full tilt

A pair of gorgeous, pouting V60 Christmas elves

The first blog of 2024, and there is a sackful of stuff to unpack in it. As usual, the temptation to go all hung-ho and promise strict adherence to an austere training and clean-eating schedule until 21 April needs to be tamped down a little. There’s no point being unrealistic: if a person hasn’t had the discipline to refuse second mince pies and large wedges of marzipanned Christmas cake on 1 January, why would she stick to broccoli, tofu and ashwaganda (the three essentials in a vegan diet, apparently) on 2 January?

So, it’s a question of easing into jolly January with an indulgent nod towards leftover marzipan and mincemeat (delicious in porridge). After all, the training schedule requires extra calories, and a bit of extra chocolate and the odd macaroon (thank you Father Christmas) will not have a disastrous effect on race times.

I’ve managed one day of paid work over the two-week break (a private walking tour followed by a group tour last Thursday), which I found quite exhausting, but otherwise it’s been a long round of hosting, feasting, drinking, late nights, singing, telly slumping and subsequent bloating. This last been alleviated by several mugs of mint tea over the past 24 hours, and last night’s time trial on the track.

It was the Training Tilt Time Trial. Overseen by a coaching outfit called Rooted in Dirt. I answered an email from Vegan Runners UK, which invited my to out my name in the hat for a place on a Spring-Marathon-specific online training platform. More than 70 athletic vegans entered the ballot, and 20 people, including me, were lucky enough to be selected.

Accepting my place has necessitated joining Strava (anathema to me, apologies for all those who have followed me and received a deafening silence in return). I engage with Strava as little as possible, but I’m obliged to link it to my Training Tilt profile. Last night’s time trial (30minutes at 5-10k pace) took place on the track, while my team mates did the session and whooped at me every time I completed another 400m. It was quite interesting; my pace was steady, but definitely my slower 10k pace.

This morning I had to follow last night’s effort with a 30-min recovery run. I jogged up to The Point in Blackheath, a London look-out that I’d had no idea existed until my son came home from the Caribbean and suggested we go there for our rainy Christmas Day walk.

Hillyfields parkrun was also jogged, as I was keeping son’s girlfriend, who’d never done one before, company. I was easygoing, as I’d put in a bit of effort the Saturday before, my 250th although still failed to run under 25minutes. Blame the mulled wine. Parkrun was also ticked off on the Saturday after Christmas, and I volunteered on New Years Day. A couple of long, slow Sunday runs were also achieved, so I approach this new training programme with a decent level of base training under my belt.

The biggest test for a while will be Saturday, and the Kent County cross country at Brands Hatch. It is a particularly brutal way of pitching yourself into spring marathon training, but you feel much better for having made it to the finish line, because for all the pretence of keeping up the training throughout the holiday period, it is undertaken while you’re coddled in a Readybrek glow of festive spirit, at party pace, really.

It will be interesting to have an independent, and vegan, coach assessing my workouts, while doing the math regarding my WAVA rating, past PBs, time spent strength training ( one New Year’s resolution: an hour a week in the gym). The next four months are going to require a higher level of organisation than I’ve managed since 2015, but having let so many things slide over the past six months, while being ‘kind to myself’, I’m ready to show myself a rather tougher variety of love. Anyway, the mince pies are finally finished and the remaining unopened jar of home-made mincemeat in the fridge will probably last until next December.

Past fortnight: 3 parkruns, 1 bike ride, 1 tempo run, two long, slow 10 milers. About 2kg worth of extra timber being carried, owing to excesses of food and drink. It will probably melt away, but can stay there, if necessary, as I need it for the training, if it promises to convert into muscle…..