Very little goes according to plan, as any marathon hopeful whose fridge magnets hold up a seemingly achievable marathon training schedule can tell you…it only takes a bit of real life to knock you out of kilter.
This is the second week in a row when just getting out for a run has been an epic mental struggle; the mileage and pace have both been below par (and the weather, incidentally, has been wet and unpleasantly, muckily warm for each outing). Since The Nasty Cold of last week I’ve struggled with aches and pains. In short, I feel my age.
Meanwhile my team-mate Clare Elms, on turning 60, has taken more than 10 seconds off the World W60 indoor mile record with 5:30.89. Watching the race video posted by Athletics Weekly I am, once again, overawed by her strength, agility and speed. When I interviewed Clare for The Guardian Running Blog years ago, my editor said, ‘has she got a portrait in the attic, or what?’ The woman is a phenomenon, and very pleasant and humble, too, I might add.
Still, there’s no point my wishing for the moon on a stick. I have working limbs, a big heart and a place in the London Marathon, and I try my hardest with those gifts. Here endeth the Pollyanna bit. It’s up to me to improve my diet, sleep and training regimes and feel better about my own running.
A generally post-viral state of health was not improved by my European Sleeper odyssey to see the grandsons in Berlin last Friday. The journey out was pleasant enough, the Eurostar was punctual, giving me time to locate the European Sleeper and my berth. It was very exciting once again to board a sleeper train for Berlin. I’d missed the Paris Est–Berlin that was abolished about a decade ago (I’m nostalgic because I travelled by night train to run the Berlin Marathon and earn my first sub-4 time – 3:57! Yay! – in 2013). European Sleeper’s 2024 rolling stock is adorably old (I concluded, benignly, on Friday night, while supping my special European Sleeper branded Weissbier). I was charmed by the sight of the track zipping along beneath me through a strange hole in the lavatory floor. For the first few hours I was in splendid isolation in the six-berth compartment, but I was joined by three Dutch people in Amsterdam. They were quiet as mice, however, and didn’t disturb me much.
On arrival in Berlin at 7am I lodged my rucksack in a luggage locker, drank a coffee, ate a banana, then jogged the six kilometres or so to Hasenheide parkrun in Berlin’s trendy Neukoln. I fact I got a bit lost and was late for the start, so had to chase down the runners disappearing over the hill. This was exhausting, and my time was predictably disappointing (26:13). I jogged back to Berlin Hauptbahnhoft, reclaimed my rucksack and took a train to the Gesundbrunnen flat, where I found grandson Number Eins Charlie Catford alone and palely loitering, vaguely poorly with a bronchial cough (his mum and brother had nipped out on a Fasching errand). Fasching is the German carnival marking the exorcism of winter, and involves much dressing up and overeating. Both children, in fact, were poorly, young Jesse, equally pale, had an upset stomach.
So the rest of the weekend was spent playing with, and reading to, feverish and spluttering children, before catching the night train Sunday night. This train was less adorable. I was in a compartment with five other people, including two snoring Belgians. Worse was to come. The train broke down in the middle of Holland, and we had to be rescued by coaches. I missed my Eurostar and had to pay 75 quid for a ticket change.
A good night’s sleep back home in Lewisham proved a wonderful antidote for my sense-of-humour failure, and I enjoyed my track session on Tuesday evening (a 30-minute time trial was on the agenda, which went reasonably well).
By Tuesday, however, the grandson’s lurgy had transferred itself to me, in the form of a temperature and a ticklish throat. I jogged my morning recovery run, stretched myself at Forrest Yoga and took paracetamol before our evening’s dinner date and the much-feted musical Standing At The Sky’s Edge, which was sentimental, but enjoyable.
On Thursday I had to work, but the lurgy seemed to be turning laryngeal, and I literally squeaked my way round the London Walks Medical Tour I lead every Thursday (2.30pm, Russell Square tube if you’d like to come along). No running.
It’s Friday. I can’t speak, voice totally gone. I’m worried about a very gruelling half marathon I have booked for Sunday.
An obvious occupational hazard of being a Marathon Gran is that close proximity to virus-ridden little children, snoring Belgians on trans-Europe rolling stock and the endlessly demanding training schedule can have serious effects on a mature immune system. Perhaps an early night and a hot toddy will work some magic.
Thursday 8 February: one hour easy (6 miles)
Friday 9 February: travel day
Saturday 10 February: Hasenheide parkrun bookended by about 7 miles WU/WD
Sunday 11 February: A rainy walk with the family in Burger Park, Berlin, a bit of football
Monday 12 February: travel day
Tuesday 13 February: Time trial (30 mins strong running), bookended by 2m WU/WD
Wednesday 14 February: 1 hour easy Blackheath, Greenwich, Deptford and home
Thursday: running aborted, Walking Tour took its toll
Friday: Pilates and self pity
Marathon Gran 