Battle

I ran my first race for about a year yesterday, despite not being particularly fit.  I just wanted to see if my knee was comfortable with that kind of punishment, as well as just feel the odd thrill of pitting my legs against someone else's.
So, the Two Bays Tough Ten in Weston-super-Mare it was.  Bizarrely the race HQ was in the college where I work, and the race took place along the seafront to Sand Bay; an area I know pretty well.It was strange mixing up my work and play identities, and chatting to the caretakers was very odd.

The weather was cold, and I flapped about trying to decide what to wear; whether a merino under my top was necessary, or whether my rather clingy running top would be sufficient to keep the chill out.  Actually, in all honesty, what was really important was whether I looked sporty in my kit - I hate the idea of being regarded as just a regular runner and want people to see me as a real contender.  On top of that I knew the race organisers had photographers out on the course and I have a surprisingly small collection of pictures of me racing - a legacy of rarely hanging out with other runners who may be wielding a camera and also having a wife who isn't a visual communicator.  I rather fancied a picture of me looking trim, flowing along sweetly despite my Robocop leg brace - maybe it would make it into one of my blog entries.

Luckily my leg brace marks me out as someone who could be fast but is clearly injured; that's fine as that image hides a multitude of sins, mostly age-related.  I toyed with the idea of starting in the elite group; after all, that is my place, but sensibly opted for a more gentle start.  Until the race started.  On the horn, I was off.

The race went pretty well - 90th out of 800 odd; not at my usual level, but running 10 miles per week isn't going to get me past the recreational jogger level.  My knee was fine the whole way round, but by the end my left foot was really sore; a reflection I suspect of my left leg having to compensate for the poorly functioning right leg.
I got home and was very excited that evening when the results came out and I could see where I fitted in among the people I knew.  I read all the way through so I could see who I beat, and who I might beat next time.  I looked forward to seeing the photos and was disappointed to see that they wouldn't be posted until the end of the week - surely they haven't anything else to do?

Then I remembered.  I remembered watching the fun run before the main race that went along the promenade and returned along the rocky part of the beach.  The runners at the front were young and fleet, and in the middle were sporty parents coaxing their kids along.  But at the back was a lady with a large zimmer frame with a teddy in, and heavy oedemal legs; walking very steadily alongside her partner who looked somewhat more athletic.  I had seen them at the start and wondered without thinking why they were there, as 100 metres into the run they were so far behind everyone else was out of sight.  So twenty minutes later, here they were, heading toward the finish; long after everyone else had collected their medal and cup of water. The ground was so rocky she had to pull her walking frame along behind her; it must have been really difficult.
To his very great credit the announcer suddenly drew everyone's attention to the couple slowly approaching the finish line.   He told the crowd her name, and despite confirming her last place announced that it was a huge achievement to complete the run, and we should give her the applause she deserves.  I was up on the promenade looking down on the finish and the people around me seemed too busy with their family to hear what was going on, so I started clapping, quite loudly.  Like a mexican wave, a swell of clapping grew out of the beach until smiling, the last placed fun runner stepped over the timing mat and she finished.

That evening I was struck by the vain, narcissistic approach to running I had shown - it was all about me; me against my injuries, me against the clock, me against the hills and the other runners.  The big story was that lady and her run.  The difference between what I did and my capability was close, so no significance there; the difference for her was much greater - that was an achievement.

update

OK, so I feel an update is in order.  No entries, no meandering around runs, no nature-inspired reflections; I have maintained a strict radio-silence.

A physio, a musculo-skeletal specialist and a surgeon have all said said the same thing; I need to appraise my hobbies.  My right knee has what I would describe as a grumbling condition, and what the surgeon described as degeneration.  The more I pound it the more likely it is that one day I will actually mangle it.  The surgeon described degeneration as the meniscus hardening, so layers will flake off until the whole thing falls into little bits and presumably drops out of my leg and into the floor.

However, there is a technological glint at the end of the tunnel of running morbidity.  I have spent a large sum for an unloader brace that takes the presure off the knee as well as re-aligning the whole joint to spread the impact.  So far it has been pretty good - runs of up to two hours have been possible with only the last few minutes evidencing joint pain, and even then it stops when I do.  I have used it after the run to aid recovery, and also at work for a slightly embarrassing six weeks in order to retrain my leg.

On top of this the consultant I bought it from showed me how crap my core strength is; particularly my glutes.  This doesn't seem fair as I tend to do some kind of glute exercise every day, but he said that exercises don't work, as the moment you go to your chosen exercise you revert to old behaviour.  Instead he gave me exercises that are part of a general gait overhaul.  The first one he calls 'dog poo'; where you pull your foot back along the ground as if scraping the offending turd off your shoe.  I then need to trace large butterfly shapes with my leg, jabbing my finger just above my back pocket to ensure full glute-engagement, and after that walk backwards on my tip-toes like Nadia Comaneci on the beam.  As if to hasten my demise, he also suggested I got a slackline (I aready have one) and set it up (I never do that), as they are really good for developing core strength.  I am 52 ffs.

Well, three months in - what progress?  I have been able to do some sort of running, although mostly along the lines of marking time rather than progression.  I think I have the brace to thank for that, but lack the scientific rigour to go out without it to see whether it hurts.  I have definitely lost any speed I previously had, and my stamina is chasing after my speed, calling out for it to wait.  However, I have maintained some sort of running through the winter, and haven't actually gone mad.  I have been out cycling with the local tri club; although lack of fitness shows up the hills when my usual romping up ahead of the others has been replaced by a spluttering and leg burning second place behind someone who has just come back from a training camp in Majorca.

In terms of looks, well, I think I have set a new trend - Robocop meets greying dad.  The whole right leg encased in plastic:I am thinking of wrapping my calf in some shiny material so people think I have a prosthetic leg.  It would certainly explain my slippery descent down the results list.

However, a new secret weapon was revealed this week.  I found an article that said that visualisation is the way forward, and the author's chosen way of engaging the glutes is that just prior to the back foot leaving the ground you imagine the foot up against a glass wall.  This will then throw the foot upward in a skippy way.  Well, I have tried it and it is an interresting proposition.

In an attempt to replace my interest in ultras with a more knee-friendly distance I ran the Parkrun yesterday.  With my new-found technique of skipping along with a myriad of glass walls forever pressing against my back foot, I tiddled through the race, and finished in 21.30.  This is hugely slower than my normal 19 min times, but it felt pretty good on my kneee despite the brace steadily slipping down.  At the end I was standing round chatting, but upon deciding to leave, my glutes competely went on strike to the extent of me nearly falling over.  This I take to be a good sign - the glutes had clearly been working hard.  Time will tell whether I have happened upon the answer.