Seven months ago I entered the Brecon Titan Triathlon, six months ago I started training, and in two days time I will be competing in it.
I have swum enough to (nearly) look as if I know what I am doing, the running has taken a back seat in order to give me time to swim, and the cycling has followed the running if I am honest. No, I have actually trained, sometimes twice per day, sometimes not at all, but I have trained. I have lost 8lb, plus £150 on a wetsuit that gets damaged very time I use it. I have found lakes in the Bristol area, got up at 6am for a swimming session, and already raced in four triathlons and three aquathlons.
So, the big day is creeping up on me - time to assess;
I have a throat infection, my right shoulder and hip have both locked up, I am tired to the point of dropping off at work, and the gears don't work properly on my bike. In compensation, I have at least one person willing to come out and shout at me with the unequivocal voice of support, and the promise of a party when I get home.
OK, so I don't feel too sharp, what about strategies? Well, clearly surviving the swim is a major target. If I can get through that without dropping out I will be able to catch up a bit on the bike, and the run will be just a case of survival. I console myself with the thought that if I start drowning a canoeist will catch me, plus the added unknown of an Aussie exit - it is a two lap swim, and at the end of the first lap you run out of the water, around a marker and then back in for the second half. I don't know whether this is good or bad, so it makes sense to go for bad.
Food will be carried and supplied - no danger of going under fueled. I will also carry a repair kit and pump.
I always vowed to aim just to complete, but as time went on I wanted to get in the top half, then top third. Now, I am back to just completing; although there is a King of the Mountain section that might just be something to go for.
Talk about all in the mind!! I have to say I am anticipating this event to the point of shitting myself. OK so the running and cycling are ok, but the swimming is a whole other story. I am using the age-old trick of looking over the top of the triathlon to my first beer in the evening, and aim to ignore the event even when doing it. Well, the swimming at least.
Please remember why I am doing this - it is all about raising money for the hospice. If you haven't done so, please click on the button top right and make a donation so I can pay the hospice back for all the care and attention lavished on Karin when she felt lower than anyone has a rght to be. Please share this with your friends too - the more the merrier
Wednesday, 15 June 2016
Sunday, 15 May 2016
Cotswold standard distance triathlon
Don't you get bored of hearing people's accounts of races that start at the begining, and recount the whole day right to pulling up outside their house afterward? Well, here's another one! No, I will try to reflect on the event in order of significance rather than chronological order - and if it doesn't work I won't do it again.
Most importantly, I completed the swim, 1,500m in a lake - not last, pretty much at the back, but very comfortable. My main issue was boredom to be honest; the only thing you get to look at is murky water and the occasional smeary image of a yellow buoy. Sound is virtually non-existent, although the taste of the water is entertaining, especially when swimming behind someone. Anyway, I tootled along, refusing to put pressure on myself, and as a result smashed up a huge psychological barrier to the Brecon Titan - I now know I will be able to swim that.
Another significance was the number of people who wanted to talk to me about my fundraising. I suppose that really means they were willing to listen in the first place as I brought the subject up. I was approached on the finish line by one of the organisers as they had asked people to give a little information about themselves and she wanted to know more of my story. So, yet again I found myself being photographed at a sporting event with my hair stuck up by wind and sweat. And then, as I was wearing a hospice running vest, a St Peter's Hospice nurse introduced herself to me! Oh, busy me.
Cycling. Supposed to be my strength. Well, not today. I had little strength in my legs until the last 10 miles by which time it was too late. I don't know why, but I do know that when people start slowing down I can keep powering through. I suspect overtraining, as I was cramping in the water before the cycling started and had felt crampy yesterday.
The sun - oh, the sun! The thought of competing in an event like that in driving rain is off-putting to say the least. I am grateful that so far, all three of the tri's I have done, have been in clear brght weather. I got a cup of tea afterwards and just basked by the car. In fact, I scared some passing dog-walkers by doing a little impromptu yoga, then drove home playing reggae very loudly.
Running proved to be slightly better than the cycling; I felt fairly good and overtook a good number of people. The same applied as the cycling; the more tired people are the more I start to overtake. I therefore need to work on speed rather than endurance.
The other thing I need to work on is transitions with a wetsuit. I did the sort of change that people put on You-Tube, flailing around as if I was wrestling with a huge octopus. Eventually I gave up, sat down and peeled the bloody thing off, wasting at least a minute. I know what to do, but the wetsuit was in a contrary mood.
So, to sum up in a chronologically final sort of way; I had a great time, I was so much more comfortable competing, and got a bit sunburnt. Oh, and when I got back, next-door were having a barbecue and I sat and had a cheeky cider with them. Quality.
swim - 152nd cycle - 45th run - 48th Out of 185 finishers, but a more serious level than last week. Oh, and 5th gnarly supervet.
Most importantly, I completed the swim, 1,500m in a lake - not last, pretty much at the back, but very comfortable. My main issue was boredom to be honest; the only thing you get to look at is murky water and the occasional smeary image of a yellow buoy. Sound is virtually non-existent, although the taste of the water is entertaining, especially when swimming behind someone. Anyway, I tootled along, refusing to put pressure on myself, and as a result smashed up a huge psychological barrier to the Brecon Titan - I now know I will be able to swim that.
Another significance was the number of people who wanted to talk to me about my fundraising. I suppose that really means they were willing to listen in the first place as I brought the subject up. I was approached on the finish line by one of the organisers as they had asked people to give a little information about themselves and she wanted to know more of my story. So, yet again I found myself being photographed at a sporting event with my hair stuck up by wind and sweat. And then, as I was wearing a hospice running vest, a St Peter's Hospice nurse introduced herself to me! Oh, busy me.
Cycling. Supposed to be my strength. Well, not today. I had little strength in my legs until the last 10 miles by which time it was too late. I don't know why, but I do know that when people start slowing down I can keep powering through. I suspect overtraining, as I was cramping in the water before the cycling started and had felt crampy yesterday.
The sun - oh, the sun! The thought of competing in an event like that in driving rain is off-putting to say the least. I am grateful that so far, all three of the tri's I have done, have been in clear brght weather. I got a cup of tea afterwards and just basked by the car. In fact, I scared some passing dog-walkers by doing a little impromptu yoga, then drove home playing reggae very loudly.
Running proved to be slightly better than the cycling; I felt fairly good and overtook a good number of people. The same applied as the cycling; the more tired people are the more I start to overtake. I therefore need to work on speed rather than endurance.
The other thing I need to work on is transitions with a wetsuit. I did the sort of change that people put on You-Tube, flailing around as if I was wrestling with a huge octopus. Eventually I gave up, sat down and peeled the bloody thing off, wasting at least a minute. I know what to do, but the wetsuit was in a contrary mood.
So, to sum up in a chronologically final sort of way; I had a great time, I was so much more comfortable competing, and got a bit sunburnt. Oh, and when I got back, next-door were having a barbecue and I sat and had a cheeky cider with them. Quality.
swim - 152nd cycle - 45th run - 48th Out of 185 finishers, but a more serious level than last week. Oh, and 5th gnarly supervet.
Wednesday, 11 May 2016
Cotswold Super Sprint Triathlon
We've all seen those pictures of triathletes lining up at the edge of the water - identical wetsuits and swimming caps making them look like shop manikins. Then suddenly, a great shout and all are instantly animated: hurling themselves into the water like demented Reggie Perrins (young people may need to google that).
Well, that was me this morning: stood in a foot of slighty swampy water and ignoring the dislocation of being in a new situation - not to mention that all around me were similarly nervous and swim-hatted men. Sensibly lingering toward the back, I waited until the excitable ones had thrashed off before making my first foray into open water swimming, and only then launching myself toward the buoy that seemed so far away but was only the start of it.
400m - come on, we do that as a warm-up! Yes, but for a multitude of reasons swimming in the open seems so very much harder; to the extent that absolutely everything I have learned about swimming in the last three months was suddenly useless. 'Come on, relax, breathe, start bilateral breathing, relax, kick in threes, relax', turned into 'oh shit, perhaps I could drop out, how will I manage next week when I have to swim 1,500m in the same lake, oh god I have swallowed a pike, despite the buoyancy of the wetsuit I seem to be sinking, oh shit'. However, due to the mercy of the bountiful gods of panic and finite distance, somehow I reached the ramp out of the water. Hauled up by a marshal who by the end of the day must have one really tired arm, and that was the torture over.
I waddled to my bike, which I was as pleased to see as an old friend, put my helmet and number on with as much control as my chilled hands would allow, and headed out. Of course, cycling wasn't immediately available, as first you need to carry out one of the unspoken disciplines - running in cycling shoes. This event was particularly lengthy in this section, and so the spectators were treated to a good number of people dressed in little more than a one piece vest-and-pants outfit, running as if they were Bambi on ice.
Out on the road and I was in my element. I had driven the course the night before and so knew what to expect; gear up, head pushed forward like the Challenger space shuttle, and pick off all the people who were rude enough to swim faster than me. This bit was great after the water torture and I watched my computer clock up toward 25mph. The roads were fast, there were so many cyclists around that cars had to wait for us, and as a relatively short distance it was just a case of enjoying it.
My second transition was faster than the first and I was quickly out on the run course with loads of spectators around. The run was just a bit of 'way-hey!' It was too short for me to do myself justice so I made a point of enjoying it.
Over the line, bottle of water, medal, walk around in circles, quick post mortem with some team-mates, job done.
So, reflections. Swimming. 'nuff said. I was slightly heartened by advice on the finish line that of course I will be fine next week, just take it steady, have plenty of rests and breast-stroke it if necessary. I consoled myself with the fact that at the very worst there will be a canoe to drag me back to shore if my limbs lose the will to live.
However, the results tell a story;
Swimming - 242nd Running - 68th Cycling - 71st
Top 25% overall, no real tiredness, just a black cloud full of weedy, fishy lake water hanging over my head. Well, at least I know what to focus on.
Let's not forget why I am doing this - in memory of Karin, and as a build-up to the Titan to raise money for the hospice. As we have all said loads of times before, competing is much easier than getting secondary cancer, and we can drop out if we need.
Post - script.
I found out about a lake in north Bristol - and on Monday afternoon took myself off there to break the swimming fear. Here is what I found out;
- I can (and did) swim 2.5km in open water
- breathing is constricted by the wetsuit, hence the feeling of panicky breathlessness. It wasn't me, it was the suit!
- the wetsuit feels loads better if it is 'preloaded' with water before swimming, by pulling out the neck
- everyone feels panicky at times - the guy who came second in the swim had to stop at one point because he was in a state
- next week's 1,500m swim is actually do-able. By me.
Please consider clicking on the right to make a donation to St Peter's Hospice - many thanks. If I wasn't raising money there is no way I would be entering triathlons.
Well, that was me this morning: stood in a foot of slighty swampy water and ignoring the dislocation of being in a new situation - not to mention that all around me were similarly nervous and swim-hatted men. Sensibly lingering toward the back, I waited until the excitable ones had thrashed off before making my first foray into open water swimming, and only then launching myself toward the buoy that seemed so far away but was only the start of it.
400m - come on, we do that as a warm-up! Yes, but for a multitude of reasons swimming in the open seems so very much harder; to the extent that absolutely everything I have learned about swimming in the last three months was suddenly useless. 'Come on, relax, breathe, start bilateral breathing, relax, kick in threes, relax', turned into 'oh shit, perhaps I could drop out, how will I manage next week when I have to swim 1,500m in the same lake, oh god I have swallowed a pike, despite the buoyancy of the wetsuit I seem to be sinking, oh shit'. However, due to the mercy of the bountiful gods of panic and finite distance, somehow I reached the ramp out of the water. Hauled up by a marshal who by the end of the day must have one really tired arm, and that was the torture over.
I waddled to my bike, which I was as pleased to see as an old friend, put my helmet and number on with as much control as my chilled hands would allow, and headed out. Of course, cycling wasn't immediately available, as first you need to carry out one of the unspoken disciplines - running in cycling shoes. This event was particularly lengthy in this section, and so the spectators were treated to a good number of people dressed in little more than a one piece vest-and-pants outfit, running as if they were Bambi on ice.
Out on the road and I was in my element. I had driven the course the night before and so knew what to expect; gear up, head pushed forward like the Challenger space shuttle, and pick off all the people who were rude enough to swim faster than me. This bit was great after the water torture and I watched my computer clock up toward 25mph. The roads were fast, there were so many cyclists around that cars had to wait for us, and as a relatively short distance it was just a case of enjoying it.
My second transition was faster than the first and I was quickly out on the run course with loads of spectators around. The run was just a bit of 'way-hey!' It was too short for me to do myself justice so I made a point of enjoying it.
Over the line, bottle of water, medal, walk around in circles, quick post mortem with some team-mates, job done.
So, reflections. Swimming. 'nuff said. I was slightly heartened by advice on the finish line that of course I will be fine next week, just take it steady, have plenty of rests and breast-stroke it if necessary. I consoled myself with the fact that at the very worst there will be a canoe to drag me back to shore if my limbs lose the will to live.
However, the results tell a story;
Swimming - 242nd Running - 68th Cycling - 71st
Top 25% overall, no real tiredness, just a black cloud full of weedy, fishy lake water hanging over my head. Well, at least I know what to focus on.
Let's not forget why I am doing this - in memory of Karin, and as a build-up to the Titan to raise money for the hospice. As we have all said loads of times before, competing is much easier than getting secondary cancer, and we can drop out if we need.
Post - script.
I found out about a lake in north Bristol - and on Monday afternoon took myself off there to break the swimming fear. Here is what I found out;
- I can (and did) swim 2.5km in open water
- breathing is constricted by the wetsuit, hence the feeling of panicky breathlessness. It wasn't me, it was the suit!
- the wetsuit feels loads better if it is 'preloaded' with water before swimming, by pulling out the neck
- everyone feels panicky at times - the guy who came second in the swim had to stop at one point because he was in a state
- next week's 1,500m swim is actually do-able. By me.
Please consider clicking on the right to make a donation to St Peter's Hospice - many thanks. If I wasn't raising money there is no way I would be entering triathlons.
Sunday, 17 April 2016
Burnham Triathlon, Graeme Obree and the nature of competition - all on the same day
The alarm jolted me from one of those broken nights full of dreams, and offered me a bright but cold day for my very first triathlon. To my surprise the car was iced over - not a good point when in a few hours I would be running out of a swimming pool and onto a bike with chlorinated water streaming down me. But no matter; by the time I got there the thermometer in the car was registering a heady 2 degrees and I had a plan to ride in a gilet.
Other than the early morning chill, the day must be an organiser's dream - the low sun creating a photogenic air, and very little breeze to frustrate the cyclists. Of course the indoor pool was the first discipline, and I duly lined up on the poolside, rather calmly; possibly even complacent. Maybe that was my undoing, as the first two lengths were undertaken rather quickly and the last 200m was spent surviving rather than thriving. The girl I had overtaken early on kept snapping at my heels (figuratively) until I let her pass, thus taking that zing of adrenalin out of my stroke.
Outside, grapple with my shoes, on with the gilet and helmet and away. I suppose I should be pleased that I overtook loads of people and nobody overtook me, but I really felt as if I was on my way home from a hard day at the office rather than racing with gritted teeth. Likewise the run - my transition was good; I was glad that with such a short event I hadn't bothered with cycling shoes but stuck to running shoes and plain old pedals. I cruised along and barely pushed myself at any point. Nobody was challenging me and I had only a few to run down, so just ran. No sprint for the finish, I just ran through it barely out of breath.
Looking at the results, I finished in the top third but my swimming was way below my normal time - the rest of the event was spent recouping my losses and moving through the field.
Well, hang on, top third sounds good, doesn't it? Surely it is all about just enjoying the competition? That wouldn't explain my rather hollow feeling about the day - a superb event and a great introduction to competing in triathlons, but nothing there for me to take home with pride. What I need to do is continue pushing the swimming, incorporate some speedwork and ease back on the grazing between meals. What I need to do is this, is that, to improve, to move forward, consider my targets, take it more seriously, make training sessions hurt, go out with people faster than me....
Woah! Stop Neddy. None of this matters, really. Graeme Obree (more on him later) said what helps him is to look in as if he is a stranger. So, what would a stranger see? A good event, a first triathlon, plenty of overtaking, kit worked ok, but a slight sense of not having tried. How much is that worth? 2 places? Worth worrying about? Don't think so, so take pleasure in the event.
So then, on to Graeme in the afternoon of the same day. A fascinating film about his attempt on the world land human powered speed record, plus a question and answer session with the man himself afterwards. He is a human whirlwind with ideas and actions pouring out of him unchecked; a tsunami of change.
It was clear that the film only presented a viewpoint - for instance there was a bit where he didn't go fast enough to break the record and the film showed him sitting dejected - the audience were drawn into his apparent devastation after everything that had been achieved. But, then he said that in a situation like that you just have to move on - it didn't work? well, there you go. So is he right, or was the film maker right? Of course everything is subjective and all viewpoints are valid, so I guess both are right. His drive to achieve is nothing short of amazing, but as he said, you need to be obsessive to get that far, and that just isn't comfortable.
He used the record attempt as a vehicle to tell his story of redemption from mental illness, and as he spoke in the bar afterwards I saw a man who had found some sort of peace with his brain, even though the same brain was still chucking out thoughts and energy like a firework.
But, targets, aiming high, what a dangerous game. Why not dump the programmes, the race calendar, and just do stuff? I have often thought this, but having set my mind to this huge triathlon in June have bound myself to a tight schedule. And who likes being bound? No, we like freedom. Leisure time is time for us to do what we want at our own pace rather than being dictated by someone else, and here I am comparing myself to the times of others so they dictate my training. And Mr Obree - wanting to be the best, get a world record.
A hurricane comes, Wizard of Oz-like and spirals you off to a desert island , all on your own. What do you do for leisure? Train to beat a record? Set targets? Or enjoy going fast, just for its own sake?
Other than the early morning chill, the day must be an organiser's dream - the low sun creating a photogenic air, and very little breeze to frustrate the cyclists. Of course the indoor pool was the first discipline, and I duly lined up on the poolside, rather calmly; possibly even complacent. Maybe that was my undoing, as the first two lengths were undertaken rather quickly and the last 200m was spent surviving rather than thriving. The girl I had overtaken early on kept snapping at my heels (figuratively) until I let her pass, thus taking that zing of adrenalin out of my stroke.
Outside, grapple with my shoes, on with the gilet and helmet and away. I suppose I should be pleased that I overtook loads of people and nobody overtook me, but I really felt as if I was on my way home from a hard day at the office rather than racing with gritted teeth. Likewise the run - my transition was good; I was glad that with such a short event I hadn't bothered with cycling shoes but stuck to running shoes and plain old pedals. I cruised along and barely pushed myself at any point. Nobody was challenging me and I had only a few to run down, so just ran. No sprint for the finish, I just ran through it barely out of breath.
Looking at the results, I finished in the top third but my swimming was way below my normal time - the rest of the event was spent recouping my losses and moving through the field.
Well, hang on, top third sounds good, doesn't it? Surely it is all about just enjoying the competition? That wouldn't explain my rather hollow feeling about the day - a superb event and a great introduction to competing in triathlons, but nothing there for me to take home with pride. What I need to do is continue pushing the swimming, incorporate some speedwork and ease back on the grazing between meals. What I need to do is this, is that, to improve, to move forward, consider my targets, take it more seriously, make training sessions hurt, go out with people faster than me....
Woah! Stop Neddy. None of this matters, really. Graeme Obree (more on him later) said what helps him is to look in as if he is a stranger. So, what would a stranger see? A good event, a first triathlon, plenty of overtaking, kit worked ok, but a slight sense of not having tried. How much is that worth? 2 places? Worth worrying about? Don't think so, so take pleasure in the event.
So then, on to Graeme in the afternoon of the same day. A fascinating film about his attempt on the world land human powered speed record, plus a question and answer session with the man himself afterwards. He is a human whirlwind with ideas and actions pouring out of him unchecked; a tsunami of change.
It was clear that the film only presented a viewpoint - for instance there was a bit where he didn't go fast enough to break the record and the film showed him sitting dejected - the audience were drawn into his apparent devastation after everything that had been achieved. But, then he said that in a situation like that you just have to move on - it didn't work? well, there you go. So is he right, or was the film maker right? Of course everything is subjective and all viewpoints are valid, so I guess both are right. His drive to achieve is nothing short of amazing, but as he said, you need to be obsessive to get that far, and that just isn't comfortable.
He used the record attempt as a vehicle to tell his story of redemption from mental illness, and as he spoke in the bar afterwards I saw a man who had found some sort of peace with his brain, even though the same brain was still chucking out thoughts and energy like a firework.
But, targets, aiming high, what a dangerous game. Why not dump the programmes, the race calendar, and just do stuff? I have often thought this, but having set my mind to this huge triathlon in June have bound myself to a tight schedule. And who likes being bound? No, we like freedom. Leisure time is time for us to do what we want at our own pace rather than being dictated by someone else, and here I am comparing myself to the times of others so they dictate my training. And Mr Obree - wanting to be the best, get a world record.
A hurricane comes, Wizard of Oz-like and spirals you off to a desert island , all on your own. What do you do for leisure? Train to beat a record? Set targets? Or enjoy going fast, just for its own sake?
Yes, this is him inside that tiny thing, with his shoulders squashed into a frame made out of a saucepan to make him more aerodynamic
Image; http://www.cyclingweekly.co.uk/news/latest-news/review-battle-mountain-graeme-obree-story-219699
If you want to contribute to my triathlon based fundraising, please click on the following link; St Peter's Hospice
Friday, 15 April 2016
Life in the slow lane
An update must surely be in order, just in time for a major milestone - my very first triathlon this weekend.
I can't say I feel terribly fit, but I have stepped up the training and so should be ticking along in all three disciplines. I have done very little speed work, but there is plenty of time for that. A key strategy for me has been not to worry about being a contender and thus not worry whether I have carried out the right type of training - it's all about the long haul. I'm doing these early events just to get experience and have fun.
Swimming - getting better, due to going for a swim at least twice a week aong with attending classes with a coach who does proper drills and offers loads of guidance. I haven't got the nerve up to ask her to coach me on a 1:1 basis yet, but I will. At least I know the importance of the turns, have mastered bilateral breathing and have bought a proper lycra swimming costume (apparently called jammers...).
On top of this I have bought a wet suit! Field testing in the sea will take place next week, so I can get used to being battered around a choppy swell, hyperventilating due to the cold.
Running - I have dropped the knee brace for a while - short flat distances seem ok so long as I keep my stance efficient.
Cycling - well, no real training, but I have done some rides, including some fairly hard ones with the tri club.
Bricks - despite Linkedin repeatedly sending me details of vacancies for construction lecturers I am not changing career direction. Bricks are a way of taking a perfectly pleasant morning and completely ruining it - push two training sessions together like twin single beds and watch in mock horror as I come back soaked from a 60 mile bike ride, immediately jump into cycling shorts, scoff half a banana and then waddle out for an hour's run. Oh, and the third discipline - sleep all afternoon.
Transitions - I found out at the Burnham aquathlon that putting a shirt on is a stupid idea when you are wet - at the Tewkesbury aquathlon I wore a tri suit and sped up considerably, right from the lower third of the field to the upper third. Likewise the very distinctive pleasures of elastic laces. I have ordered some for this Sunday but they haven't arrived yet - I'll be hovering at my letterbox tomorrow morning to see if they come.
The St Peter's Hospice sportive a couple of weekends ago - 75km, very nice, but tempered somewhat by a recent bout of norovirus. I hadn't eaten all week but made a point of keeping well stocked up throughout the ride. £1,000 raised for the hospice, plus two radio interviews.
Next? Another sprint tri followed the next week by a much longer one. Oh, goodness the months are just shooting along!
I can't say I feel terribly fit, but I have stepped up the training and so should be ticking along in all three disciplines. I have done very little speed work, but there is plenty of time for that. A key strategy for me has been not to worry about being a contender and thus not worry whether I have carried out the right type of training - it's all about the long haul. I'm doing these early events just to get experience and have fun.
Swimming - getting better, due to going for a swim at least twice a week aong with attending classes with a coach who does proper drills and offers loads of guidance. I haven't got the nerve up to ask her to coach me on a 1:1 basis yet, but I will. At least I know the importance of the turns, have mastered bilateral breathing and have bought a proper lycra swimming costume (apparently called jammers...).
On top of this I have bought a wet suit! Field testing in the sea will take place next week, so I can get used to being battered around a choppy swell, hyperventilating due to the cold.
Running - I have dropped the knee brace for a while - short flat distances seem ok so long as I keep my stance efficient.
Cycling - well, no real training, but I have done some rides, including some fairly hard ones with the tri club.
Bricks - despite Linkedin repeatedly sending me details of vacancies for construction lecturers I am not changing career direction. Bricks are a way of taking a perfectly pleasant morning and completely ruining it - push two training sessions together like twin single beds and watch in mock horror as I come back soaked from a 60 mile bike ride, immediately jump into cycling shorts, scoff half a banana and then waddle out for an hour's run. Oh, and the third discipline - sleep all afternoon.
Transitions - I found out at the Burnham aquathlon that putting a shirt on is a stupid idea when you are wet - at the Tewkesbury aquathlon I wore a tri suit and sped up considerably, right from the lower third of the field to the upper third. Likewise the very distinctive pleasures of elastic laces. I have ordered some for this Sunday but they haven't arrived yet - I'll be hovering at my letterbox tomorrow morning to see if they come.
The St Peter's Hospice sportive a couple of weekends ago - 75km, very nice, but tempered somewhat by a recent bout of norovirus. I hadn't eaten all week but made a point of keeping well stocked up throughout the ride. £1,000 raised for the hospice, plus two radio interviews.
Next? Another sprint tri followed the next week by a much longer one. Oh, goodness the months are just shooting along!
Next next? Next next next? Yep, the big thing, raising more money for the hospice. I am pushing at work and hoping the college will support me. I am also going to start contacting corporate sponsors.
In the meantime, please consider making a donation yourself by clicking here; St Peter's Hospice
Sunday, 20 March 2016
Burnham Aquathlon
It really sounds as if they ran out of suitable names for sports that combine different disciplines - 'aquathlon' sounds like a tooth treatment. Anyway, the good thing is that it didn't feel like one.
I woke up with a sinking feeling that actually, given Sunday is my leisure time I should at least be doing something I like or might look forward to, and at that point I really wasn't looking forward to it. However, when I finally dragged my carcass there and spent a rather confused 20 mins wandering around trying to work out how to get into the changing room, I was almost looking forward to it. Almost.
The organisers had, in their wisdom, decided that I should go first and have number one marked on my arm. People seemed very impressed, as if I had that number because I won it last year or something like that. However, in stark contrast to this was my well-informed opinion that actually I was going to be crap at swimming - to the point of getting in the way of the next wave. I had visions of loads of people stood around with arms folded while I splashed back and forth trying vainly to catch up with the other 'athletes', who were already off on their run.
The reality was that although I definitely sat in the crap camp, I wasn't last to exit the pool, and given my confidence in running thngs suddenly seemed rosier. I also realised that swimming caps held your goggles on, very useful.
But the first major obstacle, and first key thing I learned, was in the transition. It was a cold day so I had elected to wear a t-shirt, with the number pinned on. It was compulsary to wear your number so something had to go on top, and a loose-ish t-shirt seemed a good idea. Only it wasn't. Getting a t-shirt on when you are wet is absolutely impossible. I dragged the fabric down the front but the back seemed resolutely stuck to my shoulders. I couldn't reach around to pull it down so engaged in a rather comical spinning around to try to catch the shirt and yank it down. As I reached up with my hands I caught sight of a small girl, presumably the daughter of the marshal staring at me; I nearly asked her to help me but remembered that I would be disqualified so continued twisting and contorting until the bloody thing finally dropped down. Making a mental note to wear a tri suit next time I thundered off, catching a few runners before a rather casual attempt at speeding up to finish with a sprint.
Back to the pool, picking up kit dropped all over Burnham it seemed, shower and a welcome cup of tea. At this point I was adopted in a most welcome way by some regular competitors and showered with advice about shoes, swimming, and of course the inadvisability of t-shirts. On top of that I was given details of a swimming coach who could quite possibly turn my efforts into forward movement.
So I finished in the second half - I didn't really expect anything else, but it does hurt to be viewed as a results list filler, rather than a contender. Well, more training, more gadgets and techniques and my standard aspiration of a top 10% place could be realistic.
No more t-shirts, more technique-focussed swimming, and more commitment. When I got back I was still buzzing so went out on my bike for 2 hours - that suggests I didn't try hard enough. Still, I had a great time, met some new people and enjoyed the estuarine delights of Burnham on Sea.
I woke up with a sinking feeling that actually, given Sunday is my leisure time I should at least be doing something I like or might look forward to, and at that point I really wasn't looking forward to it. However, when I finally dragged my carcass there and spent a rather confused 20 mins wandering around trying to work out how to get into the changing room, I was almost looking forward to it. Almost.
The organisers had, in their wisdom, decided that I should go first and have number one marked on my arm. People seemed very impressed, as if I had that number because I won it last year or something like that. However, in stark contrast to this was my well-informed opinion that actually I was going to be crap at swimming - to the point of getting in the way of the next wave. I had visions of loads of people stood around with arms folded while I splashed back and forth trying vainly to catch up with the other 'athletes', who were already off on their run.
The reality was that although I definitely sat in the crap camp, I wasn't last to exit the pool, and given my confidence in running thngs suddenly seemed rosier. I also realised that swimming caps held your goggles on, very useful.
But the first major obstacle, and first key thing I learned, was in the transition. It was a cold day so I had elected to wear a t-shirt, with the number pinned on. It was compulsary to wear your number so something had to go on top, and a loose-ish t-shirt seemed a good idea. Only it wasn't. Getting a t-shirt on when you are wet is absolutely impossible. I dragged the fabric down the front but the back seemed resolutely stuck to my shoulders. I couldn't reach around to pull it down so engaged in a rather comical spinning around to try to catch the shirt and yank it down. As I reached up with my hands I caught sight of a small girl, presumably the daughter of the marshal staring at me; I nearly asked her to help me but remembered that I would be disqualified so continued twisting and contorting until the bloody thing finally dropped down. Making a mental note to wear a tri suit next time I thundered off, catching a few runners before a rather casual attempt at speeding up to finish with a sprint.
Back to the pool, picking up kit dropped all over Burnham it seemed, shower and a welcome cup of tea. At this point I was adopted in a most welcome way by some regular competitors and showered with advice about shoes, swimming, and of course the inadvisability of t-shirts. On top of that I was given details of a swimming coach who could quite possibly turn my efforts into forward movement.
So I finished in the second half - I didn't really expect anything else, but it does hurt to be viewed as a results list filler, rather than a contender. Well, more training, more gadgets and techniques and my standard aspiration of a top 10% place could be realistic.
No more t-shirts, more technique-focussed swimming, and more commitment. When I got back I was still buzzing so went out on my bike for 2 hours - that suggests I didn't try hard enough. Still, I had a great time, met some new people and enjoyed the estuarine delights of Burnham on Sea.
Sunday, 21 February 2016
DBMax duathlon Feb 2016
What sport incorporates competitive shoe-changing? Extreme catwalk? Nope, duathlons and triathlons, that's what. This group of sports incorporates a bizarre collection of secondary attributes if you want to make it big; rubber-banding your shoes to your bike, spending all your salary on an aerodynamic bike and then fixing your number on you in such a way that it flaps about like a wind-anchor, having a watch/gps/hrm thing that beeps so much it sounds like R2D2 has hitched a ride - I could go on.
Anyway, despite the advice of my physio, I rode the DB Max Chilly Duathlon today. Preparation was hardly ideal - 30 minutes running in total since Christmas, no fast riding either, only putting tri bars on the bike the day before with no chance to see if I can actually ride the bike with them on. And a party until 1 am the night before.
I rocked up my usual three hours too early, got the bike out and then wandered around trying to shelter. The wind was howling off the course and thin but penetrating rain soaked all my clothing within minutes.
The 10k running race that took place beforehand gave some sense of the conditions out on the motor racing curcuit, and the commentator referred repeatedly to the wind down the back of the course. I can't say it filled me with excitement but I had vowed to take it steady in order to avoid further inflaming my grumbly achilles and so I could go at whatever pace I wanted.
We lined up, and then without warning we were off. Like a kid in a playground I shot off too fast, threw my intentions in a puddle and got all competitive - like I always do. However, lack of fitness soon pulled at my legs and I calmed down ready to enter the transition for the bike section.
On with the next discipline; the shoe change. Not very speedy due to lack of rubber bands to hold the shoes on the bike (the postman had been hinting - he often drops rubber bands in our garden when delivering letters) and then that weird run cyclists do when wearing cycling shoes, toes up, legs bent, back arched. What I hadn't considered was how slippery wet things are. I got to the section where you are allowed to mount your bike, my foot slipped off the pedal and down I went, blocking the way for all the other competitors. I finally got off the ground/water and set off, determined to restore the lost places.
My goodness it was wet out there! The surface was a slick and anyone who had decided to wear their super-expensive shades would be cursing because the rain blew in our faces like a documentary about Cape Horn. The first bend was terrifying - it is quite tight and we were all terrified of the wet surface. The only strategy was to freewheel round in a wide arc grimly muttering 'shitshitshitshit'. This worked for me but not a teammate of mine who sailed off the road into the mud. Subsequent laps saw me entering the corner wide and then cutting in - much more successful. Mind you, the person who dropped the gel wrapper right at the corner wasn't popular with me as these high-tech banana skins could take you out before you saw them. And when I say 'take you out', I don't mean a candlelit meal, I mean rub you along the track at speed while the riders behind pile into you. To be avoided.
The threat of cramp in my calves meant I never really got beyond training-ride speed for most of the cycling, but I did enjoy pretending I was going fast by making gasping noises and crouching really low over my bars when overtaking some slip of a girl on a mountain bike with a basket. In fact, I reckon I cycle to work faster. Spray jetted up from all the bikes - I don't know why they told us about the drafting rules - why would you want to get that close to a mobile power shower aimed at your face?
Off the bike in the second transition and racked my bike. Lost my shoes. Lost my storage box - it had blown away in the howling wind. Found my shoes, re-racked my bike in the proper place. Pretended I meant to keep moving my bike around like it was some new strategy invented by the Brownlees, finally put my shoes on and bad farewell to my bike.
The second run was ok. My physio told me that this was the time when my achilles would be hurting because fatigue leads to poor running, and I should consider dropping out at that point. Drop out? Don't think so. I think the previous sections had been taken so steadily that I still had some energy - in fact I know that because after I finished I could still jog comfortably instead of looking like an animal with a broken leg. Round the corner toward the finish line, a quick look back to ensure I wouldn't have some bugger scream past me in front of everyone, and a comfortable run over the line making sure I looked athletic in case the photographer was there like some sort of war correspondent recording the anguish.
Overall, a great day, enhanced in some perverse way by the conditions. I was pleasantly surprised that I could compete despite absolutely no training. I will admit to cycling twice a week, but my running shoes have not been put on at all since Christmas until this last week. I think that is quite an achievement.
These events are nicely inclusive; there are runners and riders of all types and because you are mostly on your own it doesn't matter. It is quite nice to pretend you are competing with the racing snakes who come jetting past on their BMC carbon thingies, and I am happy to maintain that illusion, despite knowing that if I went for a ride with them we wouldn't be together for very long - maybe 12 seconds or so. However, I finished 62nd out of 232; hardly my usual aim of the top 10% but not at the back either.
What would I do if I actually did some training? I am going to have to find out because I have entered their Brecon Titan to raise money for St Peter's Hospice, I don't think I will be able to apply the same lacksadaisical approach.
Anyway, despite the advice of my physio, I rode the DB Max Chilly Duathlon today. Preparation was hardly ideal - 30 minutes running in total since Christmas, no fast riding either, only putting tri bars on the bike the day before with no chance to see if I can actually ride the bike with them on. And a party until 1 am the night before.
I rocked up my usual three hours too early, got the bike out and then wandered around trying to shelter. The wind was howling off the course and thin but penetrating rain soaked all my clothing within minutes.
The 10k running race that took place beforehand gave some sense of the conditions out on the motor racing curcuit, and the commentator referred repeatedly to the wind down the back of the course. I can't say it filled me with excitement but I had vowed to take it steady in order to avoid further inflaming my grumbly achilles and so I could go at whatever pace I wanted.
We lined up, and then without warning we were off. Like a kid in a playground I shot off too fast, threw my intentions in a puddle and got all competitive - like I always do. However, lack of fitness soon pulled at my legs and I calmed down ready to enter the transition for the bike section.
On with the next discipline; the shoe change. Not very speedy due to lack of rubber bands to hold the shoes on the bike (the postman had been hinting - he often drops rubber bands in our garden when delivering letters) and then that weird run cyclists do when wearing cycling shoes, toes up, legs bent, back arched. What I hadn't considered was how slippery wet things are. I got to the section where you are allowed to mount your bike, my foot slipped off the pedal and down I went, blocking the way for all the other competitors. I finally got off the ground/water and set off, determined to restore the lost places.
My goodness it was wet out there! The surface was a slick and anyone who had decided to wear their super-expensive shades would be cursing because the rain blew in our faces like a documentary about Cape Horn. The first bend was terrifying - it is quite tight and we were all terrified of the wet surface. The only strategy was to freewheel round in a wide arc grimly muttering 'shitshitshitshit'. This worked for me but not a teammate of mine who sailed off the road into the mud. Subsequent laps saw me entering the corner wide and then cutting in - much more successful. Mind you, the person who dropped the gel wrapper right at the corner wasn't popular with me as these high-tech banana skins could take you out before you saw them. And when I say 'take you out', I don't mean a candlelit meal, I mean rub you along the track at speed while the riders behind pile into you. To be avoided.
The threat of cramp in my calves meant I never really got beyond training-ride speed for most of the cycling, but I did enjoy pretending I was going fast by making gasping noises and crouching really low over my bars when overtaking some slip of a girl on a mountain bike with a basket. In fact, I reckon I cycle to work faster. Spray jetted up from all the bikes - I don't know why they told us about the drafting rules - why would you want to get that close to a mobile power shower aimed at your face?
Off the bike in the second transition and racked my bike. Lost my shoes. Lost my storage box - it had blown away in the howling wind. Found my shoes, re-racked my bike in the proper place. Pretended I meant to keep moving my bike around like it was some new strategy invented by the Brownlees, finally put my shoes on and bad farewell to my bike.
The second run was ok. My physio told me that this was the time when my achilles would be hurting because fatigue leads to poor running, and I should consider dropping out at that point. Drop out? Don't think so. I think the previous sections had been taken so steadily that I still had some energy - in fact I know that because after I finished I could still jog comfortably instead of looking like an animal with a broken leg. Round the corner toward the finish line, a quick look back to ensure I wouldn't have some bugger scream past me in front of everyone, and a comfortable run over the line making sure I looked athletic in case the photographer was there like some sort of war correspondent recording the anguish.
Overall, a great day, enhanced in some perverse way by the conditions. I was pleasantly surprised that I could compete despite absolutely no training. I will admit to cycling twice a week, but my running shoes have not been put on at all since Christmas until this last week. I think that is quite an achievement.
These events are nicely inclusive; there are runners and riders of all types and because you are mostly on your own it doesn't matter. It is quite nice to pretend you are competing with the racing snakes who come jetting past on their BMC carbon thingies, and I am happy to maintain that illusion, despite knowing that if I went for a ride with them we wouldn't be together for very long - maybe 12 seconds or so. However, I finished 62nd out of 232; hardly my usual aim of the top 10% but not at the back either.
What would I do if I actually did some training? I am going to have to find out because I have entered their Brecon Titan to raise money for St Peter's Hospice, I don't think I will be able to apply the same lacksadaisical approach.
Sunday, 7 February 2016
Evans Ride-it sportive with added moistness
Some days just aren't cut out to be a cycling day, and today was one of those. The Evans Ride-it Sportive; 70 miles with the start in Bristol all sounded great, but the February date clearly included some risk of poor weather. Well, it didn't disappoint!
I wasn't going to back out: after all I have loads of winter cycling kit and I hadn't attended my usual training session yesterday. I just needed to ignore the weather and get my butt out there.
As I pulled into the car park the dashboard thermometer said 2c, but that felt optimistic when I pulled myself away from the car heater - the rain occasionally morphed into hail and my hands were freezing before I had registered. However, there was a significant number of people there including myself...........
Listen friends, I have been sat here trying to write this for an hour now, and nothing. So, here are the important bits. It was f**cking cold but warmed up later. My gloves turned into sponges. I ate 6 small pieces of flapjack. My legs are tired, but what do you expect from 70 miles including Burrington Combe and Dundry? I went for a pee but I was wearing so many clothes that I couldn't, umm, find myself. Oh, and there was a cow wandering across the road at the top of Burrington. It was a great day.
The rest of the afternoon has been spent staring at my laptop and wondering whether the skin on my face will ever recover. Just in case you get in a debate with yourself about going out in poor weather, get out there - wear merino baselayers, your best jacket and an optimistic smile and all will be fine.
Photos to follow, although I noticed the photographer had his super-expensive camera in a plastic bag so don't expect the resolution to be too sharp.
I wasn't going to back out: after all I have loads of winter cycling kit and I hadn't attended my usual training session yesterday. I just needed to ignore the weather and get my butt out there.
As I pulled into the car park the dashboard thermometer said 2c, but that felt optimistic when I pulled myself away from the car heater - the rain occasionally morphed into hail and my hands were freezing before I had registered. However, there was a significant number of people there including myself...........
Listen friends, I have been sat here trying to write this for an hour now, and nothing. So, here are the important bits. It was f**cking cold but warmed up later. My gloves turned into sponges. I ate 6 small pieces of flapjack. My legs are tired, but what do you expect from 70 miles including Burrington Combe and Dundry? I went for a pee but I was wearing so many clothes that I couldn't, umm, find myself. Oh, and there was a cow wandering across the road at the top of Burrington. It was a great day.
The rest of the afternoon has been spent staring at my laptop and wondering whether the skin on my face will ever recover. Just in case you get in a debate with yourself about going out in poor weather, get out there - wear merino baselayers, your best jacket and an optimistic smile and all will be fine.
Photos to follow, although I noticed the photographer had his super-expensive camera in a plastic bag so don't expect the resolution to be too sharp.
Tuesday, 2 February 2016
My latest challenge, and I mean challenge
So, I have announced to anyone in the world who will listen that I have entered a triathlon in the summer, to raise money for St Peter's Hospice. But not any old triathlon, oh no: more like one that comes under the category of 'stupid'. The Brecon Titan seems to give off strong hints about its toughness in its name - 1.2 mile lake swim, 60 hilly miles plus a half marathon distance run to close things. I have spoken to a number of experienced triathletes about it and the most common response is a raising of the eyebrows and questions about my previous triathlon experience. None.
So why have I potentially wasted the £100 entry fee, planned to spend loads of money on kit that likely won't be used ever again, and ruined my spring by being compelled to train all waking hours? Well, for starters, my friend Heidi suggested it and I felt that after she had entered, my refusing to enter would be a massive slur on my sporting capabilities. And of course, I could raise money by encouraging people to give me money as an act of sympathy.
One month after entering, here is where I am;
Good things;
1. I can actually swim front crawl without drowning (even if a bystander might think I look as if I am)
2. There is still a lot of time before the big day. In addition, the organisers have planned a 'dry run' (ie. no swimming), complete with camping, so I can familiarise myself with the cycling route
3. I have entered some other events in the build-up, thus providing some structure to my Spring.
4. It is good to have a decent challenge rather than something I could already do (see Bristol Half)
5. For the first time in my life I have a bit of time as I am currently working three days per week - plenty of time to actually train
6. I have been going to the triathlon club swimming sessions (twice so far, that must surely qualify me as a regular). They do view me as a charity case, but surely it is good to do something that is outside my comfort zone for once. I am meeting new people, although I have discovered that swimming desn't lend itself to casual chatting - water pours in your mouth. The changing room afterward seems to be full of people in their own little world and everyone changes in silence; presumably something to do with the sensory-deprivation nature of being in the pool with covers over your eyes and a hat sealing up your ears. Oh well, one or two were chatty before we got in
7. There is a cool machine for drying your costume. Drop the offending article in the machine and it spins it so dry that you can put it in your work bag without any deleterious effect on random papers, or more importantly your lunch. Which in the case of triathletes seems to be seeds and strange protein shakes
8. Cycling, unsurprisingly, is going well with a few sportive rides under my belt already, not to mention an exhilerating couple of hours at the local velodrome
Bad things;
1. I have irritated my achilles tendon. The physio is talking about months to heal - no running at all
2. As above; it is such a big setback it deserves two points
3. Swimming is torture - I can't do it, I am the slowest in the training sessions I go to and there is nothing to look at. Forget all that getting inside your head and it being meditative nonsense - it is just boring. The only thing that enlivens it is the constant fear of being overtaken. I just need to apply the cyclists' rule number five (google it)
4. Every time I cycle anywhere it is either icy or pissing with rain, or both, and always dark. My life teeters in the balance with only a rack of expensive rear lights between me and being splatted on the main road to Weston-super-Mare
5. I have some weight to lose - I know because I looked at the other swimmers this morning, then caught myself in the mirror. Yes yes, seals aren't exactly stick-thin, but they only compete in the first discipline. All the other swimmers seem to be so broad-shouldered and lean that they look like an upside-down Toblerone for Weightwatchers. I on the other hand, look like a pregnant twig
To sum up, I am planning more than I am carrying out, mainly due to my injury. This could place the whole project in danger, although I suppose I could just do the first two disciplines and drop out before the one I am fastest at - not much of an option. Only time will tell. In the meantime I am carrying out heel raises, glute strengtheners, twisty things, and using the foam roller on my back twice a day - even at work.
Swimming needs work - I need to attend the training sessions, and I also need a coach who won't chortle and splutter when they see me - let's call it inclusive practice.
I'll try to update as I go along. And I'll try to remember why I am doing this. As Jenny and I both thought during the Bristol Half, running is a lot easier than finding out you are dying of cancer.
Please consider a donation to Karin's tribute page as payment for the entertainment you have received in reading this; I need to raise at least £18,000 to pay the hospice back for the treatment Karin received.
http://www.stpetershospice.org.uk/support-us/tribute-pages/tribute-for-karin-dixon-wilkins-81/
So why have I potentially wasted the £100 entry fee, planned to spend loads of money on kit that likely won't be used ever again, and ruined my spring by being compelled to train all waking hours? Well, for starters, my friend Heidi suggested it and I felt that after she had entered, my refusing to enter would be a massive slur on my sporting capabilities. And of course, I could raise money by encouraging people to give me money as an act of sympathy.
One month after entering, here is where I am;
Good things;
1. I can actually swim front crawl without drowning (even if a bystander might think I look as if I am)
2. There is still a lot of time before the big day. In addition, the organisers have planned a 'dry run' (ie. no swimming), complete with camping, so I can familiarise myself with the cycling route
3. I have entered some other events in the build-up, thus providing some structure to my Spring.
4. It is good to have a decent challenge rather than something I could already do (see Bristol Half)
5. For the first time in my life I have a bit of time as I am currently working three days per week - plenty of time to actually train
6. I have been going to the triathlon club swimming sessions (twice so far, that must surely qualify me as a regular). They do view me as a charity case, but surely it is good to do something that is outside my comfort zone for once. I am meeting new people, although I have discovered that swimming desn't lend itself to casual chatting - water pours in your mouth. The changing room afterward seems to be full of people in their own little world and everyone changes in silence; presumably something to do with the sensory-deprivation nature of being in the pool with covers over your eyes and a hat sealing up your ears. Oh well, one or two were chatty before we got in
7. There is a cool machine for drying your costume. Drop the offending article in the machine and it spins it so dry that you can put it in your work bag without any deleterious effect on random papers, or more importantly your lunch. Which in the case of triathletes seems to be seeds and strange protein shakes
8. Cycling, unsurprisingly, is going well with a few sportive rides under my belt already, not to mention an exhilerating couple of hours at the local velodrome
Bad things;
1. I have irritated my achilles tendon. The physio is talking about months to heal - no running at all
2. As above; it is such a big setback it deserves two points
3. Swimming is torture - I can't do it, I am the slowest in the training sessions I go to and there is nothing to look at. Forget all that getting inside your head and it being meditative nonsense - it is just boring. The only thing that enlivens it is the constant fear of being overtaken. I just need to apply the cyclists' rule number five (google it)
4. Every time I cycle anywhere it is either icy or pissing with rain, or both, and always dark. My life teeters in the balance with only a rack of expensive rear lights between me and being splatted on the main road to Weston-super-Mare
5. I have some weight to lose - I know because I looked at the other swimmers this morning, then caught myself in the mirror. Yes yes, seals aren't exactly stick-thin, but they only compete in the first discipline. All the other swimmers seem to be so broad-shouldered and lean that they look like an upside-down Toblerone for Weightwatchers. I on the other hand, look like a pregnant twig
To sum up, I am planning more than I am carrying out, mainly due to my injury. This could place the whole project in danger, although I suppose I could just do the first two disciplines and drop out before the one I am fastest at - not much of an option. Only time will tell. In the meantime I am carrying out heel raises, glute strengtheners, twisty things, and using the foam roller on my back twice a day - even at work.
Swimming needs work - I need to attend the training sessions, and I also need a coach who won't chortle and splutter when they see me - let's call it inclusive practice.
I'll try to update as I go along. And I'll try to remember why I am doing this. As Jenny and I both thought during the Bristol Half, running is a lot easier than finding out you are dying of cancer.
Please consider a donation to Karin's tribute page as payment for the entertainment you have received in reading this; I need to raise at least £18,000 to pay the hospice back for the treatment Karin received.
http://www.stpetershospice.org.uk/support-us/tribute-pages/tribute-for-karin-dixon-wilkins-81/
Sunday, 29 November 2015
back on the block
I went to see the consultant about my knee a few weeks ago - when I asked for the appointment the knee was really swollen, but appointments take so long to book nowadays the swelling had completely disappeared by the time I was called into his office. No matter; he explained in a very respectful manner that, no, I wasn't wasting his time at all. In fact he was pleased with what had been happening. The knee itself was ignored as he pored over the MRI scan and asked me loads of questions about what the symptoms were like. So I explained about the use of the brace, my half marathon time, my avoidance of fierce downhill descents as he fixed me with the clear gaze of someone who knew everything; like a Zen Master of the NHS.
I was just in the middle of telling him about the triathlon I had been asked to compete in when he suddenly interrupted me, and said 'just do it Mark!'
He went on to explain in honest and quite lyrical terms that as I had some grey hair on my head my knee was also showing some signs of age; there was clearly some damage, but so there would be after 30 years of competitive running. He was of the opinion that provided I was sensible, paid close attention to any symptoms and kept away from past hobbies that were clearly a bad idea, such as Kung Fu or ultra running, there was still a lot I could do.
I skipped out of his tiny office like a spring lamb, drove home and got my running kit out. Two hours later I had run all the exuberance out of my system but still felt pleased. I could do something - maybe not everything I dreamed of, but something. In a continuation of the excitement I entered the Brecon Titan triathlon - yes it is well-named - and set myself a challenge.
I have until June to get fit - ages yet, but I also need to develop some swimming skills. So, in the light of all this, despite the arrogantly foul weather today I ran to the swimming pool, swam about 30 lengths, then ran back home. The rain was so heavy I had to wring my clothes out when I got there, but it worked really well. I was ravenously hungry when I got home and still keen to do this triathlon, so here goes - I now have to plan a season of events while keeping an eye on the knee.
I was just in the middle of telling him about the triathlon I had been asked to compete in when he suddenly interrupted me, and said 'just do it Mark!'
He went on to explain in honest and quite lyrical terms that as I had some grey hair on my head my knee was also showing some signs of age; there was clearly some damage, but so there would be after 30 years of competitive running. He was of the opinion that provided I was sensible, paid close attention to any symptoms and kept away from past hobbies that were clearly a bad idea, such as Kung Fu or ultra running, there was still a lot I could do.
I skipped out of his tiny office like a spring lamb, drove home and got my running kit out. Two hours later I had run all the exuberance out of my system but still felt pleased. I could do something - maybe not everything I dreamed of, but something. In a continuation of the excitement I entered the Brecon Titan triathlon - yes it is well-named - and set myself a challenge.
I have until June to get fit - ages yet, but I also need to develop some swimming skills. So, in the light of all this, despite the arrogantly foul weather today I ran to the swimming pool, swam about 30 lengths, then ran back home. The rain was so heavy I had to wring my clothes out when I got there, but it worked really well. I was ravenously hungry when I got home and still keen to do this triathlon, so here goes - I now have to plan a season of events while keeping an eye on the knee.
Tuesday, 6 October 2015
A pair of sportives; on solitude
The rugby World Cup has been playing in the background these last few weeks - of course for some people it is very much in the foreground. The football season must also have started, as I made the mistake of cycling past the City ground last Saturday just as the crowds were getting some last minute refreshment to sustain them through the next couple of hours. The tiny Spanish bar had a swarm of red shirts outside that blocked the pavement and quite a lot of the road, and the supporters' public rejection of the Green Cross Code forced me to cycle with care.
I stepped into the bike shop, and entered an island of cycling adrift in a sea of football. The staff were watching a replay of the world championship from the previous week and they wanted to show me how all the riders were so pleased for Peter Sagan that they all came over and slapped him on the back and threw their arms round him. I suggested that this was one of the great things about endurance sports; despite the competition everyone appreciates each other's skills and efforts.
Some people just seem to be team people, others prefer lone sports - that definitely applies to me. I just don't enjoy the pressure of team sports, or understand the partisan nature of going out in a group to watch others play.
The Sunday before I had set the alarm for an un-Sabbath-like hour, thrown the bike in the boot and picked up Heidi for the Bristol 100 mile bike ride. It was freezing when we got there and we danced around getting ready, shivering and laughing, itching to get riding in order to generate some warmth. There were plenty of riders around us as we rolled under the gantry and onto the road; still no warmer. The sun was low, causing the riders in front to be silhouetted in metallic greys; breath misting across the road. The peace of the early morning was framed by the gentle rolling of the tyres, with the occasional gear change or comment between riders causing a counterpoint to the shared silence.
As the hours spread out across the day, Heidi and I chatted to each other and occasionally to other riders. The sun slowly stripped the chill out of the day, and in the warmth we bowled along quite happily, the miles clicking off. A good number of stops punctuated the ride, with Heidi's parents meeting us twice, the first time to offer sandwiches and mugs of tea filled from a thermos. We stood in a poky little layby, roll in one hand mug in the other, as riders came past, waving.
The day proceeded in this way, chatting, enjoying the scenery, connecting with some of the other riders, until we rolled into Blaise and the finish.
A celebratory hug and tub of ice cream, and we flopped onto the grass to watch the other riders freewheel across the line or walk to the car park in that bent style cyclists have. Families filled the park - children, dogs, queues for refreshment, the slightly damp ground offering a base for just watching people go by.
The following Sunday brought another 100 mile ride - some similarities some differences. The morning was every bit as cool as the week before; this time the morning clung onto the low temperature by shrouding us in fog. There were far fewer riders, only 35 for the 100 mile ride, and we all started together, riding through that strange muffled atmosphere that fog brings.
The first climb from Priston up into the Mendips started the inevitable distancing of riders, and by Cheddar, I was on my own.
And there I was, a solo rider - barely in an event. One rider overtook me in Wells and another two joined me at Evercreech only to disappear after the King Alfred's Tower food stop. That was at forty miles, so the next sixty were spent almost entirely on my own. Signs guided the way as long as I kept my eyes open for them, and I cruised through villages and countryside unknown to me but welcoming further exploration one day.
Up over Salisbury Plain, and I saw three riders in the distance but they were so far ahead I couldn't catch them - actually they weren't in the event, so I couldn't have stayed with them.
Without company my attention was drawn to the mileometer and the painfully slow increase in completed miles. Without anything else to distract me this developed into an obsession, until I had to ration my glances.
The last twenty miles were an uncomfortable grind with increasingly tired legs - not dramatically so, but without stimulation tiredness became a focal point. I rolled into the ride HQ, third finisher, an hour faster than last week although I suspect still feeling the effects of the previous ride.
What do you do when you get home from an event like that? There must surely be an air of exultation and the need to chatter about the day. But what if there is nobody there to share it with? I was grateful to recieve Heidi's text asking how it went, it gave me the opportunity to feed back at least a tiny part of the day. Karin would always ask me how it went - as she got more ill she locked into the one functional phrase, 'well, how was that?' for all my little adventures.
But these events couldn't be closed. The sealing lid couldn't be placed on the day - I finally understood why people stand around talking after a ride or a run; they need to talk the day out of themselves. The week before I had suddenly felt the need to buy a bottle of prosecco and toast Karin; she would have been an integral part of the ride just by being the recipient of a recounting of the day's exploits. The second ride found me doing the same thing, missing her.
I started to recognise the social nature of solo events; that odd contradiction showing that we humans need both solitude and company. We spin between the two. And, of course, I now realise that other people who may not even have attended the day's events are an integral part of it as vicarious recipients of an experience. Even lone sportsmen need people.
Thanks to Bike Events and Somer Valley CC for the sportives, and Nic Meadows for the photos
I stepped into the bike shop, and entered an island of cycling adrift in a sea of football. The staff were watching a replay of the world championship from the previous week and they wanted to show me how all the riders were so pleased for Peter Sagan that they all came over and slapped him on the back and threw their arms round him. I suggested that this was one of the great things about endurance sports; despite the competition everyone appreciates each other's skills and efforts.
Some people just seem to be team people, others prefer lone sports - that definitely applies to me. I just don't enjoy the pressure of team sports, or understand the partisan nature of going out in a group to watch others play.
The Sunday before I had set the alarm for an un-Sabbath-like hour, thrown the bike in the boot and picked up Heidi for the Bristol 100 mile bike ride. It was freezing when we got there and we danced around getting ready, shivering and laughing, itching to get riding in order to generate some warmth. There were plenty of riders around us as we rolled under the gantry and onto the road; still no warmer. The sun was low, causing the riders in front to be silhouetted in metallic greys; breath misting across the road. The peace of the early morning was framed by the gentle rolling of the tyres, with the occasional gear change or comment between riders causing a counterpoint to the shared silence.
As the hours spread out across the day, Heidi and I chatted to each other and occasionally to other riders. The sun slowly stripped the chill out of the day, and in the warmth we bowled along quite happily, the miles clicking off. A good number of stops punctuated the ride, with Heidi's parents meeting us twice, the first time to offer sandwiches and mugs of tea filled from a thermos. We stood in a poky little layby, roll in one hand mug in the other, as riders came past, waving.
The day proceeded in this way, chatting, enjoying the scenery, connecting with some of the other riders, until we rolled into Blaise and the finish.
A celebratory hug and tub of ice cream, and we flopped onto the grass to watch the other riders freewheel across the line or walk to the car park in that bent style cyclists have. Families filled the park - children, dogs, queues for refreshment, the slightly damp ground offering a base for just watching people go by.
The following Sunday brought another 100 mile ride - some similarities some differences. The morning was every bit as cool as the week before; this time the morning clung onto the low temperature by shrouding us in fog. There were far fewer riders, only 35 for the 100 mile ride, and we all started together, riding through that strange muffled atmosphere that fog brings.
The first climb from Priston up into the Mendips started the inevitable distancing of riders, and by Cheddar, I was on my own.
And there I was, a solo rider - barely in an event. One rider overtook me in Wells and another two joined me at Evercreech only to disappear after the King Alfred's Tower food stop. That was at forty miles, so the next sixty were spent almost entirely on my own. Signs guided the way as long as I kept my eyes open for them, and I cruised through villages and countryside unknown to me but welcoming further exploration one day.
Up over Salisbury Plain, and I saw three riders in the distance but they were so far ahead I couldn't catch them - actually they weren't in the event, so I couldn't have stayed with them.
Without company my attention was drawn to the mileometer and the painfully slow increase in completed miles. Without anything else to distract me this developed into an obsession, until I had to ration my glances.
The last twenty miles were an uncomfortable grind with increasingly tired legs - not dramatically so, but without stimulation tiredness became a focal point. I rolled into the ride HQ, third finisher, an hour faster than last week although I suspect still feeling the effects of the previous ride.
What do you do when you get home from an event like that? There must surely be an air of exultation and the need to chatter about the day. But what if there is nobody there to share it with? I was grateful to recieve Heidi's text asking how it went, it gave me the opportunity to feed back at least a tiny part of the day. Karin would always ask me how it went - as she got more ill she locked into the one functional phrase, 'well, how was that?' for all my little adventures.
But these events couldn't be closed. The sealing lid couldn't be placed on the day - I finally understood why people stand around talking after a ride or a run; they need to talk the day out of themselves. The week before I had suddenly felt the need to buy a bottle of prosecco and toast Karin; she would have been an integral part of the ride just by being the recipient of a recounting of the day's exploits. The second ride found me doing the same thing, missing her.
I started to recognise the social nature of solo events; that odd contradiction showing that we humans need both solitude and company. We spin between the two. And, of course, I now realise that other people who may not even have attended the day's events are an integral part of it as vicarious recipients of an experience. Even lone sportsmen need people.
Thanks to Bike Events and Somer Valley CC for the sportives, and Nic Meadows for the photos
Monday, 5 October 2015
Bristol Half Marathon 2015 in memory of Karin, and raising money for the hospice
Who, or rather, what am I? A trite question currently struggling to be answered. Runner? Not really, given the prognosis of my degenerating cartilage. Husband and partner? Yes, but only as a historical artifact rather than a practice. How about communicator? Possibly, whatever a communicator is.
Running the Bristol Half Marathon was familiar in that I have run it a good number of times, and a Sunday of competing as part of a huge crowd is hardly a novel experience for me. What was different was the layering of an emotion on top of that - rather than just running for fun I was running to remember Karin; I was running in order that as a group we all come together to remember her; and I was running to promote the work of the hospice and telling our story so that others can benefit from it.
The hospice seemed very excited at my presence - I was immediately drafted into photographs and radio interviews and I attempted some lucidity and analysis - although I am not sure that was what was needed on a warm morning filled with noise, restless bustle and nervous anticipation. Still, it is what I do.
The sun started to excise the cool out of the air and there wasn't even the hint of a breeze; perfect conditions for a run. Perfect conditions to clear the roads of traffic, strip the urban machine-noise out of the air and celebrate life. A life, our life.
There wasn't time to go through the normal over-preparation, so I managed with a banana and a hurried pee before we slipped into the restless crowds on the start line. And off. The first few miles floated away through the oddly muted atmosphere of hundreds of running shoes in a car-less environment; punctuated by clusters of relatives and friends clapping and shouting. The portway was a genuine pleasure, no cars just a gorge rich with trees and water - runners padded along, some talking; a few came up to me and commented on the picture of Karin on the back of my vest.
A starnge juxtaposition, the solitary experience of thinking about the loss of Karin, sat right in the middle of a hugely public act. 15,000 runners around me, all thinking their own private thoughts while engaging in the collective worship of humanity. Crowds lined the streets the whole distance, shouting and clapping, there were samba bands and a man playing the bagpipes. What were we celebrating?
Returning to Bristol for the second half was equally easy. I left Jenny and tried to keep up the efficient cadence I have been practicing; given extra energy by the number of people I knew that were shouting for me. It was hot so at every water station I took a bottle, drank half and then poured the rest down my neck and face.
As we returned there were two flows of runners, those heading back into the city, and those still running out; I placed myself in the eddying middle so I could give a shout to anyone I knew; there were also a number of runners wearing the yellow hospice vests that received a fraternal yell. There were also plenty of people I knew both in the race and beside it; Natasha was prominent in her wonder woman outfit; I saw the distinctive white vests of Bristol AC runners and there was Andy, trying to focus his ipad camera and watch the race at the same time: but I really wanted to see Ingrid and Francine, at the back and purely there for Karin. There they were, so far back that they were being followed by a van, wearing big smiles and waving, leaping round in an unfocessed and energetic way, connecting with everyone. How like Karin that was.
The end of Portway provides an excellent viewpoint for spectators and Mum was there along with Mark and various other people. The shouted support always provides a boost, but oddly as I left that area, all I could hear were shouts that were eerily like Karin. She often stood at that point to urge me on so maybe I was expecting to hear her voice, or maybe women sound similar when shouting, but it really did sound like her. Somewhat dislocated by this experience, I continued, succumbed to a hated sticky energy gel and prepared for the tough bit round the city centre. My focus was very much on the unaccustomed discomfort and how many miles I had left to go - a steadily diminishing number.
Past the Hippodrome and I was pretty tired, boosted by the thought that no matter how hard it feels it isn't as hard as having terminal cancer, and anyway I could always slow down; you can't step away from cancer, there are no days off. The constant daily presence of the illness as well as the prognosis must have been a terrible pressure. I know that because at the end she just wanted release from the relentlessness of discomfort.
I had yards to do; I urged my neighbouring runners to give it one last push, round the corner and under the gantry. I was met by ecstatic hospice workers who already wanted me to be interviewed but made my excuses and wandered off as wave upon wave of sadness enveloped me. There was nowhere to sit - runners were streaming through and barriers prevented me from leaving the route. I perched in the corner on a bend, blinking back an overwhelming sense of loss and absence. I was circling the whirlpool, whipped round and round by the current which threatend to drag me into a place I wouldn't be able to escape from. Jenny arrived, clearly in a similar state, and we clung together, wet and sweaty, in a bleakly honest and animal way. Deep breaths, wiped faces, allowing ourselves to be distracted by water, medals and t-shirts, and we were back. Back to the excitement of the event and back to the hospice publicity team asking me how I felt about being interviewed by local TV. I felt OK; well I didn't feel OK but could still function.
I spent a good amount of time that day talking to reporters and presenters and having my photograph taken, all of which was carried out by my parallel persona, the professional one. The person who was intimate with Karin was wandering around in the background, unsure of what to feel. What to feel became less of a problem when the race actually started - I knew what to do, I was in my place, and this was easy. This comfort ceased when the race finished - all of the stored confusion and sadness spiralled to the surface and I had to take a good while to recover my composure; added to by Jenny finishing and clearly feeling exactly the same.
Back to my house; my house not our house, a close-knit group of people united in our connections to Karin had a commerative glass of prosecco and some snacks. As people drifted away, I was left with a sunken feeling - the race was over; we ran it to remember Karin, and now we have finished there isn't anything. I just sat, nursing glasses of cider, all evening. What was there? Just her absence. Not even a race any more.
On its own, I can handle the loss of my personal relationship with Karin - but I struggle to come to terms with the threads of communication and connection with other people, the public side of losing her. It is so much bigger, and forces consideration of how she and I interacted with countless individuals. Karin's connections with others extended in all directions and in her absence these connections are now flapping around like untethered ribbons.
So where does that place me? Runner? I ran the half in 1:38, nearly 20 minutes slower than previous times and firmly in the realms of casual runners. Unsurprisingly, given my knee and my lack of training, but not me: I run fairly fast. Communicator? Well, I certainly linked with people in a way I never have before, both in terms of sharing the day as part of a group and also being interviewed. Husband? Spouses do things together, and this we can't do any more. No, I am not a husband because that is a state of being and I can't be that. Perhaps I should focus on the day; a great day where I felt part of something, much more than normal. Crowds came out to watch us, to support us, the hospice made us feel welcome, so we were part of the inside of the race as well as the outside. A powerful day.
Monday, 17 August 2015
Karin
Karin and I were a couple for over thirty years – we started
going out the first night we met. We have owned three houses, three children
and hundreds of cats. I was always into
cycling and running and Karin was always into books – over time our interests
blended, like a Venn diagram where the circles are moving together.
Oddly, Karin always claimed that after she left school she
convinced herself that she wasn’t sporty: bad mistake marrying me then. As she got older her physical vocabulary came
back, starting with karate in Canada then progressing to running on the road, followed
closely by my favourite hobby; off-road running. We also bought her a nice road bike that she
could use to go to work on as well as recreational rides. She was pretty strong; I have a very clear
memory of her riding in a duathlon and riding round grinning and laughing the
whole way to fourth place in the cycling section.
The last two years have seen us sharing the burden of
cancer. Karin was the one who had to endure tests and scans followed by chemo and
radio-therapy. She vomited, had
seizures, and lost the feeling in her legs. Her headaches lasted months, not
hours, and her hair was scorched off her scalp, but she very rarely complained. No, she planned holidays, parties, visits,
she identified what she wanted to make the little life she had left as pleasurable
as possible. She wrote and published a novel and filled countless books with ideas. She planned and had special
moments with our children to provide meaningful complete memories for them. She
insisted, insisted, that I buy a titanium bike (a real chore for me). People became
very important, to the point at which Karin’s strength was only in evidence
when friends or family were around – often when they left she just collapsed
into exhausted sleep.
What did I do? Cooking, cleaning, counting the medication
out, being company, working, writing this blog, staying in touch with people,
and latterly, organising everything. I
also went running – Karin told me to. She
said it was important I had some ‘me’ time and it would help me unravel my
head. And I was her partner. Not as a passive state but active, like two
people pressing their foreheads together. We sat and just existed. We went to the supermarket and actually
enjoyed it, we talked, drank prosecco together. We sat in bed until far too late in the morning
and drank tea made by the Teasmaid. She liked
toast in bed, one with marmalade and one with jam or occasionally marmite. I
loved it; I could care for her and we would connect deeply.
When I went running I always had to have my phone on me just
in case she had a problem. Now when I go
out I have to check my reflex and leave the phone at home – no-one will phone
me.
Karin’s energy ran out three weeks before she died. She knew how close she was to the end but
still spent her time making sure everyone was ok. She still sent me out running, although I was
scared to go for very long. I took my
running kit to the hospice but never felt confident enough to change and get
out, despite being very close to Blaise estate.
The staff in the hospice looked after
her while I tried to sit and understand the changes that had occurred in
us. They recognised the journey both of
us were on and provided the care and guidance we needed.
We all get pestered constantly for contributions to this or
that charity, but it is only when you need the support of one you really know
their value. I knew what hospices did
but I didn’t know what that felt like. I
had no idea that a nurse would see me sitting on my own and come and chat with
me for 30 minutes. I didn’t know that the care extends beyond the death of the
patient, or that relatives who live a long way away can access counselling
skills from other hospices; this means our children can still be supported even
when they are away at university.
Please consider making a donation to the St Peter’s Hospice. I want to give back the care we all received
during Karin’s time there so that someone else can have it. Everybody deserves a dignified death.
Click
on the link below to go to my fund raising page;
Wednesday, 29 July 2015
In Memory of Karin Dixon Wilkins
Last week I cycled through the top field at Ashton Court in
the evening. They had left the grass long for the flowers to complete their
cycle and the field was lank and rich with life. Orchids were standing alongside moon daisies;
flies and moths hovered above, and the air was full of swallows etching the
sky; their peeping calls bouncing back from the silent woods.
How do you buy a wedding ring for a singular person? For Karin’s ring we trawled the usual sterile
chain shops but found only two possibilities; an overly expensive vintage ring in
an antique shop or having one made, which we ordered. The resulting ring was
perfect and defined Karin accurately – quirky, unique and classy in a way was
unique; a sine wave; gold with a twist.
I lost it at Ashton Court festival in that same top field, after having
offered to put it in my wallet for safety.
I must have dropped it in the grass amid the conspicuous rejection of
plain living, the wine hidden in kids’ juice bottles, sweet illicit whiffs of
cannabis, colours, eclectic images, sounds, tastes. Those bright colours sat well on her.
But now, the clatter of people had gone and the predominant
sound was the gentle hum of nature. Over the years the field has changed; trees
that I remember leaning over the path in the past have since dropped large
branches that feed fungi and creatures.
The field has the same shapes, same indents and bulges but now there is
a small new path that mountain bikers use to thread along the top. The bottom
path that led out of the field is gone, buried under nettles and brambles.
Karin’s ring is in the field somewhere, sat against the bedrock, maybe for
millennia, maybe for eternity.
Two years ago we stayed in the Alps. We packed loads of water to counteract the
heat, a cold pizza folded in half for food, and a map, and set off jogging up a
steep path that was toothed with rocks.
Plenty of walkers stepped aside to let us past – some made encouraging
comments in French which only Karin understood; she was good at languages. In fact she was good at all communication and
thrived on contact with others. I
sometimes felt guilty at taking her up into wild places away from people and
subjecting her to the physical discomfort of steepness and wind, but she would
do these things for me.
After two hours of running we hit a plateau followed by a
final climb to a cliff face that offered a startling view of Mont Blanc. We felt we could reach out and touch it; its
implacable face blinding in the sun.
People cluttered the spot and Karin was taken by what they were up
to. One family had a full picnic,
complete with a jar of jam and a baguette.
Another man was reading Le Monde; neither seemed appropriate up a
mountain but she thought this was excellent – people thumbing their nose at
what you are ‘supposed to do’.
As the afternoon came to an end we started running back down
the path. It’s harder running downhill,
the gradient burns your thighs and the temptation to speed up is controlled by
fear of roots that could trip you up. The high plateau and Mont Blanc were left
behind, still there but out of sight.
That run was when the landscape entered Karin’s soul. We had
travelled into the land and gained some understanding of how we fit in the
world. The consistent cycle of days, rocks, impermanence, the annual cycle of orchids,
the sun setting. We are mortal, even mountains are mortal. The only way to
understand the different speeds of change is by sinking gradually into the
land, the great breathing of bedrock. Since
that holiday Karin changed dramatically; her terminal diagnosis pushed her into
thinking about how she fitted in her life and how her life fitted into time. Karin’s
approach to her own mortality has given us a new template, one that understands
that in a thousand or a million years none of us will be here; what we have
right now is what we have. This is a gift from her to you.
Karin was scared of running up mountains; she hated heights
and was cautious of going somewhere that was potentially dangerous. What leads a person to give in to the desires
and interests of their partner, despite being terrified? Only I know how much
she struggled up there; I could read the body language as the ascent and
descent both brought their challenges. Karin was prepared to face her ghosts head
on and her reward was a final two years that were rich and meaningful.
I bought her a new ring.
The jeweller that made the first one still had the original design but
despite a couple of attempts just couldn’t recreate it. We bought their best effort; a lovely ring
but not the same. There is no trace of
the original, no photos, nothing. Except
it sits somewhere in that field – it has gone but is still present.
Friday, 29 May 2015
How to run
Over the last few years I have read loads of information about efficient running - some of it has been genuinely useful for me, other sources would have been useful twenty years ago, and some of it is useless!
However, some online resources are so good I just keep going back to them, and these are the ones I really want to share with people who ask me about running. After a while you start to realise that certain key messages keep being offered by lots of resources, and I list these so they can be used as a checklist for anyone who wants to improve their running form. There are some videos that are just plain inspiring as well.
I am very aware that most people don't want to research as much as me, and so I have listed resources in order of importance; if you want just one good resource watch the video by Mark Cucuzella and go no further. If you enjoy it, read on down. Of course you may have your own running style or school of thinking about running form, but these have worked for me. I am not professionally trained, or an expert other than having spent far too much time on the laptop when I should be out running, and I daresay other people will offer totally different viewpoints, but like I said, they work for me.
So, here we go!
The first is the following video - I can't find a better model of good running technique along with clear identification of key areas to focus on. I know not many people want to run barefoot, and he does look scarily fast, but watch this a few times, memorise the messages and I promise you will be faster and more efficient.
However, some online resources are so good I just keep going back to them, and these are the ones I really want to share with people who ask me about running. After a while you start to realise that certain key messages keep being offered by lots of resources, and I list these so they can be used as a checklist for anyone who wants to improve their running form. There are some videos that are just plain inspiring as well.
I am very aware that most people don't want to research as much as me, and so I have listed resources in order of importance; if you want just one good resource watch the video by Mark Cucuzella and go no further. If you enjoy it, read on down. Of course you may have your own running style or school of thinking about running form, but these have worked for me. I am not professionally trained, or an expert other than having spent far too much time on the laptop when I should be out running, and I daresay other people will offer totally different viewpoints, but like I said, they work for me.
So, here we go!
The first is the following video - I can't find a better model of good running technique along with clear identification of key areas to focus on. I know not many people want to run barefoot, and he does look scarily fast, but watch this a few times, memorise the messages and I promise you will be faster and more efficient.
This next video outlines some of the exercises that come from the Alexander Technique school of running. It may not be a complete programme but it does give you an idea of this technique. I am interested in how similar the messages are to the first video.
OK - the next most important resource is the Kinetic Revolution website. This is run by James Dunne and is a comprehensive resource for all sorts of exercises etc. Click on 'Resources' for a million videos and discussions. You can sign up for a daily newsletter that usually includes a video on some exercise or another - I love it. The discussions are well-researched and I particularly like the way he starts with 'Hey team...' and ends with 'let me know how you get on'. I sent him a question and he replied! There is also a 30 day challenge, which I did start but failed to complete.
You can also be on his Facebook group - loads of ideas there
From these sources and a few others I have gleaned the following set of areas to focus on. I wish I had known these years ago; perhaps I would be running injury-free now.
1. Stand and run tall, straight body but leaning forward slightly. Imagine a piece of string attached to the top of your head and pulling you up into the sky
2. Active knee drive forward - look at Mark Cucuzella doing it
3. Aim for short ground contact time, and run light. Think about running on egg shells
4. Core and hips need to be strong and flexible - James Dunne offers some excellent exercises; or go to yoga!
5. Strong Glutes. Again, look at Kinetic Revolution, but actually a good running stance will activate the glutes more effectively anyway.
6. 180 steps per minute - I have a metronome app on my phone. This feels quite fast and you may not manage it, not everyone works at 180bpm.
7. The leading foot needs to land under your mass, not in front. You should hit the ground with a slightly bent knee and avoid a long stride out front that casues you to recoil against the direction you are trying to travel.
8. Heel-striking is so 1980's! Aim to land on the mid-foot and roll onto the fore, driving off with the ball of the foot.
9. Elbows bent at 90 degrees, slightly diagonal (nip to hip!), and driving the arm back like a sort of chopping motion.
My advice to anyone starting running would be to choose one of these points to work on rather than all at the same time. Go for a technique run once a week where you concentrate on running form.
So, visualisation and conditioning - when out running you will run like you think you should run. If you visualise Stallone in Rocky with that boxer's shuffle and Eye of the Tiger playing, that is how you will run. Instead, look at the first video and memorise the feeling. Or watch this;
Yeah yeah, I know he is the fastest man in the universe, but who better to learn from?
Ok - inspiration;
Vertical Kilometer - how mad do you have to be? Kilian Jornet gets beaten in this vid;
Barkley 100 - why would you?
I read Bernd Heinrich's book years ago - he pretty much invented sports drinks, and his impassioned evaluation of running is very emotional.
I bet there are a million other videos that have a similar effect on you - please leave their details for me!
I hope all this is helpful.
Sunday, 17 May 2015
Taormina, Sicily
Sometimes you set out and after a short while you know that this is 'the one'. This is a run to be remembered and possibly even written about so others may have a small taste - like bringing home wine from your holiday and sharing it with a friend. Actually, not like that because the wine you bring home never tastes the same; removed from the context it only provides a bit of the story and the magic is often gone. However, we do seem to want to share our experiences, like setting up a little show of holiday snaps for people to sit through; as they surreptitiously top up their glass to make the time go quicker.
So, with Karin safely ensconced in our (5 star, get us) hotel, painting her nails with the new varnish from the shop in via Umberto and getting ready to have a nap, I threw on the robo-brace and my trainers and headed up. Actually that is pretty much what I did - I ran uphill, turned round and came down again.
The path to Madonna Della Rocca was the start; a processional path that edged its way up the cliff using steps and handrails with sculptures of the stations of the cross at every bend. The air was crisp and warm and I took it steady; an earlier run had emphasised the steepness. The hillside was decorated with spring flowers and huge cacti, and a glance back offered a hazy sea that gave hints of the sand beneath through variations in colour. It wasn't long before I was having to breathe deeply and the heat started to cut through the morning.
A very brief look at the view from Madonna Della Rocca, avoiding the curious stares of tourists clutching their cameras, children and cigarettes, and on to Castelmola. This village sits on top of a rock like a hairstyle and cars need to take a convoluted zigzag route to the ancient buildings at the top. The path was equally challenging and steep enough to be stepped all the way.
I arrived at the cosy little square at the top and was forced to walk through the groups of people gazing at the view, the traffic policewoman looking suitably nonplussed - at least I didn't give her any work as my car was down in Taormina. One lap round the tiny streets and then off to find the path to Monte Venere.
Things were hotting up now, and sweat was rolling off me. The track was concreted in ridges, presumably to give traction to the cars of the few people who lived up there, and this made for uncomfortable running. It was unbelievably steep, so steep I couldn't imagining our car making it up there. If ever there was a need for a 4 x 4 this was it; forget all those people in cities driving their all- terrain vehicles around with only speed bumps to contend with. Pride prevented me from walking so I plodded up the face of the hill with only lizards and birdsong for company.
Around the corner and there was Mount Etna, sat like a white-robed parent. Hazy clouds repeatedly drifted across the peak and I was frustrated in my search for a perfectly clear photograph of the peak. I partially blame the mountain itself, because much of the cloud was forming around the crater at the top.
One last curve, the coastline stretched out below and away, Etna on the horizon and all around steep hills looking like erosion was just beginning. I was in among a cluster of radio masts - obviously as high as it is possible to go with a vehicle. There was more to climb as the actual peak was still above me, but no obvious path and huge silent banks of drifting mist kept me from going further. I had left Karin for long enough and so this seemed a good point to consider returning.
Running downhill is often so much harder on the legs and I didn't want to push myself too hard, so I rolled comfortably down the track with plenty of glances at the spectacular view. Past a rather puzzled dog, onto the road into Castemola, and then down the steps that lead to Taormina. Tourists struggling upward had to step back to let me roll though them and the air was filled with comments about the folly and impressiveness of runing in that terrain and weather. In Taormina I somehow contrived to get completely lost amid the many one-way streets, finding myself at one point running twice past an old lady who was shocked to see a runner first time round, let alone repeating 10 minutes later.
Suddenly, a drop down some steps, round a corner and I was pitched into the main street; tourists filling the road with their trickling pace. I decided not to bother pushing against such a steady tide, and walked along to the hotel.
Monday, 16 February 2015
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.
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.
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