The day came and went like the flash of Martin Lel’s red shorts (if, indeed, they were shorts and not a cunningly camouflaged rocket pack). But the memories will be locked in my head, wrapped in silver space foil for incubated preservation.
Months (well a month-and-a-bit, really) of hard graft and preparation had gone into this one balloon-and-whistle fest of a day. The apprehension was beginning to pinch tighter than my running shorts. I suppose the self-doubt is worse for first-timers, but a nagging question could not be shaken: Had I done enough pavement-pounding? After all, there had been setbacks in training – crippling(ish) knee injuries, boozy gambols in the snow and bouts of exhausted sloth – that cannot have helped matters.
But it was too late for nerves to bite. Following a mountainous bowl of oats after a 6.30am wake up, I was on my way to Maze Hill, where my 26.3 miles was to begin. On that early tube, and the connecting train from London Bridge, there was evidence enough that this was going to be a wacky, unique day.
As I hopped on at Baker Street there were no more than four fellow marathon runners to be seen. A knowing nod and a reciprocal split-second look of sheer terror at the thought of what the next six, or more, hours could bring, sufficed. Then came Bond Street, followed by Green Park, and an increasing number of running shoes shuffled their way into the now-jammed carriage.
Pulled-taut red and white laces, timing chips, chunky black electric watches and multi-coloured Lycra dominated. Nervous chatter wafted through the claustrophobic tube, and like the pungent fusion of Deep Heat, talcum powder, Vaseline and colourful but cloying energy drinks, it was all a bit nauseating.
Seven-foot rhinos jostled with convicts for comfier positions; jocular robots and pirates talked race tactics, and of the fabled ‘wall’. It had been this wall that had plagued my recent slumbers, waking me with a sweaty jolt. This imaginary insurmountable physiological barrier can confront you from around the 16-mile mark, when your fatigued body joins forces with an unsteady step and confused delirium. It stops you in your tracks; and when you stop it is tremendously hard to start again.
Attempting to clear this chilling thought from my head, I joined the herd of runners bounding their way through Greenwich Park. Having clocked where I was to start from, I looked long and hard for a place where I could lose a pound or two, where the queues were not Russian Revolution-esque.
My pickiness had caused me to be late for the 9.45am race. I quickly changed into my kit, briefly stretched and began trotting towards to the back of the throng which was ambling towards the start line. Sardined again.
It was a trippingly-slow pace for the first 10 miles; we even came to a complete stand-still around mile six as some of the 34,000 (London’s third largest, in 28 marathons) partakers had to squeeze through a gap no wider than sideways car.
But rather than getting frustrated, I began to hum to the tune of the marathon. The streets were becoming increasingly flanked by well-wishers, musicians, cheering children who would offer their tiny hands as a high-five option. (The only hands on offer that you had to beware were those of the St Johns Ambulance folk, whose plastic gloves were smothered in yet more Vaseline. Watching someone apply thick, gooey petroleum jelly, mid-jog, to their inner thighs is quite a sight to behold.)
Spirits were high and optimism abounded. Runners, of all ages and from all corners of the globe, each carrying a story as to why they were running for charity, exchanged cheery conversation. Polite ‘excuse mes’, ‘pardons’, ‘no problems’ and ‘you’re welcomes’ were commonplace when overtaking was a mite cosy. No bad mannered barging, elbowing or similar was witnessed; not in London, which – according to race veterans – provides the ultimate carnival marathon. (I hear, in particular, the Berlin run in September is a slightly more bruising experience).
Having eventually found my rhythm I motored through the ballooned mile markers, boosted by the energy gels I had been suckered into buying while registering the day before. Slurping water or Lucozade whenever it was offered, and grabbing the handouts of bananas and Jelly Babies I began to whole-heartedly enjoy the run. No need for i-Pods or other distractions to disguise the reality that running is dull – the street festival atmosphere was inspiration enough to keep going.
The lumbering stilted woman, Batmen and Robins, luminous g-string-clad Borats, fully-laden marines and Masai warriors I passed en route to Buckingham Palace’s finale, were a hoot. The collective sense of a will to succeed, all for differing but benevolent reasons, permeated every pore, and my legs pumped on. Even the rain, which lasted only 20minutes, could not dampen spirits.
The course snaked through London, and the further we loped, the denser the audience became. At first I thought the idea of having ‘Ollie’ ironed on to my skimpy yellow RNLI running slip was a little twee. Though when the lack of lactic acid began to burn, that six-deep, bellowing crowd propelled me further.
Through Embankment, with the magical finishing line a mere two miles away, the egging on was an essential fillip, and – I’m sure – helped me evade the dreaded ‘wall’. Staggering those last few hundred paces, eyes blurred by delirium, leaden-footed, a relief and joy at the realisation that this odyssey was near to finishing washed over me.
Through the line, medal awarded, timing chip snipped off for assessment, and still I couldn’t hold back a stupefied grin. Once I realised my time – three hours 48 minutes – I went into back-slapping overdrive, congratulating every silver-foiled comrade.
A tremendous sense of achievement filled me, and yes: I ticked the marathon box, and was awarded the t-shirt. But, much more importantly, in that unique sub-four hour journey I learned a lot about my own limits and took great heart from the selflessness of other runners, all raising money for fantastic, meaningful charities.
The emotional come down was diluted by my first guilt-free pint of lager since November. And, despite the fact that my legs will not now do as I tell them – I’m as unsteady as a new-born fawn – I reckon I will be up for another 26.3 miles soon. I wonder when the Snowdonia Marathon is …
Tuesday, 15 April 2008
Sunday, 30 March 2008
This time in a fortnight ...
It will all be over. Foil-wrapped, granola bar in hand, I will be trudging back to Maida Vale, wishing I would find a Scandinavian masseuse (or two - why not be greedy, after all?), warm oils and all, waiting to give me a rub-down at the flat.
Two weeks. Scary.
Today I completed the Wilmslow half marathon - and literally got the t-shirt. I think I am still slightly dizzy, delirious, dehydrated as I tap these words. And I crossed the finishing line a good three hours ago.
Still, the last two weeks – since I complained of feeling like an Octogenarian having just had a double hip replacement – have been an education. I’m beginning to, I guess, get in the zone; ‘exit velocity’, as my mum would say. Running with pain is now some sardonic pleasure. Like my bare, naked body doing roly-polys on heated glass shards. Endlessly.
Last Sunday, with three weeks until the balloons, buffoonery and blisters of the London Marathon, I knew it was now or never: I had to do one long run. One run where I exited the comfort zone and tore into the danger zone (come on, we’re only talking going over 11 miles here Ollie!). So, once more unto the breach, dear friends, your short-shorted, Camel-Paked hero ventured.
I managed 17 miles, of which the last six were utter agony. But I liked it. And fed off the pain. It became a kind of sick competition – how far could I push myself?
A long soak later (no masseuses on hand, unfortunately) my left leg / knee began to remind me that it was hurting – a searing, burning sensation ripped up the back of my leg.
Three days later, it was still hard to walk. So I did it: I shelled out on a knee support.
Even a week ago I would find the thought of a knee support laughable. They are, I believed, for: 1) the weak of mind; 2) the sufferers of Munchausen Syndrome; 3) the old; 4) the infirm; and / or 5) posers.
Now, despite looking like the geriatric I didn’t before wish to look like, I wear mine with pride. To me, now, a knee support says about the wearer: ‘I am a hero. It is only through doing heroic stuff that I need to wear this’.
Like drivers who have the same brand and colour of car who honk their horns to each other, before releasing a saccharine grin, I have now entered the elite group of knee-support-wearers (KSW for short). The knowing nod from one KSW to another is a warming, bonding experience. I recommend it.
Anyway, before I lose you all, onto the race today. My preparation had not been ideal. I had arrived at the family home in the north-west on Friday, and my dear mother had stuffed me, without a moment’s pause, with rich, slow-to-decompose food. Last night I gorged on roast beef, rhubarb and apple crumble with double cream, and finished off my evening meal with four of the most chocolatey chocolates on earth.
Tremendously bloated, I staggered to the start line this morning, after performing my now pre-run rituals: Vicks vapour rub below nose and on chest; Vaseline on balls and nipples; Deep Heat on my left leg (then pull up knee support); and Talcum power on soles on feet. (To any marathon runner these are good tips. Though they will make you / your room / house / car honk for days. Beware.)
Now, Wimslow’s 13-mile course is one of the quickest in the land, so everyone kept saying. ‘Pace yourself and you will be fine.’ I nuzzled into the group who were aiming for a time of around 1 hour 40 minutes. Perfect. Anything inside two hours would be ideal.
Luckily the torrential rain from the previous day /night had made way for the kind of morning that must have inspired Antonio Vivaldi to pen his ‘Spring’. The sky was blue-berry blue, and birds tweeted happily from yonder the hedgerows.
BANG! We are off. Trotting at first, like cattle to the slaughter, able only to inch forward, such is the problem when 4,000 people are all trying to run in streets as narrow as the ones found in Wilmslow.
Then we were soon (a mile in) able to find our true marathon pace. I held back; hesitated, lest I out-burn myself. Well done – softly, softly …
The previous Thursday I had made a wager with a rather cocksure amigo of mine in London. Last year the aforementioned amigo legged it in the New York marathon – his first – and recorded a time of something obscene like 3 hours 18 minutes. He is running the London Marathon too this year, and was using the Wilmslow half as a starter to the main course in a fortnight. ‘Ha. It’s easy – it’s only 13 miles, after all,’ he snorted. ‘You’ll eat my dust.’
Still feeling the warmth of that day’s Deep Heat application and the tightness of my knee support, I, somewhat foolishly, chose to compete with him.
‘OK – fine. Let’s have a bet on who wins in Wilmslow out of you or I,’ he continued. ‘Whatever’s in my wallet, we’ll bet.’ I gulped, knowing that my banker-buddy would produce more than the receipts from the One Pound Shop found in my wallet. I batted his £100 down to £10, and we shook.
I hadn’t seen this amigo at the start – I thought he would be up at the front, determinedly tailing one of the elite Kenyans. I tried not to think of him as I started to build my pace from the six mile mark.
By now the collective wheezing was being cranked up a notch; one or two runners had either performed a volte-face and were, head held low, ambling back to the start, or they were beginning to sweat so much their shorts had become two-tone. Very eighties.
I was feeling OK, so I began to pick and dodge my way through the wrinklies, premature finishers, sweaties and wheezers. I’d focused my attention on an orange vest some 50 metres ahead, who was making swift progress through the field too.
By the time I caught up with the orange vest we had negotiated the third drinks stop, just after 10 miles.
No one really warns you about the drinks stops. You imagine them to be a doddle. They are not. Firstly they are on the left-hand side, there are plastic cups strewn on the road to skip over, and – as you don’t want to break stride – you gulp hurriedly, meaning you can’t take the water into your mouth naturally. There are many amusing, gulping, coughing, spluttering sounds to be heard / seen at a water point in a marathon.
If I were to watch a race it would be just there. With a camera.
Anyway, I suddenly heard: ‘Oi, Ollie!’ It was my banking friend. Aha! I thought. There you are. He looked pooped. ‘I’m juiced,’ he admitted. ‘Went off too quickly,’ he smiled as he put his arm around my shoulder. Aglow with confidence and renewed strength, knowing that he wanted me to run with him, only to pip me at the post, I said: ‘Really? Juiced? We’ll I’m not,’ before roaring away to re-find my new orange-vested friend.
Knowing that I could not possibly slow down, unless I wanted my banker-pal to overtake me, I tailed orange, who had not even broken a sweat, to the finish line. We talked; well he talked and I gasped words occasionally. He was more used to extreme marathons: you know, like Snowdonia, and Everest. EVEREST?!
He gave me some very helpful hints for the marathon proper, and I was very pleased (and slightly surprised) to complete the race in 1 hour 35 minutes. I was most delighted that I had run so well as to be £10 richer, though I haven’t asked for it yet: there is still the main course to come.
And I’m hungry for more.
Two weeks. Scary.
Today I completed the Wilmslow half marathon - and literally got the t-shirt. I think I am still slightly dizzy, delirious, dehydrated as I tap these words. And I crossed the finishing line a good three hours ago.
Still, the last two weeks – since I complained of feeling like an Octogenarian having just had a double hip replacement – have been an education. I’m beginning to, I guess, get in the zone; ‘exit velocity’, as my mum would say. Running with pain is now some sardonic pleasure. Like my bare, naked body doing roly-polys on heated glass shards. Endlessly.
Last Sunday, with three weeks until the balloons, buffoonery and blisters of the London Marathon, I knew it was now or never: I had to do one long run. One run where I exited the comfort zone and tore into the danger zone (come on, we’re only talking going over 11 miles here Ollie!). So, once more unto the breach, dear friends, your short-shorted, Camel-Paked hero ventured.
I managed 17 miles, of which the last six were utter agony. But I liked it. And fed off the pain. It became a kind of sick competition – how far could I push myself?
A long soak later (no masseuses on hand, unfortunately) my left leg / knee began to remind me that it was hurting – a searing, burning sensation ripped up the back of my leg.
Three days later, it was still hard to walk. So I did it: I shelled out on a knee support.
Even a week ago I would find the thought of a knee support laughable. They are, I believed, for: 1) the weak of mind; 2) the sufferers of Munchausen Syndrome; 3) the old; 4) the infirm; and / or 5) posers.
Now, despite looking like the geriatric I didn’t before wish to look like, I wear mine with pride. To me, now, a knee support says about the wearer: ‘I am a hero. It is only through doing heroic stuff that I need to wear this’.
Like drivers who have the same brand and colour of car who honk their horns to each other, before releasing a saccharine grin, I have now entered the elite group of knee-support-wearers (KSW for short). The knowing nod from one KSW to another is a warming, bonding experience. I recommend it.
Anyway, before I lose you all, onto the race today. My preparation had not been ideal. I had arrived at the family home in the north-west on Friday, and my dear mother had stuffed me, without a moment’s pause, with rich, slow-to-decompose food. Last night I gorged on roast beef, rhubarb and apple crumble with double cream, and finished off my evening meal with four of the most chocolatey chocolates on earth.
Tremendously bloated, I staggered to the start line this morning, after performing my now pre-run rituals: Vicks vapour rub below nose and on chest; Vaseline on balls and nipples; Deep Heat on my left leg (then pull up knee support); and Talcum power on soles on feet. (To any marathon runner these are good tips. Though they will make you / your room / house / car honk for days. Beware.)
Now, Wimslow’s 13-mile course is one of the quickest in the land, so everyone kept saying. ‘Pace yourself and you will be fine.’ I nuzzled into the group who were aiming for a time of around 1 hour 40 minutes. Perfect. Anything inside two hours would be ideal.
Luckily the torrential rain from the previous day /night had made way for the kind of morning that must have inspired Antonio Vivaldi to pen his ‘Spring’. The sky was blue-berry blue, and birds tweeted happily from yonder the hedgerows.
BANG! We are off. Trotting at first, like cattle to the slaughter, able only to inch forward, such is the problem when 4,000 people are all trying to run in streets as narrow as the ones found in Wilmslow.
Then we were soon (a mile in) able to find our true marathon pace. I held back; hesitated, lest I out-burn myself. Well done – softly, softly …
The previous Thursday I had made a wager with a rather cocksure amigo of mine in London. Last year the aforementioned amigo legged it in the New York marathon – his first – and recorded a time of something obscene like 3 hours 18 minutes. He is running the London Marathon too this year, and was using the Wilmslow half as a starter to the main course in a fortnight. ‘Ha. It’s easy – it’s only 13 miles, after all,’ he snorted. ‘You’ll eat my dust.’
Still feeling the warmth of that day’s Deep Heat application and the tightness of my knee support, I, somewhat foolishly, chose to compete with him.
‘OK – fine. Let’s have a bet on who wins in Wilmslow out of you or I,’ he continued. ‘Whatever’s in my wallet, we’ll bet.’ I gulped, knowing that my banker-buddy would produce more than the receipts from the One Pound Shop found in my wallet. I batted his £100 down to £10, and we shook.
I hadn’t seen this amigo at the start – I thought he would be up at the front, determinedly tailing one of the elite Kenyans. I tried not to think of him as I started to build my pace from the six mile mark.
By now the collective wheezing was being cranked up a notch; one or two runners had either performed a volte-face and were, head held low, ambling back to the start, or they were beginning to sweat so much their shorts had become two-tone. Very eighties.
I was feeling OK, so I began to pick and dodge my way through the wrinklies, premature finishers, sweaties and wheezers. I’d focused my attention on an orange vest some 50 metres ahead, who was making swift progress through the field too.
By the time I caught up with the orange vest we had negotiated the third drinks stop, just after 10 miles.
No one really warns you about the drinks stops. You imagine them to be a doddle. They are not. Firstly they are on the left-hand side, there are plastic cups strewn on the road to skip over, and – as you don’t want to break stride – you gulp hurriedly, meaning you can’t take the water into your mouth naturally. There are many amusing, gulping, coughing, spluttering sounds to be heard / seen at a water point in a marathon.
If I were to watch a race it would be just there. With a camera.
Anyway, I suddenly heard: ‘Oi, Ollie!’ It was my banking friend. Aha! I thought. There you are. He looked pooped. ‘I’m juiced,’ he admitted. ‘Went off too quickly,’ he smiled as he put his arm around my shoulder. Aglow with confidence and renewed strength, knowing that he wanted me to run with him, only to pip me at the post, I said: ‘Really? Juiced? We’ll I’m not,’ before roaring away to re-find my new orange-vested friend.
Knowing that I could not possibly slow down, unless I wanted my banker-pal to overtake me, I tailed orange, who had not even broken a sweat, to the finish line. We talked; well he talked and I gasped words occasionally. He was more used to extreme marathons: you know, like Snowdonia, and Everest. EVEREST?!
He gave me some very helpful hints for the marathon proper, and I was very pleased (and slightly surprised) to complete the race in 1 hour 35 minutes. I was most delighted that I had run so well as to be £10 richer, though I haven’t asked for it yet: there is still the main course to come.
And I’m hungry for more.
Monday, 10 March 2008
T minus one month
With little over a month until April 13 to go I am well behind on my training, and my blogging. Firstly apologies for the lack of entries. I'll try and bring you up to speed ...
After running pretty well in January (eased by the fulfillment of my New Year's resolution to abstain from alcohol for a month) and February (alcohol-charged!), I have fallen behind after a week of nightly over-indulgence in St Moritz at the end of last month.
My slow loops of Regents Park (circa six miles, when you add the distance to and from home) have tightened my quadriceps, though they are far from the finished granite-like article needed to complete a race five times longer than I have been running.
Before flying to Switzerland I had managed only one run longer than six miles. It was, er, a whole nine miles. (Incidentally, mapped out thanks to a very helpful website: www.mapmyrun.com - like Google Earth for joggers.)
Then St Moritz and all of it's Epicurean delights grabbed a hold of my cojones. Pardon my Spanish, but a rich, week-long diet of eggs Benedict, steak tartar and veal, swilled down with finest velvetly rouge left an expensive, and bitter taste in my mouth. That, and my cuddly paunch was back.
I tried to compensate by skiing daily (I convinced myself that the high-altitude would work wonders for my training), but only succeeded in catching a cold after bending-ze-knees with only a t-shirt on. Clever, I know. As a result I was off games (ie running) for most of last week, upon my return to London.
As soon as I felt nearly better, I daubed my chest and nose with Vic, wrapped up warm and ventured out, slowly, and trotted round my trusted Regents Park loop. And my goodness it was slow. Seldom one to be out-competed voluntarily, I found men and women thrice my age overtaking me. And I, with a paucity of fuel in the proverbial tank, simply allowed them to jog on and, cartoon-like, vanish into the horizon line. Oh dear.
Three forced runs later (of - you guessed it - six miles) I decided that I ought to try a 12 miler. So after procrastinating most of Sunday and a huge Sunday Roast I set off. And it felt good, easy. I wasn't breaking records, but 12 miles in 90 mins was encouraging.
Until this morning, that is. I woke and felt a gamut of pain in my left hamstring that I have never experienced before. A (when the leg is in use) sharp and (when not in use) a dull, grumpy, hard-to-shift pain. Fifteen hours later it is still aching. Today I have been hobbling like a octogenarian who has had a double hip replacement, when both operations went wrong. I had planned to run tomorrow, but I will have to see. At the moment it feels as though I will never be able to walk gracefully again.
Fund-rasing-wise things are going a little better. After a five-a-side football tournament and a pub quiz at the Prince of Wales in Putney, I managed to bag £900. And with the help of kind friends I am now up to around £1,300. Only another £1,700 to go. Ah.
The problem is this: the more people sponsor me, the more I realise that I don't want to let anyone down (and I know it shouldn't be about that, but I seem a long way away from that comforting metal foil and hot soup they give out at the conclusion of the marathon).
The booze has been shelved again. And this as work finally dip their fingers into their pockets to fund an all-expenses night out in Amsterdam next week. Typical. Still this is what it was all about - a point of focus. Now all I need to do is slim down enough to fit into my XL training top the RNLI have sent me.
After running pretty well in January (eased by the fulfillment of my New Year's resolution to abstain from alcohol for a month) and February (alcohol-charged!), I have fallen behind after a week of nightly over-indulgence in St Moritz at the end of last month.
My slow loops of Regents Park (circa six miles, when you add the distance to and from home) have tightened my quadriceps, though they are far from the finished granite-like article needed to complete a race five times longer than I have been running.
Before flying to Switzerland I had managed only one run longer than six miles. It was, er, a whole nine miles. (Incidentally, mapped out thanks to a very helpful website: www.mapmyrun.com - like Google Earth for joggers.)
Then St Moritz and all of it's Epicurean delights grabbed a hold of my cojones. Pardon my Spanish, but a rich, week-long diet of eggs Benedict, steak tartar and veal, swilled down with finest velvetly rouge left an expensive, and bitter taste in my mouth. That, and my cuddly paunch was back.
I tried to compensate by skiing daily (I convinced myself that the high-altitude would work wonders for my training), but only succeeded in catching a cold after bending-ze-knees with only a t-shirt on. Clever, I know. As a result I was off games (ie running) for most of last week, upon my return to London.
As soon as I felt nearly better, I daubed my chest and nose with Vic, wrapped up warm and ventured out, slowly, and trotted round my trusted Regents Park loop. And my goodness it was slow. Seldom one to be out-competed voluntarily, I found men and women thrice my age overtaking me. And I, with a paucity of fuel in the proverbial tank, simply allowed them to jog on and, cartoon-like, vanish into the horizon line. Oh dear.
Three forced runs later (of - you guessed it - six miles) I decided that I ought to try a 12 miler. So after procrastinating most of Sunday and a huge Sunday Roast I set off. And it felt good, easy. I wasn't breaking records, but 12 miles in 90 mins was encouraging.
Until this morning, that is. I woke and felt a gamut of pain in my left hamstring that I have never experienced before. A (when the leg is in use) sharp and (when not in use) a dull, grumpy, hard-to-shift pain. Fifteen hours later it is still aching. Today I have been hobbling like a octogenarian who has had a double hip replacement, when both operations went wrong. I had planned to run tomorrow, but I will have to see. At the moment it feels as though I will never be able to walk gracefully again.
Fund-rasing-wise things are going a little better. After a five-a-side football tournament and a pub quiz at the Prince of Wales in Putney, I managed to bag £900. And with the help of kind friends I am now up to around £1,300. Only another £1,700 to go. Ah.
The problem is this: the more people sponsor me, the more I realise that I don't want to let anyone down (and I know it shouldn't be about that, but I seem a long way away from that comforting metal foil and hot soup they give out at the conclusion of the marathon).
The booze has been shelved again. And this as work finally dip their fingers into their pockets to fund an all-expenses night out in Amsterdam next week. Typical. Still this is what it was all about - a point of focus. Now all I need to do is slim down enough to fit into my XL training top the RNLI have sent me.
Monday, 10 December 2007
"If you can talk you can sing ...
... If you can walk you can dance" Well at least according to the old Zimbabwean proverb. Last week, after a fantastic initial response - thank you for your sponsorship and words of encouragement / incredulity - I felt I should hit the roads and start my training.
Peeling back my bedroom curtains I found a crispy fresh winter morning waving at me. Feeling invigorated I de-bagged and de-tagged my new running gear; struggled my vest over my paunch and hula-ed into my short shorts.
A few short stretches later and I couldn't help but bound down the stairs and out of the front door, and pound down the pavement.
I was eating up the sidewalk; chewing and spitting it out. Woooooooosh. A left turn up to Paddington Recreational Ground, and I was buzzing. Around the park and, after slaloming a few prams and stray footballs, onto the running track I bounced. A few laps would suffice for my first run, right?
************************************************************************************
Four laps later and I was beaten. My back ached; my legs burned and I had to stop. Gone was the great feeling that had propelled me down the stairs and my legs virtually sprinting to the park.
I walked back to the flat. Slowly.
************************************************************************************
I worked out that I had done two-and-a-half miles in half-an-hour. Meaning that if I continued at that (what felt like warp) speed, I would complete the 26.3 miles in, er, over five hours.
I felt so demoralized. You have to start somewhere though, right?
"If you can talk you can sing. If you can walk you can jog a little, but not for very far" (A new Maidavalian proverb ... )
Peeling back my bedroom curtains I found a crispy fresh winter morning waving at me. Feeling invigorated I de-bagged and de-tagged my new running gear; struggled my vest over my paunch and hula-ed into my short shorts.
A few short stretches later and I couldn't help but bound down the stairs and out of the front door, and pound down the pavement.
I was eating up the sidewalk; chewing and spitting it out. Woooooooosh. A left turn up to Paddington Recreational Ground, and I was buzzing. Around the park and, after slaloming a few prams and stray footballs, onto the running track I bounced. A few laps would suffice for my first run, right?
************************************************************************************
Four laps later and I was beaten. My back ached; my legs burned and I had to stop. Gone was the great feeling that had propelled me down the stairs and my legs virtually sprinting to the park.
I walked back to the flat. Slowly.
************************************************************************************
I worked out that I had done two-and-a-half miles in half-an-hour. Meaning that if I continued at that (what felt like warp) speed, I would complete the 26.3 miles in, er, over five hours.
I felt so demoralized. You have to start somewhere though, right?
"If you can talk you can sing. If you can walk you can jog a little, but not for very far" (A new Maidavalian proverb ... )
Friday, 30 November 2007
RNLI - making a difference
Hot off the press ... For those of you who were wondering why I am running for the RNLI, my good pal Owen has just sent me this, which he has written for his paper, and it is a superb account.
On Friday, RNLI lifeboats tried in vain to save the lives of three people whose boat capsized off the coast of Whitby. Two days later, Owen Amos spent the morning with Hartlepool's lifeboat crew as they trained on the stormy North Sea
The orange lifeboat dashes through the North Sea, a maelstrom of white water in its wake. The waves toss the 28-tonne boat into the air, and, as it lands, cold, salty water crashes onto the deck. As the water hits my skin, I grip the deck rail even tighter. My face, tucked between a blue woolly hat and a yellow RNLI jacket, is whiter than the water.
The boat zips down the east coast, past the fuming chimneys of Seal Sands and Teesmouth.
Hartlepool, where we started, moves further away, and Redcar's seafront and church spire appears.
"Man overboard!" cries lifeboat man Darren Killick. Fortunately, the overboard man is, in fact, a buoy.
The RNLI crews from Hartlepool - who have one big boat, and one smaller inshore boat - and Redcar - two in shore boats - are out on joint exercise.
For the next hour, the lifeboats dart across the sea, retrieving buoys and towing each other.
I stand on deck and try not to vomit.
"You're not looking too well, " says mechanic Garry Waugh as the boat rocks from side to side. "This is nothing. It's almost rocked me to sleep."
The RNLI is a charity, its £120m annual operating costs met by donations and legacies. Its crew - there are 30 in Hartlepool - are unpaid volunteers, apart from the full-time mechanic.
The Hartlepool crew includes a lecturer, a carpenter, a gardener, and a window cleaner. At one time, nearly all crew were off-duty fishermen - now, only two work at sea.
They all carry pagers and are permanently on call. Stories of wives left in restaurants while their husbands rush to rescue stranded sailors are common. One crew member once turned up with half a haircut.
As the cold bit my fingers, and my stomach churned, I had one question: why would anyone be a lifeboatman?
"Eighty or ninety per cent of the time, we'll do tow-in jobs for boats in trouble, but every now and then a job comes along and you know you make a real difference, " says coxswain Robbie Maiden, 40.
"It only happens now and then, but when it does it makes a real difference. That’s when you get the feel-good factor, or whatever you want to call it."
Crew member Mark Barker says: "It's the satisfaction of knowing one day you will save someone's life. It's a good feeling. It's a fantastic feeling."
The Hartlepool crew have been on 52 emergencies this year. Most are mechanical failures, but the list includes a number of people, and dogs, rescued from the sea. In August, the crew rescued a man who had been thrown from Steetley Pier, Hartlepool, in a fight.
But not everyone can be saved. Every lifeboat has, at some point, brought dead bodies on board. Last Friday, Whitby's lifeboat crew rescued three people after their boat capsized. All three died later in hospital.
"I spoke to the mechanic at Whitby an hour and a half after that happened and he was still very upset, " says Garry. "They did an amazing job.
"Whoever was handling their boat in those conditions did brilliantly.
"When you have to recover bodies from the sea, that's not easy. That's when our debriefing room is good. We have access to a counsellor, but generally we just go in there and talk about it ourselves."
So what's it like, sailing to an unknown emergency on a cold, dark, wet winter’s night?
"When you first head to sea, you get the old adrenaline flowing for the first 15, 20 minutes, " says Robbie. "But as the hours go on and the cold sets in, it gets tiring. You can't give in, though, if there's a chance someone could still be out there. We've had 24hour, 36-hour searches."
The crew, which includes one woman, repeatedly call themselves a family. To join, prospective members do a year's probation, with training, and the crew vote on whether they stay. Almost all RNLI stations, especially in large towns such as Hartlepool, are well-manned.
The crew - most have children - must keep two families happy.
It's not easy. Robbie, the coxswain since 1998, joined the RNLI when he was 16. His dad and granddad were also lifeboatmen.
"The hardest bit is for the families," says Robbie. "When they're waiting at home, not knowing what's going on, it's not easy.
"At least we know what we're going out to - they don't even know that. It's a big commitment for your partner as well as yourself, but she never tells me to leave. She knows how much I get out of it."
Garry adds: "The amount of times I've been at a restaurant and the pager goes off, and I've said 'Sorry love, got to go.' They have to be understanding."
Last year, RNLI lifeboats rescued more than 8,000 people, an average of 22 people per day. The organisation was founded in 1824, when lifeboats had oars and sails: the Tamar, which I was on, cost £2.5m. Even the life jackets cost £500. Despite the pressure - there are more than 330 lifeboats at 230 stations - the RNLI prefer independence to government funding.
"We raise enough money to keep going every year thanks to the generosity of the public, " says spokeswoman Alison Levett. "We run perfectly well thanks to our fantastic support."
With the two-hour exercise complete, I totter from the boat to the warmth of the station. As I wrap my frozen fingers round a cup of tea, the crew use mops and brushes to clean saltwater from the boat. Once it sparkles, the lecturer, carpenter, gardener and window cleaner get back to their families and back to their work.
The RNLI pager, though, will remain on. Soon, someone, somewhere in the North Sea will be glad it does.
On Friday, RNLI lifeboats tried in vain to save the lives of three people whose boat capsized off the coast of Whitby. Two days later, Owen Amos spent the morning with Hartlepool's lifeboat crew as they trained on the stormy North Sea
The orange lifeboat dashes through the North Sea, a maelstrom of white water in its wake. The waves toss the 28-tonne boat into the air, and, as it lands, cold, salty water crashes onto the deck. As the water hits my skin, I grip the deck rail even tighter. My face, tucked between a blue woolly hat and a yellow RNLI jacket, is whiter than the water.
The boat zips down the east coast, past the fuming chimneys of Seal Sands and Teesmouth.
Hartlepool, where we started, moves further away, and Redcar's seafront and church spire appears.
"Man overboard!" cries lifeboat man Darren Killick. Fortunately, the overboard man is, in fact, a buoy.
The RNLI crews from Hartlepool - who have one big boat, and one smaller inshore boat - and Redcar - two in shore boats - are out on joint exercise.
For the next hour, the lifeboats dart across the sea, retrieving buoys and towing each other.
I stand on deck and try not to vomit.
"You're not looking too well, " says mechanic Garry Waugh as the boat rocks from side to side. "This is nothing. It's almost rocked me to sleep."
The RNLI is a charity, its £120m annual operating costs met by donations and legacies. Its crew - there are 30 in Hartlepool - are unpaid volunteers, apart from the full-time mechanic.
The Hartlepool crew includes a lecturer, a carpenter, a gardener, and a window cleaner. At one time, nearly all crew were off-duty fishermen - now, only two work at sea.
They all carry pagers and are permanently on call. Stories of wives left in restaurants while their husbands rush to rescue stranded sailors are common. One crew member once turned up with half a haircut.
As the cold bit my fingers, and my stomach churned, I had one question: why would anyone be a lifeboatman?
"Eighty or ninety per cent of the time, we'll do tow-in jobs for boats in trouble, but every now and then a job comes along and you know you make a real difference, " says coxswain Robbie Maiden, 40.
"It only happens now and then, but when it does it makes a real difference. That’s when you get the feel-good factor, or whatever you want to call it."
Crew member Mark Barker says: "It's the satisfaction of knowing one day you will save someone's life. It's a good feeling. It's a fantastic feeling."
The Hartlepool crew have been on 52 emergencies this year. Most are mechanical failures, but the list includes a number of people, and dogs, rescued from the sea. In August, the crew rescued a man who had been thrown from Steetley Pier, Hartlepool, in a fight.
But not everyone can be saved. Every lifeboat has, at some point, brought dead bodies on board. Last Friday, Whitby's lifeboat crew rescued three people after their boat capsized. All three died later in hospital.
"I spoke to the mechanic at Whitby an hour and a half after that happened and he was still very upset, " says Garry. "They did an amazing job.
"Whoever was handling their boat in those conditions did brilliantly.
"When you have to recover bodies from the sea, that's not easy. That's when our debriefing room is good. We have access to a counsellor, but generally we just go in there and talk about it ourselves."
So what's it like, sailing to an unknown emergency on a cold, dark, wet winter’s night?
"When you first head to sea, you get the old adrenaline flowing for the first 15, 20 minutes, " says Robbie. "But as the hours go on and the cold sets in, it gets tiring. You can't give in, though, if there's a chance someone could still be out there. We've had 24hour, 36-hour searches."
The crew, which includes one woman, repeatedly call themselves a family. To join, prospective members do a year's probation, with training, and the crew vote on whether they stay. Almost all RNLI stations, especially in large towns such as Hartlepool, are well-manned.
The crew - most have children - must keep two families happy.
It's not easy. Robbie, the coxswain since 1998, joined the RNLI when he was 16. His dad and granddad were also lifeboatmen.
"The hardest bit is for the families," says Robbie. "When they're waiting at home, not knowing what's going on, it's not easy.
"At least we know what we're going out to - they don't even know that. It's a big commitment for your partner as well as yourself, but she never tells me to leave. She knows how much I get out of it."
Garry adds: "The amount of times I've been at a restaurant and the pager goes off, and I've said 'Sorry love, got to go.' They have to be understanding."
Last year, RNLI lifeboats rescued more than 8,000 people, an average of 22 people per day. The organisation was founded in 1824, when lifeboats had oars and sails: the Tamar, which I was on, cost £2.5m. Even the life jackets cost £500. Despite the pressure - there are more than 330 lifeboats at 230 stations - the RNLI prefer independence to government funding.
"We raise enough money to keep going every year thanks to the generosity of the public, " says spokeswoman Alison Levett. "We run perfectly well thanks to our fantastic support."
With the two-hour exercise complete, I totter from the boat to the warmth of the station. As I wrap my frozen fingers round a cup of tea, the crew use mops and brushes to clean saltwater from the boat. Once it sparkles, the lecturer, carpenter, gardener and window cleaner get back to their families and back to their work.
The RNLI pager, though, will remain on. Soon, someone, somewhere in the North Sea will be glad it does.
Wednesday, 28 November 2007
And so it begins …
I have, just this morning, found out that the RNLI have afforded me a place in the London Marathon, which takes place on April 13 next year. Eek. The reality of what started off as a drunken dare has now hit me like a bucket of ice cold water. I am REALLY going to do this.
Still rather giddy, and with the acceptance email still open, the first person I called was my dear mother.
"What? Why on earth ... ?" she quizzed. "You know you'll have to take this seriously; it is a huge commitment. I remember when you did that sponsored half-marathon ... " More on that below, I don’t want to think about that soul-destroying day just now. It had been lodged in some forgotten, moth-eaten pocket of my mind until that phone call. Mum’s are handy like that …
After crippling my confidence, and turning me green, I wished mum well and hung off. I won't be relying on her for a motivation speech for this marathon. Kick-up-the-arse has always been her style - why would I expect any difference now, for this - the biggest challenge I have ever faced? Gulp.
I set up my sponsorship page this afternoon and the wheels are in motion. I feel ill.
Still rather giddy, and with the acceptance email still open, the first person I called was my dear mother.
"What? Why on earth ... ?" she quizzed. "You know you'll have to take this seriously; it is a huge commitment. I remember when you did that sponsored half-marathon ... " More on that below, I don’t want to think about that soul-destroying day just now. It had been lodged in some forgotten, moth-eaten pocket of my mind until that phone call. Mum’s are handy like that …
After crippling my confidence, and turning me green, I wished mum well and hung off. I won't be relying on her for a motivation speech for this marathon. Kick-up-the-arse has always been her style - why would I expect any difference now, for this - the biggest challenge I have ever faced? Gulp.
I set up my sponsorship page this afternoon and the wheels are in motion. I feel ill.
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