Hey-up! How’s tha diddlin’?
Yup, it’s been a while. That’s partly because we were on holiday last week, staying at a holiday house in Broadlay, Ferryside, Carmarthenshire, Wales, UK. Of its many positive features (view, proximity to beaches where The Boys could roam, proximity to nice running routes, etc.), the lack of any data coverage, as well as more often than not voice coverage, was arguably the highlight. I could just about tap into the landlords’ WiFi if I stood in the right place and held the phone at the right angle, but there was never any guarantee! Took a (short) while to get used to, after that it was a highly beneficial detox. I can live offline, I just struggle to stay offline if t’Internet is within reach!
Another reason for my silence is that, quite
simply, that I don’t have a topic to focus upon. With no races till September,
I’m still running every day, but I’m not chasing any specific objectives. I
still try to sneak in a 20-miler every week, or every other week, just not with
the level of interest on my time as I did, and will do again, in preparing for
a race and pursuit of a given outcome on the day. So Monday, for example, I
headed off for a 20-miler
but with no firm idea as to how to clock up those miles. I ended up in
Clevedon, the town adjacent to Portishead, running along the coastal Poets
Walk. It’s a path I’ve heard a lot about (Coleridge had a cottage there, you
know), but which I’d never actually explored in my 14 years out there. One of
those things that are so accessible you never make that tiny effort, because
there’s always tomorrow… I was glad to put that to rights on Monday! Not that I’d
planned to do so, mind: it genuinely was a case of running along, taking a left
where I’d normally take a right, and carrying on for… well, the best part of ten
miles before heading back! “I took a wrong turn and I just kept going” aren’t amongst
Springsteen’s deepest lyrics, but they’re probably amongst his better known (you
know that tune, right?) and will do just fine here!
I didn’t used to do that, of course. I used to plan
my routes well in advance, ensuring I’d have the time and the energy to
complete them. And that’s after I served an apprenticeship of only ever running
along nearby Down Road or running 1.5mi laps of three nearby roads. That was
when I started off running: I didn’t want to veer too far from home. I didn’t
want to leave myself with a hilly finale but also I was still relatively fresh
(half a year) from my epilepsy op and, quite simply, I didn’t want to be far
from home in case I had a fit. It didn’t seem to bother me that a good third of
the route was up a road with no pavement and with a blind bend, but there you
go – I never said I was a logical fellow. In the build-up to my first 10k, I’d
run that lap six times on a Sunday for what I’d then refer to as my “long run” –
18k. That’s when I figured I might just manage a half marathon. Anyway… that’s
not the topic tonight!
Detailed, planned runs. That was then. But now…
something’s changed. I have proven to myself that I can handle that hilly
finale after any old run, I’m happy to just go with the flow and see where I
end up. Most of my running is still on road, so options are limited – but who
knows, if summer ever really kicks in and I can trust the terrain I may even
wander off road… I certainly want to run The Alwyn Lloyd Half Marathon
again! It’s a 13.6mi route I ran on the same day that my good (in fact, excellent)
friend Richard Lloyd (who’s In
Search of Alpe D’Huez, incidentally) and his wife Heidi welcomed Alwyn into
the world: March 14, 2013. I planned on making it a weekly, maybe fortnightly,
training route. But, disappointingly, two and a half months on I’ve yet to run
it again. From bad weather to marathon training (for which I sought longer but
flatter runs), I’ve always had an excuse. And now? Well it’s that pesky British
weather again, the rain putting me off not so much the muddy trail (not that it
helps) as the slippery rocks by the coast along the world’s second greatest
tidal range (13m, my
friends). But I’ll be back…
I can’t give you a date as to when I started
relaxing about route planning. I can, however, give you a date as to when
something else changed. But first let’s get a few things straight…
I’m often asked why I run if I don’t enjoy it. In
order to answer that, let’s clarify what ‘enjoyment’ is. I’m going to lean on
Wales-born, America-residing philosopher Mark Rowlands and some of his
thoughts from “Running
With The Pack: thoughts from the road on meaning and morality”. On p. 200,
he looked to define ‘joy’ – a feeling which people close to me know I deem
‘overrated’! Here’s how Rowlands tackles the subject:
“Joy can feel like many things. Feelings can accompany joy, but they do
not define it or make it what it is. The joy I encounter when I run with
thoughts that come from nowhere is, in t terms of the feelings that accompany
it, quite different from the joy I encountered later on today’s run, when I
understood that all the reasons I had, or could ever have, had no authority
over me. Nevertheless, there are both forms that joy can take. In its essence,
joy is not a feeling or even constellation of feelings. Joy is a form of
recognition.
The more our lives are dominated by the instrumental, the more we will
value pleasure. The function of joy is quite different. Joy can assume many
experiential forms. There is the joy of focus, the experience of being
completely immersed in what one is doing. There is the joy of dedication, the
experience of being dedicated to the deed and not the outcome, the activity and
not the goal. There is the joy of enduring, the experience of playing the game
as hard as you can play it, of giving everything you have to the game and
leaving nothing in the tank, no matter the experiential toll this exacts. There
is the joy of defiance, wild and fierce: no, you will not break me, not here,
not today. Joy is found in the heartbeat of the run, whatever form this takes.
But, ultimately, all of these come to the same thing. Joy is the experience
–the recognition– of intrinsic value in life. Joy is the recognition of the things
in life that possess value in themselves – the things that are valuable for
their own sake: the things in life that are worthy of love. Pleasure distracts
us from what does not have intrinsic value. Joy is the recognition of what
does. Pleasure is a way of feeling. But joy is a way of seeing. Joy is
something that pleasure is not and can never be. It is the recognition of the
places in life where all points and purpose stop”
(You read that again. Oh, and I touch-typed it all
without making a single typo. That gives me joy. No, pleasure. Oh whatever)
If you agree with Rowlands (and I do), running has
always given me the joy of focus, of dedication, of enduring and of defiance. I
have never claimed to enjoy the run itself but I have always acknowledged the
fulfilment I feel when I stop knowing I have achieved ‘something’. And, for the
first 374 of my running days, “achieving something” was my primary objective.
Over that year, ‘something’ morphed from losing weight to running a 10k into
running a half marathon and, ultimately, into running a marathon. Every time I
put one foot in front of the other, I was working towards one of those four
goals…
…then, on April 28, 2013, I put one foot in front
of the other around 30,000 times and completed the 2013 Greater Manchester
Marathon. I achieved what had been my over-riding goal for around six
months, far more than any other objective had spent as my driving focus.
Where did that leave me? Did I leave me with “post-marathon
blues”? Did it leave me saying “no mas”, as I did during the
final mile of last September’s Bristol Half Marathon? Did it leave me
longing for something more – say an ultra?
Truth be told, it didn’t leave me with any of the
above. I knew it wasn’t going to be my last: but having already signed up for
several halves meant the marathon blues never had a chance to kick in. I’d
already contemplated ultras but had made a conscious decision to steer clear of
them, at least for 2013, due to the challenges posed by the training. That’s
not to say I’m not daunted by the running bit: I’ve just not even got to that
stage of the thought process yet! So where I found myself, as I crossed the
finishing line near Old Trafford, was…
…in The Club.
Membership of most clubs comes with a start date
and an expiry date. Beside me as I type is my Totley
AC Running Club Membership Card: I’m number 1321, I’ll have you know. But
that card’s only valid until 31/12/13. So next year they’ll have to find at
least one more digit, as the three used on this card won’t suffice for 2014.
Nevertheless, there is an expiry date and it’s clearly spelt out, blue on
green.
There are, however, clubs for which membership
never expires. And, once a marathon runner / a maratoneta, always a marathon
runner / maratoneta. My Dad is a maratoneta: always will be. And, thanks to
Manchester (of all places), Giacomo Squintani, Giancarlo’s son, is also a
maratoneta. Forever.
So… are there any benefits to being in The Club?
Because Lord knows, it was hard enough to get in!
There are – and many. The line between some of them
(e.g. self-confidence and smugness) can be blurred. Maybe one day I’ll try and
list them all (suggestions welcome!). Right here, right now, I just want to
focus on one:
Members of The Marathon Runners Club are entitled to enjoy running
Again, spend some time on that thought… it’s not as
deep as Rowlands’, but in the context of this blog it might just be more
challenging… so let me spell that one out again, in bold even, in case you think it’s a typo –
after all, I’ve spent over a year telling you that I can’t stand running. So
what’s this volte face? Am I now saying that, actually, I can stand running?
Members of The Marathon Runners Club are entitled to enjoy running
Let me put it this way. I have now proven to myself
that I can complete the historically-charged distance of 26.2mi / 42,195km. I
have proven to myself that all
the roadrunning was not in vain. And, at this particular moment in time, my
daily roads are not geared towards any specific race. Yes, I’m taking part in
the affirmation of running that is Longest
Day Run, organised by Simon:
and you should too! On June 22, dust off those running shoes and clock a mile.
Personally, along with fellow
nutters, I’ll be aiming for more: probably 20, potentially 23, 26.2 if I
feel reeeeaaaalllly well on the day. But because it’s a case of my route / my
rules, and because I’ll be running on my own, I’m not overly fussed about
distance and certainly not about time. I just want to…
…well yes, enjoy it. I want to run along a nice
route, probably along the Bristol Channel as it becomes the Atlantic, and enjoy
its sights and sounds. I want to feel the “heartbeat of the run” to which
Rowlands so often refers, free my mind for the wind to blow into it some
challenging thoughts… and soak my weary muscles in a Radox bath, as I did on
Monday after a run that proved harder than Manchester. It was six miles shorter
but hillier; I hadn’t carbloaded or done any of the specific preparation that I
did before the big 2-6; and there were no crowds cheering, no fellow runners
inspiring. Much as I would love to run with someone else on Longest Day Run,
I’ll be alone: just as well I’ll have some attractive scenery to accompany me.
So there you have it – I think I’ve stumbled into
an admission of pleasure. Because joy has been an integral part of my runs from
the start: it’s just not been a smile-inducing type of joy, but then I’m a
mardy bum rarely seen smiling at the best of times. What has crept into my
running is an ability to derive pleasure from sights during a run, from the act
of running itself. And the door for that was left ajar on April 28, in
Manchester. That day I entered the exclusive-yet-open-to-all Marathon Runners’
Club: that day all my hard work paid off and I could finally relax a little.
Which is not to say I won’t take future races as seriously, or train as hard
for them: but it is to say that, all the time I’ll be doing so, I’ll be doing
so as a member of The Club, not an outsider still looking to earn admission.
And that’s a mindset changer.
Much as I always thought I’d complete the 26.2mi
course, even if it meant walking, ‘thinking’ counts for nowt – it’s all about
doing it. And I did it. Whatever happens (or doesn’t) next, I’m in The Club.
I’m a maratoneta. Nobody can ever take that away from me. I’ve joined my Dad,
and many other people whom I admire, gained my life membership. And that, my
friends, gives me great pleasure.
But don’t worry – I Can’t Stand Running will live
on! And trust me, there will be plenty of times when I won’t be able to see any
sights or hear any sounds and will be out there running purely for training
purposes. Hey, days start getting shorter in three weeks’ time! It will be
winter before you know it, those dark and gloomy mornings of 5:30 20-milers
preparing for… well, for whatever marathon I’ll be doing next spring. The next
one, as you know (albeit there was no fanfare), is Chester, on
October 6. That’s right, 128 days away. When will I start training for that?
Well, there’s another thing about being in The
Marathon Runners’ Club, if you’re also a member of the Runstreak Fraternity (as
I have been now for 231 days). You don’t really stop or start training for a
marathon. You change distances and intensities, you tweak the goals of each
individual run, always looking to avoid just running for the sake of clocking
miles (as Julian
Goater would point out at this stage): but, having got to that level, you
try to stay there. Personally, I like to think I am always at a stage where I
could run a half marathon the following day, and a marathon given a fortnight’s
warning (for tapering purposes). Which is not to say I could run a decent time
on just two weeks’ notice, but that I could get round. I say that at a time
when I’m still clocking a 20-miler every fortnight or so, mind… and at least a
half marathon distance every week… now surely that can’t last, can it?
Talking about different planets, Wales (sorry Fi!) was great, by the way. Focusing on the running, I didn’t run far but I did love every minute of running along the Carmarthenshire coast and up some of its unforgiving hills. Loved the sound of the waves, the sight of the water and Llansteffan Castle (which we’d visited), the treacherous rocks, the sound of silence along its roads… just not keen on its flying insects, much as they spurred me on to work on my breathing. The climbs proved good training: upon my return, I reclaimed a hilly CR on Strava!
Here’s a shot of me running in Ferryside, Wales. Not at my fastest, mind: not on those rocks! Much as I’d love to sign off by citing this blog’s name, you might just not believe me this time.
Apologies for the armpits, by the way, as well as the pseudo-demonic left eye. And shame you can’t see 'Totley' on my vest.
