What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

Bored, bored, bored. Resting because I’m all raced out is tiring and tiresome. Recurring calf and hamstring niggles over the summer and autumn led me to the decision that I’d only do light training and no racing between the Abbey Dash and the Chevin Chase. Trouble is the Abbey Dash went really well. Spurred on by Abi I managed to equal my 10k PB of 40:36 and started to question the need to take a rest. Fortunately, none of the races over the next four weeks have any particular appeal for me so the temptation to just carry on isn’t as bad as it might have been.

I tried to get my racing fix at the end of last week by booking into future races; Thirsk 10 & Stockport 10 for Liz and Dewsbury 10k & Liversedge Half for the both of us. Booking online is dreadful. Almost as tiring as running the blooming races. Why don’t they have a button that allows you to pay for two people together rather then going through the whole thing twice? Why can’t the darned thing remember my details like it’s supposed to?

I’ve had a couple of reasonably long walks over the Chevin during the week but no training. I chugged around in the snow on Saturday morning for a respectable parkrun time of 21:49. I even warmed down and offered my aching legs up to Ned for an excellent post run Sports Fix massage.

I’m doing what I can to arrive at the start of marathon training in as good a condition as I can. Stretching at home, working on upper body at the gym and not putting the calves and hamstrings under any strain. I’m fiddling with my marathon training plan and trying not to look forward to the Chevin Chase too much.

Still bored.

For you and I are past our dancing days

It was the last of the Yorkshire Veterans’ Athletics Association Grand Prix series on Sunday and I turned up to run with the other has beens. Actually, you don’t have to be that old to be classed a “veteran” in the athletics world – 35. Must seem pretty ancient when you’re young, but most of the runners in this series don’t look like veterans to me.

I hadn’t really expected to run having tweaked a calf on the previous Sundays’ PECO cross country. I didn’t run at all in the week that followed but set off tentatively for the Saturday parkrun and found no pain at all. I was in full winter gear having expected to go slowly so had to hastily remove gloves and rain jacket when I found I was moving freely. I picked up the pace and provided a thorough test for the legs by the end. Managed just over 21 minutes from a pedestrian start, so was pleased with that.

I’d enjoyed the PECO race, but didn’t really consider it to be cross country. This was more like it though; squelchy mud, gates, stiles and narrow tracks. We started by running one and a half laps round an athletics track and even I’ve learned that this means that the organisers want to get the field spread out because there are some narrow bits coming up. I headed off as fast as I could and arrived at the first bottle neck reasonably far up the field. Not so far that I was killing myself to keep up, but I wasn’t frustrated by being held up either.

For the second race in a row, I settled in behind Mick from Eccleshill but it was pretty clear that this wasn’t the Mick of last week. No longer the mild mannered gentleman he’d turned into ….. The Hoganator. When he took off and dodged past other runners I held my ground as his pace was too hot for me. I maintained a steady trot and only had one brief moment of anxiety; after twenty five minutes the faster runners came bombing back towards me and I had a horrible thought that maybe it was an out and back and the race was further than I’d thought. Perhaps I should have looked at the map in registration. Turned out to be just over five miles and I came in about 50th in 38:33.

Was I first lady home? Nah. I’d bumped into Karen Pickles before the race so all bets were off. If I can get within a minute a mile of her then that’s the measure of whether I’ve done ok. Came in one place ahead of Marisol though so things are looking up.

'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful

My usual way of finishing a race is wheezing and spluttering and looking close to death. I surpassed myself at the first cross country of the season by adding a ludicrous limp and a pathetic keening noise.

It’s been mixed running fortunes since last I blogged. Apart from a couple of desultory training runs I’ve completed two races. I think that because I have no real concept of pacing and I’m a slacker I tend to look for someone else to take me round at a good clip. Consequently, since starting to run in2008 I’ve identified likely pacemakers and tried to hang onto them in a shamelessly parasitic fashion. Unfortunately, since twanging my hamstring at the end of June the usual suspects have been too quick for me so I’ve just run as fast as I think I can without risking injury.

I’d been feeling pretty chipper of late so decided that for Guy Fawkes 10 I’d aim for 1:15 and try to trail round after Marisol. In the six races we’d both run in prior to “the twang”, I’d finished ahead of her; in the six races we’d both run afterwards, she’d finished ahead of me. Keeping up with her would be an indication that I’m getting over the injury (she’s very consistent).

I overtook her after a couple of miles and the body seemed to be in decent shape. The first hill was horrible; I had to walk the second half and Marisol went past me just before the summit. I got my breath back at the top and went past her. Same story on the second hill, only I couldn’t get past her, just had to dig in and follow. At the third hill I decided not to walk and was just congratulating myself on a noble effort when a bend in the road revealed we were only halfway up the hill. I walked the second half. She got away from me and though I made up some ground, she finished 17 seconds ahead. This was a good result. She’d whupped me by ten minutes at the Bradford half so I was happy with my Ripley run.

There’ll be pressure on at the PECOs this year. Last year we unwisely got promoted and we’re in danger of being the West Bromwich Albion of the PECO league. At the first PECO at Pontefract I decided I had to go as fast as possible as we’ll need all the points we can get. The only tactic I can think of is to chase Russ round. Last year I’d mostly followed Deadly Hedley; by “followed” I mean start just behind him and then watch the gap gradually widen as the race unfolded. He was usually about a minute ahead of me at the end. This worked well last year apart from the race where I lost him at the start. I panicked and desperately went faster and faster trying to catch him up only to be overtaken by him after three miles. The last two miles were a nightmare as a procession of other runners went charging past me as I gasped and wheezed my way to the finish.

At Pontefract Russ set off with Abi and I tucked in behind them. I’d rejected the option of using Abi as a pacemaker as he’s too ……. flighty. When he overtook me at Bradford at mile seven he was running backwards and still finished seven minutes ahead of me. Russ made steady progress in the first couple of miles, regularly passing other runners and I was struggling to keep up. When he went past the familiar figure of Mick from Eccleshill I decided enough was enough and changed horses mid-stream. I swung in behind Mick with the intention of staying there as long as possible. This turned out to be until the top of the last slope about 500 yards from the finish. I was just considering revealing my amazing kick and sprint finish (so far this is just a concept, but one day it may happen) when my calf tightened and I watched him race off. Five other runners overtook me as I hobbled my way to the line in a comedy Long John Silver fashion. My fellow club runners were waiting at the end to cheer me in (there seems to be more of them finishing ahead of me than there used to be) and I must have looked a pitiful sight as I limped over the finishing line.

Bugger. Just recovered from the hamstring and now the calf starts to s play up. On the whole, this isn’t a major concern as the calf has tightened a couple of times a year for the last three or four years. Rest it for a week or so and submit to brutal torture from Tony’s healing hands and I’ll be back in business.

So, Pontefract was a race of mixed fortunes, but on the whole a success. Granted, the finish was pathetic, I picked up an injury and was unable to train for the following week. On the positive side I was closer to Mick than I’ve been in ages and I was first lady home (i.e. none of the ladies finished ahead of me, another measure of whether I’m on form).