July might just be the hardest running month. Last year, my switch flipped from “Hurray!” to “Meh….” (see Jem’s last entry), and it stayed off for 5 or 6 weeks in which I felt no guilt at all for not running. Jem’s having the same trouble with motivation, and after taking a week off after the Leeds 10k to prove to my Dad that I’m not a total running/speed junky, I’ve found it difficult to get back into the swing of things.
Last Sunday, Jem decided she wanted to have a crack at my 9 mile flat route to the canal basin and back. She’s also convinced that I am unable to go for a run without pushing myself harder than the last time. This was at the root of a massive argument a month ago when we’d gone for a 10miler, and I had become extremely frustrated running at her leisurely plod and had broken away for the last mile and a half to try to feel like I’d done something. She and my Dad do have a point. I seem to have forgotten that it’s not all about speed, and that I only managed to get up to half-marathon distance in the first place by taking it easy. Long slow runs should be just that – about stamina and distance, not speed. I’m trying to increase my miles, but I’ve been stuck on 13/14 miles for ages, and it’s probably because I keep trying to do it at my race pace of around 10mins/mile.
Somehow, getting out of bed was monumentally difficult, so we didn’t set off until much later than was sensible for a long slow run on a hot and sunny day. We took supplies of sweets and plenty of water because we were planning to be out for about 2 hours. The deal was that I would run at least 10k at Jem’s 13min 30secs/mile, and then if I wanted to I could go and thrash out a few more miles and get my weekly long run fix.
Jem had to keep reminding me to pull it back a little, as my natural pace wanted to reassert itself every so often, but we settled into a conversational rhythm. Jem was having trouble with a pain behind her knee though. It was very hot, much hotter than either of us are used to, and for whatever reason, she was not as comfortable as she should have been. We took breaks every so often to ease the pull behind her knee, and with regular discussions about just how far she might go before she called it a day, we made it all the way down to Lock Number 2, and then back up to the 10k mark, in about 1hour 20minutes. She decided she was going to walk the 3 miles back to the house while I went off for a faster crack up towards Rodley.
I forgot about the time, I forgot about the heat. Every 5 minutes Runkeeper told me how many seconds I’d knocked off the overall pace for the distance, and I think I tuned into it. I practised drinking on the move and spilled some down my top. The sweets were going in well every half hour, and I was running comfortably, wishing good morning to the walkers, cyclists and other runners I passed, and getting very excited when the local heron swooped close by me without an apparent care.
After doing some maths whilst running, I was listening for Runkeeper to tell me I’d got to 10mile point, because I’d come up with a plan to turn round and run the 4 miles to get home to make it 14miles. When it came though, a terrible realisation struck me. It was midday. I’d run out of water. I was 4 miles from home in the full hot sun and had promised Jem I’d be back before she left to meet our friend Steff at 12.30. I called her and left a message to tell her I wasn’t going to be back, but as I came off the phone I began to really feel the heat. I stretched and tried to put my worries about not having any water left into context, thinking “I’ve been out without water before, and 4miles isn’t far, I’ll be fine,” and I set back off towards home.
But I didn’t get far. I’d run out of steam. 4miles is 40ish minutes. I couldn’t run for that long after already being out for 2 and a half hours. I’ve always treated the parts of my body as separate members of a team, and the message coming back from my team was that they were not going to do it. My heart, the engine room, was saying it couldn’t keep pushing. My legs refused to obey my instruction to put one foot in front of the other. I was in trouble. I knew I had to get home fairly quickly, so I decided to walk for a bit and try it again. I called Jem to tell her, and left another message. I put my phone strap onto my right arm, giving my sweaty left arm a rest, which felt weird.
5 or 10 minutes later, I suddenly realised that I was further down the canal and that the strap was back on my left arm, but I had no memory of changing it, and no awareness of what had happened in the last few minutes. I must have zoned out and been on autopilot.
This scared me. I’d now been out over 3 hours, most of it running, in the hot midday sun. Jem called and reminded me that Morrisons sold isotonic drinks and I wasn’t far away, so I did as I was told. I walked home, and tried not to kick myself for “failing” and reminding myself that I actually managed to run more than 11 miles.
Despite having felt so strange and disoriented, and just flat out tired, I recovered really well after a shower, and a nice fat burrito in town later sorted me right out. On reflection, I can only assume that I’ve had my first taste of the Knock, my first encounter with the Wall, and what American runners call “the Bonk.” My research had led me to believe that my hearty meal the night before, my newly found good hydration habits and the sweets and water I’d been taking while I ran would have kept me out of this sort of trouble. It can happen at any point, but it’s usually on long distances where the runner is burning carbohydrates to sustain a fast pace, and the body runs out of readily available fuel and switches to burning fat, a much slower process. From what I understand, and having spoken to Dad, the slow running with Jem would have been burning fat, so perhaps the uphill change to carb burning was not as easy as it should have been. Now, I’m not going to take this as justification for running at my own pace….. Well. Maybe there’s something in it.
After Sunday, I’ll admit I found my appetite for a run had deserted me. I tried to go out yesterday, and it just didn’t happen. I went back to bed for another couple of hours and promised myself I’d go out today, which is my rest day from work. This morning I took a chance and didn’t set out until 9ish, again beginning to worry about the rising temperature, but it’s overcast and slightly muggy. I headed out on my regular 8 mile hilly route, conscious that I really wasn’t “feeling it” and making escape route plans in my head – I can nip home from the corner of Morris Lane and Kirkstall Lane and turn it into a 5k if it’s really not going to happen. As that corner came into view I was still not sure, but the realisation dawned that if I didn’t manage this one, I’d be in the downward spiral of lack of confidence and would be facing a harder hill in my head than any I’d have to run.
As it happens, I ran it fairly easily, not aiming or my usual time, and not pushing to be where I usually am at the time points. I slowed for the hills and recovered on the flats and downs. And I came home only a minute or so later than I usually do. I’m pleased with myself, and I’m glad I’ve proved I can do it, but I won’t lie and say I’ve recovered my running mojo. I still feel pretty “switched off,” but I’ve been here before, it’ll switch itself back on again soon. We knew when we started that it wouldn’t always be easy, and I suppose this is where it gets sticky, but we’re in it for the long haul.
The final run of the Jane Tomlinson Series, the York 10k is next Sunday. That’ll sort me out.
C
the200milemacmillanmadness 