Tom Roper's Running Training

Juneathon the twenty-first: the day of overheating trousers

With more daylight hours than any other day of the year, I still failed to run. I had a cunning plan, which was that, since I had to go to London for an evening meeting, I would Boris-bike it around the capital. In the event, when I arrived at Victoria it was wet, and I didn't want to arrive at my destination in drowned rat mode, so I took the tube.

After an evening at the BMA which, on the day of the first doctors' strike for forty years, I expected to find looking something like the Smolny Institute in revolutionary Petrograd as described by John Reed, I went to find a bike for the return trip. My key wouldn't fit in any of them. Had it broken? No it looked fine; had TfL changed all the key slots without troubling to tell anyone? It seemed unlikely. I rang customer service, who told me that they keys sometimes expand in the heat. I thought that unlikely in the summer we've had so far, but perhaps the body-heat in my trousers is abnormally high. They promised to send me a new key, but I took no exercise whatsoever, part from a little light flâneur-ing around central London.

Juneathon the twentieth

Just as Stanley emerged from the jungle to grasp Livingstone by the hand, and speak those famous word, so did I enter the garden of the Tiger Inn in East Dean to find David Rowell, aka Highway Kind, aka @DOrwell. We set off up the hill to Friston church where Frank Bridge is buried, out to Crowlink and the end of the Seven Sisters, and back to East Dean.

It was the most beautiful evening, the downs cropped close by sheep and rabbits, the sea flat, the world at peace. Afterwards we sat outside with pints of Legless Rambler or, in the case of David's partner, a gin and tonic. We talked of the seventies, of the great profession of librarianship, of governments past and of runs past, present and future. He will run the Victoria marathon, in British Columbia, in the autumn of 2013.

This seems to me the very apotheosis of Juneathon, that runners should not only run, and blog, but should meet and talk. As we ran we agreed, I think, that more or less everything in life is like running...or is it the other way round, that running is like everything else?

 

Juneathon the nineteenth

Another short after-work run, down to the sea and back. The sudden sunshine has sent Seafordians straight into summer mode: men in ill-judged shorts, a profusion of sunbathers outside beach huts, the kittawakes calling over the sunny cliffs.

This evening I have the great privilege and pleasure of a run with Highway Kind who is visiting these parts. I have devised a gentle yet interesting route. A report will follow.

 

Juneathon the eighteenth: things to do after work

When I was a boy, on an idyllic summer afternoon, I would finish school and come home to tea in the garden with some kittens on the table. If it was a Thursday, when my father had no evening surgery, then we might borrow a punt, owned by one of his patients and lavishly appointed, and go for a trip up the Cam, and a swim.

This evening was as close as it's possible to get to those afternoons of childhood. I arrived home and ran at about 6.45 p.m. but the sun was still high in the sky. I ran a short, two-mile course, to the Martello Tower and back. After a day in a roof space smelling of sewage, it was a liberation. 

Juneathon the seventeenth

My father was a fine runner. He ran for his college and retained a keen interest in athletics, though I can't remember him running after he tore a hamstring in the father's race at oner of my prep school sports days. He swam though, right up to his death. When he was the age I am now, 57, he would swim a mile a day, every day. He was the oldest contestant in the Swim Through Cambridge, before this annual race was abandoned because of the pollution in the Cam.  By his standards, my efforts are modest. I ran, a short three miles along a well-known route. I stall felt shaky, and towards the end of the first mile wondered if I had tried too much, but I persevered. It was humid and bits of me hurt. 

Juneathon the sixteenth: a day best forgotten

For reasons best kept to myself, between supper on Wednesday and lunch on Saturday, no food passed my lips. I know that's not terribly long. Hunger strikers live for weeks and months without food but, for someone who fancies himself a trencherman. it's an eternity. While it may have left me fashionably thin, it weakened me. I had reserves of energy to cope with Thursday and Friday's runs, but when it came to Saturday I had had it; I could not face swimming coaching or running.

I am now eating again, and will try a run this afternoon. I still feel weak and a little dizzy, but I attribute that to two days without food. It's been an odd experience. When ill or in hospital, my imagination takes off. At night I dream the most baroque dreams, while by day I can understand how an invalid like Proust could have been so creative…or I think I can. I know that the reality of illness is less lying in a cork-lined room, dashing off a sonnet here and a novella there while sipping champagne, and more a bleak hospital bed with foul food, the cries of the elderly and demented, and being at the mercy of people who do painful and degrading things to you. I'm a doctor's son and I work in the NHS: I know whereof I speak.

Juneathon the fourteenth and fifteenth

The rot has set in and I have started to do two days in one post. I'm not sure how our stern task-mistress, Ms Jogblog, will interpret the rules on this point. At the moment, I am worried about my ability to complete Juneathon. A relatively minor medical problem may get in the way. 

Nevertheless, on Thursday, I managed a duathlon of a four mile run on a West Sussex section of the South Downs Way, and a very short swim in Arundel Lido. I ran from Kithurst Hill car park, first west for a mile and back, and then east for a mile, to Chantry Post and back. The views were glorious, even though the sea was obscured by cloud, and I think I understand a little better the countryside I dash through every day on the A27 to and from work. The swim was short, in a heated pool. I was the only occupant, apart from two small boys, egged on by their non-swimming parents. As for yesterday, I ran a mere mile.

At the halfway point, I have 51 miles in all activities to my credit, and 50 running miles. This is as it should be.

Juneathon the thirteenth

It was, unusually, a beautiful evening, and I went out over Seaford Head. This time the Seven Sisters were bright in slanting evening light. I am now at 45 miles, so my target of running more than a hundred in the month looks achievable. I shall try to get some longer runs in at weekends. 

So far I have missed one of the important parts of Juneathon, the social aspect. I shall endeavour to look at some of the other participants' blogs.

Juneathon the twelfth: the rain it raineth every day

The rain it raineth every day,
Upon the just and unjust fellow,
But more upon the just because
The unjust stole the just's umbrella.

Out I went, with a rain jacket on, which seemed a hot-making superfluity at first, but as the run went on I became more and more glad of it. To the east the Seven Sisters were wreathed in water vapour and as I climbed the hill to South Hill Barn, the same hill that is the last in the Seaford half marathon, it began to rain. By the time I was at the top of Seaford Head, the rain was heavy and a strong wind had sprung up. I have descended Seaford Head in everything from brilliant sunshine to snow and ice, but it has rarely been as slippery as it was this morning.

This morning I also finished the 200 sit-ups programme http://www.twohundredsitups.com/. That must be good for some Juneathon points.

 

Juneathon the eleventh: the shortest run in history

I ran a mere mile. At least I ran, and I tried to move at speed. I hope for better things tomorrow.