Tom Roper's Running Training

Dancer with bruised knees

Today the fifth Brighton Marathon took place, and I marshalled, which is possibly not worth a blog post, in itself—except that it is such an extraordinary experience to witness, and play a small part in, such an event. An early start, out on the course, erecting barriers and directing runners to the start. I was given a fine marshalling place, on the Level, at a point the runners pass three times in the early miles. 

A fine barrier. Thos. Roper fecit MMXIV

Congratulations to all who took part, in particular to the sixteen (we think) Seaford Striders who took part, and to two of my librarian colleagues, James Mullan, aka the Running Librarian,  and Jo Wood, who both achieved personal bests. I only spotted a couple of Striders but it is hard. Looking at the times, my own of 4:46:52 in 2011 and the remarkably similar 4:46:12 in 2012 look rather poor.

Then home, and, in spite of some tiredness consequent on getting up at four in the morning, about the time my daughter returns from the night club, I went out for a brief run. Knees hurt, but I begin to see this in perspective. Perhaps I’m a little cowardly with pain. Could more marathons be possible?

I have structured my return to running thus: in six weeks a 5k, six weeks after that a 10k, then another six weeks to a 10 miler and a half-marathon six weeks after that. Given the availability of races within a reasonable travelling distance, my future races look like this:

3 May: a ParkRun. I have three to choose from, Brighton, Preston Park or Eastbourne. 

22 June: Heathfield 10K, a Sussex Grand Prix race, but one I have never yet run

2 August: Friston Forest 10 miles, aka The Adder 

28 September: Barns Green Half, another Sussex Granbd prix race

That will not give me the eight races in the Grand prix I need for the Seaford Striders Grand Prix competition, there being only three more after it, but better to take it slowly, I think.

if the title of this post needs exegesis, it is the name of Kate and Anna McGarrigle's second album, released in 1977. I don't dance.

Cave canem

Like every true-born Englishman, I love dogs, though I have to admit that, when it comes to some of the larger breeds, I can’t eat a whole one. I’m running again, after six weeks of abstinence, and today took myself up Seaford Head across the golf course. This is a favourite spot for dog walkers, and it was not long before a huge beast, its fangs dripping with slobber and gore from its last victim, began to pursue me, growling hideously the while. Its owners called it back half-heartedly, but made no attempt to speak to me. At least they did not blame me for provoking their hound by running in the style of its prey.

As for the running, it hurts a little, but it is such a pleasure to be out. I avoid road-running if I can, and even the well-known paths over Seaford head are a joy, with blackthorn flowering beside some of them.  I have now undertaken three runs. I intend to build slowly—a 5K, perhaps a ParkRun in six weeks, a 10k six weeks after that, and, who knows, maybe a half marathon six weeks after that. Might a marathon be thinkable after that? I don’t know, though my GP, examining my knees, remarked that they had marathons in them. So there are, but are there any more?

Tom's knee

 

Elizabeth David's grave

Over a month since I posted here, I see, so let’s start with this evening’s run, two and half miles through the windy banlieus of Seaford.  This run was distinguished from others in that I spent much of it touching my bottom. This was not an auto-erotic practice I’ve acquired since working in Brighton, nor the result of Sunday's undignified fall in the churchyard of St Peter ad Vincula in Folkington, whither I had gone to visit Elizabeth David’s grave and admire these statues which show the Long Man of Wilmington as a Ur-version of a Nordic walker or, if you prefer, the Naked Rambler. It was instead because the zip on the pocket at the rear of my shorts, just about where Edward Carpenter’s boyfriend George Merrill touched E.M Forster above the buttocks in 1912, had broken and I feared that the house keys might fall out. 

 

A Long Man

How has the running been? While Mo Farah prepares for London, people speculate about sub 2:00 marathons, and we prepare for the first every Moyleman Lewes Marathon, I’ve been taking an hour to run five and a bit miles. I have ibuprofen and knee exercises, but it hurts. Tonight the pain started at around two miles, which is precisely when my breathing starts to sort itself out. Possibly, if I kept going to the twenty-five mile point, I might find that everything resolves itself. There are two half-marathons in the offing, Eastbourne and Hastings. I think both are possible, though my times will be poor. 

It all goes back to that knee injury sustained during a conference run in Glasgow in 2012. The same conference takes place again this year, in Oxford. I shall run there again, or perish in the attempt. 

2013's running in retrospect

2013 was not my best running year. The unimpressive totals reflect a year spent in worrying about injury.
Distance: 406 miles
Time: 78 hours
Ascents: 5,800m
I ran five Sussex Grand Prix races, the Chichester Priory 10k, the Hastings Half, the Newick Will Page 10k, and the Brighton and Crowborough 10ks. I also ran the Lewes 10k and and first ever Bill Young Memorial Run.
I ran in unusual locations too, on Paxos in the Ionian Sea, and in Oxford. I completed the 2013 Janathon, but withdrew from Juneathon after an eight mile run caused my knee to flare-up.
There were some large gaps: in the summer I went six weeks without running, and even when running, managed to run only twice a week, or even once.
There are grounds for optimism though. At the end of the year, I seem to have started to regain strength and fitness, and am running more regularly. I now know that events like Janathon, which require daily running without a break, are beyond me as I enter my sixtieth year in February. I need time to recover.
I have entries for the Eastbourne and Hastings half marathons, and am contemplating the Seaford half too. I am a quarter of the way through a training programme for Hastings, one which, unusually for me, is measured in time rather than distance.
They also serve who only stand and wait, and I marshalled for races in 2013, and have the honour to be Chief Marshal for March's inaugural Lewes Marathon, the Moyleman, named in honour of the late Moyleman, a great Sussex runner.

An Isis run

There's nothing like running in strange towns. I was up early to run in Oxford, a town I don't know as well as I should. I decided that the river towpath was the best option, and set forth. I ran along leaf-strewn paths, under a bridge where a man who'd spent the night there greeted me as he pulled together his carrier bags of possessions. Oxford is so like Cambridge, yet so different. Then I came to Christchurch Meadow, and found a magical sight, rowing eights training in the dark, pilot lights on each bow. I felt a bond with these young women and men, as they pulled their oars, though, as a good son of Cambridge, I should probably have hidden their bungs. Back through the side-streets and allies, and more street sleepers. I had covered 3.25 miles; the knee hurt a little

Brighton 10k 2013

The past months, since the Newick Will Page 10k at the end of August, have been filled with doubt and sorrow on the matter of my knee. At one point my GP was contemplating steroid injections. In recent weeks, for no clear reason, it seemed to improve, and I have been back at Seaford Striders club nights and doing some careful longer runs on Sundays. All this, and a week’s abstinence from strong drink, which coincided, not by design, with Alcohol Awarenewss Week, contributed to a sub-60 time at today’s Brighton 10k, a race I have run every year since 2004. 

But I am getting ahead of myself; I know my readers like me to tell the whole story, omitting no detail, however slight. The first victory was to secure a parking place and easy walk from the start, helped by local knowledge—since April I’ve been working at the Royal Sussex County Hospital. The second was to go for a coffee. I had time to kill, and, while I don’t usually drink caffeine before a race, fearful of its dehydrating properties, this was only a 10k. The young man behind the till recognised me, in spite of my outlandish running gear, and, on finding out I was competing, gave me an espresso on the house.

I made my way to the start, without rush or panic, and slotted in with the other runners who fancied themselves as around the sixty minute mark. An older runner next to me confided that this was his last race. He had been running it for many years, indeed ran it when it tool place the day after the 1987 hurricane, when runners had to dodge fallen chimney pots and tiles and piles of shingle. I wished him a pleasant race, admiring his decisiveness. Every race could be one’s last; who knows when injury might strike? This man had decided to finish on his terms.

We were off, and it took a good two minutes for my part of the field to reach the start line. I started the Garmin and headed east, careful not to go too fast. The first 1.5k goes out east to Blackrock, and it wasn't long before we met the front of the field coming back. We were directed to run on the right-hand side this year, which felt odd, but doubtless there were good reasons. With no wind to speak of, direction made little difference. Then the turn, and back to the start and on. Nearing the pier, the stench of frying doughnuts hit, making me feel distinctly unwell. Apart from this air-pollution, I felt fine. Both knees were holding up well. 

Westward ho, and past the halfway point, where we met the lead runners coming back. From this point, I found it more difficult. Though my knees seemed fine, my hip hurt and my pace began to slip. When this happens I can fall into misanthropy, and I cursed fellow runners who annoyed me, the ones who cried out inanities to their friends and supporters, the porky young men who overtook me in spite of their bulk, and even the spectators, the women of Hove braying imperiously into their mobiles about how little Balthazar sicked up his loganberry crêpes all over the nanny. A bottle of water at the turn by King Alfred’s leisure centre revived me, and I hope put me in a more charitable frame of mind, though it was still hard, indeed mile 4-5  was my slowest mile. 

At the Peace statue I looked at my watch. This is the five mile point, more or less and I had been running for 47 minutes; astonishingly, it would be possible to finish in under an hour. I put myself to the task, saving something for the last half mile. From miles 2 to 4, I had been overtaken by runner after runner; now I began to do the overtaking. There’s a slight downhill just before the pier, and here I decided to take off. Someone started to make a noise like a cow afflicted with asthma; I realised it was me. Into the finish, and I still had enough to sprint for the line. I could see the clock on the gantry, which read 1:01 and something; if I was right, and it had taken two minutes or more to cross the line, then I was still just inside an hour. And so it proved:

What next? A celebratory glass of fino tonight, and a recovery swim tomorrow evening. And, in two weeks time, the Crowborough 10k. Crowborough is the town highest above sea level in Sussex and this race, early in December, has been known to be cancelled because of snow. We shall see.

I must draw attention, to an achievement far worthier than mine of your attention. Sweder and others from Running Commentary tackled the Point to Pinnacle in Tasmania a little under twenty-four hours ago. This race describes itself as the world’s toughest half-marathon. Read Sweder’s account of it two years ago, and await eagerly, as I do, his account of this year’s which I expect to appear somewhere in RunningCommentary.net Forums / Training Diaries (Individuals) / Sweder v / Point to Pinnacle 2013 

The Newick Will Page 10k

What could be more agreeable, on a bank holiday weekend, than to run 10k through wooded lanes, past a field of llamas and deer coexisting happily over a gently undulating course like this?

This was my first race since the Lewes 10k in April. In the event my knee was fine until the precise moment I passed the 9k marker, at which point I was damned if I would stop. I'd have hopped the last kilometre if necessary.

The marshalling was excellent, by members of the sports clubs who use the village pavilion and had given up their bank holiday Sundays to come out and watch old men stumble round the course. My prize for most enthusiastic marshals goes to the two ladies about about 8k, who burst into paroxysms of joy when I and other runners appeared from behind a bend. 

I was delighted to have the company for part of the run of Micky, a gentlemen who told  me it would be his 75th birthday in ten days time. If you're reading this, Micky, many happy returns/.

Now I have run a 10k without any major incident, I think I might run a few more, to wit the Hellingly, the Hove Prom, Brighton and Crowborough events. And if I add to that the Lewes Downland Ten Mile, then I have the eight races necessary for the Sussex Grand Prix. 

Thanks to Chris Wrathall, the Seaford Striders press officer, for a lift to and from the race. 

Preston Park parkrun

' Can I have a lift to work tomorrow?' asked Mrs R on Friday evening. 'Of course', I replied, not just from a sense of marital duty, but also because the workplace to which I would take her was not far from Brighton's Preston Park which, since April, has been the home of a new Parkrun. Parkruns are regular Saturday morning runs over a measured 5k; anyone can take part. Saturday mornings are consecrated to swimming training in term time, but in the holidays I have managed to run the Hove one twice, though not since New Year's Eve 2011.

Here, thanks to Mark Brocklehurst of the Preston Park Run Group Flickr Group , is proof that I was there, though it does not show me running, but gathering my strength beforehand. 

The last time I was here was for the start of the 2012 Brighton Marathon, my last. Good omen or bad? I knew that there would be over 35 fewer kilometres to run today. The park is clearly the centre of Brighton's athletic life; here a British Military Fitness group gathered to perform physical jerks under the cruel eye of a man in combat trousers; there women gathered around a Fitbit banner; another man was placing plastic markers all over the grass for some arcane exercise class. I sat and awaited the start.

After a parkrun welcome to new runners, always encouraging, we set off. I kept to the rear of the pack. The course is best thought of in three sections, an initial run to the bottom of the park and back, and then two P-shaped laps. There's a slight incline towards the end of each lap, and we were urged to beware of bollards and low-hanging branches. My knee, though a little painful, was not too disabling, but the sight of tiny children, running with their parents, far in front, was not encouraging.

Nevertheless, I finished in a not too shaming 28:41, and had a bacon sandwich in the lovely Chalet Café. 

On the subject of 5Ks, I strongly urge you to sponsor Ms Rachel Playforth, poet, cataloguer, digital repository expert, cat owner and now runner, as she prepares for the Cancer Research UK Race for Life Twilight in the very same park.  You may do so on Justgiving. 

Forty days and forty nights

I took a six-week sabbatical, just a little more than the biblical forty days and forty nights. I thought the only way my right knee would improve would be if it was properly rested. Thus, on Wednesday, exactly six weeks after the Seaford Striders Solstice run, I set forth from my tent at the sailing club, my home for sailing week, to run a gentle two miles along the sea front. The run itself was uneventful; there were a few niggles in the left knee, the one injured last year, my feet felt odd, and it was tiring, but not so tiring that I couldn't finish up with a swim in the sea.

The sword of Damocles that had been hanging over my head fell the following day. After a couple of hours sitting at a desk, I got up, to discover the return of the pain. It persists today, a little.

So, what is to be done, as Lenin once asked? I accept that there is going to be knee pain. The doctor thought there was nothing major wrong, and the orthopaedic consultant who gave both knees an MRI scan last year found nothing more than the normal degeneration he would expect in a 58-year-old runner. Perhaps I should shut up and get on with it. With judicious stretching, gradual increases in distance, the only race for which I have an entry, the Brooks Brighton 10K, is achievable. How far success in the Sussex Grand Prix, which would require me to run six of the remaining seven races, is a realistic aim, I'm not sure. I shall keep running, increasing distance, and hope I can make it to the Newick Will Page 10k on bank holiday weekend. 

The tale of Tom Kitten

If you were to ask me if there is a literary figure with whom I identify myself, then I would like to offer some existentialist man of action, one whose tormented soul makes dangerous choices, only because one must choose, and the choice being secondary to the act of choosing itself. 

The truth is, after two weeks off running, and with a poor record before that, I identify most with Tom Kitten, the eponymous hero of Beatrix Potter's Bildungsroman. Tom, you will recall, grew so fat that when his mother tried to dress him in his best clothes, the buttons burst off. The same thing happened to the pair of trousers I wear as I write.

I ran yesterday for the first time for a fortnight; I shall run again tomorrow. I have learnt that it will take a long time to recover fitness. The best way to think of this is to go back over ten years, to when I started this present bout of running, with slow lunchtime jogs and what passed for a long run on a Sunday was four or five miles. If I can establish that base again, even though ten years older, I stand some chance of fitting into my trousers again.