Tom Roper's Running Training

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.

Juneathon the tenth

I ran late this afternoon, just for two miles, as I had spent the morning on the water as rescue boat skipper. I am sorry to say that when I came ashore I ate a generous lunch of a chicken and chickpea stew and crumble, washed down with a pint of Harvey's. This weighed heavily when I finally took myself out. Nevertheless, I can say that I ran, and I am now a third of the way through Juneathon.

Juneathon the ninth: je ne regrette rien

Sun at last, though it was still windy. I ran at tea-times, over Seaford Head and along the Cuckmere estuary. I saw an egret. I am still surprised to see these birds, unknown when I was a boy ornithologist. I understand that they are common scavengers in other parts of the world but to me they are exotic beauties. So, when I see one, I sing to it that great chanson, the song that everyone remembers when Piaf's name is mentioned. They tend to fly away. 

Juneathon the eight: the wind in the night

When I was a boy, my mother would sometimes complain that she had been kept awake by the wind in the night. It was only when I rose to man's estate that I realised this meant my father's flatulence, not the weather. Not only was there wind in the night, there was wind by day, and when I went out for a brief run after work, it was still strong. When I reached the sea, I was covered in spray and I ran against the wind, watching the waves roll in.

Juneathon the seventh: hay foot, straw foot

The story is told, probably about every army there has ever been, of a sergeant-major confronted by simple rustic conscripts, who could not tell left from right. The sergeant-major had them tie hay to one foot and straw to the other, and then marched them around the parade ground shouting, 'hay-foot, straw-foot, hay-foot, straw-foot!'

Non-runners are sometimes surprised to learn that running socks are made for left and right feet. I did not like to mention it, but my run at the Worthing 10k was achieved in spite of running in two left socks. So tonight, to restore balance and harmony, I ran in two right socks. In the meantime, I have instated an inquiry to find out who was responsible for this sock sabotage. 

Juneathon the sixth: the Worthing 10k

When I entered the Worthing 10k, I thought to myself that nothing could be more agreeable than a seaside 10k on a June evening. In the evening, the heat of the day would have abated, and I would run a strong race, watched by admiring bathing beauties, compelled to leave their sunbathing to watch my puissant progress round a sunny course. Reality was a little different. At the sailing club, when the wind is strong enough for kite-surfing, it is too much for sailing; one might add that it may be too much for running too. When I arrived at the start of, i saw kite-surfers in action and thought it a poor omen. It was cold too, and I envied those runners who had worn something more than a vest and shorts.

In the event, once we had started, I warmed up quickly and ran a good race, finishing in, by my watch, 56:25. And that concludes the quartet of races of the past weeks. My next fixture is the Phoenix 10k.

Juneathon the fifth: Per Mare, Per Terram

I wanted to count this morning's exertions as my Juneathon effort—I was tossed in a RIB by the waves of the English Channel, laying and pulling up buoys for racing marks and rescuing, rather maladroitly, a couple of sailors. I came ashore soaked and with aching shoulders, but while it passes the time, it doesn't really count for Juneathon. So this evening I decided to run, in the pouring rain; it was quite pleasant, in a nostalgic sort of way.  Tomorrow, I run the Worthing 10k.

Juneathon the fourth: a recovery run, and some reflection on a misspent youth

Last night I was alarmed to find my injured ankle swollen to twice the size of its peer. A night kicking cats off the duvet did it no end of good and, though I have the muscle stiffness and soreness to be expected after a hard race, my ankle is fine.

I took it out for a recovery run, two miles to the sea-front and back. I ran to the sound of one of the bands playing in the Martello Fields. In the time I was in earshot I heard an eclectic medley, first of all Soul Man by Sam and Dave, then a number I think was by the Doobie Brothers (a group popular in the early 70s, who sold more records because their name was a US slang term for the sweet-smelling cheroots we used to puff in those days than they did on the basis of their musical abilities), and finally a number unknown to me but which the singer announced as by Miss Katie Perry, a singer popular with the younger set.

I know that modern musicians treat the past sixty or so years of popular music as a great big dressing-up box, but to hear music from different genres whose fans would, on occasion, spill one another's blood, sits uncomfortably with me. There were some sharp dividing lines. I remember a skinhead contemporary of mine, N, who appeared at a Hawkwind concert at Cambridge Corn Exchange one night. Hawkwind, it seems,  played a more or less permanent residency at that venue in the early 70s. N pleaded with me and my friends not to reveal to his skinhead chums that he had attended a 'hairy' musical event. If they had found out, he would have been ostracised and beaten. He explained his reasons for being there. One was Stacia, a dancer who appeared as part of Hawkwind's act in those days. She had a reputation for removing her clothes, the better to interpret the music, and N had heard of this. He was also intrigued by the consciousness-expanding drugs he believed would be plentiful at this event, and wanted to try some. So it was that he, I and a member of the school's rugby first XV found ourselves washing down some tabs of acid with barley wine. The experience affected N profoundly. He cast aside his Crombie, took up with a dazzlingly beautiful hippie girl of pre-Raphaelite looks, and went to live in a squat in south London. 

Enivrez-vous! The third day of Juneathon, the day of the Seaford half marathon

Still drunk on the company of poets and two pots of green tea taken at last night's launch of the Frogmore Press's Languages of Colour anthology, I rose this morning to the sound of the Newhaven fog-horn. After a racing breakfast of porridge, toast, honey and tea, I put on my fading Seaford Striders vest and took myself to the start of the Seaford half. With the expect ion of 2011, I have run this race every year since we moved here, in 2004, recording my best time, of 1:58, in 2006. 

The redoubtable Sweder greeted me near the start. He had been unable to gain a number and ran, in his words, as a rogue, His account may be found on the Running Commentary website. 

We set off into the mist toward Bishopstone. As we ran along the promenade I stepped on some pebbles and twisted my ankle. I thought nothing of it; this happens a lot and never affects me in the long term. We ran up onto the downs. At about mile 3, the race goes down to the bottom of a valley to rise again on a long climb. Then, after a distance along the top, we descend to the village of Alfriston, and out along the Cuckmere. S far I had been travelling well, and expected to finish It was at the half-way water station that I realised that my ankle was not well. For the next three miles or so, the route goes along the banks of the Cuckmere, difficult terrain and, for the initial stretch, fringed with nettles that whip the unwary runners' legs. I was slowing, and other runners passed me. I am used to being overtaken in the early stages of a race, but in the latter ones I usually hold my own. It was clear that I would be lucky to equal even my worst time for this race, 2:30. 

Passing the Golden Galleon, we run to the final ascents on the course. I walked these, and found, when I arrived at the top that, all of a sudden, one of those winds that drives men mad had sprung up. In the teeth of this, with no reserves left at all, I stumbled down Seaford Head and along the final stretch on Seaford front, to finish in 2:38. 

In the meantime, Sweder has been taking an ice-bath treatment in the English Channel, causing the lifeguards to launch their inflatable. We rendezvoused and, after restorative coffee, ate a fine lunch at Newhaven & Seaford Sailing Club. 

The torrent roar'd, and we didst buffet it: the second day of Juneathon

Activities such as swimming are, fortunately, permitted as part of Juneathon. This is just as well, for after my Saturday morning swimming coaching sessions, I am not good for much else. I started these in January 2011, with the aim of learning to swim front crawl properly. Since then, under the genial but uncompromising tuition of Alan, they have grown to encompass more or less every activity the human body can do in water. 

Recently we have been working on stamina, with pyramid sessions and the like. Today's consisted of a warm-up, of jogging and jumping in the pool, then 50m front-crawl and 50m back crawl . Then work began in earnest, 100m front crawl, 100m back crawl, 100m front crawl pulls and 100m breaststroke kick drills, in which one kicks three times for each pull of the arms. The total, 500m.

It was hard work, but rewarding. There is nothing quite like the exhaustion one feels, throughout every muscle of one's body, after a hard swimming session. 

Tomorrow, the Seaford half marathon.