That's it, I've booked our flights to Kenya. Liftoff is December 20. We'll be spending Christmas in tents in the Lewa nature reserve.
I thought booking the tickets was going to be an exciting moment, but instead it was pretty stressful. It was a few nights ago. Marietta wasn't feeling well and had gone to bed early, so I was sitting alone in the dark in the kitchen, my face peering into the computer screen as numbers added together like some frenzied multiplying machine until they were up to £4,000. The digits were losing all meaning. Was that a lot? Then I had to fill out hundreds of details for five people. Long passport numbers that seemed too small to see. Then the site crashed. Back to the beginning, start again. And once I finally clicked BUY, it wasn't clear if I'd actually bought them. I got a "transaction successful" message, but also an error message telling me to call the airline. It was after midnight. I went to bed grumpy.
Nonetheless, flights booked - I checked the next day, it was all fine - it was back to running. Except I've got a little tweak behind my knee. Hopefully nothing serious. I've been reading Christopher McDougall's bestselling book Born To Run. He claims most injuries are actually caused by running shoes. He makes a pretty good case for it too, in his gung-ho American way. Those damn shoes make you land like some goddam clown on those ol' heels, when you were always supposed to land on your soles, like god intended. McDougall is revered by the barefoot running movement, which is getting stronger by the day. Most of them don't actually run barefoot, but in shoes that offer some minimal cushioning and support. Even Nike do a pair now, which shows how big the movement has become.
I tried it out, running sans shoes, this afternoon. I ran to Regent's Park in my lunchbreak, took my shoes off and then ran around some football pitches. It was too short a test to be conclusive, but I found my running style instantly changed to a shorter, faster stride pattern. This is supposed to be good, according to the barefoot runners. I felt like a runner from the 1960s - when of course shoes had less support. Did people get injured less then? I don't know.
It was quite nice, however, putting my trainers back on afterwards. They felt warm and soft like pillows. Heavy pillows.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
Monday, 18 October 2010
Over the hill and far away
Last week I was pondering whether, after running four consecutive half marathons in 1 hr 30 mins, I had reached my running peak. I was now 36, struggling around training runs, and just didn't feel like I was getting anywhere. How did I honestly expect to train in Kenya with the greatest runners in the world? Who was I kidding? With all this in mind, yesterday morning I lined up in the Autumn sunshine at the start of the Dartmoor Vale half marathon.
Worried about my fitness, and mindful that I had set off too fast in all those four previous half marathons, I held back at the beginning, sitting behind two men going at what seemed like a nice pace. They kept chatting to each other and both seemed a lot more comfortable than I felt, but once we hit the first big hill, at about 3 miles, I went passed them.
Normally I hate hills. My legs start aching and a steady stream of people begin overtaking me. Old men with bandy legs, short, hardy women with hunched shoulders, even dog walkers who happen to be traversing the same stretch of road. But yesterday, for some reason, I felt fine. Nobody passed me. I didn't even feel the urge to look back and see where they were. The hill went on and on for miles, but I just kept plugging away.
At the top there was a drinks station. I grabbed a cup of water but nearly choked trying to drink it. It was a stupid place to be handing out water, I decided, chucking my cup towards one of the bins. It went straight in.
From that point on the course seemed to be a gradual downhill back to where we started. I used the slope to pick up the pace and was soon overtaking struggling runners. Even when we got back to sea level, I still felt strong. The mile markers, which usually seem to take forever to appear, especially at the end of a half marathon, where popping up quicker than I expected each time.
I sprinted across the line in 11th place and 1 hr 26 mins and 54 secs. A big PB. I wasn't quite past it yet, after all.
While I was out racing around the lanes of south Devon, Jophie, my sister-in-law, and her husband Alistair, were in Iten in Kenya, looking for a house for us. Although they didn't find one, they said the area was one of the most beautiful places they had ever been. I spoke to Jophie on the phone after my race:
"I've picked up the number of someone called brother Colm," she said. "I think he's a priest, but I'm told he might be able to find you somewhere to stay."
"Brother Colm? Oh my god."
"You know him?"
Brother Colm is a living legend, one of the men most responsible for Kenya's running success, as far as I can tell, and currently the coach of David Rudisha, the 800m world record holder and, after Usain Bolt, probably the biggest thing in athletics right now.
She offered to sell me his phone number for £20.
"Done," I said.
Worried about my fitness, and mindful that I had set off too fast in all those four previous half marathons, I held back at the beginning, sitting behind two men going at what seemed like a nice pace. They kept chatting to each other and both seemed a lot more comfortable than I felt, but once we hit the first big hill, at about 3 miles, I went passed them.
Normally I hate hills. My legs start aching and a steady stream of people begin overtaking me. Old men with bandy legs, short, hardy women with hunched shoulders, even dog walkers who happen to be traversing the same stretch of road. But yesterday, for some reason, I felt fine. Nobody passed me. I didn't even feel the urge to look back and see where they were. The hill went on and on for miles, but I just kept plugging away.
At the top there was a drinks station. I grabbed a cup of water but nearly choked trying to drink it. It was a stupid place to be handing out water, I decided, chucking my cup towards one of the bins. It went straight in.
From that point on the course seemed to be a gradual downhill back to where we started. I used the slope to pick up the pace and was soon overtaking struggling runners. Even when we got back to sea level, I still felt strong. The mile markers, which usually seem to take forever to appear, especially at the end of a half marathon, where popping up quicker than I expected each time.
I sprinted across the line in 11th place and 1 hr 26 mins and 54 secs. A big PB. I wasn't quite past it yet, after all.
While I was out racing around the lanes of south Devon, Jophie, my sister-in-law, and her husband Alistair, were in Iten in Kenya, looking for a house for us. Although they didn't find one, they said the area was one of the most beautiful places they had ever been. I spoke to Jophie on the phone after my race:
"I've picked up the number of someone called brother Colm," she said. "I think he's a priest, but I'm told he might be able to find you somewhere to stay."
"Brother Colm? Oh my god."
"You know him?"
Brother Colm is a living legend, one of the men most responsible for Kenya's running success, as far as I can tell, and currently the coach of David Rudisha, the 800m world record holder and, after Usain Bolt, probably the biggest thing in athletics right now.
She offered to sell me his phone number for £20.
"Done," I said.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Slowly plodding on
Our preparations for travelling to Kenya seem to be hovering in suspended animation just now – I’m waiting to hear back about flights, a place to stay, training camps, running kit and about 100 other things. I feel like I’m stuck in The Waiting Place from Dr Seuss’s Oh, The Places You’ll Go.
Meanwhile, I’m slowly but surely increasing my training. A few weeks ago I went running with Exeter’s other running club, the Exeter Harriers. The track was buzzing with activity when I arrived, with lines of youngsters drilling up and down the straights doing sprints, hurdles, throwing javelins. We were the oldest group, trotting slowly around the track for our warm up like a herd of cows in a field full of rabbits.
By the time we were ready to start the serious running, the rabbits had all bolted, leaving the track clear for the big beasts. The floodlights came on like stage lights. The session was 6 laps without a break, each lap faster than the one before. We even had a coach, with a stopwatch and everything. Maurice is an old-style athletics man. No messing. And he seemed to get a sadistic pleasure from telling us how hard we had to run.
We followed the six laps with eight 300m sprints, by the end of which, as I wobbled helplessly down the home straight for the last time, my legs had become a strange mixture of bricks and jelly.
I ran the two laps warm-down on my own, said goodbye and promised to come back for the next session in two weeks.
After that I did a 10-mile run in London and then a seven-mile run around the Devon lanes. I had to stop three times on the last run, out of pure exhaustion. My body felt as though it was giving up on me. I’d always just assumed that the harder I trained, the fitter and faster I’d get. But walking along the lane in Devon, my hands on my hips, with miles still to run, I started to doubt it. What if I’d already reached my plateau? What if any more training would only injure me, or make me too tired to run?
Runner’s World released a book a few years back called Run Less, Run Faster, which claims that reducing your training to just three high quality runs a week is better than running endless miles every week. It’s a nice idea and unsurprisingly the book sold well.
The Kenyans, however, generally take a different approach, running miles and miles and miles on top of their high quality runs, and so if I’m going to even attempt to keep up with them, my body will to need to get used to running more frequently.
Still, I also have to listen to my aching legs, so I did my next run at a gentle pace. Then two days ago I headed out on a hard ten-mile jaunt. This time, somehow, my legs felt fine and I kept a good pace going the whole way. Was it just a good day, or has my body started to adapt to more training? With a half-marathon coming up in two weeks, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Meanwhile, the other big issue preoccupying us right now is injections. Most people will simply go to the doctor, ask what they need and then happily offer up their arm as a pin cushion. Unfortunately, we never take the easy route. Do these injections work? What are the side effects? How will they affect the immune system? How likely are you to catch the disease in question? Once you start asking these questions, rather than simply transferring all responsibility for your health over to the doctor, you realise that it’s far from a cut and dry issue. As yet, we haven’t made a decision on what we’re going to do, but we’ll have to make one soon.
For now, it’s just another piece of the project waiting to be resolved.
Meanwhile, I’m slowly but surely increasing my training. A few weeks ago I went running with Exeter’s other running club, the Exeter Harriers. The track was buzzing with activity when I arrived, with lines of youngsters drilling up and down the straights doing sprints, hurdles, throwing javelins. We were the oldest group, trotting slowly around the track for our warm up like a herd of cows in a field full of rabbits.
By the time we were ready to start the serious running, the rabbits had all bolted, leaving the track clear for the big beasts. The floodlights came on like stage lights. The session was 6 laps without a break, each lap faster than the one before. We even had a coach, with a stopwatch and everything. Maurice is an old-style athletics man. No messing. And he seemed to get a sadistic pleasure from telling us how hard we had to run.
We followed the six laps with eight 300m sprints, by the end of which, as I wobbled helplessly down the home straight for the last time, my legs had become a strange mixture of bricks and jelly.
I ran the two laps warm-down on my own, said goodbye and promised to come back for the next session in two weeks.
After that I did a 10-mile run in London and then a seven-mile run around the Devon lanes. I had to stop three times on the last run, out of pure exhaustion. My body felt as though it was giving up on me. I’d always just assumed that the harder I trained, the fitter and faster I’d get. But walking along the lane in Devon, my hands on my hips, with miles still to run, I started to doubt it. What if I’d already reached my plateau? What if any more training would only injure me, or make me too tired to run?
Runner’s World released a book a few years back called Run Less, Run Faster, which claims that reducing your training to just three high quality runs a week is better than running endless miles every week. It’s a nice idea and unsurprisingly the book sold well.
The Kenyans, however, generally take a different approach, running miles and miles and miles on top of their high quality runs, and so if I’m going to even attempt to keep up with them, my body will to need to get used to running more frequently.
Still, I also have to listen to my aching legs, so I did my next run at a gentle pace. Then two days ago I headed out on a hard ten-mile jaunt. This time, somehow, my legs felt fine and I kept a good pace going the whole way. Was it just a good day, or has my body started to adapt to more training? With a half-marathon coming up in two weeks, I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
Meanwhile, the other big issue preoccupying us right now is injections. Most people will simply go to the doctor, ask what they need and then happily offer up their arm as a pin cushion. Unfortunately, we never take the easy route. Do these injections work? What are the side effects? How will they affect the immune system? How likely are you to catch the disease in question? Once you start asking these questions, rather than simply transferring all responsibility for your health over to the doctor, you realise that it’s far from a cut and dry issue. As yet, we haven’t made a decision on what we’re going to do, but we’ll have to make one soon.
For now, it’s just another piece of the project waiting to be resolved.
Thursday, 16 September 2010
Hot and sweaty
Every now and then the thought flashes through my mind that one injury or accident could scupper this whole book thing. Me going to Kenya to watch the Kenyans running just isn’t as exciting. A couple of times recently I’ve nearly gone head over heels and have just managed to save myself. Each time my entire career passes before my eyes. So I’m trying to be safe, as much as I can. But all the running I’m doing also carries the risk of injury. According to Runner’s World magazine, 66% of runners got injured last year. That’s a lot. I can’t afford to be one of them. But I have a secret weapon. Yoga.
Now I know stretching is apparently over-rated, but the yoga I do – Bikram yoga – is as much about strength as flexibility. I started doing it about ten years ago after failing to shake a persistent knee injury. Someone told me that the originator of this particular yoga, Choudhury Bikram, devised it after hurting his knee in a weightlifting accident. So I tried it and my knee got better. It was a miracle. (Call the pope!) Ever since then I’ve been doing it once in a while. I really hate it, and I never get any more flexible, but I know it’s good for me. You come out of the class feeling as though you've been ironed. All the little creaks and aches are gone.
I went to Bikram tonight, in Old Street, London. It’s a strange place. Unlike the jolly banter of a running club, at Bikram everyone is extremely serious. People rarely talk or even risk eye contact. When someone does say something, I’m always surprised. It’s like they’ve bravely broken the pious spell that hangs over the place. For a few seconds people start talking. The odd joke gets muttered. There’s even a smile or two. But then the eerie silence descends again, and we move around without talking, slipping on our shoes, checking our phones, zipping on our coats and heading off without saying goodbye.
The most striking thing about Bikram yoga is the intense heat. The room is always heated to 106F. You’re sweating just sitting waiting to begin. The class attracts a lot of beautiful people who obviously love their bodies – you can see them admiring themselves, as they limber up, in the huge mirror along the front wall – and because of the heat, people don't wear many clothes. At the start of the class it can be hard to keep your eyes to yourself. By the end, however, everyone looks terrible. Red faces, dripping with sweat and exhaustion.
The heat was so intense tonight that water was literally pouring off me like Robert Hays in the landing scene in Airplane. The room was really beginning to stink and you could see why Bikram apparently calls his yoga studio his torture chamber.
It’s not all pain, though. A couple of the postures are quite amazing in the way they make your head feel light, as though you’ve just inhaled some drug. The teacher always points out how fast your heart is beating – pounding like crazy – while your breath is still slow and calm. It’s true. How does that work?
I was so spaced out after tonight’s class that on the way home I went in to a shop to buy some food, took my iPod out of my bag, and left it on the counter. Luckily when I rang the shop up later, they still had it.
Yoga: good for preventing injuries, but can leave the mind befuddled.
Now I know stretching is apparently over-rated, but the yoga I do – Bikram yoga – is as much about strength as flexibility. I started doing it about ten years ago after failing to shake a persistent knee injury. Someone told me that the originator of this particular yoga, Choudhury Bikram, devised it after hurting his knee in a weightlifting accident. So I tried it and my knee got better. It was a miracle. (Call the pope!) Ever since then I’ve been doing it once in a while. I really hate it, and I never get any more flexible, but I know it’s good for me. You come out of the class feeling as though you've been ironed. All the little creaks and aches are gone.
I went to Bikram tonight, in Old Street, London. It’s a strange place. Unlike the jolly banter of a running club, at Bikram everyone is extremely serious. People rarely talk or even risk eye contact. When someone does say something, I’m always surprised. It’s like they’ve bravely broken the pious spell that hangs over the place. For a few seconds people start talking. The odd joke gets muttered. There’s even a smile or two. But then the eerie silence descends again, and we move around without talking, slipping on our shoes, checking our phones, zipping on our coats and heading off without saying goodbye.
The most striking thing about Bikram yoga is the intense heat. The room is always heated to 106F. You’re sweating just sitting waiting to begin. The class attracts a lot of beautiful people who obviously love their bodies – you can see them admiring themselves, as they limber up, in the huge mirror along the front wall – and because of the heat, people don't wear many clothes. At the start of the class it can be hard to keep your eyes to yourself. By the end, however, everyone looks terrible. Red faces, dripping with sweat and exhaustion.
The heat was so intense tonight that water was literally pouring off me like Robert Hays in the landing scene in Airplane. The room was really beginning to stink and you could see why Bikram apparently calls his yoga studio his torture chamber.
It’s not all pain, though. A couple of the postures are quite amazing in the way they make your head feel light, as though you’ve just inhaled some drug. The teacher always points out how fast your heart is beating – pounding like crazy – while your breath is still slow and calm. It’s true. How does that work?
I was so spaced out after tonight’s class that on the way home I went in to a shop to buy some food, took my iPod out of my bag, and left it on the counter. Luckily when I rang the shop up later, they still had it.
Yoga: good for preventing injuries, but can leave the mind befuddled.
Friday, 10 September 2010
It's official
My book was officially announced to the world today, in a small corner of Bookseller magazine. Sarah, my editor at Faber, was quoted as saying the book will be “captivating”. All I've got to do now is move my family to Kenya, run faster and further and more often than I ever have, and write about 80,000 words of captivating copy. Easy.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
18 mins 19 secs
So I looked up my time for my first ever 5K last night: 18 mins 19 secs. Is that any good? It was fast enough to impress a few of my colleagues at work today.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
First ever 5K
I ran my first ever 5K race tonight, along the river in Exeter. Bizarrely, David James - the goalkeeper - came to watch. I think his wife was running or something. All the kids from the skate park were circling around him and calling each other over.
I started off the race at a bit of a charge, but before I knew it we were 3km in and I just had to hang on for another 2km - I love the way kilometres skip by compared to miles. I finished in 8th place but don't know my time yet. One runner was telling me the story of the day he was racing against a top athlete in a cross country race and the guy turned to him on the start line and said: "I can see you're a real runner, you don't wear a watch. You run on instinct." That made me feel better, as I never wear a watch. I think I would get too fixated on the times and lose the joy of just letting myself run as fast as I can. Though it may stop me going off too quickly in races.
Halfway around tonight's canter I almost fell in the river laughing. I was about ten metres behind a group of four athletes when one of them started farting uncontrollably. None of them said anything, they all just kept running, staring ahead as though nothing was happening. I'm sure the distraction added a few seconds to my time.
I started off the race at a bit of a charge, but before I knew it we were 3km in and I just had to hang on for another 2km - I love the way kilometres skip by compared to miles. I finished in 8th place but don't know my time yet. One runner was telling me the story of the day he was racing against a top athlete in a cross country race and the guy turned to him on the start line and said: "I can see you're a real runner, you don't wear a watch. You run on instinct." That made me feel better, as I never wear a watch. I think I would get too fixated on the times and lose the joy of just letting myself run as fast as I can. Though it may stop me going off too quickly in races.
Halfway around tonight's canter I almost fell in the river laughing. I was about ten metres behind a group of four athletes when one of them started farting uncontrollably. None of them said anything, they all just kept running, staring ahead as though nothing was happening. I'm sure the distraction added a few seconds to my time.
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