May 4? Wow… I thought my
previous post went back further. Four months isn’t too bad, is it?
I
almost posted in mid-June, after South Downs Way 100. If I
had, I’d have told you I finished my maiden point-to-point hundred-miler in
22:16’43”, and might well have scraped under twenty-one hours but for my Fenix
3 freezing on me around midnight. No,it didn’t run out of power, not least as
I’d recharged it mid-race: the screen just froze, I couldn’t even power it off.
As I was fully reliant upon it for navigation, I found myself waiting to be
caught up to be able to follow someone who knew where they were heading. And,
sixteen hours into an ultra, being caught up can take a fair old while…
On the
plus side, I never veered off track to extend the course; on the minus side, by
the time I got going again my legs had seized up, and for the rest of the run I
had no idea as to how many miles were left or for how long I’d been out, let
alone at what pace I was moving…
Mid-race,
I’d told myself (and fellow runners) that it was a good race and one I was
enjoying but not one to which I’d return, purely because I’d rather do
something else in 2018. Sure enough, I signed up for next year’s event within
minutes of entries opening, faffing on my mobile before crossing the threshold
into my aunt and uncle’s house after jogging back post-Hallam parkrun upon
staying overnight in Sheffield on our way South from Northumberland and our
summer holidays. Because I feel I have a score to settle, because I want to do
myself justice. Because I’ve now learnt to carry backup navigation with me, and
will throw my old Forerunner
410 in my S-Lab.
Maybe even a map, if I can instil but a glimmer of faith in my ability to read
it. Because the last thing I want to do is encounter the same problem on
another long’un having learnt -the hard way- the route for this one!
That’s what I’d have told
you had I posted post-SDW100. But I didn’t, so you’ll never know. Oh, and I
might have added that, whilst I would love to run the West Highland Way Race again one
day, it won’t be to make amends for my 2015 time, which was also inflated by a
couple of ‘issues’.
Missing out on sub-24 in Fort William has truly never bothered me. I loved the
race too much for such a minute detail -OK, “seven minutes”…- to bug me.
Whereas elsewhere…
…time matters.
And that’s what got me into
trouble two Sundays ago.
You’ve heard of “401 Ben”,
right? Ran 401 marathons in 401 days, won the Hellen
Rollason award at the BBC’s 2016 “Sports
Personality of the Year”, having raised over £330,000 for anti-bullying
charities? That’s right, Ben. Who happens to live, like me, in Portishead,
which is quite handy as it allows me to put my mileage into perspective when
people suggest I “run a lot”…
For the August Bank Holiday weekend,
Ben laid on his 401 Foundation’s
first “401 Festival Of
Running”. Over two days, he staged two 500m races, two one-mile races, a
5k, a 10k and a Half Marathon. Some went for the 5-10-21 hattrick, for which
they were rewarded with nifty interlocking medals. Indeed, if you’re into
virtual racing, you’ve got a day left to claim
yours.
I chose to enter one race only;
and it probably won’t surprise you that, in the absence of anything longer, I
went for the Half Marathon.
SDW100 had been my last target
event of 2017. But I’d been running well in the summer, bringing my 5k PB down
to 18’01” in the
process, so figured I’d give it a go. Ben only launched his Festival a few
months beforehand, with the route only announced a little over a month out; so,
upon realising that the date clashed with the more established Severn Bridge HM, which had
long been in the calendars of the area’s finest runners, I thought I’d try a
different approach and race a race. I’d not look at my watch, rather at whoever
was in front of me; and, whilst not harbouring any ambitions of victory, I felt
it’d be worthwhile giving first M40 a shot. Should it become apparent that a
better forty-summat bloke was out there, I’d readjust, and stick to aiming for
first Portishead R.C. finisher. Because yes, it’s a friendly club, devoid of
egos or fighting talk, even on the tougher maratraining runs shared by those of
us on many an early Sunday morning together over the past year or so, sometimes
through wind and rain and often through industrial docklands. It must be a Portishead
thing: I’ve also represented the town at tennis and cricket, and winning has
never been the main focus, which probably explains why I’ve seen some of the
finest (and more competitive) exponents of these fine arts switch allegiances
to nearby Clevedon or to a Bristol outfit, where results matter more and,
typically, there are broader support structures in place to advance one’s
ability and performance. But, regardless of which club’s colours you’re
wearing, there’s something about that Sunday morning entailing a race bib that
flicks a switch in the mind. Least it does in mine.
August 27 was, unsurprisingly,
warm. I’d been hydrating for days prior to reaching the Race Village an hour
and a half before my race was due to begin, grabbing a lift off a certain World
Record holder I’d put up for the night to get there early and soak in the
atmosphere. I kept on drinking water in small but frequent sips, and would seek
out some shade behind vans and tents. I’d also long decided to race carrying my
handheld water bottle, as the water would be handed out in cups rather than
bottles and that generally means slowing down and spilling half the liquid
before having a chance to drink it.
So, there I stood at the start line,
tutu’d up and bottle in hand. Your stereotypical fun runner, with Mark, who was
the most likely to pip me to first Portishead R.C. finisher, alongside me. We’d
reccied the course together, we obviously knew its sections inside out as this
was home turf for us, yet neither of us had a meaningful idea of a target time.
We were just going to see what we could manage, both with our eyes on Bristol HM three
weeks later for a good time. As we stood on the Battery Point field, waiting
for the gun to go off, I turned to him and said: “So what’s the plan again -
crash and burn?”
Then the gun went.
I stuck to my plan, and raced
the race. Adam Holland,
who’d stayed over at ours the previous evening, was running his own race, as he
often does – and as you’d expect the world record holder for
the fastest combined time for ten marathons held on ten consecutive days to do.
He’d already won the 5k and 10k, and duly strolled his way to victory again.
I’d first come across Adam at Lightning 12 in May
2016, when he lapped me twice on his way to victory in the 12-hour race, based
on running as many 10k loops as possible in the allotted time. Shortly after
being lapped for the second time I managed to un-lap myself, which might have
been one of my major running achievements but for the fact that it was
short-lived. On Sunday, the Half Marathon course consisted of two
loops, the first one pretty much 10k and the second obviously slightly
longer. Surely Adam couldn’t lap me again?
I soon found my groove,
settling into fifth place and keeping a steady distance from the two runners
ahead of me, with Adam and the runner in second place several postcodes ahead.
It was a tough groove, but I was determined to try and stick to it. Around
three miles in, I was overtaken by Matt Croker, whom I know (he runs for
Clevedon AC, quite possibly for the reasons outlined earlier) but whose age I
wasn’t sure about. I did ask him as he flew by, but he was quicker than my
words and no reply was forthcoming. I thought he’d recently turned 40, which I’ve
since he established he has, and certainly had no qualms about being passed by
a runner whom I know to be better than me. I was keen and determined, but not
hung-up. No problem: carry on regardless, let’s see how things go.
As it happens, things didn’t go
on for much longer. Just 3.7mi
in, I crashed and burned – and collapsed.
Epileptic seizure? Or the price
for going out too fast?
Well, that’s a great question.
Alas, I don’t have a definitive answer. What I do have are plenty of theories. So, unless you’ve got some paint you’d rather watch dry…
. . .
I have had mixed opinions from
those who witnessed me slow down until I came to a halt, in a manner that
doesn’t sound too dissimilar to Bristol Half Marathon 2015, where
my passing out was witnessed by a doctor who categorically ruled out it being an
epileptic seizure – as confirmed by blood level readings by the paramedics that
suggested I’d suffered from hypoglycaemia. Something I can grasp, as I was 12.4
miles into the race at that stage, chasing my second sub-90’ in eight days –
indeed, ever. But, no matter what my pace on Sunday, crashing 3.7 miles in does
not compute. Yes, we’d started uphill and tackled another climb within the
first mile: but both had been followed by compensating descents. Critically,
according to my GPS recording, I reached the 5k mark in around 19’40”, at
6’20”/mile, in itself not extraordinary for me. In my mind, I had allowed for
regretting that brisk start later in the race: but not this early on. Besides, I would hardly have been breaking new
ground by setting off too fast in a race: it’s what most of us do. And, when we
don’t rein ourselves early enough, we find ourselves struggling. Our pace
drops, our legs feel heavy… if you’ve ever run a race, you probably know the
drill. We’ve all been there. But collapsing this early into a race, before the
legs had had the chance to protest, passing 5k in 19’40” when on most Saturday
mornings I cover that distance at least a minute faster? That’s a different
story.
Naturally, I was asked by those
around me whether I’d eaten as usual. Which I had: standard Half Marathon
morning toast, jam, honey and banana, with a couple of cups of Truestart coffee and plenty of
water. I stand firmly against carbloading for half-marathons, certainly if
you’re going to run them in under two hours: and yes, in the build-up I’d cut
my calorie intake, as anyone suffering from taper madness will. But I’d still
guzzled 150g of wholewheat fusilli the previous evening, not for their
carbloading value but just because my palate likes them and, more importantly,
so does my digestive system. More importantly, I’ve gone out for 40-mile training
runs on the back of a Clif
Bar. I don’t wish to sound pretentious, but me collapsing 25’ into a run
has nothing to do with nutrition.
So: epileptic seizure it was.
Only no, because when I came round I didn’t feel as if that had been the case. And
because, upon passing me, those who’ve seen me have a seizure said that’s not
what it looked like. But then, as Karen pointed out, this would be my first seizure
since changing my medication and going back to Phenobarbitone, so it wouldn’t
be unreasonable for me to feel differently upon regaining consciousness…
…I was later told by the
Marshal that, as I did so, I wasn’t fully coherent. I wish there were a
recording: maybe I was talking Italian? I know that when I hurt unexpectedly my
instinctive response is “Ahia!” rather than “Ouch!”, so accept that Italian is
my default language; but then, had my Italian been fluent, and lucid it would
probably have been recognised as such.
So: them’s the opinions. What about
the facts? Is there any meaningful, factual data?
Well, there’s the heart rate
levels data…
Whilst, according to my pace,
my effort may not have been going through the roof, my heart rate stats suggest
otherwise. Of the 23’58” I spent running, for 22’04” my heart rate was above
150 beats per minute, which is my ‘threshold’ level. So one could argue I was
pushing too hard. On the other hand, when I set my 5k PB on July 22,
running at an even faster pace (on a flat course), I’d spent 12’13” at
‘threshold’ and a further 3’43” at the even more trying ‘anaerobic’ level,
which for me means 163bpms or more. Equally, I have run many miles around
6’45”/mi pace, yet rarely without my heart rate getting anywhere near
‘threshold’ levels. As an example, the week before the race I’d gone out with
Mark and Matt, who were training for the same race, and ran 10.7 undulating miles, of
which 8 at an average of 6’28”/mi sandwiched between warm-up and cool-down. My
heart rate never went above 156bpm, not even towards the end of 51’41” of sustained
effort; seven days later, from early on in the race it was touching 160bpm.
So: if it wasn’t an epileptic
seizure, and it wasn’t exhaustion… what was it?
Having spent many miles
pondering the matter, my amateur viewpoint is that I tipped myself over the
edge. That race-day adrenaline and my self-imposed pressure to perform were
enough to mess up my brain’s unsteady balance, with my body’s following. In
terms of physical performance, I hadn’t pushed myself any harder than on many a
previous occasion. I might have had I sustained that effort level for the
entire race, but I certainly hadn’t by that point. The legs weren’t doing
anything different; inside the brain, however, things may have been somewhat
different.
Where does this leave me?
. . .
In a not dissimilar place to where
I was in October 2014, to be honest. Six months prior I’d
suffered my first mid-race seizure, twenty miles into the Greater Manchester
Marathon. Ahead of Chester Marathon, I told myself and those around me that,
should that happen again during that race, it would be my last. I’d still run,
but I’d no longer race. I made a conscious effort to take a more relaxed approach to
Chester Marathon 2014, and was rewarded with remaining conscious throughout it
as I thrashed my PB to set a new one of 3:19’32”.
It’s hard to think that was
less than three years ago… it feels so much longer… maybe because of the
thousands and thousands of miles I’ve run, maybe because of all the friendships
I’ve made or strengthened as a result… or maybe, just maybe, because I’ve since
gone on to hit the four milestone times across the four traditional distances,
namely 20’ over 5k, 40’ over 10k, 90’ over a Half Marathon and 3hrs over a
Marathon. Indeed, I’ve even ticked the sub-24hr box over 100 miles. So what’s
my motivation, in racing terms?
To keep improving, while I can.
Since my first race in October 2012, every year I’ve improved my PBs over all
the distances I’ve raced. I’ve hit those milestone times as a forty-summat
veteran, fully aware that before long year-on-year improvements will be a thing
of the past. And do I really care?
Not really, to be honest. Yes,
with my 5k PB standing at 18’01” and weekly opportunities to improve it
courtesy of parkrun, I’d like to get
that under eighteen minutes. And sure, I’d like to tweak my HM and Marathon PBs
of 1:25’58” and 2:58’59” respectively. But would I be disappointed if that
never happened? No. Just like I’m not fussed that, by retiring from 10ks, my PB
over that distance has survived fifteen months and still stands at 38’54”, a
time I could probably beat if I tried – and remained conscious.
So: I will race the Bristol Half Marathon
next Sunday, yes. I will go hard, though monitoring heart rate. If I’m going to
turn up at a race start line, and without someone my side to pace by, I will
race. But, should the outcome be akin to that in The 401 Challenge HM, I might
just stop racing.
I’d stop racing Half Marathons,
having already stopped racing 10ks and having never run a 5k race. I’d not stop
racing Ultras, as I have every confidence that their low-intensity nature means
I’m safer on the long runs; besides, if on the shorter stuff you might spot
someone in front of you and target them, in Ultras the runner in front could be
a few miles down the road. So: 5k, 10k and 21.1k out, 50k and above in. Sorted,
right?
Well spotted. There is indeed a
glaring omission. In the shape of 42.195k.
And not because I’ve not
thought about what I’d do about marathons, you understand. Heck no: I’ve
pondered for many a mile about 26.2 miles. Following on from my other considerations,
the logical conclusion would be to give them up: I race them at a slightly
slower pace than halves, but over twice the distance. However, whereas I have
no emotional attachment to the other three traditional distances, the
marathon’s place in history and mythology means it enjoys a special place in my
heart, too. It is also one I do relatively well over: until lowering my Half
Marathon PB earlier this year, I knew several runners whose PBs over 13.1 miles
were better than mine by a greater amount of time than over 26.2. That’s not in
relative terms, you understand: that’s in absolute terms. I’ll run owt between
5k and… well, ‘anything’, even if to date I’ve not gone beyond 105 miles in a
24-hour race. Race
predictor sites will tell you that my best distance is 5k; I will tell you
it’s 42.195km. As I’ve said before, for runners who enjoy tackling all
distances I believe the distance between Marathon and Athens is the defining
(or, for British accuracy, between Windsor Castle and the Royal Box at White
City Stadium) to be the defining one. So: could I still be able to run it just
for the fun of it?
You know what… whisper it quietly,
but I could…
I’d dramatically reduce the
number of races I entered, if only to save time and money. Four-hour train
journeys have a certain charm when there’s a racing purpose to them, but
otherwise I know plenty of long routes starting just outside my front door. That
said, I’d probably still rock up at Liverpool in May and Chester in October, to
catch up with good friends and potentially lend my pacing services. And I
tested the theory the Sunday following the Festival of Running, when I ran home
from parkrun. In itself, something that many parkrunners do, as indeed had I in
Sheffield a fortnight earlier (if I may call Auntie Jo’s house ‘home’); but not
many routes are 27.2 miles…
…it was a beautiful run. With
my watch on navigation duties, I was again not checking pace: but, this time, I
was keeping things comfortable. Karen and The Boys were in North Devon, on a
day out with her brother, so I had no time pressure and was able to enjoy what
turned out to be an even more
beautiful route than the Garmin map had suggested.
Saturday’s run home from
parkrun (a bit longer than the previous such run in Sheffield…) was about
fun, about running for the sheer joy of it all – the jewel in the crown in a week in which I ran 102 miles, the best way I could think about bouncing back from the previous Sunday’s shenanigans. I wasn’t surprised I was able
to enjoy it, but it was still a worthwhile test. Indeed, the greater test would
be maintaining myself in race-ready shape when not racing, keeping up not just
the miles but also the pace for no reason other than… being the best I can.
With that in mind, you will
appreciate that one step too far for me would be to race regularly without
going all out. To turn up at the start line after indifferent, unfocused
training; to plod along holding back. It’s a test I failed miserably in London,
lest we forget: once I crossed that line, race mode was activated. I still plan
on returning to London one day and soaking it all in, not just during the race;
but that would be an exception. As a rule, they’re called ‘races’ because the
goal is to get to the end as quickly as possible. Whatever “as quickly as
possible” means for each and every one of us, obviously; and that, in turn, has
to reflect how we maximise our potential in training.
My Dad was particularly
enamoured with my 27.2 mile run home from Burnham, and from my emphasis on why
I loved it. You may recall that one reason I even contemplated tackling a
marathon was that, in the mid-80s, he’d completed three of them. Our living
room was adorned by his sailing trophies, some of which wouldn’t have looked
out of place at the end of an F1 Grand Prix. Add to that the greater emphasis
on winning that is placed on sport in Italy, at all levels, and maybe my
environment informed my character more than I realised. These days Dad tells me
he doesn’t understand why I get so wound up about times and races, and refutes
all my comments about him taking his sailing (Laser, Star, F40 classes) competitively.
Apparently it was ‘different’. Isn’t it always… but then he added that sailing
was more tactical, and if he was able to take a lead and defend it he’d win,
without pushing himself physically the way a race demands. I’ve not quizzed him
on how he could run 100m in 11” in his younger days without pushing himself,
but I can see his point. Nevertheless, if I’m going to race, I’m going to push
myself. If I’m to not push myself, I’m to not race. Other than Ultras. I’ll still race a few Ultras. Because they’re not really races anyway, right?
. . .
So
watch this space, friends. The day when I stop setting PBs can’t be too far
away anyway: heck, I am a Veteran (11/12/1975), after all… I ran my first 10k
and Half Marathon in 2012, and my first Marathon and parkrun in 2013: since
then, I’ve improved all my 5k, 10k, HM and Marathon times year on year. The one
exception being my 10k time in 2015, when a mid-race seizure at Clevedon 10k
meant my best time of the year over the distance came on a windy day on
Weston-super-Mare seafront for the Christmas Cracker. It’s
a trend that will come to an end this year, as I’m not racing any 10ks: I’ll again
run Christmas Cracker for the fun of it, but won’t be threatening my 38’54” PB.
Whereas, across the other distances, things are again looking good:
5k
|
10k
|
HM
|
Mara
|
|
2012
|
-
|
47’03”
|
1:49’54”
|
-
|
2013
|
20’27”
|
43’57”
|
1:37’11”
|
3:31’03”
|
2014
|
19’37”
|
41’35”
|
1:31’10”
|
3:19’24”
|
2015
|
19’04”
|
43’31”
|
1:29’40”
|
3:12’48”
|
2016
|
18’26”
|
38’54”
|
1:28’10”
|
2:59’38”
|
2017
|
18’01”
|
-
|
1:25’58”
|
2:58’59”
|
n.b.: in 2015 I ran Greater
Manchester Marathon in 3:08’56” – time shown is as adjusted by England
Athletics to reflect the course subsequently being found to be 380m short.
18’01”, 38’54”, 1:25’58” and
2:58’59”. I could happily retire with those, especially having set them as a
V40. ‘Twould be nice to tweak the first of the set, if only because it stands
out by being just on the wrong side of a minute… I do like my 50 second-summat
times! They suggest a sprint and/or decent pacing. Whereas 18’01”… well, it
just seems a bit sloppy, doesn’t it? That I couldn’t be bothered at the end? Yet
those were arguably the most intense 1,081 seconds of running I’ve ever put in.
And still I was vertical after them… knackered and breathless, but vertical…
. . .
Last – but definitely not
least…
After my collapse, I couldn’t
have been better looked after by Annie, the Marshal (and sister of local runner
Chris who’s witnessed previous such ‘performances’ of mine at Little Stoke and
Clevedon, and was probably wondering why I don’t just pack it all in…), and by
Linda, a member of Portishead R.C. who just happened to be in the vicinity.
Both stayed with me until St. John’s Paramedics arrived, and both sensibly put
paid to my ambitions of setting off again until I’d been checked out. Which I
eventually did, 53’ after stopping. I can’t say the paramedics were keen on the
idea, citing low blood pressure (there you go – a new one!): but, upon me
signing my waiver and me committing, by this point coherently, to reconsider
matters upon reaching the end of the first loop, they waved me on. By that
point one of them had commented they recognised me from another race, which
would have been Clevedon 10k 2015 (mid-race seizure) or 2016 (post-PB seizure). When a
paramedic tells you they recognise you, you know you’ve some thinking to do.
And, as you may have gathered, I’ve been doing plenty of it…
As for the Half itself (I’ve
all but erased it from memory – intentionally), as I completed the first loop I
was called over by a marshal, who must have on the lookout for runner 259. Medics
checked me out again, were ‘happy’ for me to carry on, but Karen and Martin,
the Race Director, made me see sense. Special credit to Martin for not taking
an authoritative approach, rather reasoning with me, Northerner to Northerner. Karen
hadn’t checked her phone so hadn’t heard my voicemail from the back of the
ambulance, so the sight of me being called over by a marshal actually made her…
run! By that point the race was 1:45’ old: forget collapsing, I was miffed she
hadn’t twigged something had gone wrong, not least in light of the timings I’d
given her… But the real disappointment was that my chance to sprint to the
finish with her and The Boys in sight had long gone. I could have carried on
and completed the event, and by covering those 2.5 miles at
7’26”/mi pace, in spite of what had preceded them, I’d proven as much to
myself. But my mind was made up by the pointlessness of keeping The Boys
waiting an hour just for the sake of it. So I ripped off my timing chip, we
hung around for lunch from one of the street food vans (quality Texan Burger from
Smoke
Catering in my case) and chatted with some concerned folk before heading
for the car, ice creams in hand. Overestimating the number of cars that would
be parked near the village, we’d agreed Karen would park a mile and a quarter
away, a distance easily calculated as the section is part of a much-loved trail
running route of mine. A nice little cool-down walk, then.
But that was that. Roll on
Bristol. Roll on a mass participation event where I can lose myself in the flow
of runners and running, where the crowd is an anonymous, amorphous mass rather
than a collection of individual faces, some of which I recognise. All,
hopefully, rolling on without rolling on the floor. But, even should Bristol
HM, the first HM I ever raced, become the last HM I ever race, the running will
carry on. Regardless. Because I don’t run for the bling, and never have. I run
for the memories. And, whilst races often bring great memories, not just from
the run but also from the training, the build-up and the follow-up, there’s
only so big a price I’m prepared to pay for them. And sometimes, just
sometimes, even for a Yorkshireman, that’s not a reference to money, rather to
my own health as well as to the feeling of guilt engendered by worrying those
around me and hogging limited paramedic resources.
So, there you go. Now let’s see if
I can manage 13.1 miles at 6’30” per mile next Sunday (17/09). After all, what’s the worst
that can happen? Besides, as long as I run them in a relaxed state of mind, I’m sure I’ll be fine. And how can one possibly not be relaxed at 6’30”/mi?
Ahem…
Ahem…
