Oop… I almost forgot. I won’t be able to make it fellas. Veronica and I trying this new fad called uh, jogging. I believe it’s jogging or yogging. It might be a soft j. I’m not sure but apparently you just run for an extended period of time. It’s supposed to be wild.
– Ron Burgundy from the Anchorman
Running for an extended period of time isn’t wild. It is tough. Usually nothing exciting happens. It is simply one foot after the other, which could reasonably be described as boring. It often seems aimless, pointless and unimaginative. It’s only running, not team sport and instead of the camaraderie team sport produces, there is solitude.
To run regularly requires selfish commitment. The runner benefits no one but themselves. Their success is individual. It may give others momentary pleasure, but what excitement there is can only be shared vicariously.
In 1959, Allan Sillitoe published his book called The loneliness of the long distance runner. The main character, a teenager, uses long distance running as an emotional and physical diversion from incarceration in a school for delinquent kids.
Long distance running can offer escape from life. It certainly offers time to think, and that can be a motivating force. Running is free time, particularly if you don’t belong to a running group.
I listen to music, football or cricket when I run. I think and fantasise about life, my friends and family. Occasionally after a long run, I’ll get home and remember nothing pondered, nor the songs or sport I listened to.
It is my time, and days when I run are planned so I can escape during daylight.
After each run, Kristine asks how it went, listening to the grumble about time or distance. She’ll offer sympathy. I’ll shrug my shoulders at the letdown, yet half an hour after a run I start to feel good. The hour of solitude, zoning out into nothingness, leaves me mentally refreshed.
Physically, though, I can be a wreck. Running may be free from the brutality of football or cricket, but during a long distance run, muscles will twitch painfully and ache in a heavy throb. Lungs will burn. Your body will emit strange sounds, weak sighs, whimpers and pained gasps, hacking and coughing. Sweat will sting your eyes.
Legs will ache for days following a long run, but the muscles become accustomed by repetition. The ache begins to feel good, because it’s proof of effort. It’s also costly. Running requires massage. Torturous sessions range from $60 to $80 an hour.
Motivation to run varies. Some people want to lose weight. Others want fitness and achievement. Like every sport, running requires dedication. To improve your times, you need to keep running. Once you embrace running, you’ll want to keep running, and when you keep running you don’t want to stop.
It is me time, which everyone needs. Get it any way you can.
Three years ago the thought of running a half marathon was fantasy. Andy Blyth was the first mate to mention it. I agreed with his plan but desire didn’t overcome fear. Recollections of recent attempts at sport weren’t kind. Injury came to mind and I couldn’t find one time in my life when I ran more than ten kilometres without a break.
Back in 1995 I tore both calf muscles on an eight kilometre run around Coorparoo. The injuries were my own fault. At the time I was working for a pittance. Instead of buying a genuine pair of running shoes I wore a pair of heavy, inappropriate runners. That year I umpired six games until the calf tears ruined my aspirations.
Calf muscle injuries harassed me for fifteen years and played a large part in abstinence, all those years when running was a waste of time. Five years ago jogging around the block wrecked my calf muscles. Walking up hills left them aching for days. Stretching didn’t help. Massage didn’t either. I gave up.
During the belated and ill-fated comeback in 2009, I made it through nine weeks of intensive training before injuring the right calf muscle, a bad tear that took eighteen months to heal and cost more than a thousand dollars in physio bills.
Throughout 2010 the physio kept taking my money and I still couldn’t run. I was adamant that there was no way, not with the calf injuries, I could ever run a half marathon. Getting through three kilometres was fine, but extending the distance to five or seven resulted in another strain to an already ruined muscle.
The physio, Linda Lewis, decided on pain to counter the pain, using dry needling to bust open the scar tissue in my calf muscles. Those torturous sessions helped the muscles stretch out and repair.
Kristine made me a pair of orthotics and the calf muscles have behaved ever since. In 2011, free from calf muscle constraints, I ran three official half marathons and two in training.
In October 2011, I joined millions of other needful people and bought an iPhone. My mate Paul Turner told me to download Runkeeper, an app that uses satellite navigation to track and time every run. I bought an armband to carry the iPhone and quickly became an official running wanker.
The iPhone accompanied me on every run. The results were analysed at home. Runkeeper automatically updated my account and provided maps. As the runs accumulated, so did the available information.
There was much to learn from times and distance. I discovered running on a Sunday afternoon, after a big Saturday night with mates led to a slow time. Futile promises to limit my alcohol intake on the weekend were made. Those promises were cursed late on Sunday afternoon when twelve kilometres seemed like torture.
The key was giving up beer, but that was an impossibility. Instead, I relied upon consistency, and because I became a running wanker, the improvement was obvious, as was the disappointment.
I could run twelve or fifteen kilometres and maintain an average pace, but the times were slow, almost five minutes a kilometre.
To prepare for this year’s Gold Coast half marathon, I ran 52 times since January, covering 420 kilometres at an average of eight kilometres per run. The average doesn’t seem like a lot, but I don’t run in the morning. In summer, Brisbane’s afternoon heat and humidity reduced many runs to five or six kilometres.
As the weather chilled the distance increased, but too many runs were short, six kilometres or less. There were reasons. Work interfered. My boy Angus was born on April 2, and though I did eleven runs during April, only four of them were longer than five kilometres.
By May, Kristine was telling me to run, just get out and go. On 18 May I ran a half marathon for the first time in seven months. The time was dreadful, 1:49:29 at an average of more than five minutes per kilometre.
It was the slowest half marathon I’d ever run.
While I was boozing on weekends, a mate called Andy Blyth was almost on the wagon. He was committed, intent on running the full marathon at the Gold Coast. I might’ve joined him if I could’ve stopped partying for two months…
Out at Springwood, Andy was staying off the booze, getting up for a 6am run through the hills, long runs up to 33 kilometres. In serious preparation for the marathon, Andy’s dedication never wavered during training. He was living the life of a monk while I was living like a B-grade rock star, training by volume instead of intent and expecting to perform when it counted.
In June I went for two runs through the hills of Nambour and wound up with a mild case of shin splints. The first run I went up the range without my ventolin. After a kilometre I had to stop. The steep gradient was something I’d never encountered. My lungs ached through a mild asthma attack before I got to the peak. If I had the ventolin, they would’ve cleared.
At the peak, gasping for air outside a chemist, I debated going inside, showing them my ID and asking for a puff with a promise to pay later. The only reason I didn’t was because the run back to work was all downhill.
The next time I ran downhill first. Getting back to work was tough but I had the ventolin.
When June arrived, I got more aggressive with the distances but the times barely improved. On 12 June the distance was 19.21 kilometres in 1.34:19. On 24 June 24 I did 22 kilometres in 1:46:38.
Those times ruined my confidence.
In Melbourne last year I ran the half marathon in 1:37:10. I figured there was no way I could make up ten minutes in a week. Slow times and tender legs were an easy complaint. Kristine said I was being silly.
‘Don’t worry about the time,’ she said. ‘Just get another medal.’
Covering the distance wouldn’t be a problem. Barring a disastrous injury, I would get another medal, which is the ultimate goal. But there is no point running if not to get better. A trinket would be nice, but I demanded improvement too.
As usual, I cursed those weekends spent with mates, no matter how much fun they were. Days out from the 2012 Gold Coast half marathon, the doubts were vast. My legs constantly felt tight. Massage helped, but only just.
I fretted about the wisdom of running a half marathon in training a week before the official run. Last year, the last long runs I did before the half marathons were no more than 18 kilometres and my times improved.
‘Don’t over think it,’ Kristine said. ‘When it starts you’ll get competitive.’
I hoped so, but following last year’s Melbourne half marathon, I mused that I might never run that fast again.
The Gold Coast half marathon – 2012
Engulfed by chill, surrounded by strangers, I settled mind and body among the crowd near the starting line. Rob De Castella gave an address from a platform above, I couldn’t run 21 kilometres in one hour forty anymore, but good luck, and he got a neat cheer.
My bib carried an A, which meant I hoped to finish the race under 1:40. The instructions each runner received via email warned that categories would be enforced to give runners their best chance at achieving a good time. The warning hardly mattered. There were plenty of B people in the A section, and despite being asked to move on, they hardly shifted.
When the race started, the runners moved forward in a brisk walk amidst the congestion. With AC/DC as an aide, I ran and tried to find free space. As usual, the slow runners, those wearing a B on their bib proved to be mobile road blocks. The first kilometre was my slowest, 4:47. It was tough to break clear.
My lower leg muscles ached for the first few kilometres. I felt strong though. It didn’t take too long before I passed a pacer carrying the 1:40 balloons. Pleased to have him behind me, I ran on, weaving in and out, navigating through the masses.
About three kilometres in a man suddenly veered off the road up ahead and sought refuge against an electricity pole, stretching his right calf. As I ran past, his eyes were shut against the pain. Having fallen victim to dozens of calf tears, I knew he was finished.
The race was less than fifteen minutes old and it had claimed its first victim.
About six kilometres in I drew close to a tight group running with a pacer. There was much disappointment and bewilderment. His balloons read 1:40. I was certain the balloons I’d passed earlier read 1:40. I figured my eyes, in the morning gloom, had let me down.
About fifty people surrounded the 1:40 pacer. There was no room to manoeuvre. I inched through the pack for two kilometres, finally breaking free at the eight kilometre mark on a slight hill.
During a half marathon you’ve got to set a comfortable pace early and maintain it throughout the run. If you run the first five or ten kilometres too fast, you’ll wear out and have nothing left at the finish, which is what happened to me last year at the Gold Coast.
In training I’d been averaging 4:50 per kilometre, but I needed to be quicker. That kind of average won’t bring you home under 1:40, and with those balloons behind me, I had to press on.
They key to beating 1:40 is to do the first ten kilometres in 45 minutes or less. I missed out by the narrowest of margins, taking 45:01 for the first ten. When I turned at 11 kilometres, the man carrying the 1:40 balloons was about thirty seconds behind.
There’s no fucking way you’re going to pass me, I thought. My legs weren’t hurting. Despite using the ventolin twice, my lungs weren’t aching.
For the first time in a race I sucked down a gel pack. It left my mouth sticky. It also left me gasping for breath. After snatching a cup of water and taking a dribble, I sucked down two puffs on the ventolin.
The gel pack gave a good burst of energy. Not daring to look over my shoulder for the 1:40 balloons, I ran harder than ever before. It wasn’t easy but I didn’t slow. For the first time in a half marathon I suffered no pain. My leg muscles behaved. There were no aches. I ran past people and cursed those who passed me.
After 17 kilometres a man up ahead stopped and started walking. He’d gone too hard too early. As runners went past, they offered encouragement, come on mate or just four to go. Those four kilometres can be torture if you’re not prepared.
I tried shadowing a woman with a long ponytail. With three kilometres left she picked up the pace. I watched her go. I passed a woman who was heaving for breath. I could hear the wheeze above AC/DC and almost offered her my ventolin.
Coming into the last kilometre, I passed a woman who was whimpering as she exhaled. Her face was red. She was unsteady on her legs. No matter how bad she was hurting, I could never help. I ran on, leaving all I had on the track.
My official time was 1:35:55. Exhausted in the recovery area, I wondered how long it took me to cross the starting line.
Last year, the last four kilometres of the Gold Coast half marathon were torture. In the recovery area I was weak and shivering, unable to control my bladder. I could barely walk after crossing the line. I’d never had to work so hard in my life.
This year I maintained control of body functions. I wasn’t shattered. It was too warm to shiver. I could’ve kept running, and doing a personal best time left me feeling smug. Eating an orange, I thought about the training, 52 runs and 420 kilometres in preparation for one, 21.2 kilometre run.
There were days when I didn’t want to run, afternoons when I had to work hard just to get out the front gate. It had paid off. In a year I’d shaved ten minutes off my time.
Getting the medal didn’t give me the satisfaction it had the year before. I accepted it mildly, thanks, and took a t-shirt. As Kristine said, just get another medal. I’d done that, and though it was a personal best, nothing could replace the euphoria of completing my first half marathon.
Outside the recovery area while I waited for Paul Dawson, I ran into some people I knew. They’d all run good times.
It didn’t take long for Paul to emerge from recovery. He looked good, free from the anguish of last year. He’d run well, an official time of 1:45:17, which was a personal best. In a year he’d also shaved ten minutes off his time. Paul is 44. He is solid muscle, weighing in at 94 kilograms without an ounce of fat.
Amazing such a big man could move through 21 kilometres so quickly. He also organised the hotel room we were staying in. When I discovered my singlet had been left at home, he leant me one to wear for the race.
During the drive back to the hotel room we analysed the run, wondering out loud if we could’ve run harder. The conversation was about improving our times, but we both ran personal bests, and we couldn’t do better than that.
At the hotel Paul found our net results on his iPad. The difference between official results and net results is crucial. An official result is recorded from the time a race starts. Net results are recorded from the moment the runner crosses the starting line.
My net result was 1:34:40, and it reminded me of what Andy said that morning at four, when we woke up.
‘I want you to run sub 1:35,’ he said.
Paul’s net time was 1:42:59. He’d beaten 1:45 and is capable of beating 1:40 on his next run. As we walked to breakfast, Andy was still running. We looked out for him but didn’t see him. While we were eating, he’d been running for two hours.
Paul and I were discussing our heroics, but the real heroics were still out on the road, under a hot morning sun.
Pride Cup results:
|
97 |
Anne (7) |
|
96 |
Russ (7), Matt B (7) |
|
94 |
Dave (7), Matt (7), Sandra (7) |
|
93 |
Stevo (8), James F (7) |
|
92 |
The Pole (8), Wayne (6) |
|
91 |
George (7), Andy (7) |
|
87 |
Dallas (6) |
|
86 |
Eric (6) |
|
85 |
Adam L (7), Paul (6), Donna (6), James T (6) |
|
77 |
Jim (7) |
|
39 |
Nemo (2) |
