Poodle-pacing my way to a new record

Running really is a pursuit of vicissitudes. So many positives and negatives in the same experience of the moment. I never get down about running, despite my recent unresolved problems, but it doesn’t alter the fact there are high and low points almost by the second.

Anyone who has been following my blog - is there anyone - there may be a couple of people, perhaps - will know that I have been off my usual 5k pace for about 4 weeks.

I’m not talking marginally slower - I am talking tens of seconds and even minutes slower (at full effort), to the point that two weeks ago, I was a spent force after just one mile and I pulled out altogether with about 500 metres to go.

Anyone who is motivated by times and PB’s would probably be crying into their isotonic sports drinks at the thought of getting progressively slower with each run. It’s a hard thing to accept if you have a competitive edge and want to get close to a personal best, or at least run consistently, as I had been doing for years.

But, not me. If I may go idiomatically clichéd for one moment, once the wheels have fallen off, I just change the goalposts!

I just had three aims to day:

1)    Completion

2)    Enjoyment

3)    Beat the poodle* (see postscript)

I had set myself no time to achieve and I was going to run at no faster than 8:30 pace for the first mile. Remember - this is bang on my usual 10k pace, and not my usual 5k pace of about 7:50.  After that, I would see how I felt.

There were far fewer people this week. Not sure why, as it has been dry pretty much all week, there was a bit of cloud cover but the sun was beginning to burn through. It was much like it had been for the past six weeks.

I was telling myself at the start not to throw all my plans into the air and go off too fast and kept reminding myself I only had three aims - complete it,  enjoy it and take out the poodle (even if s/he is so, so cute!!).
Said poodle on a previous run: 

      The starter told us the course was looking fast today and wanted to see some quick times.  Cue, minor heart sink.

We were off and I was a good little boy for the first mile. I held right back and kept calm.  I let most of the others thunder on ahead. I picked a few people off through the first mile and I was certainly guilty of excessive clock watching (or is it watch-watching?) as I was trying to make sure I kept to my pace.

One mile - beep - 8:30. Perfect.

How was I feeling? Bloody knackered, but keep going….

We turned in to the long back straight. I could see the 24 minute pacer as a speck in the distance. Little demons were telling me that that was my usual pace and I should be way up the road. But I quickly malletted them on the head and plugged on.

Could I just up the pace slightly? I focussed on a number of backsides (scientifically, not pervertedly), and I ticked them off one by one. My pace had definitely improved a touch.

I plodded through halfway and I could spot the next backside. What a wiggle on that one...

Ah, it was the poodle. Unfortunately, s/he appeared to be flagging a touch and its mind seemed to be elsewhere. As the pacey poodle popped for a private poodle-piddle, I pootled past the piddling poodle, pronto.

It was very hard work at this point. Don’t think for one minute that by slowing it down by some margin, it was somehow easier. It was exhausting and as I approached the end of mile two, it was the usual conversation with myself of ‘just one foot in front of the other’ and ‘every step taken is a step closer to the finish’.

The mile two sign beeped on my watch. A quick glance showed 8:17. Blimey, I managed mile two 13 seconds quicker than mile one. When you’ve got very few positives to hang on to, I was grabbing that one with both hands and running with it.

The final mile was as hard as any before. I had to slipstream a lady for a while, just to try and get air in my lungs and keep my feet turning, trying to match her leg turn with mine,  just to take my mind off the exhaustion.

We passed the finish area to the right and I heard the most welcome sound. One of the organisers, Graham, shouted, ‘Well done, Martin’ (or something similar). I acknowledged with a hand wave and dug in for final loop of the field.  I have never ever heard anyone cheer for me in a run or race before, so it was so very, very welcome. Those three little words are so uplifting when you hurt like hell.

I powered on as best I could. Down into the ditch for the final time and that leg-wobbling feeling as you come up the bank on the other side and over the field towards, Barbara, our final marshal. Then, it’s a right hand turn, through the ever sinking branches of the willow tree (parkrun may have to provide machetes next week) and back onto the grass again for the finish straight.

I upped my pace a touch and passed the lady I had been slipstreaming and a chap. There was also a young boy just ahead and I focussed on getting past him. We hit the final straight and all the crowd were urging him on.

I smiled and eased off my usual sprint. I didn’t have the heart to pass him on the run-in with so many people cheering him. So, I just took the foot of the gas and let him through the finish chute before me.

I checked my finish time.

PB = 23:33

Average = 24:00
Previous worst = 24:49

Today = 25:45 (official parkrun time of 25:47)

Completely smashed my personal worst by almost a whole minute.

But, I had completed it, I had enjoyed it for the most part, I had stuck to my 8:30 pace for mile one and I had beaten the poodle!!

Moreover, when I got home, I saw that I had achieved something I had never achieved in all my previous parkruns. I had run negative splits - just!

Mile 1 - 8:30

Mile 2 - 8:17
Mile 3 - 8:16
(plus the 10^th of a mile)

From now on, I am forgetting that a 21:50 actual personal best, a 23:33 parkrun personal best, and 24:00 minute averages ever existed. They are times gone by. They are ex-times.They may be times of the future again one day, but they are most definitely not times of the present.

My new benchmark is 25:45 and that is the time to try and beat next week. If I do, great. If I don’t, at least I can celebrate another personal worst.

But, have I sunk to new depths when my running ability is now based on whether I can beat a cute curly-haired pooch? Running really is a pursuit of vicissitudes, isn’t it?

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Postscript - in previous reports, I have referred to the poodle as a labradoodle. I wish to apologise unreseverdly to Mr/Mrs Poodle for my inaccurate reporting and for any hurt or distress I may have unintentionally caused him/her. I did make a 25p donation to an RSPCA charity collection on my way home to partly atone for my shabby journalism.

Please feel free to Tweet or Share  - not for my benefit, but to spread the parkrun message. If people don't read about it, they may never know of its existence!

Handicap winner!

Wow. I'm sooo chuffed. This week was the final week of the Conkers handicap spring league and before this final week only 5 of us were in the running for winning but we could have finished in 12th position as 12 people could take runners up!
The week before the handicap started I had taken 1.5 minutes off my best time which became my handicap time, so at the start I thought I had no chance but went for it anyway. Each week I chipped away at my time gaining vital points. The highlight was last week when I went sub 25.
This week was tough - we were all gunning for the best time possible. I went for it and crossed the line taking another 5 seconds off my best, it  nearly killed me! One of the others had taken over 10 seconds off his best .
The waiting game began - some didn't wait and tried to work it out - I didn't want to do this and give myself false hope.
Sunday morning (this morning) the results were posted on Facebook - I'd done it!
Shows anything is possible and that belief and determination is key. That and having fun - this has been a great addition to our parkrun and bring on the autumn handicap. Thanks Peter Speechley for organising it.

Staying Firm.

It is with regret that I must inform you, my loyal reader (yes, I think there is just the one) that I received a very stiff letter this morning, in relation to my parkrun blog. In fact, it was so stiff it was written on cardboard. (I’m sorry; they don’t get any better than that.)

The letter, in an off-white embossed envelope, with royal crest, was delivered by courier this morning. Naturally, I was expecting this to be my impending Knighthood for Services to Average Writing but, alas, I was mistaken.

It was a letter from the palace royally proclamating that I was no longer permitted to share my parkrun experiences with you. It followed a complaint to her majesty from a Mr Jobsworth, Director of Lacking Common Sense at the municipal borough offices. And, in the words of Mr Jobsworth, HRH The Queen requotes: 

“Mr/Miss/Mrs (delete as appropriate) Allen’s rather coarse and base observations of his (or her) local parkrun are not wholly reflective of everyone’s experiences and he (or she) only essays to provide one side of many stories.  This has led other parkruns to worry for their continued existence. We have even had a few tears…

….that is tears - tears of hamstring muscles - as gobsmacked parkrunners pull up sharply in shock and horror that their experience is not getting blogged about.

Should this blog writer wish to negotiate a position in which he (or she) is able to recount the personal experiences of every runner participating in all events around the globe then I, as Director of Lacking Common Sense, may allow him (or her) to continue. There is one proviso, however, and that is the taking of photographs of his (or her) lunch and scoring them on a scale of 1 to 10 is strictly prohibited.”

The Queen went on to add in her own words:

"I am very sorry to have do this. You sound like a jolly good chap/chappess."

The Queen.

I could have just taken it on the chin and put on a British stiff upper lip. But, I wasn't hanging around waiting for mine to stiffen. 

I'm made of sterner stuff. So, I immediately took some expert guidance from Veg (aka Martha), the 9 year old girl school lunch blogger who has had a similar experience this week with her local council.  Her advice to me was simple. So, I duly took it and stuck two of my own potato croquettes up to authority.

Therefore, I shall carry on providing those aforementioned services to average writing and no doubt expect to be gonged on another occasion!

As you know, there were wild celebrations and jubilations in the Allen household as I toasted a new parkrun worst last week. Could I better… or worser … it, this week?

It was another average day weather-wise. The sun was poking through broken cloud. A distant threat of grey was kept at bay, and the gusting wind blew around the course like the breeze of a Caribbean beach.

Proceedings commenced with Event Director, Stuart Pelling, calling runners into line. He informed us there was a birthday girl in the group. Was it me? No, surely there must be some mistake.  My birthday isn’t until December.

Oh no, it seemed it wasn’t for me. The birthday belonged 40 year old Eleanor Ruffell, who had brought a number of Hailsham Harriers to celebrate her special day. After a heartfelt rendition of Happy Birthday, sung beautifully off-key and out of tune by everyone, we were set on our way.

I settled into a nice rhythm this week, covering the first mile with my Garmin showing 7:53s and 7:52s for most of the opening split. That’s better, I thought to myself. I checked for awry arrows at the 2km mark, after last week’s wind-assisted drama, but thankfully all was well. What could possibly go wrong?

We headed down the long back straight and, by some marvellous twist of fate, we had the wind slightly behind us here, which made it a little easier to power along. Little figures were dotted throughout the distance, probably all feeling as knackered as I was. I picked off a couple of people who were beginning to drop back through the field and my motivation was relatively strong.

I hit my usual bad patch at 2 miles, where I felt my legs begging for mercy and my stomach tighten with wretched pain as I tried to run. Never in my life had the inappropriateness of saying to myself keep firm, open your legs and push harder seemed so properly appropriate. 

At 4km I could hear heavy breathing and feared that the man from the funny phone calls was right behind me. I tried to up the pace but not so hard that I couldn’t sustain it until the end. Heavy breathing behind, three people to pick off up front and I was in the middle.

We came out of the ditch into a howling headwind that almost stopped me dead in my tracks. The pace was lifting step by step, like the dénouement to a 5000m Olympic final. I knew I always had a finishing kick and today was no exception. Calling on my last few vapours of fuel, I surged past three people in the final 100m and burst through the finishing funnel.

It wasn’t until a few seconds later that I realised I had forgotten to press stop on the Garmin. I raised a resigned eyebrow at my own stupidity as I watched the seconds tick on: 24:49, 24:50, 24:51… 

I would have to wait a while for my finishing time but I estimated it to be 24:20 or so.

Idiocy number two then dawns on me. Not only did I forget to stop the clock, I also forgot to set my mile splits beforehand, having turned them off for an interval session earlier in the week.  In the words of BA Baracus……. "I ain’t gettin’ on no plane"… sorry, wrong quote…  "You crazy fool!"

My final time was indeed 24:20, some 29 seconds quicker than last week, 20 seconds slower than average and still almost a minute outside my freakish course and distance personal best.

After jiggling some shopping priorities, I managed to find my way to the Toby Carvery (via every Hampden Park pathway possible) for a quick social debrief.  I was only expecting orange juice, lemonade and polite conversation and was shocked and appalled to find some rather dubious parkrun ‘usual suspects’ lining up tequila slammers and whisky chasers as they tried to nobble me for a special parkrun mention. I steadfastly refused. If it were gin and tonic it might have been a different story. Don't forget! Gin and tonic (Bombay Sapphire, Fever Tree, ice and an organic slice, please!)

It was very nice to say hello to some regular faces that I don’t often get an opportunity to speak to. We discussed with scientific precision the finer points of running on a curry and the motivation you get from overtaking children, octogenarians and dogs.

The quickest way to get a mention in my blog is to tell me you don’t want a mention. So, if you find yourself at Eastbourne parkrun and notice someone busting moves like John Travolta and sounding like Maria Sharapova as they run (or was it the other way round, I can’t recall?), then do not fear - that will just be Mr Alan Roberts gunning for a PB. T'was a pleasure to meet you, Sir.

And finally, for my lunch for today, I had chicken and vegetable broth, which I score 7/10. Tasty, but not enough of it.

I don’t have a picture, so you will have to make do with pixelated ones of my home-made lunch and dinner from Thursday. I scored them 10/10 and 9/10 respectively:

My lunch:

(Watercress, rocket and spinach teased with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, lightly warmed chorizo slices, houmous, sliced wholemeal pitta, Manzanilla olives and giant crunchy corn)

 And my dinner: 

(Rice, chicken, red onion, finger chilli, mango, avocado, lime juice, chopped coriander and dash of salt and black pepper)

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