Puff the Magic Emma

OK, so the sweepstake is going well. I saw Puff looking at it this morning (remember him? right at the beginning of the blog) and when he saw me, he said "5 hours isn't on there" and walked off! Cheek! To make matters worse, with no prior consultation, Ian actually added five hours at the bottom of the page, and put a note at the side "Emma gets confused and thinks it's a pub crawl". I went over and charged him £2 for the entrant, which, in fairness, he happily paid. I added a message at the bottom of the sheet advising "smart arse comments - £2", in case he set off a dangerous precedent. He then asked for special permission to put on another comment, so I advised him of the additional charge, and he added 0:59 as a new time at the top of the page, and wrote "Emma gets some magic shoes" next to it. That's my carte blanche to spend the next 2 week shoe shopping sorted out, then!

Training today involved 5 miles, "uncomfortable". She wrote "Just run this slightly faster than you want to, it's not like threshold pace but it's just pushing a little harder than normal. Maybe get Dave to set the pace and keep it there for the duration. This could be about 9:20 mins per mile but actually heart rate is better so go for your 75% HR." This is good - it shows Sal recognises the importance of having running Dave around. Although tragically, I don't - as running partners go, we've been less well co-ordinated in the last week or so - what with colds and work meetings. So, without Dave, I knew it was going to be a challenge, right away.

I had reckoned without my own incompetence though. I realised at about 12:15 that I hadn't recharged the garmin. So I set that up, and waited till about 1 and then found that I hadn't packed the heart rate monitor. I thought about going without it - I'd just have my pace that way - but decided I'd go on the bike and fetch it. I set off, and realised I didn't have any pockets in either my tracksuit bums or my running vest. And I had keys. Luckily, I ran into Alan just before I set off, and beseached him to take my keys back into the office, which he very kindly did. Also, I left my water on the desk. Talk about poor planning.

I don't know if it was because I'd just got off the bicycle that running seemed slow by comparison, but I  set out at better than eight minute miles. That was ridiculous, so I tried to relax into it, and ended up at about 8:40. It just seemed OK, even though I distinctly recall admonishing Dave and Nigel for setting out at that pace a few months ago, because I knew I couldn't do it. Who knows, I said to myself, maybe I can now. That would be a turn-up for the books, wouldn't it? Yes, although in the event, it turns out it wasn't. I kept at - certainly faster than 9 minute miles, across the bridge at Asda's and for a fair way up the footpath along the railway. But I was feeling it now. I was puffing, kind of like Tom, but maybe more so. Pedestrians were turning around, long in advance of my panting out "excuse me". I made myself a deal. I wouldn't slacken from 9 minute miles, but I'd walk across the railway crossing.

First massive error. I kept up that pace, a deal's a deal, but when I walked across that railway, I was panting, and not running was so good. And the other side was shady - it was really sunny in Petrograd today, and I was missing that water. I bent over, for no particular reason, but stood up because I heard a lady coming, and I didn't want to look too ill. Then I realised that I'd gone quite red-faced bending over, so I probably looked even worse than I felt. I'm not sure, but I think she said "It's hotter than it looks, isn't it?" - and I was too exhausted to do more than nod. She  might have said "it's harder than it looks" but she didn't really seem the running type (although who knows?). The shame was too much, so I set off again. I made another bargain: the next railway crossing.  I had to run over the bridge the other side but I was allowed to go slowly. The hill down the other side would be the time to pick up.

A cyclist cut infront of me on the railway, and I was fearful that he might hold the gate open for me, but he rudely let it slam just as I got there, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to have to keep running for it. I picked up speed again the other side, and then - here's a weird thing - I took the wrong path. No idea. Anyway, I took a grass track that went along the river, instead of the path along the rowing lake. I initially thought the grass would be OK, and it was bound to come out somewhere - but it was dreadful in the sun, and for all I knew it wouldn't come out anywhere sensible. I decided to cut across through the weeds and trees to the path I was meant to be on. And of course, I had to walk... I couldn't see where I was putting my feet, and didn't want to trip. So that was stop 3. I reluctantly set off up the rowing lake, realising I was becoming hopelessly addicted to the garmin, I thought maybe I should stop looking at it. Even though my pace was clearly slowing, Sal had said that she wanted my heartrate at 175, and it was easily above that, even when I slowed (although not when I walked). So I could slow down, right? I should just stop looking, and do what felt comfortable. I tried to make a deal not to look until the end of the rowing lake, but there was nothing in it for me: I cracked long before I got there, and realised I'd slowed down to a ten minute mile. "It doesn't matter" I thought as I puffed, "as long as I keep going". The other side of the Boathouse (where I couldn't pretend I was on a pubcrawl, and stop for a quick half, because the lack of pockets meant I didn't have any cash) I passed an elderly couple. "Excuse me" said the gent. (Who stops a runner to ask for directions? Perhaps a samaritan...) "Do you know how to get to Orton Mere?" "Yes" I panted, and contemplated leaving it at that, but I'd already come to a stand still. I didn't know a shorter way than the way I'd just come, so I told them that way. "You've got your breath back now" he smiled, delightedly. Bastard. "Thanks" I told him.

I contemplated that my pace being all over the shop, that a nine minute mile was not possible for me over the course of the race, if I couldn't sustain it for five miles. So it looked like beating Chris's time (1:57) was not, in fact, going to be possible. My own goal time was still a significant challenge. But I thought, if I DIDN'T start at 8:40 min/miles, I might not die so rapidly. Which wasn't really reassuring. I decided that the place to get those magic shoes Ian dreamed up was probably not a shop, but a fairy godmother. I hope mine came good.

Sally has written a race plan which is brilliant, and I am in the process of committing it to memory. I won't tell you what it says, because I don't want my competitors getting an advantage, but it has the sage advice, when getting into the hard miles, to act that I'm just leaving my house for a five mile run. (see how Sal learned that I don't like short runs, so she picked the right one to tell me). I complemented her on the tactic of focusing on acting, and she admitted to trying to think of a handle I could grasp. Anyway, there's nothing like rehearsals for a good play, so as I was close to death, I thought I'd give it a go. And, it worked! I got my breathing slowed down, and immediately felt comfortable with the pace again, which I picked up. It didn't last for very long... but I'm still, you know, getting into character. (And ideally, I need to know what motivates the character in the play to go running in the first place... until I really get that, it's going to be hard to be convincing).

Not long afterwards, as I was seriously contemplating throwing myself into the river, which looked cool, surprisingly clear, and inviting, especially the little fishes, I saw Richard running the other way. I really hope I don't see him on the race. Although I may do, because he said he'd be at the back as he is helping a new runner. I bet they beat me. He was pelting along. (This is a man who ran the Sahara, though. I'm not really in his league). He said "OK?" and I gave him a thumbs up as I said, "No, not really" but I don't think he heard, because he had earphone on. Shortly after that, at the ascent behind Asda's, I gave up. I walked. Then I looked, and I hadn't even done 5 miles yet. (I thought it was 5.5 total, but it's actually a bit less). I thought I'd go on at whatever pace I could muster, so I made myself go again. I got as far as the other side of the underpass, and walked as far as the pedestrian crossing, then I ran the rest of the way back to the office. I even sprinted the end.

I couldn't really feel pleased about it though. I mean, the plus side was I didn't hurt myself, but I hadn't excelled. In fact, I'd done everything wrong: I started too fast, and I let myself stop when I knew I should have slowed down. I felt the people who'd put their names down after my target time of 2h10 on the sweepstake were probably the realistic ones. (Also, I realise I should have asked the running people for their first half marathon time, not their personal bests. This might be much more realistic for me personally). There's another plus though: I did it wrong today, not on the race day. I could do better than this... Dave'll help... he'd never let me stop, but he will make me slow down if I tell him I'm in trouble.

Back in the office, although Sal was in, I had a long email chat with her. She is SO much less frightening over email. "I'm bad" I told her. She said, yes, but normally so. I berated myself; she placated me. "Those heartrates, and times, they show you really tried hard" she told me. Discussing this with Heather later, as I told her how ridiculously nice, and sensible Sal is, Heather pointed out to me that I was much harder on myself than Sal was. "You project onto her" she told me, psychoanalytically. "I do what?" I queried. Anyway, turns out, I'm the hard task master, but as I'm in denial about that, I blame Sal. Or something. I still think that Sal, who is an outstanding trainer, has got into my psyche (possibly by reading this) and is happy to see that I'm passionate about getting a good time, and at the current point in my training, appreciates that no amount of berrating me is actually going to help at this point. I can't do any more than what is in my plan. I know this, because I keep asking. "So, is it alright if I run on the beach on Saturday?" I asked today. I thought it would be a good idea - Dave seemed to think it was a good exercise. (Fortunately I didn't tell Sal this.) "Are you MAD" she wanted to know, "you can't run on sand that close to a race!" So, lucky I checked, really!

It was also at this point that she said I should stop looking at the garmin. "I often tell people to not use it, or cover the face on race day" she said. I admitted to seeing the point of this, but I am now hopelessly addicted. I need it to see whether I'm dying. She might have to forcibly remove it from me if she doesn't want me to use it on raceday. But hoepfully I'll use Dave more, so it'll be OK.

Right, how does one go about finding a Fairy Godmother?