2022 has not started well. Life has become complicated, and time consuming, and my running has dwindled away to snatched, short runs here and there. Runs that may or may not be interrupted and cut short. Some of this is deliberate – I’m taking my own advice here, and listening to my body when it craves rest – but much of it is circumstances that I can’t avoid. January and February can be bleak months at the best of times, so getting through them without the escape of a good, long run is proving quite a challenge.
This morning, however, I was reminded that those soul cleansing runs don’t have to be long, or even take me out of the city. I put my head above the parapet yesterday, put out a call on our running WhatsApp group to see if anyone fancied a soggy run this morning, and to my delight I found myself back by the park at 9 a.m., all set for a run round the bay with a couple of friends from the running club. This is a run I’ve done so many times I could run it blindfold, or so I thought, until they took me somewhere new! And it was a new hill!
Little changes like that seem to open up the world again, when it has felt so closed. Pushing up hill, rain dripping off my nose, still just about able to talk, followed by the joyful release of a downhill section; these are the moments where I feel most alive, and nothing can keep the smile off my face.
Running conversations ebb and flow, fleeting thoughts sparked by what we run past as much as by the worries and interests that usually occupy our thoughts. Silences are normal, and comfortable, coming and going as we run, and in those silences the other sounds creep in: the masts on the sailing ships ringing in the wind; waves slapping the shore; the rain pattering on my jacket. I love the sound of the rain, from the thud of large drops to the gentle tapping of light rain. It finds its way into me, the sound washing away the tumble of thoughts that go round and round my head, cleansing me as the rain itself washes over my skin.
The mental stillness brought by running in the rain, and by running with friends, is such a gift. One to hold onto, and remember, as these bleak, winter months slowly, finally, come to an end.
Running is always the answer. This has been my mantra since my very earliest days of running, as I started to realise that there was very little that couldn’t be cured with a run. Feeling stressed? Run it off. Tired? Re-energise with a run. Fighting off a cold? Get out there and head it off at the pass. Time and again life’s difficulties were resolved, or at the very least temporarily stalled, with a run.
To even contemplate questioning this fact has felt almost sacrilegious. Throughout the pandemic the benefits of running, particularly on our mental health, have been extolled repeatedly across the media, and rightly so. Many of us have longed for the freedom of lacing up our shoes and getting out of the door, when so many other freedoms have been curbed. There is no doubt in my mind that running has kept thousands of people fit, sane and happy in these horrendously difficult times, myself included. So how could running not be the answer?
Training, by definition, involves placing the body under controlled, time limited stress. Whether that means chasing a PB, pushing distance or elevation, maintaining a running streak, or simply continuing to run for pleasure, all running is training, carefully stressing the body in order to help it grow. And in so doing, our mental health benefits from the physical exertion, from being outdoors, from the growing confidence in what our bodies can do if we look after them and push them just hard enough.
A perfect spot for a short rest.
But there is a finite amount of stress that a body can deal with at any one time. Injuries are the inevitable outcome of too much physical stress placed on the body too quickly with insufficient care or understanding of our bodies’ needs, as I know to my cost. Having to come back from injury slowly and carefully is hard and frustrating, but there are few runners that avoid it completely, and our conversations are littered with references to aches and niggles, how to look after them, and how to avoid them becoming worse.
What we don’t talk about so often is when the aches and niggles are emotional rather than physical, when the need for rest is driven not by pain but by exhaustion or mental stress. Running has a huge impact on our mental health, but the reverse is also true – our mental health has a huge impact on our running. There is a significant link between life stress and physical injury, a link that seemed so obvious when my physio pointed it out, but one which we would all benefit from exploring further. If the amount of stress we can handle is finite, and that stress encompasses both physical and mental strain, then living through immensely stressful periods (like a pandemic perhaps?) is going to reduce our capacity to handle physical stress without injury. As with so much in life, it is a balancing act, and it’s when the scales tip either way that we run into difficulty.
So with that in mind, is running still always the answer? Broadly speaking, I am still firmly committed to answering ‘yes’. I rarely come back from a run feeling anything other than better, it is an outlet like no other and I could not be without it. But there are some sections of small print that need to follow that statement. Long term stress, or sudden, severe trauma, are as damaging to the body as illness or injury, and should be treated as such when planning runs at those times. There is no shame in reducing a long run, in taking it slowly, in acknowledging that caring for ourselves might mean running differently for a while.
If running is always the answer, the last thing anyone needs is an injury that puts a stop to it entirely. So if a day comes when lacing up those shoes is simply too difficult, be kind to yourself. Missing the odd run won’t make you less of a runner, but listening to your body might just make you a better one.
A little over a week ago I was getting ready for a double first: a night time hill run, and a fell race, neither of which I’d done before. As the time to leave for the Night Sugar came nearer my nerves kicked in in a way I was completely unprepared for, after all, it was far from my first hill run, and at this time of year night running is a weekly event. Why was this so different?
The clue might be in the word ‘race’. After nearly 10 years running my race tally is still in single figures. The ritual of picking up the race number and fiddling with pins, the crowd of people at the start line, the pre race briefing; these still feel like a world I’m floating on the edge of, not quite part of it yet. The nervous excitement builds in those final moments as the crowd comes closer together, watches beeping, legs twitching. And then, at last, comes ‘Go!’, all that tension finds an outlet and I’m back in my comfort zone: running.
My nerves vanished in an instant. With lovely, soft grass under foot, and somewhere in the darkness the Sugarloaf looming over us, I was out doing something I’d had in mind for years: a proper fell race. I’m fairly confident in the hills, these are the places that call to me, the places that feel like home. But in the dark, running by torchlight? That’s a whole other experience.
However bright the headtorch (and I’m very happy with my Petzl Iko Core), the colour is still leeched out of the landscape, even from the spots where the light shines brightest. This doesn’t really matter in the city, when a headtorch is more about safety from other road users, but out in the hills, away from all the city lights, that lack of colour matters. The ground looks smoother, the undulations harder to spot, making running downhill significantly more demanding as it is so much harder to judge what your feet are going to land on. There’s a strange beauty to it though, this calm, gently greyed world.
Navigation is harder too. That feels like a blindingly obvious statement when talking about night running, but it wasn’t the lack of visual markers that surprised me. What I hadn’t anticipated was how hard it was to judge where I was without the rest of the landscape visible as a guide. I’d studied the route, I knew how the course should feel as it curved and changed direction on its journey around the mountain. But other than when we actively turned off a path, I couldn’t feel the curve or straightness of the route as I ran. With only a short distance visible ahead at any moment, the path was nearly always straight. Only I knew it wasn’t. Disorientation could have set in very easily, but luckily for all of us who were running, the course was brilliantly marked out with reflective markers at regular intervals, and marshals in the few places where a wrong turn was possible.
Once I settled in to trusting the course and adjusting my gait and perspective for the lack of light, the race became an absolute joy. I ran over half of it with my running partner, each of us encouraging the other on the seemingly endless ascent where every marker that appeared in the darkness was higher than the last. Eventually we found one that was slightly lower, then another lower still, and we separated as the descent really kicked in. My confidence had kicked in by now, and those last couple of miles running on my own down a mountain in the dark were mesmerizing. The world had shrunk to just that little circle of light, the thickening dew beneath my feet a sign of the shrinking temperature as the night wore on and the cold air filled my lungs. The wind that had buffeted us near the top had died away, leaving me alone on a beautifully still night, only the sound of my feet and my breath disturbing the peace. It was almost a shock to realise that I could hear the sound of people ahead of me, then as I rounded the final corner the lights of the finish line and the car park brought me back to the busy world of a race.
I won’t deny a tinge of regret as I left that brief moment of peaceful, still solitude behind. But it was only a little tinge. That race was a first for ten of us from Run Grangetown, and there is something very special about experiencing these things together for the first time. And I suppose that encapsulates so much of what is good about racing: a group activity, that each individual undertakes in their own way, and at their own pace.
My first fell race certainly won’t be my last. I might even think about actually racing it one of these days, although there’ll be some work to be done to make that a realistic prospect. But either way, combining my favourite type of running with an event that pushes me out of my comfort zone must surely be a positive move forward.
A week ago today I finally ran my first ultra. All those months of training and planning came together in one glorious day of running. My abiding memories are good ones: perfect weather; a stunning course; running so much of it with my training partner, Emma, and family and friends out supporting along the route. And I finished, which was, after all, the only aim for the day that really mattered.
Sadly, in amongst all the pride and the happy memories, there is a significant chunk of disappointment and frustration, aimed entirely at myself. I got my fuelling very, very wrong.
Ogmore Castle
The frustration is that I knew how to do it. I’d practised it again and again, talked about it endlessly, honed it down to exactly what worked for me. And on the day it really mattered, I stopped listening to myself. That error cost me at least an hour in running time, and gave me (and others) moments of real concern about my health, and my likelihood of finishing. So what actually went wrong?
Problems started before I’d even arrived at registration. The one thing I hadn’t practised was having breakfast at 4:45 a.m., and forgetting my second breakfast that I was going to eat in the car was a big mistake. Through no fault of anyone, the race was over 40 minutes late starting, time in which I should have eaten something but a voice in my brain said ‘don’t eat just before you run’. Hours later I remembered that, whilst having a snack mid run. Whatever voice it was, it was clearly not the voice of reason.
All of which meant that by the time we started running I hadn’t eaten for three hours. Not ideal, but rescuable if I stuck to my fuelling schedule from then on in: first snack at 40-50 minutes, then every half hour after that. It had worked on all my long runs, and no doubt would have worked during the race too. I just didn’t stick to it.
I can find reasons for this: we got out of the sand and were able to run properly just as I should have had the first snack; I got too focused on checkpoints, which weren’t necessarily at the right place in my personal schedule. But what it really boils down to is that most basic of beginner errors – I got swept up in the excitement of the race.
There were plenty of opportunities to get back on track. My husband had a bottle of Tailwind ready for me at 14 miles, something I usually dislike and sip slowly. I downed it in one go, and inhaled a chicken wrap. My body was clearly telling me something. As the day went on, what I thought it was telling me was ‘eat fruit’, so at every available opportunity that’s what I did (my sister’s melon box when I saw her, checkpoints, and a lovely family at Aberthaw who were handing out orange segments). What my body was actually telling me was that, behind the lovely sea breeze, the day had got really hot and that I needed to make adjustments for that (a hat might have saved my sunburnt nose!). Fruit is wonderfully refreshing, but I needed far more calories than it could ever provide, and I’d lost the ability to hear those signals.
By the time I hit the final checkpoint in Barry Docks I knew I was in trouble. I’d managed to stave off cramp in my shin with my last salt tablet, but the crisps I picked up off the table were a struggle to eat. More fruit from one of our wonderful Run Grangetown gang, Colette, tasted wonderful, and at least gave me a little sugar hit if nothing else. Our little group of three runners had started to separate as we went through Barry, coming back together at the checkpoint, but I had to get going again before the others were ready as I knew I was in real danger of not finishing if I stopped for too long.
Those last eight miles were, without a doubt, the toughest of my life. I forced myself to run/walk as I made my way out of Barry and down towards the coast again, keeping it going for another three miles before I finally lost the ability to run. The relief when I saw my sister at mile 36 was incredible, and she walked with me for the next few miles, trying to get some food in me, none of which I could even swallow. I was so close now, and with Nick having joined us she left us to it for the final mile and half, hightailing it off to the finish line. We barely spoke, I’d given up on any idea of trying to eat, all that mattered now was getting to the end. After that, everything would be ok.
As we turned the final corner we were greeted by Chris and Tom, giving the boost I needed to somehow find the energy to run the very last section along the path in Penarth to the finish line. I saw my other Run Grangetown runners, who’d all done such an amazing job; I saw a friend I hadn’t seen for such a long time, who’d come out to see me finish; and I saw my family, waiting for me with smiles on their faces. I’d done it.
Looking back now, I was worryingly close to breaking myself rather seriously. A combination of errors, all of which should have been avoided, left me scaring myself and others in a way that should never have happened. These are lessons that I need to carry with me, and ensure that I never make those mistakes again. But hiding beneath the frustration and the disappointment is a little nugget of pride. I got it very wrong, and I still finished less than an hour outside my target time. Just imagine what I could do if I got it right.
There’s only one way to find out. Looks like I’ll have to do it again.
Tomorrow, for the first time, I’ll be running 40 miles. The Vale of Glamorgan Ultra Marathon is a beautiful course, much of which I know already, but stitching it together is another matter entirely. I think I’m ready, I’ve hit all my training goals, but I won’t know for sure until I see that finish line tomorrow afternoon.
This final day is all about food, and lists. I have five lists going at the moment: what to wear; what to carry; food; drop bag, and extras for Chris to carry. Proper lists, on a scrap of paper, that stays close today as I add to it and cross things out. I’m not sure where nervous excitement fits on those lists, is it something I wear or something I carry? Probably both.
What to wear is the easiest one. The weather forecast is good, so I’ll be in a top and skort (and calf guards). Footwear is a little more of a question. I’ll be starting, and doing most of it, in my La Sportiva Bushido IIs, the best running shoes I’ve ever owned and ones which feel incredibly stable on rough ground, which is exactly what this race needs. The question is whether to change them for road shoes later on, and if so, when. There’s a road section of a few miles starting at about mile 30, and my tired feet might appreciate some more bounce by then. But it’s only a few miles.
I suspect that this is a decision to be made on the day, so road shoes can go in the drop bag, along with spare socks for my trail shoes, a fresh running top and headband, and some extra electrolytes and energy balls. And suncream. This drop bag might turn into an overnight bag if I’m not careful.
This race is my first experience of a mandatory kit list, and as I pack it all in my bag (and take it out, and pack it again . . .) I’m really starting to appreciate the importance of lightweight running kit. My waterproofs (OMM Kamleika jacket and Marmot trousers) take up remarkably little space, my warm Outdoor Research base layer squashes up nicely, and even my Buff sun cap can be squeezed into a tiny space as the peak isn’t solid. Which gives me plenty of space for lots of food.
I’m taking a mix of sports nutrition (my favourite strawberry Shot Bloks and white chocolate and macadamia Clif Bars) and real food. My trusty new potatoes and pizza muffins have both been a hit in training, and the raw energy balls are a must – I’ll be leaving extras of these in the drop bag and with Chris. Plenty of water of course, and an extra bottle with a Zero electrolyte tablet dissolved in it. The biggest challenge is having enough of each. Forty miles is still such an unknown.
Knowing that there are check points with lots of goodies means I don’t need to carry the little extras of M&Ms or jelly babies, they can go in Chris’ bag along with the energy balls. He’ll be there with the boys, a little before half way, then my sister should be somewhere after mile 25. Knowing they’ll be there is almost as much of a boost as seeing them will be. All supporters make a huge difference, but nothing beats seeing your family cheering you on. Shoulders straighten, head comes back up, a waning smile becomes firmly fixed once again. That feeling can carry me for miles.
There’s nothing else I can do now. Training is done, lists are written, kit is out and ready. By the time I go to bed this evening my bag will be packed for the last time, the alarm set, clothes out ready to be pulled on. The only aims that really matters are to finish, and most of all, to enjoy it. I can’t wait!
Running has been on the back burner recently. Not by choice, obviously, but sometimes life just takes over for a while. I’ve been getting out on the usual routes, but just ticking over, waiting for the chance for my running to get back where it belongs. Centre stage.
Coed y Brenin
That chance arrived this week, bringing not just one but two glorious runs on entirely new trails.
First up was the Goldrush Trail at Coed y Brenin forest in Gwynedd. Running one of the waymarked trails at Coed y Brenin feels like a rite of passage for a Welsh trail runner, and one that I’ve been itching to do for quite some time. That opportunity arrived with a trip to Eryri, and a quite wonderful family who were happy to leave me to my own devices for a couple of hours while they went off for a walk.
The Goldrush Trail
Plan A had been to follow the half marathon route, but the heatwave put paid to that so I opted for plan B: an 8.5m trail leading up through the forest to take in views of the mountains, beautiful rivers, the Copper Bog, and cool, peaceful forest. I saw next to no one until the final mile, and only one other runner throughout, leaving me entirely alone with just the trail for company. Not truly alone though; birdsong was everywhere, high in the trees, rustling through the undergrowth, and flying overhead. Crickets were in full voice (full leg?!) through the bog, and the everchanging sound of rushing water is a magical voice all of its own.
During those two hours I found and hit my reset button. All the stresses of the previous weeks were left behind at the top as I raced away from them down a couple of wonderful downhills. My brain came back to life again, and with that my enthusiasm and my drive.
Three days later that drive and enthusiasm was back out in full force on what turned out to be my toughest ever run: 23 miles along the Gower coast from Rhossili to Langland. The run was the brain child of my running partner, Emma, in lieu of a cancelled trail running weekend, and was a brilliant idea. A coastal run was going to be perfect training for VOGUM, but at the same time we would be somewhere new, on an entirely different adventure.
Three Cliffs
The Gower is famous for its stunningly beautiful landscape: steep limestone cliffs, sandy beaches edged by rock pools, woods, and sand dunes. Lots of sand dunes. Enough sand dunes to last a lifetime in fact. This was always going to be a tough run, and although luckily the heatwave had broken, the humidity was more than high enough to make up for that.
Everything I want to achieve from my running came together on that run. Long distances, new and exciting routes, varied terrain, making a full day of it, not just a couple of hours here and there. And all done as a team as we pushed and encouraged each other in equal measure, ranting together through the seemingly endless dunes.
Gower
I’ll be back to my usual haunts again now, and that’s ok. There is great satisfaction to be had from treading the same path time and again, noticing the little changes in our surroundings, and in ourselves as we run. But every now and again something different is called for. A new test, a new route, a new perspective. These runs gave me all of that.
When I get back out on my local routes this week I’ll be running with more confidence, and more joy, than I’ve had for quite some time. The timing couldn’t be better. The VOGUM countdown is well and truly on now, less than five weeks to go; after these runs I not only feel ready for it, but excited, and excited for what comes afterwards. There are so many trails out there, just waiting to be explored.
I had convinced myself that this was one blog post I wouldn’t need to write. Somehow, the race I’d signed up for would find a way to still take place, and everything could go ahead as planned. Sadly, I got that very wrong.
Last Friday evening, two weeks and a day before the race, we finally heard that they had had to postpone until August. It must have been an immensely difficult decision to make, at such a late stage, when the organisers had clearly been feeling confident that they could find a way to go ahead. That thought has stopped me from feeling any anger about the decision, but it doesn’t change the fact that I am, quite simply, gutted.
Six days earlier my friend and I had done our last long run: 21 miles looping up the Taff to Castell Coch and back down again. We explored new trails, stopped to wonder at the noise and number of birds in the heronry, enjoyed the peace and tranquillity of the old canal, and arrived home tired, happy, and confident that we were as ready as we could be for our first ultra. We had, we hoped, timed it well, to have three weeks of gentle tapering leaving us full of energy come race day.
Peace and quiet by the canal
That energy has gone. Vanished entirely within hours of receiving the news. Suddenly, just getting through the day is challenge enough, and the thought of adding in a run becomes overwhelming. I’ve managed two short ones, both of which felt much harder than Strava would have me believe. Today, I have just stopped entirely.
There is, if I’m forced to admit it, more to life than running. We’re approaching the half term holiday, at the end of seven long weeks where both schools have managed to avoid any isolation periods. That takes its toll too. But it was the thought of the race that was keeping me going, giving me a reason to get my shoes on and get out there, and I came back refreshed every time. Getting through this final week of term without that incentive has been harder than I had ever expected.
I have spent years telling people that I run entirely for my sanity, something that I still believe to be true. But it’s not the whole truth. In this time of such uncertainty, when life has felt so aimless, the focus of a challenge has been more valuable that I had realised. It gave me a goal as I came back from injury, something to aim for when plans in all other areas of life seemed almost impossible to contemplate. And it gave me hope. Hope that I would be able to run the distance; hope that the normality of a race would come back to us all.
That hope is not entirely gone. The race has a new date, and I have every intention of being there. It’s far enough away that I have time to stop a little, then pick myself back up and get back out, rediscover the joy and the excitement, and get training. But that is in the future. For today, I’m going to be kind to myself. The sun is shining. The garden, my book and a cup of tea are calling. Though I might just check out some races while the kettle boils. It can’t hurt to have a few ideas to mull over, now that I know quite how valuable that goal can be.
Just over five weeks to go now, and the training is starting to feel like hard graft at times. I suspect this is a good thing. Easy training certainly wouldn’t be good preparation for what is clearly going to be a hard race, so I feel fairly confident that the training is going well. That thought isn’t making it any easier.
Since I allowed myself to mentally commit to this race the thought of it has basically taken over my life, in so many more ways than I had expected. I knew that fitting in the training runs would become more time consuming as the date drew closer and the runs got longer, but in many ways that’s the small part. I find myself thinking about the race at all times of day and night, obsessing about food and fuelling, going over my kit and whether anything needs replacing, wondering what I’m going to wear on the day and what extras I’ll carry. I’m analysing my runs as never before in terms of route/distance, my pace and my calorie usage. And I’m constantly thinking about my injury and whether it’s healed enough for what I’m putting it through.
Many of these are little thoughts that flit in and out, but a few take some more serious thinking about. Whether to recce the route has been a question I’ve danced around for a few weeks, as with the race starting so close to home it is entirely possible to recce the whole thing before race day. There are obvious benefits to this: discovering and resolving any navigational issues in advance, knowing the terrain and how it changes, and being able to visualise myself on the route ahead if I’m flagging. These are benefits that may well prove vital in the latter stages of the race, when tiredness is creeping over and thought processes start to slow.
But what about the sense of adventure, of exploring somewhere new for the first time, and doing it entirely under my own steam? I accept that race conditions aren’t the ideal time for my favourite sort of exploring, the sort that involves getting stuck in at least one field, but if I’m going to run a trail race there needs to be an element of the unknown, surely?
So I’ve compromised. The final stretch is one I know well, I should have run most of the middle stretches at least once by race day, but the first eight miles will be entirely new. That feels like a fairly realistic balance. Unless the weather turns, of course. This cold but dry spring has made for ideal running conditions, but the whole route will feel very different if the wind and rain hit! These are hardly new conditions to run in, just slightly less practised than usual at the moment. Is it wrong to hope for a rainy, windy run sometime soon, just in case?
Experimenting -some options were more successful than others!
My biggest worry, as always, is fuelling. I’m still experimenting and have added pizza muffins and peanut m&ms to the raw energy balls and new potatoes I’d already discovered. I always have a stash of Shot Bloks too, just for a straight forward sugar hit, and I’m going to experiment with Tailwind this weekend as liquid calories could be a real bonus in the latter half. There is a very real chance I’ll stop to buy a Calippo somewhere en route too.
This is where my nerves are. I did a rough calculation and it looks as if I’m likely to use around 5000 calories on that run. I almost wish I hadn’t worked it out, it’s a dauntingly high number, and could far too easily become one to obsess over. Nevertheless, it helps to think about it, to plan some fuelling up before the race, not just during it, so that I have something extra in the tank if needed. I’ve also taken on board some advice from Lowri Morgan’s inspirational book ‘Beyond Limits’ – first fuel at 40 minutes, then every 20 minutes after that. Little and often should see me through.
With all this going on, is it still fun? After all, the only person making me do this is me, and there’d be very little point if I wasn’t enjoying it. The answer is a resounding yes. I’ve done some fantastic training runs, mostly with friends who are also training for the race, all bar one of us doing an ultra for the first time. The companionship and sense of community that training together has brought has been an absolute joy, and will only get more intense as the race gets closer, all our nerves kick in, and we keep each other’s spirits up to reach that starting line. Not long to go now.
Back in the autumn, feeling strong after all my lockdown running, I signed up for my first ultra marathon. The Vale of Glamorgan Ultra follows 40 miles of the Wales Coastal Path, from Porthcawl to Penarth, a beautiful route and, being local, one with no logistical issues to worry about. I had nine months to train, and lots of fellow novices as 12 people from my running group had also signed up. What could possibly go wrong?
Well, losing nearly three months of running to a stress fracture, followed by a very, very slow and gentle reintroduction to running wasn’t exactly ideal. Nine months of training turned into six, building up from just 1 flat mile instead of the 13 hilly ones I’d been doing pre injury. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a little voice that sometimes asked if this was really a sensible thing to do, but that little voice wasn’t so different to the small child repeatedly asking for ice cream, and I knew what to do with that. “We’ll see” isn’t really an answer, but it at least stops the questioning for a while.
I’ve never been one for formal training plans. There’s too much chance of life getting in the way, turning a plan into yet another source of anxiety rather than the aid it’s supposed to be. Instead, I went for small goals to tick off: managing a full 5 mile Bay loop; noticing when running started to actively help my leg feel better; running up a hill, and best of all, running back down one. None of this was ultra training, I still wasn’t mentally committing, but I was getting closer to it every time. Then at T minus three months I made it back into Penarth. Mentally that was huge, I’d got myself out of Cardiff and was starting to get some real distance in my legs. Time to accept that I really was going for this, and with that acceptance surely some element of planning would be sensible.
To my way of thinking, training of any sort breaks down into two areas: how do I get my body to achieve what I need it to do, and how do I fuel it so as to reach that goal safely? In other words, output and input.
Output
My structure has been deliberately simple: three runs a week, one of them long, and getting steadily longer as the weeks go on. It hasn’t been entirely linear – my half marathon with a friend accidentally became 14.5 miles, so I dropped back down to 12 after that – but while the distance line on the graph might be bumpy it’s definitely heading in the right direction.
But there’s more to it than simply increasing distance, I also need to look at how I run. There is no chance that I’m going to run every step for 40 miles of coastal path, so the training needs to mirror that. I need to learn how to stop and still be able to start again, how to notice when 60 seconds of power walking will refresh me rather than pushing through to keep running and risk not being able to finish. I’m learning how to spot that tiredness, thirst or hunger is going to hit, and making adjustments before it happens so that I can keep going.
Keeping going is an awful lot easier than picking yourself back up again, but I suspect I’ll need to do that too, and this one really is a head game. I find myself thinking back to my days before running, before children, and long, hard days out in the mountains. I have no doubt that this race will do just the same as some of my hardest climbs, stripping back all the layers we build over ourselves, all our protections and safety measures, until only the rawest version of our self is left. There is no hiding then, nowhere to go other than to get to the end. That exposure, that we spend so much our lives avoiding, is overwhelming when it comes. But it’s exhilarating too. I’ll know then that I’ve hit my hardest point, that it can’t get worse, that by simply putting one foot in front of the other I can keep going, and I will finish.
Input
Of course, none of that works unless our bodies have been fuelled properly, and after my brush with REDs (Relative Energy Deficiency in sport) I’m not taking any chances. I’m experimenting with different foods during a run (current favourites are Anita Bean’s raw energy balls, and cold new potatoes), and I’m making sure I eat before I get hungry, to ensure my energy levels don’t dip too much.
I’m also taking notice of the ‘calories’ stat on Strava. It’s simple common sense that the longer the run the more calories we burn, but seeing that figure written down has made me sit up and really appreciate it. My standard Bay loop can add the equivalent of a whole extra lunch to my calorific needs for the day; the 16 miles I ran yesterday almost doubled my daily need. These are not insignificant amounts of food, but it takes thinking about to properly replenish those stores, both before and after a run, and it gets harder as the distance increases.
Final steps
With a little over 8 weeks to go I’m finally allowing myself to think seriously about this race that has been on my mind for so long. I even got as far as planning weekly distances for the remaining training time, but I think that was really only to make me feel a bit better about it as I haven’t stuck to it yet! But the basics are working: my distances are growing, I’m fuelling well, and above all else I’m enjoying the training. That seems like the right place to be.
I’ve missed mud. That feels like a very odd sentence to write, not least given the amount of the stuff I’ve cleaned off shoes and swept out of the hall this winter. But today I ran in it again, for the first time since September, and I remembered quite how much fun it is.
To run on muddy trails is to get as close to childhood joy as adult life allows. There is such a sensory delight to be found in the squelch under my feet, the suction I have to work against each time I lift a foot back up. It isn’t long before it’s working its way through my shoes, thick and wet between my toes. The sensations may not all be pleasant, but they are physical, demanding moments of intense focus on my body. So much of adult life prioritises our intellectual capacities, it feels rare to get the chance to focus solely on the body. Even running doesn’t usually manage it, as all those life thoughts run through the mind and demand attention. But running in mud provides constant sensory feedback which helps keep my mind still. Even when the run is over, there is nothing like the satisfaction of getting in the shower and having to scrub mud off my feet, a sure sign of a great run.
Before lockdown hit last year, I was well on my way to becoming a connoisseur of mud. I’d run a night race in the Forest of Dean, nearly 6 miles of thick, forest mud, sucking at me with every footstep, with some fantastic descents sliding down through the trees, glissading on the mud. Two days later, I joined some colleagues for a night run in the Vale of Glamorgan, again through muddy forest tracks, but this time down to the fields, where the mud was a whole new, watery delight. That one left me coming home and getting into the shower fully dressed to hose myself down!
There was a period where every run I did saw me come home plastered with mud and beaming. Inevitably this eased off as the summer arrived, but if you look hard enough here in Wales, there’s always mud to be found. On one of the hottest days of last summer, a friend and I were delighted when we found a muddy trail in the woods on the edge of Cardiff. The perfect antidote to sweltering heat.
It’s exactly that delight that I love. The knowledge that a muddy run, even a muddy section on a run, brings with it a stillness of mind that is hard to replicate elsewhere, and a wonderfully strong sense of how alive my body really is. That really is running at its very best.
I Run Free 