London

St Paul's Cathedral.

In total, I have lived ten years of my life in the UK and am very fond of the place.  In various blog posts (Frost Fairways,  Chappel, Isle of Dogs), I have described some of my favourite runs there.  The last time I lived in the UK was in 1992, but during the next eleven years when I lived in the US, I made many business trips there, frequently staying in hotels in central London.  Central London is a big place, and depending on where you are staying, the running options can vary.  During the latter part of my working life, when I was employed by Reuters, whose head office was in Fleet Street, my favourite place to stay was a business hotel close to St Paul's Cathedral.  It was easy walking distance from the office (passing an excellent Indian takeaway en route!), and close to the Thames River, a wonderful place to run.

HMS Belfast with Tower Bridge.

For my regular 10km run, I usually set out about 6:00am and headed east along Cannon Street past the imposing St Paul's Cathedral and then Mansion House, Cannon Street and Monument stations which were already disgorging early commuters before arcing around the northern side of the Tower of London and onto the iconic Tower Bridge.  I always enjoyed checking out the river traffic as I crossed the bridge and looking at the retired HMS Belfast anchored upstream.  On the southern side of the bridge, I descended a stairway to begin my journey westwards along the southern bank of the Thames.

Millennium Bridge and St Paul's Cathedral.

At first the route wound through some narrow back streets passing refurbished warehouses and stereotypical London pubs before joining the promenade along the river bank which I followed all the way to Westminster Bridge.  On the way it passed landmarks such as the Millennium Bridge, the Tate Modern, Southbank, and the London Eye, all the time providing superb views of the London skyline to the north across the river.  After crossing the river again beneath Big Ben, the route turned right to follow the Victoria Embankment downstream and back to the northern end of the Millennium Bridge from where it was a short run back to the hotel.

London Eye and Southbank.

It was a generally flat course along wide paved footpaths and promenades that made for a fast run if I was feeling good, which was often the case.  In summer, London had milder temperatures and lower humidity than my US abodes, and in winter, it was also milder and nice to run in shorts for a change after the winter gear required in the US.

I've been told that my recovery from the Pulmonary Embolism could be long and erratic.  Today served to emphasise the point when I struggled all of the way round what should have been an easy 5km walk in Copa.  I didn't feel my heart racing, maybe because I walked so slowly, but it was exasperating and a little alarming to feel so unfit.  My breathing was heavy and laboured and I even contemplated sitting down on a bench with a kilometre to go when I began to feel a little spaced out.  Instead, I just walked even more slowly and made it home OK.  The rest of the day was pretty sedentary and I had no problems.  On the plus side, I had a call from the office of the Respiratory Specialist I wasn't scheduled to see for another month to say they had a cancellation tomorrow, so I'm hopeful of getting a useful opinion about my situation and prognosis.

Guadalupe Peak

Guadelupe Peak, Texas.

Some races and training runs stick in your mind forever, while others seem to get assigned to the same memory space as hotel room numbers and totally disappear within a few days.  In between there are memories that can be resurrected by some external stimulus such as a conversation with an old friend or the sight of a photograph.

I have been reading through, and digitising, my old training diaries.  It is a nostalgic and self-indulgent pastime, but is a source of ideas for this blog and resurrects many memories of races and runs that I had all but forgotten.  Other runs are still quite vivid in my memory and I start anticipating them as I move through the diary towards the date on which they occurred.

The approach to Guadelupe Peak.

One such run was up Guadelupe Peak from Pine Springs Campground and return in the Guadelupe Mountains National Park near El Paso in Texas in January 1986.  We were the only campground residents on a night when temperatures dropped below 10°F after a stormy day characterised by high winds and snow.  When I went to bed I wasn't sure that the planned run to Guadelupe Peak (8740ft) the next morning was going to be feasible, but we woke to an icy cold but crystal clear morning with a three inch snow cover.

Looking south to Guadelupe Peak from the Bowl Trail.

The Campground was at 5800ft, so I knew that altitude would be one of the challenges on my run, but the distance was short, just 7km each way.  However, that 7km incorporated 3000ft of climb along an exposed and unfamiliar snow-covered trail, so even though the weather had cleared, I was a little apprehensive.  There was nobody about and I knew it would take a long time to be rescued if anything bad happened.

The trail to Guadelupe Peak.

The trail gained height rapidly as it switch-backed its way up on to the spur I would be following to the Peak, but I was feeling fit, and knowing the distance was short, maintained a good pace.  It was a little precipitous to the side of the trail early on so I paid a lot of attention to where I put my feet, but higher up the risks were fewer and I began to appreciate the beauty of the vistas and the tranquility of my environment, broken only by the padded sounds of my footfall and my steady deep breathing.  The mostly snow-covered trail was smooth and unmarked, apart from the occasional tiny animal track, and there was almost no wind.  The higher I got the better the views became.

View from Guadelupe Peak.

I reached the summit in a little over 50 minutes and took a break to admire the panoramic views in all directions.  The plains of Texas spread out below to the east, south and west, while the barren peaks of the Guadalupe Mountains dominated the view to the north.  Standing alone atop a mountain in the early morning light with views to the horizon in all directions is about as spiritual as it gets for me.  At the same time as you feel privileged and exceptional to have such an experience, it also emphasises your microscopic place in the world.  You  almost feel powerful and powerless at the same time.

The return trip was much faster and exhilarating in parts, though I still needed to take great care with my foot placement and the sharp switch-backs, and I finished in just over one and a half hours for the return journey.  It was a special and still memorable run.

I walked about 9km today, doing some more exploring around McMasters Beach and Bouddi National Park.  Although I managed the walk OK, there were occasions during it, and later in the day, when I could feel my heart racing and that wasn't pleasant.  On the plus side, my breathing remained steady and I didn't have to rest.  It did remind me, however, that I'm not the person I was six weeks ago.

Mixed feelings

Ultra-running legend, Pat Farmer, running
with friend, Dina, near the end of the
"Round the Bay"

Today was Terrigal Trotters' "Round the Bay" run, which is traditionally held on the first Sunday in the New Year.  At just over 37km of roads and concrete bike paths, and usually in humid conditions, this a tough run.  Three weeks ago, I had been planning to use it as a long training run, but the Pulmonary Embolism diagnosis a week ago changed all that.

The event, which circumnavigates Brisbane Water, and is followed by a picnic breakfast, has become increasingly popular within the running club, and today was no exception.  Fifty-five people completed the circuit, including one group of walkers who began at 2:00am!  Some slower runners started at 4:00am while the main bunch set out at 5:00am.

Despite injury, Wayne nears the end of
his 13th consecutive "Round the Bay"

To get some exercise, I drove down to the start in Gosford and then walked 4km out and 4km back along the last section of the course with my camera, photographing the runners and walkers as I encountered them.  It was inspirational to see so many of my friends out testing themselves, including some suffering from injuries and/or a lack of preparation.  In just about every case, I managed to coax a smile out of them, despite their exhaustion.  My friend, Wayne, who is the only person to have run every one of the twelve editions so far, and has had a bad couple of years with various injuries, still found the determination to finish and preserve his record.  We have had a few good tussles on this course in past years.

Trotters gather for breakfast and a low-key presentation
after the "Round the Bay"

The inspiration provided by my friends this morning was, sadly, somewhat offset at frustration with my own situation.  It was only eighteen days ago that I ran the same course on my own without pressing the pace in quite a reasonable time.  I need to remind myself that eighteen days is not that long, and that I was still running up until a week ago.  Assuming next week's Echocardiogram is clear, I may be jogging in another week, and won't have lost much fitness.  Other people with my condition would just be thankful to still be vertical, and I need to remember that too.

Last minute anxieties

Anticipation as the field lines up for the start of the
1978 Australian Marathon Championship
at Caboolture in Queensland

The anticipation for tomorrow's Melbourne Marathon is building, and as usual, some small hiccups are being encountered.

On checking my gear this morning, I discovered I had forgotten to pack my Terrigal Trotters singlet for the trip to Melbourne.  It's not a big deal, but it's a colourful and recognisable design making me easily identifiable to club-mates and others.  I may miss a few cheers along the way.

The weather forecast for tomorrow also looks a little dicey.  A cold front is forecast to move through some time during the day, and could be heralded with strong winds, rain showers, some thunderstorms and possibly hail.  Of course, this is Melbourne and there's every chance it could be fine.  If I thought I was a borderline chance to break three hours, I might be concerned.  However, without that pressure, I won't mind battling the elements if that's what happens.  Some of my most memorable running experiences involve outrageous weather.

Going OK (second from left) in the early stages of the
1978 Australian Marathon Championships

It's easy to lose your perspective as a big race approaches, and it's important not to be derailed by hiccups, or try do do anything special and/or different.  I have made mistakes in the past, and would hope I have learned some lessons, but still feel tempted to worry about little things or do something different.

I met yesterday with a friend's son who will be running his debut marathon tomorrow and much of our lunchtime conversation revolved around last minute race preparation and plans.  As usual, I'm good at telling other people what to do in such situations, and my advice was not to use "Goo's" during the race if he hasn't tried them before, not to buy some new socks for the race, not to drink too much, not to go out too fast, and so on.  He's a naturally talented athlete and I'm sure he will do fine and have some good stories to tell.  No doubt, within a week, he will be planning how to run a Personal Best in his next marathon.  There's no substitute for experience and we are all different.  He will work out over several races how best to get the most out of himself in a marathon.

Exhausted at the finish after a disappointing 1978 Australian
Marathon Championship (13th, 2:34:28).  [Three months
later I was 2nd in the first Melbourne Marathon in 2:23.]

For my training today, I walked an easy 5km.  My right Achilles was stiff and sore for the first kilometre or two, but loosened up after that and I enjoyed a sunny breezy Saturday morning.  I'm expecting the Achilles to be troublesome for the first 5km of tomorrow's race and I will need to avoid forcing it.  Hopefully, once it warms up, I will be able to settle into a good pace.

While walking, I thought about my race strategy for tomorrow.  If I feel I have lost ground in the early kilometres because of the Achilles, it will be tempting to try to make up time.  Overtaking runners can become addictive if you are running well, and I will need to avoid expending too much energy between 5km and half-way.  A guide will be the pacers provided by the organisers.  There is a group for every ten minutes between 2:50 to 4:30 (I do wonder about how accurately these groups will be able to judge their pacing given they are so close together), so my goal will be not to fall too far behind the 3:30 group at the start, and not to get ahead of the 3:10 group if I'm feeling good after the early kilometres.  This translates to no slower than 5:00 per kilometre average and no faster than 4:30 per kilometre average.

Now I just want the race to start.

Bacchus 12000

Griffith today

A race which lives large in my memory, and probably in the memory of many 1970/80s runners, was the Bacchus 12000, a 12km race held at Griffith in the NSW Riverina every Easter.  Griffith is in the centre of a wine-growing area, and in those days, marijuana growing and organised crime as well.  Local identity and anti-drugs campaigner, Donald Mackay, disappeared in May 1977 from Griffith and his body has never been found.  One of my memories from the time is of vast vineyards with long driveways and Italianate mansions.  It was definitely a place of the 1970s.

Runners travelled from the cities of Melbourne and Sydney for the race because of the valuable prizes offered, generally airfares to the US.  Many camped at a local recreation ground designated for the purpose, and I can remember a youthful student, Rob De Castella, camping there having driven up in his old Peugeot.  Race day itself always seemed very hot and dry and the course included exposed gravel roads and a tough climb.  The field was always very high quality and would have done justice to any Australian distance-running championship.  I don't remember ever doing very well there.

The Kew Camberwell Athletic Club encampment at
Griffith prior to the 1979 Bacchus 12000

The first year we went, the post-race function was held in a winery and turned into a sort of Bacchanalian Feast, which didn't do much credit to the running fraternity.  In subsequent years, the organisers wisely held the function outdoors at the race finish, although that still ran some risks.  All finishers received a bottle of local specially-labelled port, and one year my club had a special event which was won by whoever was the first to finish their bottle of port (and keep it down for an hour) after running the race.  I'm a non-drinker, so didn't participate, but recall my brother came second.

My club, Kew Camberwell, usually had a large contingent of runners and partners attending, and apart from some running and the race itself, we spent our time playing pick-up cricket and soccer matches on the recreation field where we were camped, visiting wineries and patronising the local clubs.  I remember one hard-fought soccer match, played the day before the race, resulting in one of our best runners dislocating his shoulder after a rough tackle.  To the amazement of our colleagues from the Glenhuntly running club, camped nearby, we continued with our game after arranging for one of the girls to take the injured runner to the local hospital.

The victorious team, after a Kew Camberwell intra-club
pick-up cricket match at Griffith just prior to the 1979
Bacchus 12000

Another often-told story related to a year when the prize of a US return airfare was to be a lottery drawn from the first ten finishers in the race.  It was a very hot year, and one of our best runners was coming 10th as the race passed through some suburban streets approaching the finish.  Another member of our club was a little way behind in 11th place and noticed his club-mate ahead begin weaving all over the road before collapsing unconscious in the gutter with heat exhaustion.  The trailing runner had to make a quick decision about whether to stop and attend to his fallen friend, or continue on, now in 10th place, to the finish.  He chose the latter, but sadly didn't win the prize draw.  We all visited our dehydrated and heat-affected club-mate in hospital later, where he was kept overnight, but not until the post-race celebrations were over.  Those were the days.

For my exercise today, I just walked 5km as planned.  My joints were a bit stiff and sore after yesterday's long run, but I didn't feel very tired, which is a good sign.  The only visible cloud on the horizon before next Sunday's Melbourne Marathon, is that Sharon has a bad chest and sinus infection, and is being treated with antibiotics.  Selfishly, I hope it's not contagious.

Hydration

Reaching for a sponge at a drink station
in the inaugural Melbourne Marathon
 in 1978 (2nd, 2:23:06)

It warmed rapidly today, so the small group of us who set out for a long run on local roads at 6am (the first day of Daylight Saving), were glad of our early start by the time we finished.  It was to be my last long run before the Melbourne Marathon next week, and another good test of my fitness level.  The run went well and I felt like I could have kept running when I finished, giving me confidence that, if I run sensibly next week, I won't disgrace myself.  My right knee got quite painful at times, but this was expected.  I was the only one of the group not carrying any fluids for the run, though I did have $10 in my pocket in case emergency hydration needed to be purchased along the way.  As it turned out, I did not need a drink during the 2:56 the 32.5km took me, and wasn't even that thirsty when I finished.

I don't like carrying gear, including fluids, nor do I like stopping during long runs to drink.  Maybe I'm a prima donna, but I find even short stops can break my running rhythm, and there have been times when this has cost me in an event.  My own layman's theory of hydration for distance runners, based on an experiment of one, is that the more long running you do without frequently hydrating, the more your body adapts by "camelling up", i.e., storing fluids in the body in anticipation of the next long run.  It's the same theory that applies to the muscles storing glycogen in response to repeated training runs.  It seems to be common sense to me that the more you do something, and the more you press against the edge of your body's envelope, the more your body adapts to the increasing load.

This morning's long run took in a roller-coaster section
of the Ridgeway

Of course, the trick is not to "tear the envelope", by pushing too far.  I have definitely finished training runs and races seriously dehydrated and in difficulties, though have never ended up on a saline drip.  If conditions are warm to hot, or you are running for many hours, you have to drink or you will cause yourself harm.  I am not advocating a "no drinking" policy and recognise that every individual is different and needs to find their own balance.  However, I would argue that runners who drink frequently in benign conditions are missing an opportunity to train their body to "camel up" and are condemning themselves to carry and/or stop for more fluids in races.  A side effect is that your stomach then has to do some work processing the fluids into the blood stream.  It seems to me that if you can avoid the need for this function, you are likely to run better.

In my best running years, I drank very sparingly during marathon races unless it was hot.  Usually, I would put out plastic sauce bottles containing some flat Coca Cola at each 5km feeding station.  Then I would run through, grab the bottle, and take a couple of well-spaced mouthfuls before discarding it.  If I didn't feel thirsty, or it was nearer the end of the race (does the body really process fluids into the bloodstream in any meaningful way in the last 30 minutes of a race?), or I was in a pack of runners making it difficult to get the bottle, then I wouldn't take a drink.  On average, I would have been lucky to drink a total of more than 400ml during marathon races, and sometimes nothing at all in cool conditions.  I was much more inclined to pour water over myself from a sponge or cup to keep cool.

Of course, for your body to "camel up" between runs, you have to drink a lot of fluids, and I do.  In my case, and I take a lot of flak for this, it's mostly diet colas with some fruit juice and black coffee thrown in occasionally.  Almost no water!  In total, about three litres of fluid a day.

Hidden treasures

Trails atop Kincumba Mountain

Summer has come early to the NSW Central Coast, and it was even warm for the Thursday morning track group going through their paces at 6:00am at the Terrigal Haven.  By the time I headed out for my run around 7:00am it was warm and sunny, but not oppressive.  After the easy recovery day yesterday, I hoped to run about 15km today, and since I was car-less after the track session (Sharon attended the session and drove my car home), I picked a course that included some nice trail and avoided some of the busiest peak hour roads.

Looking east over Avoca Beach from Kincumba Mountain

My route was up and over Kincumba Mountain, one of the hidden jewels in our area.  I suspect that there are people who drive around the base of Kincumba Mountain for much of their lives without ever venturing into the 700 hectare reserve, and they don't know what they are missing.  Atop the mountain, you could be hundreds of kilometres from suburbia. It's far enough from the roads to avoid traffic noise and the only sounds tend to be those of the birdlife.  The climbs on the trails through the forest up the 200m high mountain are steep, but runnable, while the top is almost plateau-like with some nice long flattish fire-trails where you can stride out.  But perhaps the best thing of all about Kincumba Mountain is that you can frequently run right across, as I did this morning, and not see another person.  You feel that you have the whole place to yourself, a precious pleasure amid the hubbub of the Central Coast.  And, to those in the know - mostly runners, mountain bikers and hikers - there are other mountains around the Central Coast where you can enjoy the same solitude.

My right knee was very sore during the run, but I tried to tread carefully and avoid stress on the inside where the pain is greatest.  I suspect I also have some bone bruising at the top of the tibia, but that's a layman's diagnosis based on previous MRI's and the prevailing pain at the time.  On the positive side, my Achilles tendon wasn't too bad and for the last 5km, when I came down from the mountain and ran along the roads with more reliable footing, I felt like I was moving well, and with some stamina for a change.  It's probable that the reduced pain in the Achilles was allowing me a longer stride length and better running form.  Whatever the reason, the beautiful run over Kincumba Mountain followed by a good stride out along the road back to McMasters Beach, made for a great morning session.  It was good to be alive.

Acclimatisation

Jack Foster winning the
1975 Honolulu Marathon

It was unseasonably warm overnight, with the temperature staying above 20°C.  Blustery northerly winds had raised the temperature to near 30°C by the time I headed out for an easy 10km at mid-morning.  Although the heat made the run harder work, I welcomed it.  I have a theory that you need to run in hot weather for about a week before your body adapts to make the running easier.  So the early days of heat in any summer will initially be hard work.  It's very hard to go from cold weather to warm weather and run well straight away.  A period of acclimatisation is needed.  This morning's run should have started that process for the coming summer.

The heat reminded me of a story I had been told about Jack Foster, a great New Zealand marathon runner, famous for the world record times he ran in his 40s (2:11:18) and 50s (2:20:28).  He only started running at the age of 32.  In early 1978, Jack was keen to get a place on the New Zealand team for the Commonwealth Games to be held in Edmonton, Canada, in August of that year.  For whatever reason, maybe injury, Jack hadn't run a qualifying time and was desperately looking for a certified marathon somewhere in Australasia to record a good time.  The only marathon he could find was in April in Whyalla, a remote steel town in South Australia, so he wrote to them and they invited him to run as their guest.  It was a new marathon and they were keen to get the publicity.  I heard this story the next year, when I was fortunate enough to be invited by the organisers to be their guest runner.

At least I managed to get on the same poster
as Jack Foster

Anyway, Jack needed to run a time of something like 2:16 to qualify and was optimistic that the flat Whyalla course would give him every chance.  Unfortunately for Jack, Whyalla can get hot, even in autumn, and during the race the temperature rose to 34°C.  The organisers had a huge barrel of water at about the 20 mile mark which they were intending to use as a source of water to douse passing runners.  By 20 miles, Jack's hopes of a qualifying time had evaporated in the heat, and the organisers told me that Jack actually jumped in the barrel of water to cool off before continuing to the finish in 2:26:52.  A year later, without the heat, I won in 2:27:43, so I have an appreciation for Jack's talents.  Sadly he was killed in a collision with a car while out training on his bike at the age of 72.

My right Achilles tendon was still quite sore when I set out for today's run, and I did wonder whether I was wise running at all.  But this injury has been with me for some years, and comes and goes in intensity, so I'm hoping careful management will help it settle down.  Part of that careful management is not forcing it, so I wasn't able to stretch out.  My running style felt awkward, which it was, and I'm sure I looked like an old man going out for a jog, which I was.  I hoped it might loosen up on the one kilometre climb out of Copa, but if it did, it was only a little.  I felt less fatigued than expected, given the 25km trail race on Sunday, but it got harder in the last kilometres as the hills and heat took their toll.

My time for my regular 10km loop was slow, 58 minutes, but that was of no consequence today.  The weather conditions were bad for anybody with breathing issues and the run was accompanied by lots of coughing and spluttering.  The mailman brought the new Sorbothane heel raises I had ordered today, so I'm hoping that will give my Achilles tendon some relief, and a visit to the doctor later resulted in a reversion to the former asthma medication which my body seemed to handle better.  I may risk a longer run tomorrow.

Racing injured

Two Peoples Bay, near where I stayed when I ran the
Albany Marathon in 1981

My right Achilles tendon and arch were both quite sore this morning, but that was to be expected after a long run, so I wasn't too worried.  In late morning I headed out in the warmth and sunshine for a 5km walk round Copa, taking care not to force the stiff and sore Achilles.  I felt quite flat after the rigours of yesterday's run and a late night (Terrigal Trotters Annual General Meeting).  My chest was still congested and I was glad a run wasn't scheduled for today.

I still intend to run the regular Six at Six tomorrow night and the 25km Woodford to Glenbrook trail race on Sunday, but it's hard to believe I'm going to run well in either.  I'm in the "stick to the plan and it will all work out" mode, which has generally served me well in the past, but not always.

Near the half-way point of the Albany Marathon course

Running injured is never much fun.  Non-runners often do not appreciate how frequently injuries afflict runners or how hard it can be to produce your best.  Back in 1981, I received an invitation to run in the Albany Marathon in Western Australia, with all expenses paid.  It was shortly after running second in the 1981 Big M Melbourne Marathon in 2:19:29, and I'm sure the organisers thought I would back up a month later with another sub-2:20, and a new course record in Albany.  Unknown to them, I had been carrying a serious Achilles tendon injury for some time and was already booked in for surgery four days after their race.  However, with the help of anti-inflammatories, I was still running, and was reluctant to pass up the chance of a free trip to the West.  I told them I couldn't guarantee anything faster than about 2:25 in a small race on an unknown course, and neglected to mention the upcoming surgery.

They organized the tickets and I travelled to Albany two days before the race, staying in a lovely guest house on a bay to the east of town.  My Achilles was very sore and I hadn't run further than 16km in three weeks.  Then, to my consternation, I developed a blister on a short training run, and through changing my gait, ended up with a painful locked muscle on the outside of my left shin.  I was having trouble walking, let alone running, but didn't feel I could, or should, say anything about my problems to the organisers.  I just hoped that I could win the event with a minimum of fuss, even if my time was slower than predicted.

My Race Certificate for the Albany Marathon

The day of the race was cool, overcast and blustery, and I was taken aback to find Dave Eltringham, a well-performed marathoner I knew from Melbourne, in the line-up.  He was a native of nearby Esperance and was home on vacation and to run the marathon.  I was starting to feel a lot of pressure.  When the gun fired, I quickly went to the lead at a solid clip, hoping any contenders (i.e., Dave) would give up early.  I was soon on my own, and after about 10km, relaxed the pace a little.  My Achilles hurt, my locked muscle was painful, I was having trouble running smoothly, and I just wanted it to all be over.

I reached the half-way point in exactly 1:12:30, and glanced over my shoulder, hoping nobody would be in sight.  Dave was a good runner, but with a best of just under 2:30, I hoped he would not be in contention at that pace in a minor marathon.  Alarmingly, he was less than 100 metres behind, obviously having a great run, and with me squarely in his sights.  I was not going to be able to coast the last half and tried to lift my tempo a little.  It was very hard work, made harder by some violent cold rain squalls and fierce winds in the last 10km.  The finish finally came into sight and I collapsed across the line in exactly 2:25:05, drenched, absolutely exhausted and in a lot of pain from my injuries.  Dave followed a minute or so later in a new Personal Best time.

The organizer commented that my time matched my pre-trip prediction almost exactly and that my two halves were perfectly even.  I could tell he thought it was just a "milk run" for me, where I had taken it as easily as I could whilst meeting my commitment.  In reality, it was one of the hardest races I ever ran, and one of those of which I am most proud.

.....some days are stone

After 8km, a few hills were a little harder than I had anticipated

Although I knew it would be hard work, I planned to try and run 36.5km this morning on the Round the Bay course here on the Central Coast.  I'm unhappy with my fitness and long runs have always been a relatively quick route back to form for me.  I knew I wasn't fit enough to be worrying at all about the time I would run.  Instead, I just wanted to complete the first two-thirds of the roughly triangular course without getting too tired, and then make my way to the finish as best I could.  Perhaps unwisely, after another late night, I chose not to get up early and set out around 8:45am on another warm sunny day along roads busy with morning peak hour traffic.

The early kilometres passed comfortably enough, with neither my right Achilles tendon nor my right arch injuries causing me excessive pain.  After 8km, a few hills were a little harder than I had anticipated, confirming that this was going to be a hard run.  By 15km, under a relentless sun, I couldn't stop thinking about how good it was going to be to stop, and kept telling myself to run efficiently.

By 15km, under a relentless sun, I couldn't stop thinking
about how good it was going to be to stop

By 24km I was really struggling to maintain a reasonable pace and the minor climb into East Gosford around 27km pretty much finished off any pretence of good running form.  I was just shambling along, uncertain of how I would manage another 10km.  Ultimately, I decided to run to the intersection at 29.5km and then walk the remaining 7km back to my car.  I regretted not carrying a $20 note with me for emergency use, but was mollified by the thought that walking the last 7km might be an appropriate of punishment for not running the whole way.  I have walked when running this course before, but only once that I can remember, and on that occasion I was unfit, over-weight and it was warm and humid.  Although it was warm, I would have expected to do better today.  Only a week ago I had managed the 32km Orchard Run in reasonable form, so maybe I am still labouring with some minor ailment.

As I walked along the sun-soaked footpath I was very tempted to lie down and close my eyes for just a couple of minutes in the shade of a tree in one of the small grassy parks I passed, or maybe on the bench in one of the bus shelters.  This was a tell-tale sign of exhaustion, just as the longing for a Mars Bar is a sign that I have exhausted my glycogen stores and am burning fats.

With about 4.5km to go, I passed a car parked by the footpath and heard my name called.  It was a fellow Terrigal Trotter, Alison, who had driven passed me and returned, wondering whether I needed help.  I gratefully accepted her offer of a lift to where my car was parked, and my ordeal was over.

Although I had managed to run about 30km, it was demoralising not to finish the run as planned.  At the time I injured my arch, just over two months ago, I had run the same course reasonably easily in a satisfactory time.  It's hard to accept that, despite having resumed training more than a month ago, I'm still not back to where I was.  I do hope that it's just the last vestiges of an ailment slowing me down and that normal service will shortly be resumed.  However, as Alison said, at least we are running.  She is running after missing more than a year with injury.

Chicago

Lincoln Park, Chicago

I only had a short jog scheduled for today, anyway, but I still found it hard, with the same issues as yesterday - breathlessness, excessive sweating and lead-leggedness.  I don't feel too bad when I'm not running, just a little fatigued, so I'm hoping I'll be healthy again shortly.  There is a tough 15km run scheduled for Terrigal Trotters tomorrow, so that will be a test.  As soon as I feel I'm healthy and running well again, I'll put together a training plan for the Hobart Marathon in January, my next best chance of running a sub-3 hour marathon, having given up on running well in the Melbourne Marathon, in just six weeks time.

Not having much to write about today, I thought I would revisit another of the regular morning running courses from my past.  Between 1987 and 1990, I held joint responsibility with a colleague for setting up the North American operation of my company in Chicago.  For a while, my colleague, who was based in Stockholm (I was based near London), and I alternated our time in Chicago and mostly stayed in a corporate apartment we leased.

Prior to this assignment, I had only visited Chicago once, briefly, and didn’t hold it in very high regard.  However, as I spent more time there I grew to love it and now rate it as one of my favourite cities.  I liked the cleanliness and professional bustle of the city, the friendliness of the people, and its classical stone buildings offset by the towering skyscrapers.  Tucked away everywhere were atmospheric little bars and bistros.  From our apartment on the southern edges of the central business district, I also grew to love my regular Chicago early morning run.

Along the Lake Michigan waterfront
to Chicago

The route headed north through the early morning quiet of the business district, known as The Loop (where I would be working later in the day), and joined LaSalle Street which took me across the very unimpressive Chicago River, more like a large drain, and out of the city.  After the river, North LaSalle Street traversed a couple of kilometres of quiet inner suburbs of picturesque old houses and apartment blocks to the famed Lincoln Park.  From there, my route followed a network of gravel paths and horse rides before skirting the north side of little Diversey Harbor to reach the vast Lake Michigan and turn south for the return to the city.

For five kilometres the route followed perfectly flat concrete paths along the Lake and I can remember flying along here, passing joggers at speed on my good days.  At the southern end, the path was squeezed between the busy multi-lane Lakeshore Drive and the Lake and one winter I vividly recall being hit hard in the chest by the stream of snow blasted from the side of a snow plough travelling the opposite direction along the Drive.  I could see it coming but there was nowhere to go.

The Chicago waterfront on a windy day

The snow plough experience paled, however, compared to another winter experience I had in the same area.  There was no path, but it was possible to run along a sort of wide sloping concrete shelf that bordered the lake.  At the edge of the shelf was a vertical drop of about half a metre into the deep lake.  If it had been windy, waves broke over the concrete shelf, and if cold, the breaking waves would freeze on the concrete.  One morning I was running along there in the winter pre-dawn darkness, trying to dodge the iciest sections, when I slipped and fell.  It was bad enough landing on the rock hard ice, but soon I became aware of a worse fate.  I was sliding, on my back,  down the ice-covered concrete slope towards the drop-off into the semi-frozen lake.  I spread my arms, trying to reduce my weight and catch one of the icy ridges caused by the waves.  After about five metres, with about ten to go, I managed to stop myself and then very gingerly got onto my hands and knees and crawled up the slope and off the ice.  It was dark, there was nobody around, and I have often wondered how long it would have taken for them to find my body if I had gone into the lake.  There was no way I could have climbed out or survived long enough to swim to safety.  I continued to use the same route in winter, but ran very carefully, and as near the top of the concrete ledge as I could go, walking if necessary.

The last part of the run crossed the open parks in front of the Art Institute of Chicago and back to the city and the apartment.

As far as “garbage” runs go, this was quite a long course (16.5km), but it was flat and fast and usually took around an hour.  I experienced it in the rank humidity of a Chicago summer and the way-below-freezing temperatures of a Chicago winter, and have very fond memories of both.

Hong Kong

Coombe Road

This morning's 10km run went a little better than expected.  I had been anxious about how my arch would be after Sunday's punishment, but although still sensitive, wasn't too bad.  My legs felt heavy, and I wasn't running particularly smoothly, but the time for my usual "garbage" 10km was an acceptable 54 minutes. 

On the subject of "garbage" runs, my favourite over the years is the 13km loop I used to run while working in Hong Kong.  In the late 1980s and early 1990s, I used to travel there quite often, sometimes for a month or two at a time.  Our corporate office was in the Pacific Place complex, and I usually stayed in one of the adjacent hotels.

Bowen Road

Hong Kong Island has many pedestrian pathways and minor roads criss-crossing the jungle-clad mountains, high above the sky-scrapers and sea.  When I first went there, I was quickly and pleasantly surprised to find places you could run that seemed far away from the hustle and bustle.

A run on my regular course started with turning the air conditioner to maximum power and minimum temperature as I left my room.  The usual heat and humidity, even in the early morning, meant that I returned over-heated and bathed in sweat.  The ritual became to strip off and stand under the air conditioning vent reading the paper for ten minutes or so until I stopped sweating.  Showering immediately after the run was useless, because I would still be sweating when I emerged, no matter how cold the water.

Looking over Hong Kong from near Bowen Road

The course was tough, climbing steadily for the first three kilometres, initially past apartment blocks (my favourite was called "Wealthy Towers"), and then higher along the main road to Magazine Gap.  There, I crossed to the south side of the Island and journeyed along the shady and quiet Coombe Road to Wan Chai Gap before joining Black's Link path.  This paved footpath contoured around a mountain, passing through one of Hong Kong's excellent regional parks, and provided fantastic views to the south coast.  It eventually reached civilisation again and then there was a steady downhill stretch alongside the busy Wong Nai Chung Gap Road past the Hong Kong Cricket and Tennis Clubs.  If I was feeling good, it was possible to fly down this section for a couple of kilometres before turning off on the famous pedestrian-only Bowen Road.

The Bowen Road follows a contour along the jungle-clad mountainside high above the main business district and the harbour.  The hum of a city starting a new day drifts up from below, but is offset by the peaceful routine of the Tai Chi practitioners and the smell of incense from the small wayside shrines along the Road.  In my opinion this is the best city running path in the world.  Again, if you are feeling good, it's possible to stretch out, and enjoy overtaking other runners.  After 4 kilometres of Bowen Road, the course turned downhill and returned to the hotel.

Getting out the door

The Bouddi Coastal Path

The day didn't start too well.  I was still processing Great North Walk 100s entries after midnight and didn't finish and get to bed until 1:30am.  After sleeping in to 8:00am, I woke to discover I had made an error in the payment details emailed to successful entrants and needed to send out a correction, and deal with emails and calls from those who had already tried to pay.  Ultra-runners are a friendly bunch, and fortunately everybody was understanding about my stuff-up.

Feeling a bit under the weather after such a long day yesterday and the late start and problems of this morning, I wasn't enthused by the thought of a late morning run, especially a longer one as planned.  Nevertheless, around 11:00am, on a beautiful warm and sunny day, I dragged myself out the door and set off for an easy 22km run following a course that gave multiple options for short-cuts if I felt bad, or my right arch was hurting too much.

Just a small section of the Maitland
Bay steps

The course incorporated some quiet roads and trails, much of it in the nearby Bouddi National Park.  As discussed in an earlier post, Small Explorations, I find that choosing a course with some interest is a good way of dealing with the "I really don't want to go for a run" problem.  My chosen route incorporated some stiff climbs, including the stairs up from Maitland Bay, but I took it slowly, enjoying the weather and stopping briefly a couple of times to take in the views (and once to help some tourists).  Some new blisters had developed during the City to Surf run on Sunday, a product of the new orthotic insoles I was wearing, so for today I reverted to the original insoles supplied with the shoes.  I was conscious of some occasional pain in my right arch, but it wasn't serious and I finished the run thinking that I will now stick with these insoles.

I finished tired and sweaty, with aching legs, but know this is what I need - some long steady runs that will help me regain the form I was enjoying a couple of months ago.  We have a 42km Terrigal Trotters trail run scheduled for Sunday, and this morning's run gives me confidence I'll be able to go the distance.  The wisdom of going for the run, even though I really didn't want to, was confirmed.

In my opinion, this is one of the testing times for all serious runners.  That is, forcing yourself to go for training runs when you really, really, don't want to.  It's worth persevering.  Not only do you get a training benefit from the run in question, but the experience goes into your psychological "bank".  That is, you gain self-confidence and self-respect by knowing that you can make yourself do things that other runners would not, and it becomes easier to get out for a run the next time it seems too much trouble.

Today's run finished around the edges of Cockrone Lagoon

I can recall a particular training run, sometime in the late 1970s, when I was working full-time and doing my Masters part-time.  It was a miserable wet and dark winter's Wednesday evening.  A tutorial at the University after work meant I didn't get home until about 7:30pm.  My training program (I was running over 200km per week) called for a 35km road run that evening.  Though hungry and desperate to have the night off running, I forced myself out the door and set off through the Melbourne suburbs, a lonely figure splashing along the dark footpaths.  Somewhere in the middle of that run, when I was passing through an industrial area in light drizzle, the thought suddenly came to me that few, if any, other runners in Australia would have been willing to do this run.  The thought buoyed me for the rest of the run.  I realised that I may not have the talent of some of my fellow marathon competitors, but I was sure none of them was training harder.

This is an exaggeration, of course.  There are many athletes, not all of them "elite", who force themselves to go out on training runs when they would rather be doing something else.  They will know what I'm talking about.

City to Surf

Waiting for the City to Surf start
  

It was a good day, and a frustrating day.  I journeyed into Sydney this morning for the annual 14km City to Surf Fun Run with my fellow Terrigal Trotters in a convoy of two minibuses after a 5:00am pick-up.  We had a very enjoyable day, along with 85,000 others, in excellent Sydney winter weather - cool to start, but sunny and warm by mid-morning.

Most of my club-mates ran very well, exceeding or meeting their goal times, and I was pleased for them.  It's not an easy race, and you have to prepare well and hang in there, to get a good time.  I don't think I did either particularly well.  Of course, I've only been back running for two weeks and only done any significant training this week, so I can rationalise my 63:03 time (4:30 mins/km) as about right for my fitness.  However, I didn't enjoy it.  From the start, where we stood around for over an hour in the cool morning air, I did not feel like I was travelling well.  My sore right arch hurt a bit, and my running form was poor, maybe partly due to the tempo run yesterday that left me a little stiff and sore.

Heading through the tunnel

I steadily lost ground to those around me early on, and kept telling myself that once I warmed up I would catch them on the hills later.  This never really happened.  I was still feeling rough up the major climb at half-way, and then just tried to relax on the run in to iconic Bondi Beach.  I never checked my watch en route, and was a little worried that my time would be slower than the 70 minutes required to qualify for the Red Start next year.  However, as it turned out, I was well inside that time, but I never threatened my usual Trotters' rivals, who all ran very well.

Bondi Beach

I don't think there's any way of avoiding these tough comeback runs, really.  You somehow have to get from doing nothing to good form and somewhere between the two are going to be some runs where you feel frustrated and unfit.  I just have to keep my eye on the main goal and not stress about these runs.

Some long easy runs would help me get fit more quickly, but I'm worried that my arch injury is still causing some pain and it might be unwise to test it further at the moment.  I will have an easy day tomorrow and then decide what is wise training for the balance of the week.

St Louis

Mason Road, St Louis, part of my regular morning 10km

Happily, the adductor muscle strain that was bothering me yesterday was not a problem on my easy 5km jog around the streets of Copa this morning.  Nor was my right arch any worse than yesterday, so I'm feeling a little more confident about getting back into full training by the end of August.

Copa is situated in a beautiful part of the world and offers plenty of running courses, but options for an easy 5km are quite limited.  In fact, there's pretty much only one loop that works from my house, and it does get a little boring day after day, despite passing by the spectacular beach.  Fortunately, there are more options for the 10-12km runs that have been the "bread and butter" of my running life.

Although my training load has varied, the standard recovery and/or morning run has tended to be 10-12km.  These runs have been referred to as "garbage runs" by other writers.  They are not quality sessions, nor are they designed to develop a specific running attribute.  But they generally reinforce muscle memory and strength, exercise the cardiovascular system and aid running efficiency.  They keep the engine ticking over, and become the most common session for many runners.  As such, they loom large in my memory of the many places I have been lucky enough to live and work in during my life, and I judge the running amenity of these places according to the variety and interest of these regular 10-12km runs.

I still managed a couple of podium
finishes while living in St Louis

Probably the most boring location, from a running perspective, was St Louis in the US, where I lived in the western suburbs from 1992 to 1997. Our area was characterised by long, mostly straight through roads laid out in a grid pattern, servicing many unconnected housing estates. It was quite hilly and also exposed, with the latter exacerbating the drastic seasonal variations. In winter, the cold air used to sweep down the Mississippi Valley from Canada and months could be spent running in dark sub-freezing morning temperatures, with wind-chills often exceeding -25°C and occasionally reaching -40°C, or worse. In summer, the warm humid air made its way up the Mississippi Valley from the Gulf of Mexico, and even the early morning runs were sweltering affairs. We were lucky enough to have a pool and the sweetest moment of most days was stripping off and diving in to that (hidden from public view) pool at the end of the run.

There was really only one 10km loop from my house, and for variation, I would alternate directions each day for my morning run (I was only training once per day by this stage of my life).  It wasn't a bad course, with a few hills and a semi-rural stretch, but running it most days each week for five years was enough.  In all of the times I ran that course, two runs in particular live in my memory, both weather-related.

Hawk Ridge Trail in Queeny Park, St Louis

At certain times of the year, St Louis used to have some violent storms with barrages of thunderclaps sounding like artillery duels.  As is my wont, I don't like changing my training plans because of weather, so I tended to go for my scheduled runs regardless.  In one early morning twilight, I was about two kilometres into my regular loop, running west along Clayton Road during a thunderstorm, when a huge thunderclap sounded directly overhead accompanied by a simultaneous lightning strike on a tree about 50 metres to my left.  I must have leapt a metre into the air and finished the run powered by adrenalin.

On another occasion, in early morning mid-winter darkness, I was heading south along the unlit and narrow Mason Road in about 7cm of fresh snow when I encountered three snow-ploughs, covering the entire width of the road, approaching me at about 50kph.  I had no choice but to leap off the road down a dark embankment to avoid being hit by the juggernauts.  Fortunately, no harm done.

If time and weather permitted, I sometimes ran a 12km loop that incorporated trails in the nearby picturesque Queeny Park, but the park didn't officially open until 8:00am so I was reluctant to do that too often.  However, it was a great place to run some laps on weekends.

The Three Hour Run

Bogong High Plains near Mt Fainter

Nothing beats that post-run feeling of breathlessness, sweatiness and accomplishment.  I am very happy to be running again.  Even though it's only been 5km a day this week, I feel unfit, my right arch still hurts, and I have a few niggles (traceable, I believe, to wearing the new insoles), my outlook has swung to positive.

Since there's not much to talk about with respect to my training at present, I thought I would include an article I wrote for the Kew Camberwell Newsletter about a long run I did with Chris Wardlaw on the Bogong High Plains in early 1984.  My club, Kew Camberwell, hired a lodge in Falls Creek for a week or two in January each year, and we spent our time running, eating and playing board games.  Other running clubs did the same and the tradition continues to this day, of athletes training on the High Plains during summer.

Chris, who I've mentioned in previous posts, was a famous figure in Australian athletics.  He had represented Australia in the marathon in the Moscow Olympics, where his performance was possibly compromised by the lead he had taken in opposing, ultimately successfully, the Australian Government's attempt to boycott the Games in protest at the USSR's venture into Afghanistan.  Our paths had crossed at Melbourne High School Old Boys Athletic Club, Monash University and various running events over the previous fifteen years.

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THE THREE HOUR RUN

Bogong High Plains

When Chris Wardlaw asked me whether I was interested in a “three hour run” the next day, I initially declined.  I had already arranged to travel down from Falls Creek with the rest of the Kew Camberwell crew to compete at Albury, and I hadn’t run for longer than 1.5 hours at a time for six months because of a back injury.  However, I found the idea very tempting because there’s nothing I like better than a bit of a run in the bush.

When I saw Chris later on I asked what pace the run would be and who else was going.  The pace was to be “slow” and he was going with Danny, a local identity and former 2:21 marathoner, and “the only man to ski from Crackenback to Hotham……..and survive”.  I was hooked, and arranged to meet them at 9:00am the next day.  Megan, Ian and Barb were to come the first few miles, before heading off on a different 18-mile loop whilst we were to continue to Tawonga Hut, on over Mt Fainter, and then descend to Bogong Village where we were to be picked up by Chris’s girlfriend.

Next day, the weather was abysmal.  It was raining, foggy and very windy, not to mention cold.  Ominously, the “Crackenback to Hotham survivor” failed to show, but after a quick glance at a map, Chris and I resolved to go anyway.  Also ominously for me, the first two or three miles were uphill, and Barb and Megan, and then Ian, dropped off the “slow” pace whilst I tried not to think about the hours ahead.  The wind was at our backs, somewhat masking the foul conditions, while we batted along at near six-minute mile pace, discussing Olympic prospects (not mine), female marathoner pregnancies, and the rescue of Robbie Morgan-Morris’s training group the previous Sunday in similarly foul weather conditions.

After an hour we climbed over the top of Ben Cooper and then descended on a rocky trail down a valley and on to Tawonga Hut.  The weather was deteriorating.  From the Hut, there was a fire-trail and a narrow foot track leading off in different directions.  We were unable to decide which was correct and eventually resorted to asking a hiker (who was spending the day in his tent!) which we should follow.  He suggested the narrow foot-trail, but said it was difficult to follow.  Off we went, climbing steeply up out of the snow gums onto open plains, where we succeeded in losing the track almost immediately.  The weather was still deteriorating.  We decided to continue up onto the top of the ridge in front of us and then follow it to the right to Mt Fainter where we expected to pick up the track again.

Myrtleford Ski Lodge, where we used to stay when
training at Falls Creek

On the ridge, the weather was appalling.  The rain was now mixed with hail, which because the wind was so strong, was blowing horizontally, visibility was down to 100 metres, and it was freezing.  We continued cross-country along the ridge occasionally having to bash our way through stretches of wiry matted waist-high scrub, all the time getting colder and colder.  We skirted a couple of craggy peaks, hoping we were staying on the right ridge until confronted with a rocky peak with no obvious way around.  We stopped briefly, both now shivering violently and having difficulty talking, to discuss the situation.  The unanimous decision was that we had to get off the ridge.  My guess was that we should head down to the right whilst Chris wasn’t so sure, thinking we may have gone round in a circle when rounding one of the peaks.

We went down to the right.  As we descended the shallow valley the scrub became thicker and thicker, and we were now both fairly badly scratched and soaked to the skin.  We were still above the tree-line and exposed to the elements.  After twenty minutes, not a lot of forward progress, and a number of falls into holes and a creek, another brief conference was held (in mumbles).  Chris was more doubtful about our direction and I was concerned about our slow progress.  We decided to continue, but after another fifteen minutes the scrub was up to shoulder height, progress was even slower, and our physical condition deteriorating.

Chris looked pretty bad – shivering violently, bluey-white, and almost unable to talk.  He was wearing a pom-pom hat and waterproof jacket as protective clothing, neither of which were of much benefit.  I was wearing only shorts, a T-shirt, and a singlet.  I knew hypothermia was setting in and started to examine myself for symptoms.  The extreme fatigue, violent shivering and clumsiness were all there, but I still did not feel disorientated.  From memory, shivering was supposed to stop in serious hypothermia cases, and I certainly hadn’t reached that stage.  However, we were still over an hour away from shelter at best, assuming we were going in the right direction, and I was seriously concerned about our chances of survival.

Another garbled conversation ensued, and in the face of Chris’s increasing doubts about our direction (he trains on the High Plains every summer) and some uncertainty on my part, we decided to try and retrace our steps, at least back to Tawonga Hut.  The prospect of returning to the ridge was not at all pleasant, but at least it would be nice to run again and maybe get the circulation going.  The climb back up was frenzied as we both went as fast as we could, crashing though the scrub, falling over, grunting and cursing.

The Ben Cooper cairn on a fine day

Once back on the ridge, we tried to follow our original course, peering through the fog for familiar landmarks and looking for faint footmarks in the muddy parts.  It was freezing, my leg muscles were feeling strange, and my knee caps and head were aching with cold.  We stumbled onwards, found a bit of a path, but couldn’t pick where we should descend to Tawonga Hut.  Rather than descend into another scrubby valley, we kept on along the ridge and then, “joy of joys”, through a brief break in the fog, saw the blurry outline of Ben Cooper with its distinctive cairn about a kilometre away to our left.

The spirit was willing, though the flesh was weak, as we battled towards it directly into the face of the roaring gale.  Once there, we picked up our track and headed for “Falls” as fast as we could go – not very fast.

All I could think of was getting back to shelter, and as I struggled up hill after hill into the wind, just kept muttering “Hot Shower, Hot Shower” as a mantra, over and over to myself whilst avoiding the thought of the distance and mountains in between.

Falls Creek in winter

Eventually we descended into Falls Creek and arrived at the bottom of the 100 metre sharp hill up to the lodge.  At this point, my legs decided they had had enough and the hill was negotiated very slowly in a drunken stagger.  We had been out for four hours.

Once I reached the lodge, I stumbled through the door muttering incoherently.  Barb pulled off my shoes and wet gear and pushed me into a hot shower where I was still shivering violently twenty minutes later.  After a bowl of soup and other goodies, my body began to revive and the adventure was over.

I visited Chris that evening in his lodge to find him lying flat out on the floor under a quilt still trying to get back to normal.  He confided that he too thought we were “goners” in the middle stages and wondered who was going to survive, the “fitter” or the “fatter”.