Lacking the prospect of anything else constructive to do today, I spent all day running. In the end, I ran 30 miles. Also in the end, I was in a right state, running at the speed of a snail pulling an elephant through treacle.
This all started because of the tube strike. In my new, My Life Has A Purpose, phase, I had planned on traveling (by tube) to the Science Museum, educating myself about stuff, then changing into lycra in the loos, and running home. Then the tube strike happened, the plan was scrapped, and who needs the tube anyway, strike as much as you want, to get places I will simply run on my own feet and not rely on public transport, which is a waste of time at the best of times.
Pumped up like a puffer fish with annoyance and self importance, I kitted up, bought supplies of snacks, filled all available water bottles (it's hot), and wended on the way down to the river, which let's face it, is where I've spent a considerable proportion of days this year running already, so why re-invent the wheel. I was headed West, as I could hear the roars of Wimbledon, and the swoosh of Andy Murray's winning sweat bands flying through the air in the distance.
The centre of London looked as if the tube had vomited people out from underground, many of whom looked like they hadn't seen daylight for some time, all of whom were now stood on pavements in long queues, shouting at buses/ each other/ the police. I joined them, as I'm English, and that's what we do, join queues when we see one, until I remembered that that wasn't what I was supposed to be doing today.
Things went well for a few miles, until I got to Waterloo, and tried out a different route which involved running south of the river past the MI5 building (woop!) and then getting lost for a couple of miles around the less posh parts of Battersea (poop!). I arrived in Battersea Park at 8 miles, feeling quite faint (impromptu ultra running days should not start on a breakfast of half a bowl of muesli). Had a snack, and cracked open the first bottle (of water).
Pumped up like a puffer fish with annoyance and self importance, I kitted up, bought supplies of snacks, filled all available water bottles (it's hot), and wended on the way down to the river, which let's face it, is where I've spent a considerable proportion of days this year running already, so why re-invent the wheel. I was headed West, as I could hear the roars of Wimbledon, and the swoosh of Andy Murray's winning sweat bands flying through the air in the distance.
The centre of London looked as if the tube had vomited people out from underground, many of whom looked like they hadn't seen daylight for some time, all of whom were now stood on pavements in long queues, shouting at buses/ each other/ the police. I joined them, as I'm English, and that's what we do, join queues when we see one, until I remembered that that wasn't what I was supposed to be doing today.
Things went well for a few miles, until I got to Waterloo, and tried out a different route which involved running south of the river past the MI5 building (woop!) and then getting lost for a couple of miles around the less posh parts of Battersea (poop!). I arrived in Battersea Park at 8 miles, feeling quite faint (impromptu ultra running days should not start on a breakfast of half a bowl of muesli). Had a snack, and cracked open the first bottle (of water).
Continued on down the river to Putney, which in my head meant I had completed Part 1 of the run, 11 miles. The path then gets nice and leaves all the city shenanigans behind, and winds peacefully under trees by the river, past places such as Hammersmith (people sat outside pubs having lunch), Barnes (people sat outside pubs having lunch), Kew Gardens (people sat outside on benches having lunch) for about 9 miles until it finally, reluctantly, allows you to arrive into Richmond, where, you guessed it, people are sat outside pubs having lunch. At some point in the last 9 miles, I don't remember when, watching all this relaxing and eating clearly got to me, as now when I look in my bag, all the good snacks have gone.
All that remains is a well known brand of a coconut protein flapjack, which I bought on impulse, which I now eye suspiciously. I am yet to be convinced that protein should be the reason that you eat flapjack. But more on that later.
Thus, on arriving in Richmond, at about 20 miles, I had completed Part 2.
Part 3 began up a hill to Richmond Park, and to the part I was looking forward to the most. I think of Richmond Park as my spiritual home. Today, however, I had battles to do with my spirits (and I'm not talking vodka). About the time that I got to the Park, I hit The Wall, as running types know it. Basically, this is the point at about 20 miles in a marathon when you go from feeling bad to feeling really bad, and I assume is called The Wall, as it feels approximately the same as running into an actual wall, and then banging your head, and all parts of your body, against it repeatedly.
This does not make for enjoyable running. But the sadistic part of me (which apparently is quite substantial) was secretly pleased. I fully believe in pushing yourself to your limit, I think you meet you true self at such times (although from the experiences I've had of meeting my true self, such occasions should be limited to perhaps a couple of times per year). As I always say though, if you make a habit of running marathons, it's likely that at some point in a race, you are going to come across The Wall. Therefore, it pays to be prepared, and such situations are as important in training as all the successful runs you will also have.
I ignored the sensation for a mile. Or, I started looking obsessively at my watch, and watched my pace drop off like a sack of spuds off a cliff. This is an emergency. I must eat the protein flapjack. I battled this thought for a further 1/2 mile, and then surrendered. The experience was as I expected. It was like eating burnt plywood, topped with sawdust, and then barbequed to within an inch of it's life. I drank the last of my water to get it down my throat, and spent the next mile choking.
The pain in the back of my right knee has come back, at what point I couldn't tell you, and is getting steadily worse. The good thing is, once it reaches a point, the pain doesn't get any worse, and if I stop and stretch it even gets better. I therefore adopted a new running style 'tree-hugging-frog' which involves dragging my bad leg behind me like an injured gazelle (who am I kidding! Like an injured buffalo) between trees and stopping to stretch, before repeating.
Then my eyes started doing that thing, where you really know that things are falling apart, where all the colours go really bright, like your very retinas have been Instagrammed, and the sky goes a really bright blue, and the trees get a bright green halo around them. Then I had a panic attack that I had run out of water, and there were still 7 miles to go before my self declared 30 mile run ended, and the temperature now was hotter than the surface of the sun. Then I had another panic attack, when the ice-cream van that is always ALWAYS parked in a certain car park, like ALWAYS even in winter, wasn't there. This is it. I started looking for a suitable tree under which to seek refuge and start employing all the survival techniques I had read about, lay still and protect yourself from the sun, send off flares. There was something about drinking pee, or not drinking pee, but I couldn't remember which, so I worried about this for a while. Then I saw it. A kiosk! Never have I been so happy to see an overpriced tourist ice cream kiosk! I will fight another mile!
Part 3 began up a hill to Richmond Park, and to the part I was looking forward to the most. I think of Richmond Park as my spiritual home. Today, however, I had battles to do with my spirits (and I'm not talking vodka). About the time that I got to the Park, I hit The Wall, as running types know it. Basically, this is the point at about 20 miles in a marathon when you go from feeling bad to feeling really bad, and I assume is called The Wall, as it feels approximately the same as running into an actual wall, and then banging your head, and all parts of your body, against it repeatedly.
This does not make for enjoyable running. But the sadistic part of me (which apparently is quite substantial) was secretly pleased. I fully believe in pushing yourself to your limit, I think you meet you true self at such times (although from the experiences I've had of meeting my true self, such occasions should be limited to perhaps a couple of times per year). As I always say though, if you make a habit of running marathons, it's likely that at some point in a race, you are going to come across The Wall. Therefore, it pays to be prepared, and such situations are as important in training as all the successful runs you will also have.
I ignored the sensation for a mile. Or, I started looking obsessively at my watch, and watched my pace drop off like a sack of spuds off a cliff. This is an emergency. I must eat the protein flapjack. I battled this thought for a further 1/2 mile, and then surrendered. The experience was as I expected. It was like eating burnt plywood, topped with sawdust, and then barbequed to within an inch of it's life. I drank the last of my water to get it down my throat, and spent the next mile choking.
The pain in the back of my right knee has come back, at what point I couldn't tell you, and is getting steadily worse. The good thing is, once it reaches a point, the pain doesn't get any worse, and if I stop and stretch it even gets better. I therefore adopted a new running style 'tree-hugging-frog' which involves dragging my bad leg behind me like an injured gazelle (who am I kidding! Like an injured buffalo) between trees and stopping to stretch, before repeating.
Then my eyes started doing that thing, where you really know that things are falling apart, where all the colours go really bright, like your very retinas have been Instagrammed, and the sky goes a really bright blue, and the trees get a bright green halo around them. Then I had a panic attack that I had run out of water, and there were still 7 miles to go before my self declared 30 mile run ended, and the temperature now was hotter than the surface of the sun. Then I had another panic attack, when the ice-cream van that is always ALWAYS parked in a certain car park, like ALWAYS even in winter, wasn't there. This is it. I started looking for a suitable tree under which to seek refuge and start employing all the survival techniques I had read about, lay still and protect yourself from the sun, send off flares. There was something about drinking pee, or not drinking pee, but I couldn't remember which, so I worried about this for a while. Then I saw it. A kiosk! Never have I been so happy to see an overpriced tourist ice cream kiosk! I will fight another mile!
Drank the apple juice too quickly and felt sick. Put the remainder in my empty bottle, where it went all frothy when I started running. Why is that? The juice quelled my nerves that I was about to dehydrate to a crisp, but didn't make me feel better. I continued on the rapid descent to the depths of the nightmare, whilst my pace was now firmly planted at the bottom of the cliff and refused to budge.
Carried on, through the arid yellow grass of the savannah (aka Richmond Park, but I've started to hallucinate now). The only way this could be worse is if a pride of lions rose from the pasture, looking for an afternoon snack. On cue, a stag rose from the grass and aimed it's antlers at me. Too tired to react, I continued towards it. It looked momentarily affronted, then decided I was clearly no threat to anything, even a fly, and so continued on it's thoughtful chewing of the grass while I limped on to the next tree.
Finally, after what seemed like a couple of millennia, my watch clicked over from 29.99 to 30.00 miles. I collapsed under a tree, where I stayed motionless for a couple more millennia.
Carried on, through the arid yellow grass of the savannah (aka Richmond Park, but I've started to hallucinate now). The only way this could be worse is if a pride of lions rose from the pasture, looking for an afternoon snack. On cue, a stag rose from the grass and aimed it's antlers at me. Too tired to react, I continued towards it. It looked momentarily affronted, then decided I was clearly no threat to anything, even a fly, and so continued on it's thoughtful chewing of the grass while I limped on to the next tree.
Finally, after what seemed like a couple of millennia, my watch clicked over from 29.99 to 30.00 miles. I collapsed under a tree, where I stayed motionless for a couple more millennia.
My top is so caked in salt, you could get heart disease from looking at it. I managed to change it, take painkillers washed down with the last apple froth for the headache which was looming menacingly in the background, and stick myself back together with plasters, before limping down the hill to the train station.
Where I stood in a total of 3 shops, staring inanely and unable to decide what it was that I needed to eat right now. I decided on nothing. Fortunately, I could still remember where I lived, and boarded a train, which was jammed with all the people the tube was still stubbornly refusing to let back underground.
In the whole time I was out, I received a total of 0 phone calls, and 3 text messages, one from O2 telling me what my bill was (great), one from a car insurance company giving me a quote (I know), and one from O2 trying to sell me something else (go away), from which I conclude that if I did actually keep on running for ever, no one would have noticed that I'd gone at all.
Made a detour to the shop on the way home, where still unable to make a decision about what I should eat, I bought everything in the shop, and throughout the evening had a good crack at replacing the 2400 calorie I'd just used up.
And that, my friends, is a free lesson in how not to run an ultra-marathon.
Stats
Total days: 69 days
Total miles: 746.85 miles
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