Sunday 8th August 2010
I've been silent too long. Well maybe not.
All has not been going to plan. Not that there ever was a plan particularly, but had there been it would now be in tatters. The afforementioned 'long' run coincided with the arrival of our summer and the accompanying hordes of customers. Training through the latter part of June and early July was difficult due both to the heat and the lack of time. I was beginning to get concerned about the lack of preparation when CRACK - my back went. No exciting excuses - I was tying my shoe lace - but excuse or not the result was not good. For 3 weeks I managed a 1 or 2 mile hobble every evening but other than that was pretty much imobile.
Then we came on holiday - our first holiday as a family (actually my first family holiday since the age of 13 when I had an argument with my mother and cycled the 90 miles home from our annual family holiday - I was never asked again). We are a week into a very restful fortnight in the Auvergne region of France. Sleeping; croissants and fresh fruit for breakfast; decent coffee; reading; swimming; canoeing; drinking cheap French rose; Oh and running again.
And here I have a problem. I hadn't realised until the back incident how much a part of my life the running had become. I'm not sure if it's a mental or a physical thing. Maybe both. When I started (4962 miles ago on 1st January 2008) it was nothing but a chore. And for 6 months it remained thus. Gradually the daily grind morphed into a habit. I'm not sure a daily habit is any better than a daily chore but it required less mental effort to get out of the door. Occasionally I would experience a limited degree of satisfaction from a long(ish) run completed 
without undue pain. But the endorphin rush that obsessive runners talk about has to this day eluded me. However, if such a thing exists, I have experienced an endorphin deficiency for these past 3 weeks of enforced virtual rest. Running a busy restaurant is not condusive to one's chances of indulgence in many of life's pleasures. Dining with friends; a night at the theatre; reading; watching East Enders; spending time with the kids; family; sleep etc etc. But it does make one value one's moments of privacy. I have come to love, and rely on, my times of peace and solitude out on the Ridgeway.
For those who have followed this self-indulgent blog thus far (would that I could afford a ruthless editor) I really meant it when I said I realised marathons were not for me and I should do something useful with my hard-earned fitness. I intend to. Wholeheartedly. But there was an element of me that was using the run to Chablis to cure me of my recently-acquired obsession. I know the run is beyond my capabilites but I also know - because of the money at stake, and, dare I say an element of personal pride - that I have to complete the challenge. I also now know that I have to complete it intact. Until this week I assumed my arrival into Chablis - hopefully still on my own two feet - would be the last time I would be caught in a pair of trainers.
Among the books I brought along for the holiday were two that have given me much food for thought. 'Born to Run', by American journalist turned aspirant ultra runner Christopher McDougal, and 'C - because coward's get cancer too' by Nigella Lawson's late husband John Diamond. The former a recent reccomendation from a customer. The latter I book I have wanted to read for nearly 10 years. Since I don't have an editor I suppose I am allowed to further digress.
John Diamond's cancer was pronounced terminal on it's third invasion of his throat in late 1999 - just around the time I was hospitalised with depression. He was given 6 -18 months to live. By the turn of the millenium I was back at home but probably at my lowest. In his weekly 'Times' column on the Saturday between Christmas and New Year he discussed his daughter Cosima's upcoming birthday party (from memory her 6th) I seem to recall he was mystified by the necessity of the attendance of a Posh Spice lookalike. Mid point of the column he began a paragraph (and again from memory because I have been unable to google the original) .....' I worry sometimes that I won't be able to.....' and he listed things he worried about missing. Walking down the aisle to give Cosima away and being present for her presidential inaugeration speech were two I do remember.
I emailed him. It was Millenium Eve. I asked how he was able to say he 'worried sometimes' when he knew he hadn't long to live and was consequently going to be permanently seperated from his two young children, but I - who really had no problems (in hindsight) - was being treated for depression. Within an hour I had a reply. It began 'Ah - but it's easy for me...' and he proceeded to explain why. We traded emails until he passed away. Until now I had not been able to face reading his book because shortly after that my closest friend - Charles' godmother - passed away following her third visit from the cancer devil. 'I have some bad news Fatboy' she wheezed to me. 'They've given me 3 weeks'. She lasted 34 hours. Neither of us got to say goodbye.
I finally read John Diamond's book this week. Well actually I read it yesterday. 'Don't take life - and particularly those elements of it you really value -for granted' is the unwritten message contained within the gory descriptions of the effects of throat cancer and it's treatment. That and 'don't smoke', of course. I hadn't realised until I read the book that during all the time he was fighting cancer he was also being treated for depression. Understandable I suppose but he never gave any hint.
'Born to Run' was a different read altogether. Ostensibly about the famed Mexican Taramuhara running tribe but also about Christoper McDougal's transformation from injury-ridden 16 stone jogger to (almost) ultra runner. The book unfortunately turns into something of a rant against NIKE on whose founder he seems to pin the blame for all running injuries. He believes we should all return to running bare foot. (Although I notice by the end of the book he is still running shod). I actually agree with him, up to a point, and like him I can't stand the feel of a heavy, cushioned trainer. Unfortunately I don't have the determination, resolve, and most importantly time, to start all over again and retrain as a bare foot runner so I content myself with the comprimise of tatty old worn down lightweight racing shoes.
In his own way, though, Christopher McDougal is as inspirational as John Diamond. Both authors fight battles which ultimately they lose, but they both learn an enormous amount about themselves and about the human body's ability to soak up unbelievable amounts of punishment. They definitely both leave the reader with the absolute conviction that nothing should be taken for granted and that you, the reader, should make the most of your time here on earth.
From 'Born to Run' I also gleaned an idea of the qualities it takes to become an ultra runner.
Age doesn't seem to particularly matter - unless you aren't properly trained in which case youth helps. Physical ability is important but not critical. If you are not superhuman than an inordinate amount of training is essential. Diet, nutrition and weight are significant factors. But there are two qualities shared by all the ultra runners in his book.
Firstly they have incredible powers of mental strength - every one of them believes, no - knows, that when you have pushed your body beyond it's physical limits it gives up fighting and only then can you start to tap into your real capabilites. (Yes - they really do 'know' this).
But secondly, and probably more importantly, they are all STARK RAVING BONKERS.
There are no two ways about it. My run to Chablis is an 'ultra' run. To succesfully attempt it I have to become an ultra runner. Join that band of lunatics. Right now all I am is an overweight sometime marathon runner. It deosn't matter that I only intend doing it once. Any more than you would deny a marathon runner that title because he or she only did it once. I have to train and think like a stark raving bonkers ultra runner. I have started this week. A 3 mile jog with a very poorly back turned into a 3 hour run through the Auvergne mountains. ok hills - but 3000 feet is 3000 feet. It proved very little except that even my fat old body will give up whinging if I ignore it for long enough.
If you've read this far you probably know where I am headed with this. I am not going to be ready in 10 weeks time. I need a winter of proper running inside me. So I am proposing putting the jaunt off until late March. I hope this isn't seen as a cop out. I don't feel it is. Just a tiny modicum of common sense creeping in a little belatedly. Of course I may just wake up one morning in October and think.......
Thanks for reading.
John
