Good Enough

London is hurtling towards us all like a runaway train, and the miles just keep on coming.

Another Sunday run, another 22-miler in the bag. This one was a Progression run, split into 10K Chunks. I was going great guns until about 18/19 miles and I started to suffer. At this point the session called for 2K Fast and I blew up big like a big balloon. Thing is, I know it was mental, I was screaming at myself to not be so bloody stupid, but my reserves of will were almost empty. I did the session and limped home with my head a bit lower than when I set out.

A bath and a bit of reflection made me feel a bit better, and viewing the Garmin stats from the run gave me many more positives than negatives to take from it.

The one of the root causes can be summed up as follows

After agreeing with my coach, my target for VLM was set at 3:15. This would be a 45 minute PB on my 2010 effort of 3:59 – something I’m still very proud of. However, with the banter of those around me...

“Oh, you’ll smash that”

“Don’t be silly,you’re faster than that”

“Sub 3 for you”

Now, the encouragement and support of everyone is grately appreciated . However, it sometimes feels (especially when I’m tired and grouchy) that people are implying my original target isn’t good enough, and over the last couple of months I started to believe them.

With the GFA standard of 3:10 tantalisingly close, 3:15 was starting to feel  like a cop-out. A good Half Marathon the other week only served to bolster the wave of compliments and boundary pushing from club-mates.

I’ve really had to mentally fight against this. Feeling knackered at the end of Sunday was in part due to pushing the pace/my luck just a little too much. The Easy pace wasn’t easy enough, the MP+15 was more like MP+3 and the MP was more like MP-10.

There haven’t been many who’ve said “That’s an excellent target, Good Luck”, but when they have it’s meant a lot, and I’m now determined to nail that 3:15.

It’s good enough for me and it should be (and in my heart-of-hearts I know is) good enough for everyone else. 

I’m not saying I’ll not get quicker, just in my own time.

*This post isn’t meant to sound like a rant, but it’s been playing on my mind a lot lately.

Race Report - Bath Half Marathon

Reader,

I’ll have to come clean with you. I’m in (almost) uncharted territory here. Regular readers of this blog, both of you, will have become familiar with the TrainandScoff Race Report. There’ll be a lot of build up, the race is dissected in detail and then I struggle to draw conclusions over whatever calamity befell me on the day.

The only problem is nothing went wrong this time.

Now this could be the shortest Race Report I ever wrote, but people seem to like it when I give my perspective on a race, so I’ll do my best to be business as usual.

It wasn’t the most auspicious of build ups. Every since Christmas, I’ve been plagued by a right Achilles that didn’t want to play ball. In fact, it didn’t want to play anything. I’d had a couple of week’s pain free and was enjoying notching up a couple of 20 milers at the weekends. Then on the Wednesday before the race, the Achilles tendonitis flared up again and became a most unwelcome companion. In these situations there not a lot you can do apart from stretch like your life depended on it and down Ibuprofen like they’re going out of fashion.

I’d avoided the 20-30mins easy run that had been in my plan on the Saturday. I surmised that that might just aggravate things; the majority of training was done. We travelled down to Bath on the Saturday afternoon, and after checking into the Hotel (about 10 miles out of town to save some cash) we headed into Bath for a bite to eat.

I’d tried to plan my time as effectively as possible. The first thing we did was to do a drive round the course, in reality a wrong turn meant we went round it backwards! From the amount of gentle slope we were seeing, there would be quite a bit of downhill, a nice comfort for the nervous runner. I’d already found a Chinese Buffet place to eat. I was conscious that I hadn’t eaten enough the night before Bristol HM, so we went somewhere where I could have my fill, and fill I did. I tried to avoid the fatty stuff and stick to the noodles, rice, veg and simpler proteins. No sticky sweet and sour sauces. The soft drinks were also help-yourself so I could get plenty of liquid in.

It was while sat down in the restaurant that I felt my first real pang of nerves. Of course Steve was great as ever, even the gentle ribbing can be a comfort and keep your feet on the ground. Whatever the next action was he would respond “you do what you need to do”, so I didn’t feel like I was ruining his weekend too much. After the meal we took a walk to the start and then the first mile or so of the course that wasn’t part of the loop system. I’d been warned about the hill that greets you just before the finish, but in reality it didn’t seem too bad. When you’re used to 3 x 10min Kenyan Hills, a little 50m slope seems like nothing, dig in and bring it home.

We left Bath and went back to the Hotel via Sainsbury’s. Lovely Steve brought me a little bottle of Prosecco for a night cap, along with flapjacks and Bananas for quick energy on the day.

I slept a lot better then I had done in Bristol, only waking once in the night briefly. We got up and went down to breakfast. I had meant to bring breakfast with us but had forgotten it. Good old Premier Inn. Although at £5.25 each it must have ranked as the most expensive bowl of muesli in history. There were other runners at breakfast, solace in the flash of a trainer.

We used the Racecourse Park and Ride which was excellent. You arrived at the racecourse and are directed to the trainer and owners bar with complementary tea and coffee before being whisked into Bath. The drop off point was separate from the main park and rides, something we were thankful for when seeing the queues to return in the afternoon.

Bath has a great set up. Plenty of loos, a great runner’s village and a good atmosphere. I love the big city races. I had a white start so knew I‘d be relatively near the front. After a very efficient bag drop and saying goodbye to Steve *Gulp* I made my way to the start. I was VERY near the front.

There was a little warm-up area just in front of the start line, to save getting cold I gave it a go, although immediately realised I was running the wrong way to everyone else. I sheepishly changed direction and jogged round a couple of times. I didn’t want to start with completely cold muscles, if my race plan was going to work. I saw Martin Yelling from Marathon Talk and was dying to say hello, but I had to concentrate on what I was there for. I went back to line up, ready to start.

I had a thought in the back of my head “you could do with a final loo stop” but when I went to leave the start pen it seemed like they weren’t letting people leave. Because Great Pultney Street is so enclosed, and there were so many people, there wasn’t the chance to have a cheeky wee at the side, like other races. I thought oh well and got ready to begin.

The gun went off and we all surged forward. The start was typically fast with the nice downhill that we would return to at the finish. I’d done my homework, reviewed my race at Bristol and come up with a race plan. Use the first two miles to find your race pace and then KEEP IT STEADY to the finish. My coach Nick is a big help in stuff like this and he’d sent me some wise words in the build up.

After about three quarters of a mile I saw someone have a wee, which was my chance. I ducked into the gap where he was and got it out of the way early. When I got going, the first mile beeped 7.04. That was good, especially with a loo stop and the same pace I had at Bristol. The second mile was hilly in the centre of town but soon the beeped by 6:52 – spot on. I was feeling good and settling in to race pace.

The miles beeped by and I was holding it at 6:40ish. I wasn’t letting anything outside affect me. People would surge and fall back around me but I just ignored them. Their race wasn’t my race. I found I was slowly making my way through the field, just by keeping a constant pace, just like my coach said I would.

There were a few shouts of “Come on Penny Lane” and even one of “Come on Pen….nsylvania Striders” ??!?!.

The funniest thing in the whole race has to be when I was at about mile 9 on the second lap; we were right in the right hand lane with the first lappers on the left. There were two blokes dressed as inflatable Genitals running along on their first lap but it looked like they were chasing this poor woman in front, who kept turning round and going “Eeek!”

I took my gels at the allotted times and didn’t take any water. Mainly because I didn’t feel like I needed it. I was still going great guns at mile 10although I could feel the effort level starting to increase. “Come on, you’ve got so far you’ve got less than 5K to go” I was telling  myself. I hadn’t allowed any drama on the way round. It was not going to be that sort of day. I’d made that decision and was sticking to it. I’d made a little mantra for myself which really helped:

“Mind over Matter – You don’t mind [what everyone else is doing] and this really matters]

The last two miles were a grind, but there were a couple of guys around me and we were pulling each other along. Seeing Carl at Mile 12 was amazing, to know that one of the RWU family was there gave me a big lift. It’s when I allowed myself the thought of “You’re going to do this”. But there was still over a mile to go.

Wild Horses could not have averted my gaze from the road 5m in front of me in that last mile; we turned to tackle that last hill. I took my first water bottle from the station at the bottom, tipped it over myself and dropped the hammer.

“Wind It Up, Wind It Up, Wind It Up, Wind It Up, Wind It Up, Wind It Up…” I told myself, as I always doing going up hills. You have to do a train motion with your left arm as well. Hey, it works for me.

At the top of the hill, a guy was shouting race times “one twenty-eight fifteen” I heard as I went past. Could it be true, could this be the day I went sub-90.

I turned the last corner into Great Pultney Street and saw the clock on the finish gantry “01:29:.. and bits”

GET YOUR FUCKING COURAGE LEGS ON HAWKINS 

Go-Go-Gadget COURAGE LEGS

The feeling as I crossed the line….

It’s as good as you always hoped it would be.

The 3000 miles I’ve logged with Garmin, the Shitty Rowing Races, The Shitty Running Races, The Shitty Winter & My Shitty Achilles. Gone. I’m not ashamed to admit it, my eyes were moist.

 My whole race plan had executed perfectly and given me the result I was after. I don’t have to offer up any excuses for a sub-par performance, or say “if only….blah blah blah”.

I’m known for being quite tough on myself when it comes to sport, but for one of the first times in my (sporting) career I was able to say to myself

“Well Done Hawkins, You’ve Done Enough”.

That feeling is good shit.

*

*I'm sorry for the length of this post, I was alone in a hotel and had plenty of spare time.

Mission Creep

The biggest problem with running a marathon is that, it’s not just running a marathon. In an ideal world, you could rock up on the day, bang out your 26.2 miles and then retire to a local establishment for liquid refreshment and scones and back-slaps all round.

For the seasoned club runner, most other distances up to a half tend to be just like that, made all the sweeter by a new PB or scalp taken. But the marathon is a different beast. The training is long and arduous, and will affect all other parts of your life. The sheer amount of time spent training can reduce your social life to a mere trickle. I’m currently on 60 mile weeks (although I don’t train by mileage) and  although I love every minute of it, there isn’t a lot of time to do much else, maybe get a massage. We all know that recovery is just as important as the runs, so it’s unlikely we would finish a morning track session then decide to scale Moel Famau in the afternoon with friends.

Even that bastion of conviviality, the pub, is approached with trepidation due to the impending Long Run the following day. It lifted my heart somewhat last night, when I arrived at Penny Lane Wine Bar last night to find that I wasn’t the only one on the Lime and Sodas. The temptation for beer was great, but I held out, sensibly taking the car so I couldn’t partake in the alcoholic beverages.

Then, after the work has been done, the aftermath can be just as brutal. It can be difficult to do a twenty mile run with race pace sections without feeling like a total zombie for the rest of the day. The sofa is usually the furthest I get on a Sunday afternoon.

Of course, the rest of the household also has to suffer along with the runner as well. The mixture of selfishness, focus and bloody-mindedness brought on by marathon training can be a toxic combination.

I’ll admit I’m struggling on this at the minute. Of course I want to spend time with Steve as I’m out on the roads so much, but I also want to socialise with my squad-mates as they’re going though exactly the same as I am and there’s solace in the sharing of an ordeal. Understandably, my beloved wouldn’t be massively keen on spending an entire evening with a load of runners talking shop.

I’m afraid I haven’t got an answer for this one…

8 Weeks To Go…

Trackside

I realise that this will be the biggest jinx ever, but I’ve had an excellent weeks training so far. Everything has gone to plan and I’ve not had any troubles from my dodgy Achilles *touches wood*. I’ve felt it fleetingly on runs, but I came to the conclusion that it was mostly psychosomatic and if I didn’t let it bother me, it wouldn’t.

Saturday’s session called for some threshold running and some 400m repeats. That sounded like track work to me, so I took the plunge and went for my second ever session training at Wavertree track.

The scene of this morning's crimes against running

 

 A club mate had said he would join me, which I was glad of, especially so as when I arrived Liverpool Harriers people were training. D’oh! I’d completely not thought that they might be there. The coach Tony and James C, who came up to Ribble Valley with me, and a few others. Of course, we each let each other to do our own thing, but I half expected someone to shout across the track “What are you doing Hawkins, that technique is shocking!” In some ways, it was good actually, as when I heard Tony shouting instructions to his runners, they acted as pointers for me – things like relaxation and making it feel easy. 

Myself and Deano found ourselves using Lane 7 & 8 – the session was relentless, after 6 minutes of threshold there were two sets of 6x400m at 5K pace with 60s recovery. And they just kept coming. I worked as smartly as I could, staying relatively relaxed. I find 5K pace strange on a track, as when I review my times, it’s always faster than my 5K times! Deano (an amazing runner) was just starting back from some time-out/injury and so made a graceful exit after putting down some work and I carried on. 

When dealing with multiple reps like that, I find you just have to break it down into its simplest components. I think the things I am learning in races are starting to trickle through and shape how I approach my training. I’m finding that I’m becoming much more focused in my running. Nothing else outside matters, other than the Rep I’m currently doing. If you can block everything else out, it means less to worry about and more focus on the work. The fact that others were running round the track at a much faster speed than me didn’t matter, they were doing a different session to me.  I even found a little mantra for myself as I was going round “make it easy for yourself, so it’s hard for everyone else” Little phrases like that really help my relaxation.

Eventually it was all over (after a second lot of Threshold running). Including warm ups/downs/recovery jogs it was 8 miles of track work – a good day at the office in anyone’s book. I was so pleased I’d chosen the track, its great to mix up the types of training. As much as I enjoy my usual routes, I need to get out of my comfort zone and there is nothing more honest than the track.

If you’ve never used a track before, give it a go. I think you’ll be surprised about how much you enjoy it.

Now just 2 ½ hours to do tomorrow….

Race Report - Mad Dog 10K

Chip Time 40:44, Position 101

I Came, I Ran, I Ran Some More.

This race report finds me in rather a contemplative mood after the race yesterday.

Build up wasn’t the best. Legs were properly done in after last weekend, so I trooped into Ian’s office and emerged not actually being able to walk properly. It’s for my own good, that what I kept telling myself. No running for a few days recovery. 

Surprisingly, Steve came along for the day. It is useful to have someone with you, even if you are aware their main highlight is the 15 or so seconds they see you actually racing, and the rest of the time is spent getting progressively colder standing about. When he found out I had a space in the elite car-park, his first words were “How did you get in here?” Nice, although I took it with the humour that was intended. Mad Dog very kindly separated the sub-40 (yes I know the time above – more later) so they don’t get too held up at the start. It is an impressively well organised race. There was a 30 min delay for the start, but as there was a sports hall to stand in, not really a problem.

After the debacle at Ribble Valley, I made sure I toileted early and got a proper warm-up. Ran some of the course, noting that the wind might be tough on the way back and got some strides in. It actually felt good to be racing. My Achilles wasn’t hurting and I was well rested during the week. In hindsight maybe too rested as I’d only managed to get out on the Thursday after Ian’s Pain-fest Physio Session on Monday night. I was as ready as I was going to be.

 I knew that if I held Threshold Pace I would be on about the 40 minute mark. The race started and off we all went. As in Bristol, I locked into myself, trying to ignore the people around me. We turned onto the coast road and I knew it was a good 2 ½ miles to the turning point. There was lots of too-ing and fro-ing about me. The pace had been quite quick off the start but I wasn’t going to take notice until my Garmin clocked the first mile split. *beep* “6:09 ” Hmm that’s a bit fast. I knew I would need to relax and get into the flow so I gave myself a full body check (Achilles wasn’t hurting) and relaxed into the race. There was a variety of music on the course which was really good, the drummers especially. Mile 2 *beep* “6:26” Now that was spot on and I felt a huge relief. I was feeling really good, working yet relaxed at the same time. If someone overtook me, good luck to them, I wasn’t going to get in the habit of running their race.

The turning point came and into the wind we went. It was a bit of a shock, but I knew the effort level was going to increase. I was determined not to look at the mile 3 split, as that would b e a rough 5k time. I remembered last year, when I 5K PBd in the race and panic knocked me for 6. (post race update -.hmm, was around current 5k PB pace)

What happened next can only be described as a minor in-race fuckup. We approached the water station where they were holding out bottles of water. I grabbed one to douse myself, only the particular one the marshal had given me still had its top on. I’m not going to rant because these things happen, but it then took a few seconds of fucking about to get the top off and get back on the race. The advertised bottle collectors didn’t seem to be there either. I didn’t want to just chuck a bottle all over the nice promenade and eventually found a bin to sling it in (and missed, but I wasn’t going to go back for it)

For the next mile or so I was conscious that a runner next to me was trying to race me, although you could tell from her breathing that she was working very hard, also a pack of Runners from Royston came steaming through. In hindsight, I should have got on their tail and went with them, but my whole philosophy of the day was “Don’t do anything silly” so I stuck to what I was doing.

I kept this control right to the end, although turning into the final straight, the wind was brutal! A club mate Steve Mc had been sitting behind me and used that moment to pounce and drive past me. I tried to respond, but the wind was knocking stuffing out of me. I hung on for grim death to the finish. 

Initially gutted at the time, I was sure it was going to be my sub-40 race, although that feeling past very quickly.

Actually, I did everything I could that day and raced as well as I could. Without trying to make up a list of excuses, its been a tough few weeks and I couldn’t have done anything else. I actually really enjoyed it and learnt a hell of a lot. As I’ve said my aim was to keep everything under control, not go mad like at Wesham and not run someone else’s race as at Ribble Valley. In that respect, as I kept everything under firm control, to get within 3 seconds of my PB is a bit of a coup. Was also able to do a good hour’s steady run afterwards with a negative split on the out-and-back.

Maybe in future, I need to let loose a little madness in the shorter races and go for the kill in the second half. I now know I can run a steady, controlled 40min 10K and I’ve sniffed blood. 

You’re now looking at one Mad Dog.

Woof *snarl*

True Colours

I’m a rather avid listener to the parkrun show, the weekly podcast rounding up of all things to do with parkrun. The whole ethos of parkrun is brilliant, a weekly free timed 5k run (not race, I’ll get told off) that allows you test any gains you make in top end speed.

Over the last few weeks, one of the hosts ‘King’ Danny Norman has mentioned the fact that he has changed Running Clubs and it got me thinking about my own changing allegiances over the last few years. I consider myself very lucky to have been a member of a number of different clubs. Both in Rowing and Running, the colour of your vest or All-in-One means a lot to the athlete and the decision to change those colours is NEVER easily made.

Leaving a club is effectively saying to your close friends and training buddies “It’s not you, it’s me...I’m in love with someone else. There can be a variety of reasons for that change – location, quality of training, size of club, boredom, frustration, better opportunities the list is endless, and unique to each person involved. Of course people ask you to stay, but an unmotivated and possibly frustrated team-mate is rarely the most effective team-member. It can be hard for all concerned at the time, but all usually come out of the situation stronger in the long term.

The process of changing Rowing Clubs is far, far easier than in Running. A quick click on the British Rowing Website, and your First Claim Club name changes in a second, albeit with a wait until your Racing Licence Renewal for the name to be expunged off the back.

With Running, you have to get signed confirmation from both your old and new clubs that they have no objections to your move, along with a cheque for £10 to England Athletics, who then have a committee who sites periodically to decide on approved moves. In practice, I doubt they hardly ever refuse, but it does some rather archaic!

Ironically, the emotional stress of changing Rowing Clubs far outstrips that of Running.

The first time I raced in a Penny Lane Vest, I’d been a member for a couple of months. I was nervous taking my top off in front of old club mates, knowing that some ribbing was likely. There was a little frostiness at first (maybe I was oversensitive to it), but that lasted precisely one race and now we all cheer each other on at races with equal gusto. A great reflection on the Liverpool Running scene.

Maybe because I didn’t have a corresponding break between clubs, replacing the Black and White of Mersey RC for the Blue and Gold of GRC was much harder. I remember vividly sitting in a Grosvenor boat for the first time and hearing “Come on Grosvenor” and it just felt weird. I suppose at that point, mentally I was still with Mersey and it took a couple of months to get used to the new way of things. Probably as soon as Colin turned up...

The times we raced against Mersey were horrid, one of my few rowing regrets in that year was that it seemed to become about GRC vs MRC. I admit I probably should have been more forceful in not letting that happen., but still, we got some good races out of it...  and a medal or two *invokes Hammersmith clause*

Both clubs have flourished, as have I. All the people I’ve met along the way, all the knocks and disappointments, have helped me grow in confidence and get better at getting better. I never would have had the confidence to get a running coach and be where I am now without them.

So if you cut me open, what colours would you see?

The answer is all of them, as LRC, Mersey, Grosvenor and Penny Lane have all made me the athlete I am today.

Dig Deep

It’s been a while, how are you? January has been a bit shitty for a number of reasons do to with work and such things, so I haven’t had the time or inclination to write anything. But here I am, ready to tell you about this past weekend.

I found myself running a XC race yesterday, as much a surprise to me as anyone else. I hadn’t actually signed up, but my name magically appeared on the squad list. I checked it with my coach Nick, conscious that we should be gearing towards London. I had expected him to say “give this one a miss” but no, “Go ahead” he said. Cheers Coach.

This wasn’t just any old XC race though, this was the Northern XC Championships, held (conveniently for us, lucky, lucky us) just outside Liverpool in the grounds of Knowsley Safari Park. Cue lots of Lion-based PB jokes and banter. After my experiences last year at the Northern Road Relays, I was under no illusion I’d be anywhere near the front, but its good to do these things for a different racing experience.

The weather over the preceeding weeks, had caused me to believe (hope) it might be cancelled. Indeed, the equivalent event down South had been. But no such luck, it was to go ahead, with a fresh dumping of snow over the North West less than 24 hours before the start of the race to add to the fun.

I turned up, eyeing all the elite looking runners, with their talent and low bodyfat percentages – seriously, do these guys even think about cream cakes? hmmm…cream.

We watched the women race before us, with a valiant effort by the PLS Ladies. I noted how tired everyone had looked after one lap. We were doing three *sigh*. But it was time to de-kit and get ready. 10 minutes before the start a delay was called as an ambulance had got stuck in the mud and the JCB sent to rescue it had also got stuck, That’s an encouraging sign. Then 5 mins before the start, the sky, which had been a lovely shade of blue, suddenly went grey and a fresh sprinkling of snow happened. The Gods were against us.

We lined up in the allotted pens, 600 blokes all keen to get this bloody thing over with. I like the gallows humour that you often get on a running start line. The gun (an actual gun) went off and off we went up the hill.

I’m not going to give you a blow by blow account of this race (there would be too much swearing) but to sum up it was absolutely BRUTAL. The mud, oh god the mud. Mushed in with the snow , it developed into a Leg-Sapping substance hitherto unknown to Science. It was basically like running 12km ankle deep in Angel Delight. Now that would have been much preferable. There wasn’t a single dry, flat patch on the whole course and the hill lasted for about half the lap. In fact, here’s a map of the course:

The hill started at point C and finished and point H….YES POINT BLOODY H.

Going up the first hill, I felt a little stabbing pain in my side “Shit, a stitch” I thought to myself, cursing the ham, brie and cranberry baguette I’d had for lunch. The bloody thing wouldn’t go. I battled round the first lap, but by the second was starting to fade badly. At times like this, there is little you can do other than dig in and try to keep going. That’s not an excuse for a bad race. At the end of the day I turned up and gave it my best shot on the day. Some you win some you lose. As I was going round the course, I thought to myself, a) those intervals on Thursday are biting you on the ass, but mainly b) What am I going to take from today?  I came to the conclusion, if nothing else it was an excellent leg workout. That and a Northern XC Champs T-shirt – you’re damn right, I earned that!

Without doubt, the hardest racing experience of my adult life. When the pain was bad, I’d thought about giving up so many times, but stubbornness made me carry on. The finish juddered into view in the end. I’ll admit I felt a bit desolate at the end, and didn’t want to talk to anyone or anything. Probably more kanckeredness than anything else.

Maybe in the long run I’ll be stronger for doing a race like that and in some slight weird way I’m glad I’ve done it, if only for the experience. There was some great support round the course and I deffo appreciated the tips that were shouted as I hobbled round form lots of different people.

I’ve been given heart but hearing the comments of much more experienced runners calling it one of the hardest races they’d ever done. If that’s as bad as it gets, I’ll be much more prepared next time.

So that’s my first season of XC over and its been a blast. I think I’ve learnt more about racing in the last 4 months, than in the previous 4 years of running. If that’s not a success overall, I don’t know what is.

Now back to the roads, forgetting today’s LSR - which shall for ever be known as ‘The One Where Mitch Shuffled Along Like Mrs Overall’.

London’s Calling…