Keep the faith, runners!

You might be finding it hard to find purpose in lacing up your trainers and getting out there at the moment. I know I am. Races, parkruns and club/group sessions nationwide are all cancelled until ‘further notice’ and it’s impossible to know how long the current situation will go on for – or if it will get even worse and render us unable to get out for runs at all.

So, difficult as it might feel (and provided you are well, of course) I gently urge you to maintain your running. Running helps to reduce stress and anxiety, both of which have a negative impact on the immune system. In fact, running itself helps to maintain a healthy immune system, provided you don’t run to exhaustion. Being outdoors is far healthier than being cooped up inside, especially if being indoors means close proximity to others. (I do find it hard to believe that UK Athletics has issued a directive to cancel all running group sessions, when gyms and yoga studios remain open.) Keeping your routine, as far as is possible, helps to bring a sense of order at a time when everything feels a little out of control.

If you are used to running with others, you might struggle with the idea of going out alone. Perhaps you could team up with a friend or fellow runner from your running club or group? Or go out as a small group, keeping your distance from each other and avoiding any spread of respiratory droplets by refraining from spitting, nose clearing, coughing and sneezing.

As one of my group members so wisely commented this morning, ‘physical distancing’ would be a better term than ‘social distancing’ – in these anxious and uncertain times, we need each other more than ever. If you do run alone, you can still share and discuss your achievements on social media platforms – we are posting our twice-weekly Rye Runners sessions on a virtual whiteboard and inviting members to report back when they’ve completed them or any other runs. This helps us all feel like we’re still part of a community – and that there’s a point to getting out there and clocking up some miles.

What if you don’t feel comfortable about running at all in the present climate? You could use this time to do one of those many running-related tasks that there’s never time to do. It could be something physical, like strength training or plyometrics. Drills in the garden? Or if you’re not up to that, why not do a kit inventory and clear-out, or clean those mud-laden running shoes? Running isn’t going anywhere. It’ll still be here when all this craziness is over.

Keep the faith and stay safe.

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Marathon training starts here!

It’s one month since thousands of lucky runners found out they’d landed a place in the London marathon. I’d wager that most of them haven’t started training yet. Too early? Well, it depends where you are to begin with. I believe a lot of runners make the mistake of waiting until January to start their official training. If you’re a seasoned runner, with a relatively high weekly mileage and, perhaps, other marathons under your belt, you may be fine delaying your official ‘build-up’ because you’ll be able to hit the ground running (pun intended). But if you’re less experienced, or not running much at the moment, or haven’t done a long race in a while, what are you waiting for?! I have had recent enquiries from potential coaching clients who despite knowing they are running London/Brighton/Paris, are currently only running 8-12 miles PER WEEK!

As a coach, I like people to be comfortable running 13 miles for their long run in week 1 of their plan (assuming we’re starting 16 weeks out from race day). If you can only start at, say 10 miles, you will waste valuable weeks building up to the point where you can run 13 miles – and that makes it a race against time to achieve a decent peak mileage and longest long run. The last thing you want is to run your longest-ever run (say, the holy grail of 20 miles) just once, three weeks before your longest-ever run (the marathon). It’s all too bunched up towards the end of the plan and it doesn’t give you sufficient time to recover from the peak long run. Having to squash in weekly consecutive long runs, just to ensure you can make it to a 20-miler also risks injury. There are far better ways to plan your training!

If you are doing a spring marathon, and you haven’t run 13 miles recently (or ever) – start working towards that now and you’ll be in a much stronger position come December or January when you embark on your ‘official’ plan.

One of the reasons I use 13 miles as a base measure is because it’s half the distance you’ll be racing (psychologically, you’re halfway there straight from the off). It’s also because I believe that anyone who has signed up to run  a marathon in the spring should be able to cover the marathon distance over the course of a week right from the off. Think about it: you’re going to be doing this distance in a DAY, so it seems reasonable to be able to accumulate it over a week.! And I don’t like the ‘long run’ to comprise more than 50% of a runner’s total weekly mileage. Say you start with a weekly mileage of 26 miles – that allows you to include three shorter runs (one at faster-than-marathon-pace, such as a speed or tempo session of some kind, I’d advise) along with a long run. Then, as your weekly mileage gradually increases, so does your long-run distance.

Our Master Your Marathon workshop takes place in January 2020 and offers the perfect opportunity to get some expert insights into how to set a realistic marathon goal, how to train effectively and how to prepare for the big day. It includes a guided, supported long run tailored to the needs of every participant. Find out more or book a place here.

 

A change is as good as a rest

Every year I promise myself that this will be the year that my holiday will truly live up to its name. I will relax and do nothing for a whole week. I’ll pack a bikini, a vat of sun cream and a stack of novels and start each day with an epic lie-in, before bagging a sun lounger by the pool.

Then summer arrives, and once again I find myself cramming an extensive range of running kit into my suitcase, along with my wetsuit, bike shoes and pedals (that’s if I’m not taking the bike itself) and a selection of portable exercise tools. Last year in Greece, I was up by 7am every day in a bid to beat the full force of the sun. I ran 27 miles, cycled 113 miles, swam 3 miles, went kayaking, waterskiing and paddleboarding, oh, and did core exercises every day. Not everyone’s idea of a holiday (including me, at times) but though I came home bodily tired, I was mentally rejuvenated.

It’s easy to underestimate how energising newness can be when you’re feeling fatigued and jaded. You’re convinced bed rest is what you need, when maybe it’s simply a new routine – or a new route.

When we are on terra incognita – be it Skiathos or Skegness – our senses awaken. The air smells different. The light looks different. The ground feels different under our feet.

In Thailand, on an early morning run to a temple at the top of a hill, I met a local runner and ended up having breakfast with him and his family. That was over 20 years ago and I can still recall the morning mist shrouding the temple’s gilted tower – and the fiery rice porridge we ate. I don’t recall our average pace or how far the run was, though – which brings me to another good reason to step away from the familiar. Comparisons become meaningless. You can’t berate yourself for running your staple 5-miler slower than usual when the terrain, altitude, temperature and elevation are all different.

It’s precisely because they are different that holiday runs imprint themselves so vividly in our memories. New environments keep our minds and bodies guessing. You can’t slip into autopilot like you do on the well-trodden routes near home; you’ve got to step out your comfort zone and experience something new. Where does that road lead to? Will I come face to face with a wild dog/snake/grumpy goat if I go along that track? (Unlikely in Skegness, I’ll admit.) I wonder if there’s a path to the top of that hill?

All of this, quite possibly, will lead to getting lost. If I had a euro for every holiday run on which I’ve got lost, I could afford to upgrade to Strava Summit, and sit tight in the knowledge that Jeff will always be able to locate and rescue me. But losing your way can have its benefits.

Once I got lost among redwood groves on the return leg of a run up Mount Tam, north of San Francisco, and ended up bearing witness to the most incredible blaze of sunset over the Golden Gate Bridge. Another time, I found myself on the wrong side of a tall metal fence bordering sea cliffs in Portugal and had to summon up every ounce of courage to overcome my fear of heights and make my way along the narrow and vertiginous path.

Holidays force us to change our habits. And although habits can be useful (they allow us to get things done without too much conscious thought) they can also dig us into ruts that don’t allow us to challenge our boundaries, mental or physical.

Your fortnight in Florida or weekend in Wales provides the perfect opportunity to push back against the walls of routine. It doesn’t necessarily mean packing your running shoes – as I found in Greece last year, there are many other ways to work up a sweat and recharge your motivation. But then again, those trusty shoes don’t take up much space. And who knows what holiday memories you’ll create together?

This blog first appeared in Murphy’s Lore, my column in Runner’s World magazine.

 

 

 

 

 

Do as I do: why listening to your own advice isn’t always easy

Being injured always sucks. But I can’t help feeling it’s even harder when you’re a coach, because you feel as though you should be immune. Surely, if you know so much about running, you never make training errors or run with anything other than textbook-perfect form? Ha ha. We’re only human, of course. Our bodies are no more machines than are those of our clients. But it does shake your confidence when you can’t do the very thing that you’re teaching and supporting others to do.

When I recommenced running after a week’s recovery post-Brighton marathon, my right knee started to niggle, getting progressively worse over the course of the week to the point where even walking was painful. It was frustrating – I’d been seized by that ‘just let off the leash’ feeling after the discipline of marathon training, and was looking forward to pottering through the woods and tearing up the track in equal measure.  But there I was, grounded.

One thing I could do as a coach, however, was be a good role model and act how I would advise others to in my situation. OK, I’ll admit it took me a week to get my head around this, but after a flurry of ‘panic’ activities (including a course of anti-inflammatories, a knee brace, regular applications of ice) I stopped running completely, endeavoured to avoid anything that irritated it (which turned out to include both cycling or swimming) and waited for my body to do its healing thing. Oh, and I went to see a physio.

While logic suggested that my knee was ‘a bit angry’ after the rigours of the marathon and wasn’t ready to get back to the day job yet, the less-rational side of my brain was conjuring up serious issues like worn cartilage, ligament damage or tendinopathy that would put me out of action for months or even spell the end of my running career. With such a powerful psychological component to pain (and studies showing that stressing about pain actually makes it feel worse), it was really important to me to have a professional assessment. Being able to rule out these more sinister possibilities was enough to put my mind at rest and allow me to focus on building strength in my quads and glutes while it settled.

“Try not to ‘helicopter parent’ your injured part too much”

It now has, and I’m gradually building up my running again. For anyone else returning from injury, I’d recommend trying not to ‘helicopter parent’ your injured part too much. After having suffered some pain there, you are going to be super-sensitive for a while and even the tiniest twinge can be magnified in your mind. Sure, don’t ignore pain, but ask yourself how you’d score it on a scale of 1 to 5. If it’s a 1 or 2, you’re probably fine to carry on.  I’ve found that smiling – and looking at the scenery – helps keep me distracted from worrying about it too much.

During my ‘off’ time, I took the opportunity to read up and refresh my knowledge on strength and conditioning and gait retraining and I’ve learned some useful new stuff, which I’ll be weaving into my Run Better workshop. You could call that a silver lining, but I’m far too cautious for that!

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A Beachy Head Trail Adventure

It’s when the Seven Sisters first appear that the wowing starts. The whiteness of the vertical cliffs, the jaggedy ins-and-outs of the headlands, as if great bites have been taken out of them… It’s breathtaking, literally and figuratively. You puff up each of the seven peaks, thinking bad thoughts about running and scolding yourself for not finding a more relaxing way of spending a day off – until you reach the top, gasp at the view and gallop gleefully down the other side.

We’re standing at the foot of the South Downs in Eastbourne, where a post marks the start of the 100-mile South Downs Way, which rollercoasters all the way to Winchester.

IMG_8431This hill will be familiar to anyone who’s taken part in or watched the infamous Beachy Head Marathon as it’s the first – and last – thing the runners encounter. Up it goes, at a merciless angle, sending your heart rate into the red before your Garmin’s barely locked on to satellites – and keeping it there for much of the punishingly precipitous race.

But on this particular crisp winter morning, we have something a lot more leisurely planned. A 20-mile loop taking in the villages of Jevington and Alfriston before swooping round to climb the Seven Sisters, pausing for tea and cake at Birling Gap, then scaling Beachy Head and careening back down the hill for home before dusk.

We set off at a jog-walk (aware of the need not to peak too soon) and when we reach the top, look back on Eastbourne laid out in miniature beside a sheet of grey-blue sea. The gorse-clad downs feel springy underfoot and it’s a minefield of shallow rabbit scrapes.

We follow the path inland taking the same northwesterly direction as the race route. With Jeff being a former winner of Beachy Head marathon, I’d assumed I couldn’t be in better company for today’s adventure, but it is soon apparent that my husband is suffering from route amnesia – ‘this next bit’s all flat,’ he says, just as the path takes yet another upward curve before finally descending to Jevington, home to the 300-year old Eight Bells pub and St Andrew’s Church, where the Saxon tower, built of flint and local sandstone, is over 1000 years old.

It’s a bit early for a drink so we press on, winding through Friston Forest to reach a well-groomed path on the roof of the downs, with 360-degree views. Below, the 235ft Long Man of Wilmington is etched on the hillside.

Three or so miles and one tricky descent later, we hit the road and cross the Cuckmere River, following it into the picture-postcard village of Alfriston. It’s definitely time for some sustenance now and we’re spoilt for choice – but the window display of freshly-baked scones in The Singing Kettle wins out. Rested and revived, we retrace our steps back across the bridge, this time heading south towards Litlington before the inevitable climb, which rewards us with views of Cuckmere Haven and the sea.

It’s when the Seven Sisters first appear that the wowing starts. The whiteness of the vertical cliffs, the jaggedy ins-and-outs of the headlands, as if great bites have been taken out of them… It’s breathtaking, literally and figuratively. You puff up each of the seven peaks, thinking bad thoughts about running and scolding yourself for not finding a more relaxing way of spending a day off – until you reach the top, gasp at the view and gallop gleefully down the other side.

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When the cottages, car park and decommissioned Belle Tout lighthouse at Birling Gap come into sight, we’re ready for more refuelling – and who can resist a National Trust café? The Gap is one of the few places along this part of the coast that you can actually get down to the beach – via a steep metal staircase. It’s not a day for a dip, but it’s worth the descent to see the chalky cliffs close up.

Now it’s ‘just’ Beachy Head to conquer before we fasten our seatbelts for the descent into Eastbourne. This is some climb, but the surface is good – the grass so short, it’s as if it has been trimmed with nail scissors. Below the vivid green downs, the sea swirls around the jaunty red and white striped Beachy Head lighthouse. It’s a wonder the cliff edge isn’t fenced off – at 531 feet, this is the highest chalk sea cliff in Britain – but the views are all the more wondrous for this openness.

By now I’m weary, and as we reach the top of the hill we climbed out of Eastbourne this morning, I marvel at the breakneck speed Jeff – and other Beachy Head marathoners – manage once they get a whiff of the finish line at its foot. I’m quite seriously considering sliding down it on my bottom.

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By the time we reach the trail post, we’ve clocked up a tad over 20 miles and the daylight is just beginning to fade. It’s definitely time for that drink now…

Want to come on our Beachy Head Trail Adventure? Our next trip is on Sunday, June 16th 2019, just a few places left.

Details at https://www.facebook.com/wearerunningforever under ‘Events’.

 

 

A race against time to get back to fitness

After being felled for nine days by a brutal virus, my marathon is hanging in the balance…

I’m facing the situation with equanimity and I’m not sure if this signifies a new maturity and perspective or suggests I don’t care as much as I used to about my running goals. As a dedicated over-analyser, the fact that I don’t have the energy for such navel gazing right now is a clear sign that I’m not fully recovered. For the moment, it simply feels good to be upright again.

The day before the virus struck, I ran 9 miles, 6 of them a tad faster than marathon pace. It felt unreasonably hard, and I should have suspected something was amiss. The next morning – Saturday – it was too late to cancel my coaching duties and I muddled through two hour-long sessions before heading home and climbing straight into bed, fully clothed and shivering. When I woke up, feverish, late in the night, I still had a stopwatch and whistle around my neck.

 

I didn’t get back out of bed again until the following Saturday and it took me a further two days to put on my running shoes to see if I had anything to give. Not much, it turned out. But two miles is better than being stationary and whatever panic my mind conjures up about how little time I have left and that 20-miler I missed on Sunday, my body knows that it needs to ease back in gently, deadline or no deadline.

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I’m thankful to my dear Garmin for notifying me at regular intervals that I am DETRAINING. No shit, Sherlock! But the scientific research makes for dispiriting reading. Studies suggest that fitness declines are sharpest in the first 12-14 days of inactivity, levelling off thereafter. One study of trained athletes found that levels of enzymes associated with endurance performance halved in 12 days, while VO2 max dropped by 7%. Another study showed a rapid reduction in blood volume, a lowering of lactate threshold and a greater reliance on carbohydrate metabolism (instead of fat). But on the brighter side, the research suggests it doesn’t take as long to regain recently-lost fitness attributes as it did to earn them in the first place.

I just have to hope I still have time to make the start line at Brighton.

 

 

Listening to your running body

If you listen to your body, what do you do when you hear a red flag flapping in the breeze between your ears?

‘Listen to your body.’ You’ve heard it a million times if you’re a runner, and you know that it means you have to pay attention to those warning signs of forthcoming doom in the guise of injury, pain, illness or temporary burnout.

But it’s not always that easy to tell exactly where these warning signs are coming from. Are they kosher? Have they been issued by the central governor in your brain (who I like to think of as my inbuilt hard-hat-wearing health and safety officer)? Or are they from a different place in your mind – perhaps a region of the brain concerned with motivation or emotions?

The reason it matters is that it might affect what you do when you ‘listen in’ and hear a red flag of some kind flapping in the breeze between your ears. Is it the rational, if somewhat over-zealous governor speaking? Or is the ancient reptilian part of your brain trying to protect you from attempting something that might cause you discomfort or that you might not succeed at – like an 18-mile long run with the last four miles at goal marathon pace?

Yesterday, my plan was exactly that run. But I woke up under a dark cloud and the idea of surmounting such a session felt almost impossible. My muscles ached as if I’d already done the bloody thing, and I was devoid of bounce. Aah, I thought. Better listen to my body. It’s definitely saying ‘no thanks.’

Decision made, my mood brightened and I got on with other things. Physical stuff, like digging in the garden and chopping wood. By late afternoon I was so energised I felt inclined to do the run – but knew there wasn’t enough daylight left to fit it in.  Tomorrow, then.

That is, today. It loomed large in my mind from the moment I woke up. My calf felt tight. My stomach felt a bit funny. My socks didn’t seem to fit right when I put them on, making me worry about chafing and blisters. But this time, I acknowledged the alerts and carried on with my run preparation regardless. This, I decided, is not physical, it’s mental.

The run started off feeling harder than it should. ‘WE FEEL TERRIBLE!’ my body told my central governor in a panic (it’s always shouting). ‘HOW WILL WE MANAGE 18 MILES? WE’VE ONLY DONE TWO AND WE’RE EXHAUSTED!’ ‘We’ll be OK,’ replied the guvnor. ‘We’ve got plenty of water and energy gels and it’s a beautiful day. Only seven more miles till we turn for home…’

I shaped my face into a smile (making sure to include my eyes in this forced expression of joy) and carried on. I took in the vivid blues of the sea, lakes and sky, and the yellows and greens of the fields. I listened to the birds singing, ate my energy gels, turned at 9 miles and sped up at 14. And I made it home without my calf (or indeed, anything else) hurting, my stomach exploding or my socks chafing.

Listening to your body is good advice, but knowing whether it’s got something worthwhile to say can be a tricky business.