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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Brighton rocked

Thanks, Brighton Marathon. I came, I’m sore and I conquered!

Well thanks, Brighton Marathon. I came, I’m sore and I sort-of conquered. Not the time I was hoping to run when I mounted my marathon comeback in December, but given the lost month of training, I think that my finish time – 3.45.17 – was pretty much what I was capable of on the day. It places me comfortably inside the Good for Age category for London, should I consider putting myself through all this again, for marathon number 19!

So, Brighton, what did you have for us? A glorious morning of blue sky with air lightly chilled. A well-organised start. An interesting, lively course with enough runners to make it feel like a big race without congestion and bottlenecks. You had friendly marshals and fantastic crowds, with high fives, jelly babies and orange segments at the ready. Oh, and some great race signs! (Is that a gel in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?) You had rousing drumming bands and storming DJs. And you didn’t have plastic bottles – all credit to you.

But, oh, you also gave us a stiff breeze along that seafront! Manageable on the initial eastward stretch, but by the time it came to those last four miles, I was practically weeping. And, I have to say, you dished out quite a few hills, too. I logged 665 feet of ascent! Barely worth mentioning in a gnarly trail race, but you certainly feel them in a marathon.

The overall verdict? You did yourself proud. I almost – but not quite – did the same.

 

The marathon taper caper

Doing next-to-nothing is harder than it looks…

It’s less than 72 hours until race morning! The trepidation has been building steadily, in the face of the great unknown that awaits on Sunday. Will I be able to sustain my goal pace? Will the wind on the Brighton seafront scupper my plans? Will my stomach behave? Will an old injury rear its ugly head, or a new one emerge? Will I hit the wall? The weird thing about the marathon is that these questions are no more answerable on your 5th or 15th marathon than they were ahead of your first. When you’re out there for three hours or more, elements of chance and luck come into play…

Following a race build-up with more ups and downs than a Garmin heart rate profile, I’ve adjusted my finish time goal by 10 minutes – and shortened my taper to two weeks. (The less you’ve done, the less you need to recover from.)  But it’s harder than it looks, this taper caper. As a coach, I know that it takes around 14 days for the adaptations resulting from a specific workout to assimilate. Therefore, there’s little point doing anything beyond then to try to ‘get fitter’ for marathon day. But that doesn’t stop many runners trying (to the detriment of their race-day performance).

The aim is to hold on to what you’ve got – not just in terms of aerobic fitness but ‘neuromuscular’ fitness too: this refers to the efficiency of the communication pathways between the nervous system and the muscles, which plays a role in important things like running economy, muscle recruitment and sense of effort. Most experts recommend that you drop volume significantly during the taper, but maintain a degree of intensity. For example, if you were doing a speed session, you wouldn’t skip it altogether, but you might only do a half or a quarter of what you were doing pre-taper.

Less volume means more time on your hands. More time to stress over whether you’ve done enough mileage, whether that’s a cold you’ve got coming, or whether your knee is feeling slightly niggly… No wonder so many of us fall into the trap of doing things we don’t normally do to fill in the spare hours. Take Tuesday. I was having a rest day, but I found myself thinking ‘I know, I’ll do half an hour of drills, to keep my neuromuscular pathways firing.’ I almost did, but remembered the golden rule of marathon week just in time. DON’T TRY ANYTHING NEW OR UNFAMILIAR! That goes for shoes, stretches, gels, massage tools and yes, drills. And then today, when wheeling the just-emptied garden bin round to the back garden, I almost got to work chopping up the pile of branches we cut down the other weekend. Step inside, Sam Murphy, I ordered myself.

How to fill taper time, then? Well, there’s your feet to sort out. Cut toenails short and straight across, file away any hard ridges of skin and moisturise. Check – and recheck – your race instructions. Pack – and repack – your bag. (My book Marathon and Half Marathon From Start to Finish has a handy packing checklist.) Tell your supporters and spectators where you want them to be around the course and roughly what time to expect you. And, if you haven’t already done so, write your name on the front of your top in thick, black marker pen. Then it’s just a matter of putting your feet up and working your way through all those lovely carbs…

7661GE Marathon Course map 2019

 

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.

Jeff-Pyrah-winning-marathon

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’.

 

 

Get Your Kicks On Route 1066

A two-day running adventure that retraces the footsteps of William the Conqueror through gorgeous Sussex countryside.

I can’t decide whether the glittering wings I’m watching spiral in a shaft of dappled light are those of butterflies or fairies. It’s been a long day – I’m hot, tired and somewhat dazzled by the sun that has shone mercilessly upon us every step of the way.  The fluttering creatures turn out to be common large whites, but the spectacle is none the less magical for it and provides a reason to linger in the cool refuge of this sunken lane, shaded by branches that almost join overhead to form a tunnel.

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We’re somewhere between Herstmonceux and Battle, following the 1066 Country Walk, a 32-mile marked trail from Pevensey Castle to Rye. But we’re not walking, we’re running.

It’s a dry run (pun intended) for our forthcoming two-day running adventure – and so far, so good. Is the route runnable? Tick. Does it divide neatly into two days of manageable distance? Tick. Is the scenery suitably gorgeous and varied? Tick.

We pressed ‘start’ on our watches a few hours ago, as we passed through the eastern gate of the Roman wall that surrounds the picturesque ruins of medieval Pevensey castle.  Soon we’re striking out across the Pevensey Levels, an expanse of low-lying grassland and marsh that, as little as 700 years ago, was under water and is now considered an area of special scientific interest, thanks to its diversity of flora and fauna. The air is alive with lark song and the drowsy hum of bees as we follow the trail alongside waterways, through fields of beans and corn and meadows swaying with wild flowers.

 

After a few miles of flat and easygoing terrain, we begin to climb, making a beeline for the distinctive shingled tower of All Saints Church, originally built in the late 12th century, where it served the residents of Herstmonceux, a medieval village, the modern version of which now sits two miles’ north.

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History is one thing that the 1066 trail offers in abundance. Yep, the clue is in the title – the route traces the footsteps made by William the Conqueror 952 years ago, after he landed on Pevensey’s shores from France and marched into what remains one of the most famous battles of all time.

Renowned it may be, but there’s disagreement about what actually happened at the Battle of Hastings. Not everyone goes along with the belief that King Harold took an arrow in the eye (how his death is depicted on the Bayeux Tapestry, as every school child will know), and while it’s well known that the battle did not take place in Hastings, some historians also dispute the claim that it took place on the site where Battle Abbey, commissioned by William in 1070, now stands and where we plan to finish the first day of this running adventure.

Entering the grounds of Herstmonceux Castle, we take a leap forward 400-odd years – the stunning moated red-brick castle was built in the mid 1440s and later briefly owned by Henry VIII.

IMG_6550By this time we’re asking ourselves the important question ‘Are there nice places to stop on the way for an energy top-up?’ Feeling that we owe it to our future customers to find out, we sample the cream teas at the castle’s Chestnut tearooms. (And similarly, later in the day, the ales at a quintessentially English pub, The Ash Tree, in the fabulously named Brown Bread Street.) Big ticks all round.

In fact, Jeff credits his pint of Goose Island IPA for getting him up Tent Hill, where William the Conqueror allegedly camped the night before battle. He’d certainly have had a good vantage point from its summit…

But unlike William, we are in no fit state for Battle when we make it there from Pevensey at tea time. We drag our weary selves to The Bull for a hearty dinner and then take a wander around the quiet town. Whether or not King Harold was felled here or not, the place is steeped in history. Just ruins remain of the original abbey, but these and later buildings, like the imposing 14th-century turreted gatehouse, are now in the capable hands of English Heritage and visited by thousands of tourists each year.

We have 17 miles in the bag as we head to the B&B for much-needed showers and a good night’s sleep.

Day two dawns hot and cloudless. We leave Battle to its Sunday lie-in and set off a little stiffly, weighed down by breakfast and topped-up camelbaks. There are a couple of roads to negotiate, but a mile or so out of town we enter Great Wood, following a wide, easy track between conifer forest and stretches of open heathland.

The route feels hillier today – we climb and drop with a frequency that drives us to devise a ‘walk 10 steps, run 10 steps’ strategy on the steeper slopes to keep ourselves going. From one summit, we catch a glimpse of Hastings in the distance. But mercifully, there are also more forested stretches on the day’s route, which means there’s more escape from the sun than was offered by the vast expanse of the Pevensey Levels. Even so, I’m draining my water supply at an alarming rate, running in this heat.

We take a break at Westfield cricket ground, perching on wooden posts under the trees lining the oval to look at the map and eat a handful of nuts, dried fruit and sugary sweets. We decide to press on to Icklesham for lunch – it means more climbing, but will leave less distance to run in the afternoon. Later, when we’re munching doorstep sandwiches in the cool of the bar at the Queen’s Head, we’re glad we did.

If you’ve never combined running and eating (or drinking anything other than an energy drink), you might be concerned about how your digestive system might react to a mid-run meal.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised how well mine has coped, but I certainly wouldn’t want to scoff a sausage roll halfway through a 10K – the reason it works is because the pace is easy. This type of running adventure is about the journey, not the destination…

Tummies sated, drinks topped up, we leave Icklesham village through the churchyard (and, accidentally, via someone’s garden) and strike out across high fields from where we get our first glimpse of the sea, shimmering in the heat haze. Sheep wedge themselves into every inch of available shade among the thorny hedgerows that border the fields, and we try not to disturb them as we pass. Then we drop down to a country lane before a stiff climb up and over Hog’s Hill where there is a windmill, reputedly used as a recording studio by Paul McCartney, and from where you can see the ancient towns of Winchelsea and Rye perched on their respective hills.

I say ‘ancient,’ but the Winchelsea that stands today is officially ‘new’ Winchelsea, built by Edward I in 1288 to replace ‘old’ Winchelsea, which was washed away by violent storms. The village and its environs are littered with ruins. First, we spot New Gate, one of four gates into the town built during the 14th century (three remain standing). It’s now surrounded by sloping fields, which we climb, passing the ruined gable end of a medieval almshouse as we join the road into the centre of the village. It’s a pristine English village – not a flower out of place – with a cricket field, a village shop and pub. I half expect to see Miss Marple walking up the street… The grand and partially ruined St Thomas’ Church (built at the same time as the new town) sits at its centre, and in its graveyard you can find Spike Milligan’s grave, with its famous inscription ‘I told you I was ill’.

We head west out of the village, looking out across the Brede valley before skipping down the hill (it helps to keep you relaxed, rather than tensing up, Jeff persuades me) and turning back on ourselves, past Winchelsea’s sleepy station and onto the track to Rye. This final part of the route is one that we know well – it’s close to home and we run and walk it regularly. I’d often noticed the red and white plaques along it that mark the 1066 Trail and wondered what it was all about. Two days and 32 miles after leaving Pevensey, I now know.

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Interested in joining us on a 2-day 1066 Running Adventure this autumn? Email me or keep an eye on the website for details http://www.sam-murphy.co.uk