22
Lionel Richie, Running with the Night
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 22
One step, and then possibly the next, and then, maybe, just maybe, another.
Like a football manager giving a boring answer about not looking beyond the next match, like a tennis player refusing to see past the next round, I’m going to take this one step at a time. But actually. Literally. One step at a time. Because I have to. Because my left knee and right calf are now hurting so much that I must focus on every single footstep to gauge if I’m physically able to continue. It’s an odd thing to be continuing to do something, out of choice, which goes against your every survival instinct.
Here’s what’s happening inside my head every half-second or so.
Left leg lands.
‘Ow! That was beyond awful. The knee looks frighteningly large, and feels like a grenade has just been detonated inside it. I should pull up and get it attended to. Just wait to see what happens next time I land on...’
Right leg lifts off.
‘Ow! OW! OK, forget the left knee. The right calf muscle seems to be ripping itself off the bone and disintegrating. That’s going to have to improve or I’m...’
Left leg lands.
‘Aaaaargh! The knee’s not better then. Worse, if anything. Because that grenade now seems more like a nuclear warhead. Maybe if I try to...’
Right leg lifts off.
‘Paaaaaaain!!!!’
And so on. Every single footstep.
And. Every. So. Single. On. Footstep.
And still around five miles left to run.
Still around fifty miles left to run. I’ve just completed the first mile of what will be my longest training run in the build-up to my first ultra marathon, the 100km (62 mile) Race to the Stones. But the thought doesn’t especially scare me. I’ve never been fitter, never felt stronger, and I’m reasonably confident I can complete this without getting injured. So no, the thought of another 50 miles doesn’t especially scare me.
What does alarm me a little is how fast I completed that first mile, well under seven minutes, and I’m supposed to be taking it easy. The only way I might pick up an injury is if I attempt this Long Slow Run too quickly. Trouble is, I got sidetracked during these long months of training by my old friend and training partner, the prospect of running a sub-three hour road marathon. Entirely Rory Coleman’s fault with his fitness test results and fantasies of 15-minute 5ks. He probably saw a light come on in my eyes when he reeled off those outlandish figures – and even though I originally went to see him for a training plan to get me round 100km of ancient Ridgeway, even though the entire meeting was organised by the people who stage the Race to the Stones, we ended up largely ignoring the ultra and instead devising a 12-week training plan to get me round 26.2 miles as quickly as possible. So I’ve been doing quite a few speed sessions and power hours, probably too many – with almost certainly too little of the long stuff. I’m hoping the extra distance on the day will take care of itself if I can successfully complete this one long training route I’ve mapped out for myself.
The only thing is, I’ve set off from home and long runs always seem so much longer and harder when they’re not somewhere new. There’s a 22-miler following the river from Hammersmith Bridge to Kingston and back, all pancake flat, none of it difficult, but I always seem to struggle. Conversely, I once went to the south of France on a weekend jolly with pals from work. On the first morning before anyone else woke up, I covered over 30 miles in the hills above Cannes and never once felt bored or tired. The following afternoon we were in St Tropez and I set off for what I imagined would be a quick half-hour recovery. But my legs came alive as I ran through lush, shady vineyards and battled for footing on a deep sandy beach. Before I knew it, I’d been out for two hours and another 16 or 17 miles. And on the final morning, feeling a little jaded following a long and lively night before, I really did mean to run for a maximum of 30 minutes, just to sweat out the booze and loosen the legs. But again, new place syndrome, this time I ended up in a charming hilltop village called Ramatuelle and returned to St Tropez only to discover a coastal path heading out of the town the other way, past a stunning old fort and following a largely deserted stretch of coastline until it mysteriously disappeared, seemingly into the sea. By the time I returned, I’d been out for almost three hours and 20-odd miles. None of it felt hard or boring, because it was all so fresh and gorgeous and new.
But I fear this one is going to sting. Richmond Park, Bushy Park, then along the river and into the famous parks of central London, St James’ Park, Green Park, and Hyde Park. All terribly green and pleasant, but also decidedly well trodden and routine. I’m beginning to think I should have driven to the South Downs and run there. Except if I had, I’d need a powerful head torch and I don’t own one. Because it will be getting dark soon – and I’ve decided to make this an all-nighter.
I’ve never met anyone who’s run all night, but I’ve heard of people who have and it seems right up my street: an enchanting mix of unusual, romantic, soulful and bonkers. I set off as the rest of the world heads home after a long day’s work and suddenly realise that my excess speed for the first mile is actually down to excitement. This is bracing, invigorating. The rush hour traffic is worse than usual, and I feel liberated as I gallop along, not constrained by cars, traffic lights, roadworks or deadlines. It’s mid-June and the perfect weather for running, cloudless and still, warm but not hot. There are others on the towpath too, lots of them taking advantage of the long summer evening – commuters on bicycles, couples out for an evening stroll, dog-walkers, pram-pushers and of course fellow runners.
My pace has slowed now, in keeping with my need to avoid injury, and as someone overtakes me I have to fight down the urge to race him. Normally I’d be going faster than that, I think. But pride has no place in an all-night run. Not that sort of pride anyway, not the corrosive kind.
Over the next hour or two, as the cars thin out on the roads, I see fewer and fewer people on the pavements and paths. I suddenly decide I no longer want to be running in deserted suburban parks. The night is an ideal time for an urban adventure. I’m in Richmond Park by now, the sky is finally darkening, and I’ve not seen another human being for around half an hour. Despite how close I am to millions of people, the apparent solitude begins to wear on me and I turn out of the park, ripping up my carefully crafted plan in the process, and start heading northeast alongside the still-busy A3 towards town.
This feels better, my legs get a new lease of life and my heart soars despite the fact I’ve swapped nature for noise, trees for traffic, beauty for buildings. It feels a little weird, plodding alongside a dual carriageway and heading for one of the busiest cities in the world to continue my run. Good weird? I’ve not decided yet. Different though, definitely different.
I soon find myself in the Wandsworth one-way system, still gridlocked as people start falling out of pubs, bars and restaurants. Many of them look quizzically at the guy who’s clearly opted for this less conventional way to spend his Thursday evening. But I’m only alongside them for a moment as I head onwards into Clapham, which is also surprisingly busy. I realise I’m becoming a bit of a nuisance running down the pavement of a busy high street, because no-one coming out of a bar expects people to be travelling at anything more than walking pace at this time of night.
I remember that my wife used to live round here, so I resolve to detour round each of the four flats she rented before we got married, as a sort of pilgrimage to old times’ sake. Except I get lost looking for the first of them and end up in Brixton, not Battersea as I’d hoped. And if I thought the nightlife in Clapham was spirited, it’s nothing compared to busy, bustling Brixton. I jog past a nightclub called the Dogstar just as a loud group of girls leaves and a larger group of lads turns to go in. A few years ago, I’d have been one of those boys, energised by booze and giving the running bloke a similarly sardonic stare.
I turn northwa
rds, heading for the Thames via the Oval cricket ground and Westminster Bridge. Everything seems much quieter now, the pavements are thinning out and people are heading home, even the revellers. Except for a few couples and tourists out strolling, the riverside is obligingly peaceful, and there’s nothing to draw my attention away from the world’s greatest cityscape – Houses of Parliament, Southbank, Tate Modern and London Eye all viewed over calm water at night. The old and the new, perfectly in tune. The draw of history is even stronger here than it was that day on the Isle of Wight, when I felt a powerful connection to runners of previous generations, previous centuries, who’d doubtless been struck by the same sense of splendour as they reached the top of a Down and gloried in the sight of the island tapering towards the Needles. I wonder if Wordsworth had a touch of the night runner about him when he wrote Composed Upon Westminster Bridge:
Earth hath not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare…
It was early morning when Wordsworth wrote those evocative lines 200 years ago, and it’s very early morning now, almost 2am as I head past Downing Street into Trafalgar Square, Covent Garden and Soho. This being the party capital of the capital (as it were) there are still quite a few people on the streets and I find I’m enjoying the incredulous looks I receive as I dodge between bouncers and partygoers. It’s then that I realise I’m not remotely exhausted despite the fact I’ve been running for almost five hours. In my legs, that is. My legs feel relatively fresh and loose, but my head could definitely do with a strong coffee to keep it ticking over. And having lived in the middle of Soho for over a year in my twenties, I know exactly where to get one. Bar Italia is a London institution: it’s been going since the 1940s, open 22 hours a day (they only close between 5am and 7am) and their coffee is top banana. There’s often a queue, even in the middle of the night, but tonight I’m lucky and get served immediately. So I down a quick double espresso at the bar, wolf down a few biscuits – and feel ready to tackle the rest of the night.
But I also suddenly crave some solitude, so head north for Regent’s Park and Primrose Hill. As I run through the largely empty streets and into the deserted parks, it feels like I’ve put the city to bed, all tucked up and cosy, whilst I continue to patrol outside.
I had feared that running alone in an empty park at night might be a touch scary, or at the very least spooky. But it turns out London’s copious green spaces are glorious places to be in the early hours, and I happily while away an hour or two, just thinking, clearing the head of clutter, and all the while I hardly see another soul even though I’m right in the centre of a city of over eight million.
Before I know it, it starts getting light again and just as it does, I also start feeling drowsy. The caffeine has long since worn off. I consider racing back to Bar Italia for another before it closes, but change my mind. Only another hour or so to go now, so I perk myself up with a Snickers bar and some hill repeats – a dozen times up and down the face of Primrose Hill. Whether it’s the chocolate, the intervals, or a combination of both I don’t know, but it works. I feel newly energised. There are others runners about by now, and suddenly I’m just normal again, just another bloke stretching his legs before work. But to me, it feels like I’ve been calmly watching over everyone, like a parent, waiting for the city to wake.
I’d also been a little concerned about what state I’d be in when I arrived at New Broadcasting House for the Friday morning Breakfast Show, but again, I needn’t have. I’m fine. I’m also rather proud of myself. I have no idea how far I’ve gone, but I’ve just run through the night for the first time. And as I swipe into the building and head for a much-needed shower, I feel sure it won’t be the last.
Graham Albans
Senior Producer on the Chris Evans Breakfast Show on BBC Radio 2. He hadn’t run a single step until six months ago, but he’s now joined a running club, absolutely loves the way it makes him feel, has lost loads of weight and has even persuaded friends and family to take up running.
I think running is one of the only sports where you’re not competing against... well for me I’m not competing against other people, I’m only competing against myself. It’s that realisation that I’m never going to win a race, I’m never going to come first. But what I can do is continually try to beat myself and compete against myself and continually better myself.
The reason the whole thing started for me in the first place wasn’t because I wanted to get into a sport – I’ve never been into sport – or even that I wanted get into running particularly. It’s that I wanted to lose some weight and be healthier. So now I’m competing against the scales as well. Every couple of weeks I’m looking at the scales and trying to beat my target weight or beat my target time at a parkrun or beat my distance in a training run in the middle of the week.
My first parkrun was in February 2014. I couldn’t finish it. It was a cold morning and I had a bit of a cold but I think I was sort of using that as an excuse. I just couldn’t get air into my lungs and I felt horrible. I felt like a failure because I couldn’t even make it round one lap, I walked a bit, carried on running, but halfway round the second lap I literally had to stop and walk back to the car. My legs had no more go in them. It just felt rubbish, especially as I was right next to my friend Phil who’s a super runner and breezes through these things in 18 minutes. The maximum I had done up until that point was four kilometres and I couldn’t finish my first 5k parkrun, which felt lousy.
Now my PB at parkrun is just over twenty minutes. And I absolutely love it.
Some friends have persuaded me to think about longer runs. I would have thought it would be completely unachievable but downloaded some basic training plans for a half-marathon. You think, ‘I’m never going to get into these longer distances’, but you can if you follow a plan and don’t just be lazy. Each week my weight came down and down and my fastest times came down and down and my distances went up and up and up.
Now I’m six months into a very short but very enjoyable running life. You can’t keep me off the roads. I have to remind myself that I need to take a rest day every now and again because when I go a day without putting my trainers on it doesn’t feel right. I feel really sluggish and lazy on the days that I don’t do it.
I feel totally better physically and mentally. I sleep better when I’m asleep; I’m more awake when I’m awake. I feel better in the clothes that didn’t used to fit me and now do. I just feel more vibrant and I concentrate better. It feels good to have a physical hobby as well, something outside of work that I can get into and I’ve made friends through.
Running is another element to my life which is a massive, positive thing. And directly because of me starting to run, my mum and dad have both laced up their trainers again (my dad used to run half-marathons but gave up years ago). And friends have been getting out running for a few miles just because I’ve been buzzing about it. A year ago Vassos was the only runner on the breakfast show. Now all of us have achieved at least a half-marathon, and Chris himself secretly ran the full London Marathon! It’s a ripple effect. And it’s all good.
23
Jay-Z, Run This Town
‘Outlaw’ Ironman Triathlon, Mile 23
It’s been cathartic, this.
Despite the fact that I’m hobbling round this marathon much slower (two hours slower) than anticipated, and despite the fact that I’m likely to be injured for some time, I begin to sense that it’s all been worthwhile. Because the whole point of this was to challenge myself, to dig deep and see what was in the well. And thanks to my various injuries and nutrition fiascos, I’m certainly doing just that.
In fact nothing I’ve done before or since, not running through the night or attempting an ill-prepared 100km cross country in worn-out shoes, nothing has hurt or tested me as much as this.
>
I realise that despite everything, I’ve already sort of won. Even with four miles to go. I’ve tested myself to my limits, and come through. A clever man once gave me some advice. You should, he said, try to get out of your comfort zone as frequently as possible, ideally every day. That way your comfort zone expands and you become more and more accomplished as a human being.
Well, today I’ve gone way, way, WAY out of my comfort zone. And if I can get through another four miles, I will feel I’ve truly grown.
But that’s still a big if.
Text message received. From Coleman, Rory:
So how did the Kent Roadrunner go?
Gulp. Best get this over with.
Thanks for remembering Rory. Really nice event, super people, but I had a shocker. 3:15. No idea why, I looked back through my training and it was practically perfect.
And it was. As I’ve mentioned, I was meant to be training for my first ultra-marathon, but got sidetracked by the idea of running a fast marathon on the road. Or more specifically, on the 2.5km track of the Cyclopark near Gravesend in Kent. Seventeen laps of it.
I was unusually nervous the night before the race, and indeed the night before that, on marathon eve eve, and opted not to join the other dozen or so dads on my street for our last-Thursday-of-the-month meeting in the local pub. These are usually reasonably tame affairs, but just in case...
The reason I was nervous is that by and large, I’d followed Rory’s training plan to the letter. Weekly Power Hours that left my calves aching for days. Hill sessions. Speed sessions. Long runs, longer than prescribed. Weight sessions in the gym. Daily core exercises... I’d done it all. And the previous week, when Rory had come into Radio 2 for a chat and I’d told him how quickly I was running, he confidently predicted my marathon time would be 2:49 to 2:54. Mind you, he added, it’s on the undulating side, that Cyclopark, so watch out for that.
Don't Stop Me Now Page 19
