I attended to my weekly ritual of the long run yesterday, 24km by the sea. It was barely a few degrees above freezing, the sky was cloudless, pale and iridescent, the sun was blinding. I passed cows and sheep on one side with a view to Belfast Lough on the other- I breathed deep country smells mingled with an occasional waft of the salty sea. I can hear sheep braying, their calls echoing off the steep rocky hills nearby, and I can hear seagulls too. The pavement is flat, soft and narrow. The road is straight and barely undulating, quiet as a country lane, with perfect views down towards the Lough. Opposite, up on steep Knockagh Hill, the war memorial obelisk acts as my fulcrum, pivoting me throughout my run. First sight is at 5km then passing it at 7km then behind me at my 12km turn point and then guiding me home on the return. It is my sentinel. For the last few kilometres before home I tire and slow down, as slow as I can without walking. My breathing is still strong, I can inhale well and I can exhale well, but my legs are weak and begin to stiffen. I have been drinking electrolytes steadily from the water bottle in my rucksack but I have burnt close to 3000 calories (it takes a lot of energy to move a weight like mine) and nibbling on one banana 10km ago just isn't enough. I am famished.
I have to slow down to a walk and give myself four minutes before running again. Eventually I stagger round the last bend, wobbling into the house and falling into the shower, 24.11km in around three hours, essential training for the marathon in May. I have run this distance only a handful of times and although I am proud of my achievement today I am so tired I can't help but become tearful and emotional. I am drained.
I have persistent doubts about running Belfast's marathon because I feel undertrained. My intensive training was supposed to start in early January but I have had two nasty bugs and a further ten days off all exercise after pushing myself too hard on a long run (26km before I was ready). In fact I had abandoned my marathon plans last week and had researched other races to try instead- a "tough mudder" 10km, a few half-marathons here and there, a Mourne Mountain marathon later in the year- when a phone call from my marathon-running cousin reignited my interest (it would be impossible to not run after speaking to her- she has covered enough miles in her life as a cross-country and marathon runner to get her to Mars and back, mostly wearing her wedding dress, a strawberry costume or other outfits than can only encourage people to give generously to the charities she raises money for).
So here I am running the long run, the most important run in marathon training, reconsidering my hill runs, my speed runs, my interval training, my high-intensity training, my core strength, my tapering and all the other distractions we runners fool ourselves into thinking that are important. They all count, of course, but don't really matter. What really matters is the long run.
There are no real short cuts to an endeavour such as running a marathon, you just have to put the hours in.
My mum died one week ago today. There are no shortcuts to grief, you just have to put the hours in.
Photo by me
Photo by John Xavier
