The Qwer Old Fella's Marathon Method

Just a quick message to say thank you to those who have asked about my health. I had two teeth removed, ended up with a debilitating infection and an awful condition called 'Dry Socket'.

I'm on the mend and hope to be back running and blogging soon...

Thanks again for the concern and good wishes; it's nice to know that people care.

5 a.m.: The alarm screams. Hullabaloo; what on earth… I realise. I lie there in the scratcher and remember that I need to get up and get out on the road. But I get the twinge – in my mouth. Best not run today. Let it heal and start again in a couple of days. All the same, up I get. Got to keep the discipline.

Guilt ridden, I decide to tackle the mountain of ironing. How many real men get up at five and plunge into the ironing basket? Not many. Yep, that’s the sort of mental fortitude and toughness that sees you through the final stages of a 2:25 marathon – when you’re 45 +.

So there I am, iron in hand, skimming the clothes, full steam ahead, when I pick up my new Nike running top. Silky soft. Little reflector thingamajigs all over the shot. Wicks away sweat before you start to sweat. Top stuff. What Garmin is to weekly mileage, Nike wicking is to comfort and freshness on the run. Do I iron it? What if somebody sees me out running in a wrinkled Nike running top? Just wouldn’t do, would it? Got to look the part.

My mind drifts back to my late teenage days, not long after the summer when I broke 9 for 3000m – a time when men were real men, a time when you weren’t a ‘real’ runner unless you had at least two stress fractures in each leg, a time when worn-out Plimpsoles evinced your running credentials: the more holes in the soles, the more miles in the legs.

My first Tuesday club night with the men. There must have been four or five sub 2:14 marathon warriors (standard for most clubs) and a plethora of sub 2:25 B string wannabes.

In the changing rooms, men growled and stared and grunted as they slipped into their Plimpsoles and ever so short shorts and sweat-crusted, cotton T-shirts; perfect for a gelid December night. Stories embossed on the eyes of each man. Each story a bitter indictment of pain and disappointment, each story hinting at the despair of each runner’s meaningless journey towards the nothingness, and each story riddled with the fear of missing a training session.

Men, with tufts of hair sprouting from chins which blunt razors failed to shave, looked at me with disdain. The young pretender.

Out there in darkness and the cold of the December night I felt the insecurities of youth. What if I couldn’t hang in there with them, I thought. If they drop me, I’ll be the laughing stock. Got to stay with them, no matter what.

A burst of steam from the iron burnt my hand and snapped me out of my reminiscing. Tomorrow, when the alarm screams, twinge or no twinge, I'll be up and out there - on the road, like a real man.

5 a.m. - 3.5 miles progressive - just like a Kenyan. Mile splits: 8:38, 8:08, 7:30, and 3:30 for the final half mile. And yes, I got myself a cheeky little Garmin. Got the Forerunner 110 – it doesn’t tell you how many goji berries to sprinkle over your granola, but it does distance and pace; what an invention. Back in my day we ran hard for an hour (5.10 pace) and called it a short 7 miler. But then we measured the run on a map (7 or 8 times) with a piece of string and recorded it as a nippy 11. Oh yeah, those were the days. Great to be out there again and felt better than I thought I would, all things considered.

When I got back, I gave the ironing basket the eye – the look that suggested you know the score kidda: I took you out yesterday. Full of the joys, I considered some strength and core work. Decided that mopping the kitchen floor would count as stretching, strength and core work rolled into one plus, I’d earn points with the old lady…

Turns out, when I was in the living room eating my granola - with a healthy sprinkling of goji berries - and trying to fathom my Garmin, the old lady was in the kitchen ferreting for her breakfast. She only went and slipped on the wet floor. Pancakes everywhere. Went berserk, so she did. Ho hum.

5:00 a.m. – 3.5 mile slog. No watch. Cold. Wet. Miserable. The sound of my rasping breath echoing in the morning darkness, accompanied by the trudge of my feet slapping the pavement. Went to bed last night knowing that this morning’s outing would hurt. Indigestion.

At the dinner table last night, it kicked off. Pandemonium. Now you know what the old lady’s all about went it comes to nosh… Well I put the dinner out for the Queen and the two princesses and they gave me the eyes. Cinderfella, the look said. What do you think this is?

‘What?' I said. ‘It’s buckwheat and stew.’

‘I’ll buck you out the window, Cinders,’ the old lady said, fussing her fork through the gastronomic delight sat in front of her. ‘And what’s this brown yuk?’

‘Elk stew,’ I said. ‘It’s delicious.’

‘Elk stew,’ the youngest princess said, ‘What’s an elk?’

The oldest princess, who is a nine year old teenager and thinks she’s American because she goes to stage school on Saturdays and watches so much cable/digital/satellite T.V. said, ‘An elk like, don’t you know, it’s kinda like an American thing. Yeah, the Americans gorge on it. Sophie was telling me, like, when she was Stateside shopping, she ate elk stew. All the celebs are feasting on it. It’s the new super food. Purges the system. Better than quinoa.’

‘That’s right princess,’ I said, kowtowing and shuffling away from the table. ‘And buckwheat’s low G.I.’

‘Low G.I. my eye,’ the Queen said. ‘This buck stuff looks like papier-mâché.’

Anyway, they ate it. Of course, it wasn’t elk stew. It was a recipe that Sean the leprechaun gave me…