Marathon Diary 04

Unlike last week, this one has been fairly good for training, as could be judged from Al’s reactions last night. I got home from work, and after a cup of tea, came downstairs in my running gear.

“Ah Jesus, Coomy. Is Friday not a jog-free zone?”

Hell no. We runners think not in terms of weeks. We operate on a one-run-per-daylight-period cyce. My runners stink seven days a week, and they don’t do that all on their own, Al. Consistency is key in marathon training.

Seven days a week is clearly bullshit but it’s important to make sure you’re at least running more days a week than not. The general rule of thumb is that you shouldn’t build the amount of distance you do by more than ten per cent week-on-week. Ergo, in order to make any gains at all, you have to make sure you’re getting enough pavement time in. Making yourself get out there four times a week is willpower at first, until it becomes a compulsion.  Then you’re fine, and before you know it you’re sitting around twitching on a Sunday, wishing it wasn’t a day off.

For the outsider, though, it’s an aberration to see people heading out the door into the rain in skimpy shorts and t-shirt, with a wooly hat and fleece on.  Stay in, near the telly.  It’s warm inside. The kettle’s on and the crisps are salty.

The lone runner in the house is never popular, particularly standing chicken-thighed in a room of bird’s Eye lasagna and Doritos. And even more so on the dark eve of a storm. The rain was just thickening enough to justify the couch as a permanent encampment, and Al was settling in to watch The Banger Sisters with Hollywood moms Susan Sarandon and Goldie Hawn.

I’d catch the end of it. Out, so, into the growing drizzle, for a short half-hour jog with just one hill and no sprints for once. Hills have again been the focus of this week, along with plenty of core muscle exercises, but Friday was a warm-down, in anticipation of a long one on Saturday or Sunday.

And now it’s Saturday and I’ve just finished course two of breakfast, and I’m well into the papers. That’s okay, though, the papers tell me.  In the SMH this morning is a story of 1500m runner Suzie Rhydderch, whose hip snapped violently on the track in 2004. Malnourishment, fuelled by a desire to reduce her weight, led to her bone density plummeting to octogenarian levels.

“The thinner she was, the faster she’d go. ‘It only worked for so long. It set me up to fail.’”

Aged 21, she was a borderlien anorexic, and after her fall, found herself with a replacement hip. Girls in their late teens and early twenties are often victims of fad diets, wary of food that will to straight to the hips. They starve themselves to lose weight, and if they’re involved in something like running or ballet, where their body is continuously scrutinised, eating disorders are easy to fall into.

The last few years I’ve been told I’m too skinny, and with cautionary tales like that, I feel no guilt tucking into a plate of sausages (baked in honey & rosemary) on a Saturday morning. I generally eat handsomely, and run off any excess anyway. I tend to cook from scratch most nights, making my own soup and sauces, and using plenty of fresh veg. But usually one day a week I’ll eat what I want and not worry about it and I feel all the better for it. A little of what you like is good for me. It’ll all go straight to my hips – where it’s needed most.