Bad news for those who thought I would not be tempted into fancy dress for a mere £100 additional charity donation. A "Hot Scottie" outfit was acquired (ladies I may be tempted to host "Hot Scottie" evenings if the charitable wedge is reasonable) and clad in a kilt, a plaid and a tartan bonnet with a white feather I lined up with the serious club runners that my last year's time merited. Eyebrows raised but no-one brave enough to challenge a six foot lunatic in highland dress.
Those nice people at Cancer Research had sent me a simit (Scottish for vest - as most recently popularised by Scottish glamour model Rab C Nesbitt to whom we Scots aspire) and some letters. Sadly the letters spelt "Keithie" rather than "Flying Scotsman". So I wore the simit too. A fine sight.
And clearly an inspiring one for all but my children. They wrote a sign to hold up to encourage me: "You can do better than.... A slug". Thanks guys.
Perhaps this was a reaction to my starting to tell Murray off for something important when he responded "Stop Dad. Your beginning to sound like a mean dad. I don't want a mean dad. That would not be very nice."
Erica, reading a book, looked up and said in a distracted way "You don't want to be a mean dad, Dad" and returned to her reading.
I looked to Shona for support but she was only just suppressing hysteria so I gave up and threw Murray out of the 11th floor hotel room window. In my imagination.
So back to the race. Unbelievable how many people I now know in the corridor between Newcastle and South Shields. "Come on Keithie"; "Come on Scottie"; "Come on Scotland"; "Like the kilt"; "What's under your kilt?" (I found "blisters" got a laugh) and sundry other generally encouraging remarks along the course which, even given the possible residual fear of the Scots coming over the border again as used to be popular in these parts and so the need not to antagonise me, was, well, fantastic. It reached a climax in the last 800 metres when the crowd both sides were cheering me on by name. Hard to smile hugely, gasp for breathe and pose for photographs while also trying to finish a 13 mile race but I think I succeeded at least on the smile (the only involuntary of these) crossing the line in a respectable 1:37 - a personal best in fancy dress. Absolutely brilliant. Thank you Newcastle. So far as my vote is concerned no invasion this year. See you again next year.
If you are reading this and have not donated, bear in mind that even the most modest donation is appreciated and contributes to this good cause. Everybody knows someone who...
Monday, September 21, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Day Before
My good fortune to be on the train with an elite athlete. It seems that rest and relaxation is order of the day. At odds with my view that she should do her homework but then again the only time I have been misdecribed as an "elite athlete" there was mirth all round so what do I know? No coincidence that "mirth" and "girth" rhyme. Back to the elite athlete and an experimental move up in distance to 3 miles. Challenging for a nine year old ("not so" the elite athlete tells me) but then so is 13 for an old guy like me (and I have not forgotten the .1 but adrenaline kicks in). The plan is simple - a sustainable pace followed by a sprint at the end (in contrast with my own plan: sprint, followed by gradual slowing to walk then crawl approach; one never stops learning) - with a top 100 9 year old placing as target (as opposed to top 1000 vegetable target I have set myself). We'll see but I wish I had Erica Wilson's self assurance.
Big thanks to all who have sponsored and to those who have offered more for fancy dress, be scared, very, very scared - like anyone who sees me. You have been warned.
Not too late to support.
And don't call me Keithie.
Big thanks to all who have sponsored and to those who have offered more for fancy dress, be scared, very, very scared - like anyone who sees me. You have been warned.
Not too late to support.
And don't call me Keithie.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
2009/2 3 Days to go....
Only 3 days to go to the big day. Off to yoga in a little while in hope of stretching aged and tight muscles into lean and supple as if belonging to much younger person. Obviously relying as much on the spiritual side of yoga for this miracle as likely physical benefits. Remainder of tapering programme is a little open - any ideas?
Here is a post from 2007 which shows a much heavier degree of preparation in contrast to thos year's not running the London marathon. 2 years older so what can you expect...
2007 - Mail 2
The Swineshead 10 - Sunday 9 September
It was 10 miles long ... and very hot. Resolved beforehand to treat it as a training run and not to go too fast early on. First mile in 6 minutes 47 seconds: Wow! Quicker than I run a 10k. Better try and slow down for the second mile. Second mile slightly quicker. Ok, seriously, brakes on for mile 3. Third mile quicker yet. Hey, I am quite good at this - on for a record time for 10 miles. Lets go for it. Fourth mile same as mile 3. Fifth mile slightly slower. Sixth mile - is it me or are even the flat bits seeming like they are uphill now. Mile 7 - nice steady 8 minute miles pace seems good ...but unachievable. Mile 8 nice steady 8 minutes 30 second miles pace seems good...but unachievable. Mile 9 - 9 minute miles pace seems fine...but unachievable. Mile 10, will I be the first runner to end up with blisters not on his feet but on his hands and knees getting to the finish. Hot, very hot. No medal. Tired out. Get home. Dad, Dad, will you play football with me? Take son to hospital and answer some searching questions as to how he came about his injuries.
The Dunstable 20 - Sunday 16 September
Time flies when you are enjoying yourself, they say. Conversely...
Talking to a chap at the start who asked me if I had done it before. No, I responded, I have not run 20 miles in one go for over 20 years (in fact, since my solitary marathon back in 1986 - vowed never again - have kept vow). "Oh well you will enjoy this" he said, "probably slightly harder than a marathon despite the shorter distance, and very easy to get lost" and with that he drifted away in to the crowd of 150 or so mad souls standing on the top of a windy hill near Whipsnade Zoo on a warm summer morning in September (summer morning in September? what has happened to the climate in this country? 17 years I have been away from Scotland and I still cannot get my mind around the fact that September in the warmest month in England). "Gulp" says I.
A word with a group of local runners from the Dunstable runners club (wearing their club vests) brought knowing grins. "Oh yes all too easy to get lost - the course it not very well marked".
"Help"! says I.
There were some firsts. This is my first official "trail run" (basically not a road race and so routes can go through erupting volcanoes, rivers in spate and generally off the beaten track) and the first time that the organisers hand you a map and a set of detailed route instructions (100 yards TL (I think it means "turn left"); after the Oak Tree take the second path being careful not to follow the bridleway...) before you start out. Adding "Orienteering Challenge" to the name of the event would, apparently, have given too much away.
Salvation was at hand. One of the Dunstable runners said "why don't you run with us? We are expecting to do this in just under 3 hours." Just under 3 hours? Given previous half marathon times, on a flat course over 20 miles it is conceivable that with a good deal of quality training and rest, abstinence from alcohol and rich foods, possibly from other things too, that time would be achievable. I therefore rather optimistically committed myself to running with them. If the pace was going to be slightly fast, I told myself, nevertheless they knew where they were going which would compensate for the lost time I would otherwise suffer from going the wrong way.
Unfortunately the course was not flat but instead what is euphemistically termed "undulating" and the days leading up to the event had not been spent on quality training or resting but had, instead, been spent at a Paul Hastings European Offices Retreat involving early morning travel, no training, late nights socialising and an unexpectedly warm welcome back from my wife, so that abstinence did not feature highly in the preparation programme either.
Fortunately these unfavorable preparations did not really manifest themselves until at least half way through the first mile. From then on, however, it became more of a struggle to stay with the quite fit regular runners of Dunstable. I am a gritty perseverer and moreover was suffering from a terrible fear of being abandoned in whichever of Bedfordshire/Hertfordshire/other County we were actually in and so I hung in there gradually moving from being a member of the pack to grimly hanging on to the pack to grimly keeping the pack in sight. This worked fine until the first water break immediately before a challenging hill. They grabbed their cups and kept on running. I stopped and cleared the table of water before commencing the climb. To be honest I think they would have been happier without me wheezing and panting pitifully 20 yards behind.
So after drying my eyes, I carried on up the hill and down again and then across a long unploughed field with no wind and the sun beating down on me (put me in mind of my former partner who elected to spend his hard earned 10 year sabbatical running across the Sahara on that 60 odd mile marquis de sade or sable race. Mad, quite mad.) Terrain was not easy and I had to help a poor unfortunate female runner to her feet after she had tripped. But running is no place for wimps so of course having checked she only had flesh wounds I had to leave her behind. At least she would have left a trail of blood that was easy to follow.
The compassion I had shown put me together with a couple of other runners and we formed something of a pack. It transpired that these two runners (both happily slower than the Dunstable runners pack) had traversed this same route the previous year and so had some knowledge. At least twice we made unexpected turns to stay on the route and met a passer by who said all the others went that way, pointing in a different direction. We were right, they were wrong. Maybe they are still running.
At first it was difficult for me to run as slowly as the pack I was now in but over time it became easier and then became more challenging to keep up. I am not very good in the heat (must be why I love spending my days in air conditioned offices) and in the lower half of this course it was very hot. I nearly lost my pack whilst once again clearing the water table at another water stop but I knew we had to keep going because at mile 14 we crossed through my children's school and it had been pre-arranged that they would be there to encourage me. Rather optimistically I had led them to believe that I would come storming through there. Alas it was at this point that the need to regenerate my liver after the retreat socialising and the effects of the heat became most acute, with the consequence that their first sight of me was not my breaking into a masterly sprint as I had planned but a stumbling walk. Indeed they only ever saw me walking as we walked together through the school grounds and I lost sight of the pack I had been with. Very, very, very, very tempting to stop at this point. Enormously so. Refueled, however, with water, sweets and friendly encouragement and after Shona locked me out of her car and drove off, I continued.
Out through the woods and on to a field trying to catch up with the runners ahead. Emerged from the hedge to see one of the runners going right and the other going straight on. One of them must be correct - which one was it? Out with the map for the first time. Good excuse to resume walking again. Start walking at a 45 degree angle between the course of both runners. Get half way across the field when some more runners behind shout "you're going the wrong way - it is over here". Turn around, run, catch them up - back in a pack. Hooray! Tears flow. I love them. I want to stay with them forever.
And so it transpired. We pretty much kept together as a group. Gradually picking up a little pace as the day grew cooler. The efforts of rehydration at each of the water tables took effect and the body began to respond to the adverse situation it found itself in. Miles started to slip by slightly easier. Bit of a race across the golf course down to the finish. More tears. 3 hours 18 minutes - not bad in all the circumstances.
Surprisingly mobile at work the next day - as always legs felt like I was carrying sandbags on the outside held on by pins directly in to the flesh but not heavy ones. Bring it on!
The final race in the challenge is the Great North Run at the end of this month. Training has resumed. Learning my lessons I have provisionally decided that until then there will be nearly complete abstinence from alcohol most of the time, probably. Should be fine. Please give generously.
Keith
Here is a post from 2007 which shows a much heavier degree of preparation in contrast to thos year's not running the London marathon. 2 years older so what can you expect...
2007 - Mail 2
The Swineshead 10 - Sunday 9 September
It was 10 miles long ... and very hot. Resolved beforehand to treat it as a training run and not to go too fast early on. First mile in 6 minutes 47 seconds: Wow! Quicker than I run a 10k. Better try and slow down for the second mile. Second mile slightly quicker. Ok, seriously, brakes on for mile 3. Third mile quicker yet. Hey, I am quite good at this - on for a record time for 10 miles. Lets go for it. Fourth mile same as mile 3. Fifth mile slightly slower. Sixth mile - is it me or are even the flat bits seeming like they are uphill now. Mile 7 - nice steady 8 minute miles pace seems good ...but unachievable. Mile 8 nice steady 8 minutes 30 second miles pace seems good...but unachievable. Mile 9 - 9 minute miles pace seems fine...but unachievable. Mile 10, will I be the first runner to end up with blisters not on his feet but on his hands and knees getting to the finish. Hot, very hot. No medal. Tired out. Get home. Dad, Dad, will you play football with me? Take son to hospital and answer some searching questions as to how he came about his injuries.
The Dunstable 20 - Sunday 16 September
Time flies when you are enjoying yourself, they say. Conversely...
Talking to a chap at the start who asked me if I had done it before. No, I responded, I have not run 20 miles in one go for over 20 years (in fact, since my solitary marathon back in 1986 - vowed never again - have kept vow). "Oh well you will enjoy this" he said, "probably slightly harder than a marathon despite the shorter distance, and very easy to get lost" and with that he drifted away in to the crowd of 150 or so mad souls standing on the top of a windy hill near Whipsnade Zoo on a warm summer morning in September (summer morning in September? what has happened to the climate in this country? 17 years I have been away from Scotland and I still cannot get my mind around the fact that September in the warmest month in England). "Gulp" says I.
A word with a group of local runners from the Dunstable runners club (wearing their club vests) brought knowing grins. "Oh yes all too easy to get lost - the course it not very well marked".
"Help"! says I.
There were some firsts. This is my first official "trail run" (basically not a road race and so routes can go through erupting volcanoes, rivers in spate and generally off the beaten track) and the first time that the organisers hand you a map and a set of detailed route instructions (100 yards TL (I think it means "turn left"); after the Oak Tree take the second path being careful not to follow the bridleway...) before you start out. Adding "Orienteering Challenge" to the name of the event would, apparently, have given too much away.
Salvation was at hand. One of the Dunstable runners said "why don't you run with us? We are expecting to do this in just under 3 hours." Just under 3 hours? Given previous half marathon times, on a flat course over 20 miles it is conceivable that with a good deal of quality training and rest, abstinence from alcohol and rich foods, possibly from other things too, that time would be achievable. I therefore rather optimistically committed myself to running with them. If the pace was going to be slightly fast, I told myself, nevertheless they knew where they were going which would compensate for the lost time I would otherwise suffer from going the wrong way.
Unfortunately the course was not flat but instead what is euphemistically termed "undulating" and the days leading up to the event had not been spent on quality training or resting but had, instead, been spent at a Paul Hastings European Offices Retreat involving early morning travel, no training, late nights socialising and an unexpectedly warm welcome back from my wife, so that abstinence did not feature highly in the preparation programme either.
Fortunately these unfavorable preparations did not really manifest themselves until at least half way through the first mile. From then on, however, it became more of a struggle to stay with the quite fit regular runners of Dunstable. I am a gritty perseverer and moreover was suffering from a terrible fear of being abandoned in whichever of Bedfordshire/Hertfordshire/other County we were actually in and so I hung in there gradually moving from being a member of the pack to grimly hanging on to the pack to grimly keeping the pack in sight. This worked fine until the first water break immediately before a challenging hill. They grabbed their cups and kept on running. I stopped and cleared the table of water before commencing the climb. To be honest I think they would have been happier without me wheezing and panting pitifully 20 yards behind.
So after drying my eyes, I carried on up the hill and down again and then across a long unploughed field with no wind and the sun beating down on me (put me in mind of my former partner who elected to spend his hard earned 10 year sabbatical running across the Sahara on that 60 odd mile marquis de sade or sable race. Mad, quite mad.) Terrain was not easy and I had to help a poor unfortunate female runner to her feet after she had tripped. But running is no place for wimps so of course having checked she only had flesh wounds I had to leave her behind. At least she would have left a trail of blood that was easy to follow.
The compassion I had shown put me together with a couple of other runners and we formed something of a pack. It transpired that these two runners (both happily slower than the Dunstable runners pack) had traversed this same route the previous year and so had some knowledge. At least twice we made unexpected turns to stay on the route and met a passer by who said all the others went that way, pointing in a different direction. We were right, they were wrong. Maybe they are still running.
At first it was difficult for me to run as slowly as the pack I was now in but over time it became easier and then became more challenging to keep up. I am not very good in the heat (must be why I love spending my days in air conditioned offices) and in the lower half of this course it was very hot. I nearly lost my pack whilst once again clearing the water table at another water stop but I knew we had to keep going because at mile 14 we crossed through my children's school and it had been pre-arranged that they would be there to encourage me. Rather optimistically I had led them to believe that I would come storming through there. Alas it was at this point that the need to regenerate my liver after the retreat socialising and the effects of the heat became most acute, with the consequence that their first sight of me was not my breaking into a masterly sprint as I had planned but a stumbling walk. Indeed they only ever saw me walking as we walked together through the school grounds and I lost sight of the pack I had been with. Very, very, very, very tempting to stop at this point. Enormously so. Refueled, however, with water, sweets and friendly encouragement and after Shona locked me out of her car and drove off, I continued.
Out through the woods and on to a field trying to catch up with the runners ahead. Emerged from the hedge to see one of the runners going right and the other going straight on. One of them must be correct - which one was it? Out with the map for the first time. Good excuse to resume walking again. Start walking at a 45 degree angle between the course of both runners. Get half way across the field when some more runners behind shout "you're going the wrong way - it is over here". Turn around, run, catch them up - back in a pack. Hooray! Tears flow. I love them. I want to stay with them forever.
And so it transpired. We pretty much kept together as a group. Gradually picking up a little pace as the day grew cooler. The efforts of rehydration at each of the water tables took effect and the body began to respond to the adverse situation it found itself in. Miles started to slip by slightly easier. Bit of a race across the golf course down to the finish. More tears. 3 hours 18 minutes - not bad in all the circumstances.
Surprisingly mobile at work the next day - as always legs felt like I was carrying sandbags on the outside held on by pins directly in to the flesh but not heavy ones. Bring it on!
The final race in the challenge is the Great North Run at the end of this month. Training has resumed. Learning my lessons I have provisionally decided that until then there will be nearly complete abstinence from alcohol most of the time, probably. Should be fine. Please give generously.
Keith
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Sunday Approaches
So obviously my knee hurts. At least it did but I seem to have overwhelmed it with anti-inflammatories. This trying to keep fit so as to do these charity runs is a rum old business. If its not the heel, its the knee. If its not the knee its the shin. Or it is the nasty rub you get on the one time you don't wear lycra shorts or the one time you forget nipple tape or the one time you wear a kilt. Well ok maybe some of this is avoidable with application of a little organisation but hey how dull would that be?
I mean imagine your running kit for the World's biggest half marathon actually being clean 4 days before the event. The tapes and gels all replenished in advance of the night before. The safety pins for the race number being with the number. No, siree, no fun in that. It has to be a late night or early morning panic. There must be blame for others. Children must be disturbed from their sleep. Wife's must be pushed to the point of sulking. Something must be forgotten.
And why? Why? Simple really. Because it is a "Big Thing" this we are doing together - and it needs to feel like a "Big Thing". Maybe not as big as Eddie Izard doing 43 marathons in 52 days (I don't know about you but I did not notice he had gone missing; but wow he did a big thing) but big nevertheless.
Now I know that some of you have got the "Big Thing" concept because you are treating the charitable donation part like it is a big thing too. All I'll say is guys we are a team and if I start to feel you don't want to be in the team then maybe I should stay home sunday and sulk...
And it is a very good cause.
And don't call me Keithie
I mean imagine your running kit for the World's biggest half marathon actually being clean 4 days before the event. The tapes and gels all replenished in advance of the night before. The safety pins for the race number being with the number. No, siree, no fun in that. It has to be a late night or early morning panic. There must be blame for others. Children must be disturbed from their sleep. Wife's must be pushed to the point of sulking. Something must be forgotten.
And why? Why? Simple really. Because it is a "Big Thing" this we are doing together - and it needs to feel like a "Big Thing". Maybe not as big as Eddie Izard doing 43 marathons in 52 days (I don't know about you but I did not notice he had gone missing; but wow he did a big thing) but big nevertheless.
Now I know that some of you have got the "Big Thing" concept because you are treating the charitable donation part like it is a big thing too. All I'll say is guys we are a team and if I start to feel you don't want to be in the team then maybe I should stay home sunday and sulk...
And it is a very good cause.
And don't call me Keithie
Monday, September 14, 2009
The 2007 Vintage: Post 1
The Chat
You can skip this bit if you want - as part of the previous challenges I have tried to say something vaguely funny to encourage generosity in supporting me and slightly disconcertingly have been asked to do so again, so this is where it goes:
My face has sprung a leak
Each advancing year I find requires more training to maintain my athletic prowess. So with this challenge in mind, my training entourage (AKA Family) and I eschewed any possibility of a relaxing holiday in the sun and headed firstly for an intense training camp high in the foothills of the Lake District and then added altitude training in the Scottish Highlands.
Here with my childrens' comments (spelling corrected) are the highlights of the training camp:
Climbed big hill - "lots of flying ants, can we not go back there?"
Sailed boat - "jumped in and was rescued. Daddy wouldn't let me jump in again"
Climbed half a Munro (Change of plan due to inclement weather): - "I got wet and cold and Mummy shouted at Daddy"
Went running - "No way! I am not going running"
Swimming in lake - "Too cold, can we just paddle instead?"
Shopping - "Can we go shopping again. I love shopping".
Being on a training camp allows one more control over one's diet than usual. Curiously as the week went on we found we needed more and more carbohydrates to keep us awake in the evenings. Best taken in liquid form I have found. From vintage champagne courtesy of my favourite recruitment consultant to a bottle of Scapa whisky (best followed by Solpadine painkillers - you sleep like a child and the next morning your whole body has been replaced with one that does not hurt from climbing hills - IMPORTANT NOTICE: this is not a recommendation made to me by any doctor and for all I know might be fatal to you so try it at your own risk); some of the local ales - it is almost a duty to sample the local fare - to fine Australian wine (oxymoron), we carbo loaded staggeringly well.
Between intense physical activity can lie boredom for the finely tuned athlete awaiting the next punishing exercise. Not for me - the training team and I honed our mental skills with broad ranging discussions. With one of my good Edinburgh friends we debated who had the better carbon footprint - my good start with cycling to the station had me ahead, I was pulled back by a reminder about my 6 cylinder car but was able to turn that to my advantage as I use the car so infrequently (as I refuse to drive it with the hood up and the children will only go it with the hood down unless it is (a) dry and (b) over 30 degrees so the car is used 0.3 times a year) that I have effectively improved the environment by withdrawing it from general use. All good until flying was mentioned. My friend would need to be anaesthetised heavily and carried on to a plane. It has only happened once and is not likely to be repeated. I fly a lot. Not always from choice. "Not the point". I lost.
Then there was the slightly shrill debate on the Munro. Admittedly it was raining unremittingly. But everyone was dry on the inside of their kagoules and only cold when we stopped. Except my wife who was wet but warm when we stopped (how can that be!?). I lost. The children are semi-Munro baggers. We could start a new club for those who have walked half way up a Munro and then come home. Only 567 half Munros to go before we are the first to get the set. Not sure how we tackle the upper halves...
There needs to be a reward at the end of an intense training programme - ours was a couple of days at the Edinburgh festival including a very special weigh in. Not for us the privacy of a set of scales in a bathroom - no, by popular demand (and I received, I maintain, the biggest cheer of any of the festival performers in the High Street in Edinburgh on that day) my weigh in consisted of my standing on the bare chest of a man lying on some pieces of broken glass. He concluded that I was heavy. So did the ambulance men. Man with scars on back v Wilson comes to Court soon. My advice: never, ever stand near the front of a crowd watching a live act comedian in the festival (or Covent Garden or South Bank or wherever), and if he asks you to stick your hand in the air, run away. Fast. Then again maybe you would have realised that by intuition. I have gone soft living in the South, I really have.
All good things come to an end and it was back to work. Cunningly I had taken the precaution of removing all the World's liquidity before leaving on holiday (by simply adding one extra zero to one of our bills) so that there was, in fact, no work to come back to. Plenty of time to go to the gym then. Now you would have thought that all that hill climbing/sailing/running/jumping/debating and carbo loading would have improved my fitness, but back on the running machine it was the old wheezing and panting for breath, heavy legs etc routine with which I and I am guessing many of you are familiar and a new phenomenon - perspiration leaping out of my face like a mountain spring. 10 miles on Sunday? I am off to the gym again, there is a lot of work to do.
____________________________________________________________________________
Keith Wilson, Partner | Paul, Hastings, Janofsky & Walker (Europe) LLP | Solicitors & Registered Foreign Lawyers | Ten Bishops Square, Eighth Floor, London E1 6EG | direct: +44 (0) 20 3023 5141 | main: +44 (0) 20 3023 5100 | fax: +44 (0) 20 3023 5441 | email keithwilson@paulhastings.com | www.paulhastings.com
Keith Wilson, Partner | Paul, Hastings, Janofsky & Walker (Europe) LLP | Solicitors & Registered Foreign Lawyers | Ten Bishops Square, Eighth Floor, London E1 6EG | direct: +44 (0) 20 3023 5141 | main: +44 (0) 20 3023 5100 | fax: +44 (0) 20 3023 5441 | email keithwilson@paulhastings.com | www.paulhastings.com
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Thursday, September 10, 2009
2009/2 Training Camp
Short Version: I am running the Great North Run for Cancer Research on September 20. Please support this fine charity. Justgiving page is: http://www.runningsponsorme.org/keithwilson20092
Longer Version (hopefully with a bit of humour)
This is a late start to the autumn charity/running campaign. Since not doing the London Marathon because of Plantar Fasciitis - in Scotland we call this a "sare foot" (rough transalation for those who think Burns' poetry is difficult to follow: "sore foot") - running activity has been spasmodic (that is not a description of tecnique but of frequency) so the time came for action. As in previous years an intensive training camp was the clear answer - when I raised the possibility of a week long dedicated training camp for my running activities with the family the proposal was met with more muted enthusiasm than I might have hoped. It was clear that a unanimous vote in favour was unlikely - when exactly is it that children become enfranchised in family affairs? Ours now seem to have rights of veto on all activities. And I do mean all, my daughter having limited tolerance for her aging parents snogging although "at least its better than when you are arguing..." Say it how you see it, then... Anyway I digress.
Some reflective time on the internet and, after clearing the page history, back to the negotiating table: a hard bargain was driven. A week in Turkey with sailing for Erica, pool time for Murray and the children deemed tennis a suitable activity for Shona so that, with some compromise, an agreement was reached. Temperatures in the high twenties, a hilly terrain and warnings of wild dogs were not actually my top criteria for the running camp but, as I say, some compromise was involved.
First run: Set out early to avoid the heat. Well quite early and not so hot. Although not so hot is quite relative really. Out the resort past the bemused looking security guard (no doubt trained to shoot wild dogs on sight) and taxi drivers and up the first hill, continuing up and then up some more followed by more up. No wind, Temperature high despite the hour. Going to die. Stumble on. Hill levels out. Past empty campsite with Frank Sinatra "My Way" playing at high volume. Not obvoius anyone is there to hear it. Maybe it keeps the dogs at bay? First choice, down to left or up to right. Down = up later, so go right. Up. More up. Still up. Past incomplete new development. Note high fences and gate. Think: must keep dogs out. Then down hill into village. Past sleeping dogs (2). They don't look too wild sleeping. Try to breathe less desperately and land more softly. Dogs stir. Try running faster instead. This is why you should run with someone else: so you only have to run faster than them and not the dogs. Onwards...to the town rubbish dump (cowp, for the Scots reading this (if indeed anyone still is)). Er, no way through. Smell bad (the dump, not me). I guess that's it then. Back. Tip toe past the dogs to extent possible for 200lb, ungainly 6'3'' male to do so without stopping running. Narrowly miss tripping into passive sleeping dogs. On past the campsite. Frank is still going. Now I am the sunshine of his life. Certainly plenty of sunshine here. Perhaps should have brought water. Why is running down hills so much sorer for the knees, thighs, legs than uphill. From the vantage point of the resort gates the security guard and the taxi drivers are all standing in a line watching the strange half run, half stumble gait of the descent. Their sunglasses glint and although I can't hear them it is clear they are cracking jokes and perhaps betting on whether I will be able to make the bend or will plough into the foliage and roadside detrius. Showing a determination unmatched by the the solidity of my knees I increase speed, make the bend and hobble to a halt at the gate. The line has dispersed and now it is like a "Where is Wally" picture with the incrongous bright red Scot in lycra standing close to but apparently invisible to a group of typically dressed taxi drivers. It is a warm welcome.
Second run: Two days later and swelling on knees is down, nearly rehydrated and there is an organised run this evening. Out we all go. Security guard and taxi drivers feign disinterest but a quick glance back and they have reformed that line. There are girls with us. I am guessing I am no longer the centre of their attention. We go left out the gate not right. Ok, maybe this way is a hill free, dog free, Frank free run. It is certainly not cooler though. Must be touching 30 (roughly 700'F for the Americans). About 300m on and we turn right and start up far steeper hill than any before. I keep running slowly. One person under age 20 is already at the top. The fitness instructor (at the back, yes, at the back) shouts "take a break at the top". I get there. Can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't drink water I brought. Can barely stand. I am better than others. Come on holiday so you can be sick on all fours in the Turkish sunshine. Nice. Off we go again. Gradual incline up to, double take, yes, it is the camp site and I can hear Frank again. Still no sign of anyone there. Young guy is miles ahead and keeps doubling back to make sure he is on right road. Probably does not fancy facing the dogs without a patsy like me to run past when fleeing. Can't blame him. Again we go right and start to rise. Past the high fenced, gated, incomplete development. Then the young guy takes a path of to the right. OK, different route. We all follow. Down the hill. Ouch. Ouch. Need new knees. We reach the beach. We stop. We hear a voice. It is the fitness instructor (at the back) "stop, stop". We have gone the wrong way. Back up the hill. Slowly. Water all gone. Water reappears as perspiration. I am melting. Cut losses and head back. Frank is back to doing things his way. Come down the first hill rather than way we set out. Security guard, taxi drivers and a group of their friends have lined up to greet us. Their disappointemnt as they see it is me first back is etched on their faces and they ask where are the rest. They mean where are the girls. I tell them they are dancing to Frank Sinatra at the camp site. They look at me strangely and then ignore me.
Third run: er, there was no third run.
Please give generously to the charity to motivate me. I need all the help I can get! http://www.runningsponsorme.org/keithwilson20092
Longer Version (hopefully with a bit of humour)
This is a late start to the autumn charity/running campaign. Since not doing the London Marathon because of Plantar Fasciitis - in Scotland we call this a "sare foot" (rough transalation for those who think Burns' poetry is difficult to follow: "sore foot") - running activity has been spasmodic (that is not a description of tecnique but of frequency) so the time came for action. As in previous years an intensive training camp was the clear answer - when I raised the possibility of a week long dedicated training camp for my running activities with the family the proposal was met with more muted enthusiasm than I might have hoped. It was clear that a unanimous vote in favour was unlikely - when exactly is it that children become enfranchised in family affairs? Ours now seem to have rights of veto on all activities. And I do mean all, my daughter having limited tolerance for her aging parents snogging although "at least its better than when you are arguing..." Say it how you see it, then... Anyway I digress.
Some reflective time on the internet and, after clearing the page history, back to the negotiating table: a hard bargain was driven. A week in Turkey with sailing for Erica, pool time for Murray and the children deemed tennis a suitable activity for Shona so that, with some compromise, an agreement was reached. Temperatures in the high twenties, a hilly terrain and warnings of wild dogs were not actually my top criteria for the running camp but, as I say, some compromise was involved.
First run: Set out early to avoid the heat. Well quite early and not so hot. Although not so hot is quite relative really. Out the resort past the bemused looking security guard (no doubt trained to shoot wild dogs on sight) and taxi drivers and up the first hill, continuing up and then up some more followed by more up. No wind, Temperature high despite the hour. Going to die. Stumble on. Hill levels out. Past empty campsite with Frank Sinatra "My Way" playing at high volume. Not obvoius anyone is there to hear it. Maybe it keeps the dogs at bay? First choice, down to left or up to right. Down = up later, so go right. Up. More up. Still up. Past incomplete new development. Note high fences and gate. Think: must keep dogs out. Then down hill into village. Past sleeping dogs (2). They don't look too wild sleeping. Try to breathe less desperately and land more softly. Dogs stir. Try running faster instead. This is why you should run with someone else: so you only have to run faster than them and not the dogs. Onwards...to the town rubbish dump (cowp, for the Scots reading this (if indeed anyone still is)). Er, no way through. Smell bad (the dump, not me). I guess that's it then. Back. Tip toe past the dogs to extent possible for 200lb, ungainly 6'3'' male to do so without stopping running. Narrowly miss tripping into passive sleeping dogs. On past the campsite. Frank is still going. Now I am the sunshine of his life. Certainly plenty of sunshine here. Perhaps should have brought water. Why is running down hills so much sorer for the knees, thighs, legs than uphill. From the vantage point of the resort gates the security guard and the taxi drivers are all standing in a line watching the strange half run, half stumble gait of the descent. Their sunglasses glint and although I can't hear them it is clear they are cracking jokes and perhaps betting on whether I will be able to make the bend or will plough into the foliage and roadside detrius. Showing a determination unmatched by the the solidity of my knees I increase speed, make the bend and hobble to a halt at the gate. The line has dispersed and now it is like a "Where is Wally" picture with the incrongous bright red Scot in lycra standing close to but apparently invisible to a group of typically dressed taxi drivers. It is a warm welcome.
Second run: Two days later and swelling on knees is down, nearly rehydrated and there is an organised run this evening. Out we all go. Security guard and taxi drivers feign disinterest but a quick glance back and they have reformed that line. There are girls with us. I am guessing I am no longer the centre of their attention. We go left out the gate not right. Ok, maybe this way is a hill free, dog free, Frank free run. It is certainly not cooler though. Must be touching 30 (roughly 700'F for the Americans). About 300m on and we turn right and start up far steeper hill than any before. I keep running slowly. One person under age 20 is already at the top. The fitness instructor (at the back, yes, at the back) shouts "take a break at the top". I get there. Can't breathe. Can't speak. Can't drink water I brought. Can barely stand. I am better than others. Come on holiday so you can be sick on all fours in the Turkish sunshine. Nice. Off we go again. Gradual incline up to, double take, yes, it is the camp site and I can hear Frank again. Still no sign of anyone there. Young guy is miles ahead and keeps doubling back to make sure he is on right road. Probably does not fancy facing the dogs without a patsy like me to run past when fleeing. Can't blame him. Again we go right and start to rise. Past the high fenced, gated, incomplete development. Then the young guy takes a path of to the right. OK, different route. We all follow. Down the hill. Ouch. Ouch. Need new knees. We reach the beach. We stop. We hear a voice. It is the fitness instructor (at the back) "stop, stop". We have gone the wrong way. Back up the hill. Slowly. Water all gone. Water reappears as perspiration. I am melting. Cut losses and head back. Frank is back to doing things his way. Come down the first hill rather than way we set out. Security guard, taxi drivers and a group of their friends have lined up to greet us. Their disappointemnt as they see it is me first back is etched on their faces and they ask where are the rest. They mean where are the girls. I tell them they are dancing to Frank Sinatra at the camp site. They look at me strangely and then ignore me.
Third run: er, there was no third run.
Please give generously to the charity to motivate me. I need all the help I can get! http://www.runningsponsorme.org/keithwilson20092
New Running Blog
This is my new running blog. In next few days hope to post mails from last few years charity running campaigns (some of which were nearly funny) as well as launch 2009/2 camapign but for now...
Toodle-pip
Keithie
PS: and don't call me Keithie
Toodle-pip
Keithie
PS: and don't call me Keithie
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