The Fat Bloke Diaries

 

Episode Thirty-Five – Strange Things Happen

My plan was to have a brisk warm-up walk to the running track and make a few circuits there before settling in to the serious business of another mile, maybe a mile and a half, on the undulating roads back to home. After keeping my running up in the much more arduous conditions of Central Florida this was, to slip into office parlance for a moment, an achievable stretch objective. My Beloved (a much faster runner than me, but with far less stamina) was going to accompany me, taking various short-cuts along the way so that we could spend much of the morning’s exercise together.

We left the house under a gloriously clear morning sky, I set my watch as is my habit and began, full of expectation and fruit juice. We upped our pace a little as we passed the chip shop (which was teasingly doing bacon sandwiches even at this early hour) and by the time we reached the training field we were power walking at a fair lick in preparation for breaking into a trot when we hit the oval.

And that’s when my plan fell to pieces.

Barnsley Council has apparently got the builders in. I don’t know what they’re doing, but I do know that it involves erecting high metal fencing around the local football field, cricket wicket and – worst of all from my point of view – the running track..

Though understandably disappointed, we’re both adaptable. We’d run on the road beside the track many times by now, so it was no big deal, we just set off down the hill and over the motorway bridge as we’ve done on lots of occasions previously. John Denver provided the unlikely mental soundtrack to this homecoming run, his lilting ‘Annie’s Song’ going through my head (all Sheffield United fans will recognise our much-loved terrace anthem). It set my internal metronome ticking as I gently strode in the sunshine, my Beloved holding herself back to match me pace for pace.

Perhaps my expectations were too high. Perhaps the heat and humidity training hadn't helped at all. Perhaps I hadn't run as much as I ought to have done while in the States. It doesn't really matter. The hard fact was that the same course that had taken me thirty minutes to cover before I went away took ten minutes longer now. And worse; I'd actually managed to run the entire distance non-stop last time. Now I was reduced to a walking pace in less than ten minutes. I couldn't breathe as deeply as before, my legs weren't pumping as smoothly and worst of all I felt nauseous and light headed, a state which stayed with me long after I got home. I kept trying to run it off, but the power in my legs and lungs simply wasn't there.


It was the same on my next run, although I did push myself to a full fifteen minutes that time. I improved, but I guess that I’m about four weeks behind in the training plan that I was exactly up to date on before I went away.

At one point I left my Beloved recovering on a roadside bench (told you that she has no stamina) while I ran on a while more. When I returned she had got her breath back and was watching me running towards her.

“You’re not really running”, she ventured. “That’s more like… a very fast walk”.

I might have been out of breath but I couldn’t let that one go. “All four limbs are off the ground at the same time”, I gasped. “If I were a horse it’d officially be called a jog”. I delivered this retort confidently if breathlessly. But truthfully, given the way I felt, if I actually were a horse I’d probably be turning myself in at the nearest dog food factory.

It’s time to get real. I didn’t make any progress while I was in America, but I didn’t regress either. That’s better than I expected. So if I pick up my training where I left off instead of unrealistically aiming for where I should have been by now if I’d never been away, then I should be OK. I’ll still be hitting the 10km distance around the time of my charity run; it’ll just be a new experience for me. I won’t have broken myself in over that mileage before.

I think I need another holiday.


© Shaun Finnie 2009

 

 

 

 

 

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