Now that the dust has settled along my W5R3 route and the birds have plucked up the nerve to return to their perches, and I've found a spare 20 minutes to tip tap away on the keyboard, I guess it's time to reflect.
I spent the day Friday geeing myself up for the big two-zero, trying to get myself in the mindset.
'Tee' minus one hour was like pilots going through their pre-flight checklist. "Hydration? Check. Wiggled legs all day to keep them loose? Check."
'Tee' minus ten minutes was an intense pep talk.
"Paul, this is the big one. You've been building up to it. You've got to remember to go slow."
Mhmm...
"Paul! Concentrate! You're aiming for a conversational pace."
Yiiip...
"You just need to poodle along. It's about duration. Find that slower rhythm. Embrace that inner snail. You ready? Good. Go!"
Vooooooooosssshhhhh!
"PAUL! FOR THE LOVE OF...! WHAT DID WE JUST SAY?"
3.6km in 20 minutes. 5:36min/km. After everything. Idiot!
In my defence...which, admittedly, is shoddier than a murderer caught with a blood drenched axe...my splits tell me this is my natural pace:
1st) 5:41, 2nd) 5:36, 3rd) 5:36, 4th) 5:31
So at least I'm consistently ignorant and I'm not just wheel-spinning away like a seventeen-year-old in a Vauxhall Nova only to pull up halfway down the road with the engine smoking...like a seventeen-year-old in a Vauxhall Nova. I am actually holding this pace. But how long can I stretch it out for?
Crucially, what I'm not doing is sticking to the conversational pace rule. If that's what I'm aiming for, I've not even proverbially peppered the cork around the dartboard with a couple of well intended efforts. I've just gone and slung one straight into someone's pint. In a completely different pub.
I think the recommendation of "being able to hold a conversation" is like a funny look test to do with maintaining an aerobic heartrate. This is a bit of an abstract concept for me as I don't do chit-chat at the best of times, let alone when I'm gasping for breath...
At the pace I'm running, I can maintain this so called "conversational pace" for about five minutes before I start puffing. Five minutes later, I start inadevertently blowing spit everywhere like a malfunctioning bubble machine whilst exhaling through my mouth. Five minutes later than that and I feel like I want to vomit.
I've concluded that the only way I'm going to be able to train my body to find its slower rhythm is on...
...The Treadmill...
*shudder*
I fear The Treadmill more than a painful death. Moreso that it will cause one. Whenever I visualise it, it's spotlit in the middle of an abandoned warehouse. A rat scurries in front of it as I approach.
It fills me with more horror than that nightmare I have where I'm kissing Alexandra Daddario and she lifts up a latex mask to reveal that she's actually Simon Cowell. And then a second head pops up out of nowhere and it's Louis Walsh who, inexplicably, has been surgically conjoined on at the neck.
I have weird dreams.
My fear comes from the fact that I'm ridiculously clumsy. Carrying a tray of drinks is more perilous than rolling around in entrails and then slapping a Lion's arse. The Treadmill scares me to death. I have visions of falling over and getting hurled backwards across the gym and impaled up the nethers by a dumbell. Or barbell. I can never remember which one's which. The small one. Well, I hope it'd be the small one anyway.
This, for me, seems to be unavoidable. Much more of a likely outcome than simply going for a gentle run. What's the worst than can happen when I'm careering along outside? I trip and fall and leave an impact crater that has geologists theorising for years about the great, mysterious Gosport meteor. At least in this scenario, nothing gets surgically extracted and I'm not wasting my breath trying to convince A&E nurses that I don't have a penchant for steel rods.
But for the good of my health (and the sanity or certain Paul-weathered readers) I will give it a shot.
I'll wait for W6R3 though. Less upping and downing on the buttons. Less potential.
After running on Friday evening, I spent the day Saturday lifting and shifting. I'm losing a cubby-hole-cum-toolstore-cum-workshop that I've been renting for a few years and that has somehow become a treasure trove of anything you can imagine that's heavy. It's like I've got an anvil fetish. It took three of us seven hours to move all the equipment. It's now Monday afternoon and I'm still aching and shaking.
I'm in two minds whether to start my W6 tonight or not. My body is doing everything it can to catch my attention and give me the time-out hand gesture, but I'm spitefully ignoring it. The problem is that if I miss tonight, I'll throw my schedule for the entire week.
I've taken the day off on Friday and managed to reschedule my Mizuno Vimove analysis to that morning. I'm sure I'll be walking out with some perceived super shoes that I won't be able to wait to try out so I want to be doing my third run straight after that. Plus I'm sure it'll be a quiter period in the gym, so at least I can impale myself in relative privacy. If I don't get out until tomorrow, this will push me into the weekend and I need my legs this weekend for wife pleasing (shopping).
Maybe I'll just try and go gentle tonight...
"OK, Paul."
Paul nods enthusiastically whilst rigorously chewing on gum.
Happy running you bunch of charmers!