Mr Postman, bring me a dream

There is nothing like a race number in the post. A big unexpected bag of Amsterdam grass might get close, one supposes, but the little trill of excitement and the sudden sprint to internet pacing sites is surely incomparable. 

I'm not really counting that first Bupa jaunt in this, my new running life. Minimal training and a very last minute decision to actually race the route means that the time, unembarrassing as it was, will not go on my permanent record. So this is the one. Race the first. Five miles, flat course, Sunday week. What's to be done? My old three goal system works like this:

Acceptable: you better fucking do this or I'll break your face. Challenging: this is the one, the time that'll make you happy and earn you a beer. Ultimate: In your fucking dreams, don't even work out the pacings, if you go out for this you're going to blow up. Saying that though, if the first couple of klicks come out at this kind of pace you may as well fucking go for it.

Here's my problem. I can't find an Acceptable. Breaking 32 minutes seems like the only result that I can, well, accept, due mostly to the ugliness of anything slower. Look at this number: 32'16. See? I've seen prettier Limerick rugby supporting farmers. Having gone under 29 minutes for the distance it would feel sister-snogging sick to do anything slower than 31'59. And so, stupidly, but self-awarely, the goals become:

Acceptable: 31'39

Challenging: 31'29

Ultimate: 30'59

I'll be sorry.

Damn you Nike and your slogan that you don't deserve

Tempo 2 x 2 miles (6)

It  looks so innocent sitting there in my notebook, but with half an hour before I head out the door I am fearful. I feel a phantom hip twinge, a ghostly knee niggle, a ghastly heel sore. I'll be fine though, right? 

I'll be fine.

Battoowoo greekgreek

Norman seems very old to me. This fills me with exercisely hope. I stay on his wheel for the first half of the Killakee climb, unavoidably watching his scrawny elderly ass. There's a short low grade section on which he slows to recover. I ease past as the ascent kicks in again. 'No let up from here,' he warns levelly as I pull away. He's right about that shit, and yet it's doable, much more doable than last week. Is it easier or am I that much stronger? A bit of both perhaps, but maybe it's just not nearly as steep. I'm still new at this and have no head for the hardness of hills. 

He murders me on the descent. Of course. But again, I'm better than last week, a little more fluid, a little less tense, despite the large volume of Sunday driver traffic. 

Then we do what Norman calls a mini-Pyrenean. The Pyrenees are surely steeper. I can barely see the rise on this road, but it's there. And still there. And still there. On and on and on we climb on this barely there gradient. Five k in and it becomes something of a chore. 10 and it's a slog. 15 and I'm not quite weeping nor even tempted by the pain killer of my biggest back cog, (Gimme's 20 was as clean as a whistle) but still I'm somewhere new in the land of effort. It is now that the view truly exposes itself and one wonders why one would be arsed going to France when there's this kind of beauty an hours pedal sweep from the dirty old town. We're about 2k from the top when the land becomes barren and the heavens pick their moment to dump a whole fuck load of hail upon us. Hail, hail. This five minute downpour is enough to soak my under-clad body through. It clears and brightens as we start the descent, but it's too late. My fingers and toes are numb, my face is a mask of snot. I feel like a proper cyclist.

About 80k for the day, and progress made.

Medium is the new long

Long run day. Nine miles. Which is not all that long. But it's the longest in years, yadda yadda yadda. I'm sticking with the park. I need the soft surface. So that gives me eight. Ido a middle one on the road. I would like to know the time I did on that mile but I am clockless.

How does it feel? Easier than yesterday despite being more than double the distance. I'm listening to Bill Bryson's 'A short history of nearly everything'. This should either be funnier or more informative. Should have brought the Plato. I get through these miles. They could be easier, I fail to zone out, but I get through them I do with a reasonable level of comfort. Am I in crash denial? Maybe. Nah. Probably not.

I had two beers later. Shh, don't tell my adipose tissue.

Not as hard as the watching of the Hannah Montana movie

That was about the hardest easy run I can remember doing. No clock, just a loop of the park with a stop at three miles for strides. Which, with a monster wind at my back, were by far the easiest part of the day. I'm hoping that it's fallout from my rainy gale session of Wednesday, but if tomorrow's long run feels the same I'll know that it's the creeping crash and I'll have to consider a day off at some point. A day off? Noooooooo!

Also taught a Body Pump (trade fucking mark) this morning, and am back to full weights after the funny sleepy army incident. This is something I should probably cut back on if I am realistically to hit the Holy 67 kilo Grail. Muscle weighs heavy and much as I like the aesthetics of my gay boy shoulders they're nothing but superfluous bulk on both bike climbs and road races.

But there was exciting news on this front, pump chumps, as post sweaty commute the electric scales spoke of 73.9. Get fucking in. It has been years. That's what I love about this comeback, every time I hit even the miniest of goals, it's for the first time in years.

I'd rip your eyes out for one. And then I'd eat your eyes. More protein, don't you know.

As I turned onto the final straight before the final climb of an all bike day here's what I spied glittering in the gutter:



I swear to all that is good and sickly sweet, I almost stopped, picked it up, and scoffed the fucker there and then. I'm pretty sure it was unopened. And if it wasn't? So fucking what, it's been thirteen days since I last tasted chocolate and yet somehow I am still not 67 kilos. I didn't stop and I now sit in a puddle of sweat and regret.

We shall speak again of my manorexia, but lest you get too excited, here's what I did today:

Warmed up for the 7am LT interval spin with a fast Rosie hammer through town. Clock says it's 10.77k. It took me a shitty 27 something minutes. Into a wind and without a warm up is the excuse.

The way home is apparently only 10.51 and it took around the same despite my being constantly forced to stop by weird speeding hunks of metal piloted by fat lazy buckets of blubber. Here's an idea for a Green Party initiative: bicycles (no, electric bikes do not fucking count) always have right of way. Always. Even when they've just done a drive by macing on some cunt in an Audi. Especially when they've just done a drive by macing on some cunt in an Audi.

Repeated in the evening except with Jesus Killer the fixie and an extra 15 minutes of intervals. Hammered on the commute when the opportunity presented itself. My rough estimate for the day comes in at 77k, a good chunk of it tough. I'll take my fucking creme egg now, thank you.

The wheel what Marcin built

Marcin is my new best Polish friend. Stop pronouncing his name incorrectly. He works in Think Bike in Rathmines and occasionally does my spin. He built Rosie a new wheel. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it precious? Less than two weeks old!

Me and Marcin, Marcin and me. We went for a leetle climb up Three Rock at the weekend. This lacked any pleasantness on the way up and was testically embeddingly terrifying on the way down. The fastest I went was 51km/h. I am a total, new brake pad needing after every descent, pussy.

But it was all okay because Marcin told me I was 'Strong like horse!'. This still makes my ticker tick a little quicker.

Sigh.

Lactate threshold this, motherfucker

A tempo run in the roaring rain, could there be anything more romantic?

The idea is to bang out two 1.5 mile intervals at a 'comfortably hard' half-marathon kind of pace. I have no fucking clue what my half-marathon kind of pace is, not having run one in five years, but I decide that 6'40 minute miles are doable and close enough to my goal pace for the next race to be acceptable.

Forced into a 7.30am drop off at a southside garage by the National Cunt Test, it seems logical to Jesus Killer it up to the UCD track and set to work there. Given the torrential downpour, it seems even more logical to crawl under a bush and have a little sleep. But fuck it, I think, it's in the diary, it's gotta be done. Next week I'm going to write 'be from Glenageary and win the lotto'.

I am very, very wet and pretty fucking cold by the time I arrive. Bastard buses, cunting cars. I peel off the jeans, pull on the shorts. Start the slow jogging, two laps. Move up to a run, four laps. I don't time them, just try to take it easy. Not so easy though that I am not hyper aware of hungry headwind on the back straight eating the legs off me, even at the easy pace. But I'm warm now, and ready to go. 6 x 1'40 laps. 2 minuntes recovery. Repeat.

I like this terror as I set off at what I can only guess is the right pace. It's the legs, the lungs, muttering, 'You think you can hold this? You cannot hold this. Not without hurt, you cannot hold this.' First lap down, a glance at the clock tells of 1'30. Fuck. It's good news but it's bad news. I try to ease back, but to keep it tough. I think I almost remember how to do this. Next lap, slower, but still a little quick. Maybe I can just keep this pace. I'm confused. I couldn't be this strong already. I go, and so it goes. 9'23. Take the break. Go again. Again I start with the 1'30 lap. Focus keeps slipping, always on that galling back straight. I run a hideous fifth lap, kick it right up for the last and still only come out with 9'36. Only. The target was 10'00. I am a happily panting little runner.

Allowing for the not quite mileness of four laps, my pace works out at 6'18 and 6'27. I have to run 6'23 to get what I want in the May 17 five miler. I suddenly believe that I can do it. And I dare to dream that I might, in six months say, be as quick as I ever was.