A pact with the Devil

I was beginning to think I'd become a bit obsessive about this whole Ironman thing. I do feel my life has become a repetitive cycle of eat, sleep, work, train...talk and think about training! That was until last night when my mate Oliver called. After 15-mins I suddenly felt quite normal, in fact, more than that I felt like a bit of  a lazy slacker. Ol is also dabbling in his own Ironfest. A half this year, but there's more to come. The thing about Ol is that he doesn't do things by halves. He's also following the same training plan up to his big race in May. So we discovered we'd both just completed Fink's week 5. I'd done it my way and Ol had done it by the book - fully tooled up with heart rate monitor, cadence monitor, Garmin, and God only knows what else. So when he said: "Jeez that Wednesday turbo sesh was really hard - 45 mins in zone 2 at 100 rpm!" I started to realise that my 6am effort was maybe not quite hard enough! He then went on to recommend a book about body fat percentages and confessed he'd even bought the calipers to check his body fat. Right, that did it - I quickly realised that I needed to take this training more seriously. I went straight to the kitchen drawer, took out the BBQ tongs, and checked whether I could pinch anything fatter than a Cumberland sausage! Relieved to discover nothing more sinister than a wee chipolata - I packed my kit bag and headed far, far away from the world of techno-training to the muddy, rolling hills of Fife, with my running club team mates, for the annual hill race relay - the Devil's Burden.

Even the name is enough to make you realise that this is an event for the hardy. Forget monitors, when the mist comes down, the wind howls and the rain batters holy hell out of you, only a pact with Satan is going to get you to the finish.
I did stress a bit about the whole day being taken up for a 5-mile hill run, but IronPhil dragged me back to reality, reminding me that if I didn't keep up with some of the races I love, I would start to resent my training. So, as I happily ploughed through muddy bog, clawed my way up steep, slippery hillsides and bounded downhill, chasing my gazelle-like pal Laura, I forgot all about zones, times, reps and body mass index. Hill running is a sport like no other. No matter how fit or tough you think you are, you're guaranteed to be dragged back down to earth, as wiry old guys, with wispy grey hair and the body fat of a racing greyhound, effortlessly glide past you. In fact, a few years ago at the same race, I overheard a couple of old guys discussing the merits of removing your teeth before the race to stop them falling out as they had the year before when they hurtled downhill! Apparently, they landed in the mud and were lost forever! (True!)
I hold these guys in high esteem. If I can still do this in my 70's I'll be one happy pensioner.
Plus, these guys aren't sporting the latest hi-tech kit - forget breathable, wicking, lightweight, lycra, full body cover - these mountain goats are still sporting trusty old trainers, favourite shorts and cotton vests. They're not worrying about heart rate, cadence, body fat - they're just out there .... doing it.
 I bet they're downing a few beers tonight too! Which begs the question - why am I sitting here on a Saturday night sipping raspberry juice and scanning Wiggle for new kit?!