I've tried a lot of things on the bike to focus my mind on something else. Reciting my tables as I climbed up the Pipe Track from Aberfoyle to Drymen one wet and windy Sunday, back in winter. It took me from my 2 to my 12x-table, with a few repetitions, before the huge television mast which marks the top finally appeared out of the dreich mist. But yesterday literally flew by, and it really does feel like a huge milestone. I know I've peaked a bit too soon, I've still got two weeks of peak training to go, but I probably won't do another mammoth ride like that. I was cycling for around 8-hours, which is what I'm expecting to be doing on Ironday, albeit that will be 12-miles further. But we climbed 7,500ft yesterday and that's a couple of thousand more than Bolton. I'd also been out for a 16-mile run on the Friday night too, so my legs were weary when I started. Hopefully, with time to taper I'll hit the bike as fresh as a daisy.
I can't wait to remember what fresh legs feel like.
These last few weeks have been tough. For every session in which I've felt like I could conquer the world, I've had three more which have almost had me joining the village church and praying for mercy. The memory of last week's 16-mile run is still etched in my memory. Normally, I do my long run on Friday, then long cycle on Saturday. Last week I did it in reverse. So Friday evening I was on Tour-de-France form, sprightly up the hills, chasing Strava segments and having fun for 70-miles. Followed by a quick change into running shoes and I positively skipped like a gazelle around my brick-run route. Twelve-hours later, the same gazelle was running like she'd been shot. The first 8-miles were sluggish, but according to my Garmin, still quite respectable. It was hovering between 7.50 and 8.15 minute miles. Listening to the sage advice of my marathon mate, Julia, I made a conscious effort to slow down. Then I began to fall apart, bit by bit. My achilles began to ache, my back started to spasm and my dodgy calf started hurting. But I was 8-miles from home. When I got to the final few hills, I even started to walk a bit. My runner's pride never lets me do that, hell, someone might see me walking and if I'm out for a run, I run until I'm home - then I stop! Anyway, beaten and broken, I mixed my protein shake and took the brave decision to climb into an ice-bath. Couldn't ever face that before, its amazing what you're prepared to do when you're feeling broken but need to keep going. Good job there was no-one else in the house because there was a bit of swearing as I slipped into the icy water. But boy, did it do my legs the world of good. So much so, that I've had two more this weekend. I've even mastered the stoic art of lowering myself into the freezing water without uttering a sound. That made IronPhil's screeches and yells sound even more pathetic when he followed my lead after our century ride. Even the boys yelled: "Man up dad, mum didn't scream like that!"
The running, although my strength, is proving tough. After Friday night's long run and ice bath. I went to bed in my compression tights (sorry Phil, Calvin Klein PJ's are pretty useless when your legs are aching). I was convinced I wouldn't be able to walk properly in the morning, so told IronPhil we'd leave the 100-miler for Sunday. But, thanks to the remarkable healing power of sleep, I woke at 6.30am, walked to the loo and decided if my legs could go that far, they could go all day. The big ride was on! 40-miles in, and I was struggling. IronPhil suggested we cut it short and live to ride another day. For the next two-hours, I battled in my mind between the options - go long or go home. I wasn't dying, I was just tired. I will remember that if the Ironwar gets really ugly on race day!
So, with two more weeks of peak training to go, I'm hanging in there. As each day goes by, I'm stocking up the balance in my Ironbank. The big runs and bikes are seriously knocking it out of me. My recovery day, Sunday, is over all too quickly. Mind and body are never quite ready for the onslaught of the forthcoming week's pounding. But somehow, I keep getting out of bed, I keep putting one foot in front of the other, I keep going. Meanwhile, around me, I feel like everything else is falling apart. I can no longer keep all the balls in the air. I'm tired, all the time. I ache, all the time. I could do with not being at work, I need more sleep, I need home angels to make the house a nice place to come home to and I need a cook, a cleaner, a personal shopper. Give praise to the village church that I have a multi-tasking husband! So, I'm just letting the balls drop, I'll pick them up later. As long as I can hold my body together, which is taking up quite a lot of time these days, I'll be fine. Between the foam roller, various massage balls, ice, protein drinks, Sudocrem (long-distance cyclists will understand that one!) super-foods, stretches, compression clothes, achilles protector pads and dozens of massage appointments, I'm edging closer. Close enough to feel the beginnings of the familiar endurance athlete's paranoia. You know the paranoia that has you avoiding everyone who coughs, sneezes or looks remotely unhygienic - even if they're in your own family. I confess, I once bought a pack of disposable plastic gloves to change nappies when both kids went down with a tummy bug just weeks before my London Marathon debut. I wouldn't go near them unless I was tooled-up like a theatre nurse! I can't really teach wearing a face-mask and latex gloves, but I'm going through a lot of antibacterial handwash.
35-days and counting....
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