Janathonus Horribilis

I wanted a great run today. Dry bouncy trails for miles and miles, with a pair of light shoes under me, and thirty miles worth of lemon squash on my back.

Unfortunately, it never happened.

Today was my toughest Janathon day since the motivational pot-hole that is Day Two. Undoubtedly the miles are all adding up, and whilst the legs remain thankfully niggle-free, they're not quite the indominatable  springs I'm used to having underneath me. My brain is tiring too. I've planned and run more new routes in the last fortnight than I have in a year, and the mapwork is taking its toll.

Like many Janathoners, I've already covered more distance than I expected to reach in the whole month, but now that I'm in it, I feel somewhat obligated to keep pushing on, and while the body is able, the mind had better keep up.

But by this evening I had no plan, and no motivation to leave the house. Only one thing for it, the dreaded tarmac out-and-back. If you've simply got to log the miles, and you barely feel like stepping out the door, there is only one guaranteed way to ensure you go the distance - and it's brutal. Run directly away from your house in as straight a line as you can, and keep going until you've done half the miles, and only then, turn back. Ideally, you'll have told someone at home when you'll be back, and suddenly, running is the only option.

So this is what I did tonight. Over the hill, northeast on the uninspiring A325, from Heath End past Aldershot, North Camp (also not known as "South Farnborough Village"), Farnborough, Frimley, and towards Camberley. Other than a quick shimmy to negotiate the A331 crossing, wide pavements and streetlights all the way, and worryingly, a mostly imperceptible descent for almost all the outward leg.

Reaching my intended turning spot of seven and a half miles, I looked around for a landmark to photogrpah, and saw nothing but high closeboard fences on both sides of the road, so decided to press on to reach something of note. At eight miles I arrived at a Toby Carvey. Not spectacular, but good enough. It was then that I remembered I hadn't brought my phone with me, so no photo after all. Bugger.

So I turned around, restarted the GPS, and set off retracing my steps. I switched on the iPod to help pass the homeward miles, and got my head down.

Twenty minutes later, I realised the return section was going to be tough, as I now had the incline against me, and strong headwind. I'd not noticed the wind before, and I calculated with dread that this meant I'd probably been running with a tailwind all the way out. Head down further, iPod louder, nothing left but to will the miles behind me.

Thirteen miles in I was woken from my private purgatory by a violent freezing sensation shooting up the back of my legs, a sudden tightness in my right hamstring, and a vocal tirade from a hatchback full of teenage louts. Pulling up with my crampy leg, I realised I'd been hit by the contents of a flying milkshake, courtesy Farnborough's 24hr litter dispenser, the McDonalds Drive-Thru.

As always, a quick sense-check was followed by the thoughts of "I hope their brakes fail", or the more combative "How far is it to the next red light?", settling to the inevitable "Where I can wash this crap off?". This is not the first time I've been the target of an edible projectile while running at night, though last time I was hit by a bottle of Oasis, bottle and all. And people wonder why I sometimes leave the hi-viz at home...
So I walked, then jogged on to the nearest wet gully, gave my legs a rinse before I congealed, gathered my thoughts, and resumed my crappy run.

Getting home, my knees felt like mince. The constant forward lean had really worked my patella tendons, and courtesy of the milkshake nonsense, I was super stressed, and more tired than I've felt all month.

Now hours later, the cruelest irony of all is that I'm really craving a milkshake.


Summary:
Today: 16.0 miles, 2:06 hrs, 2275 cals
January: 221.3 miles, 32:25 hrs, 29896 cals