Riding to London to seek my Garmin

What a great day!

What seemed like forever away at the beginning ogf January had rapidly arrived, and today I awoke to "Janathon Lunch Day".

I was really looking forward to it.

When I initially accepted my Facebook invite, Cathy (Instigator in Chief of Janathon, and runner of the infamous "dressing gown shuffle" round her garden on January 1st)  jokingly inquired whether I was going to run to the London meeting from home. "I don't think so" I thought, and immediately looked up the distance. Thirty four miles on foot, and I definitely didn't think so (I tend not to run more than twenty if meeting people for the first time - ho ho).

But... after the revelation of buying a new road bike last week, I started to think about cycling there. Of course if was coming back by train (no point in overdoing it) there would only be an infinitessimal saving on my single ticket versus a return,  and I'd have to carry some running gear on the bike, probably running in my lightweight sandals, but I figured it was worth a go.

I picked a route avoiding the A3 (and M3), and totted it up at about 37 miles. I figured that three hours was probably doable for my rusty road-legs, so I awoke early, and left the house just after half eight.

"MEEP MEEP"



  ...and arrived at Hyde Park at half ten. Ooops.


I'd kept an eye on my pace just out of curiousity, and was amazed to be averaging between 19 and 20mph, including a glorious peak at over 30mph (where's a speed camera when you want one?), but I never expected to be able to sustain it. For a month, my bike has been on sale across the country for £350 - and today, that suddenly seems like apocalyptically good value.

It's been years since I owned a road bike, and whilst I've borrowed a couple for a few rides here and there, they've always been a bit too big, or a lot too small, and it's never been a comfortable experience. Today, on the other hand, was incredible. Gobsmacked with my sustained pace I pootled round Piccadilly for a bit, twiddled my thumbs in my stretchy clothes and clippety clogs, had a cup of tea, and joined the Janathonists at 1145 with a big grin on my face.


The Janathon mob were brilliant. It was great seeing a bunch of people that until then, had mostly been connected only by computer, and mileage. I shan't try to list them for fear of overlooking anyone, but they were all very smiley, and didn't look too nervous about being in the company of a person they clearly thought a little unhinged.. Sean AudioFuel (with cold) arrived from the Triathlon Show to oversee proceeedings, and despatched the half dozen of us that fancied a run on a loop round Hyde Park, in the capable hands of navigator Rachel.

Next followed the presentation of my new Garmin 405, for which I was, and am incredibly grateful, a quick call from Pyro and Duncan, who where having a northern Janathon get-together at Hype Park in Leeds, and then onto Prezzo off Park Lane for some much deserved scoff, and a chance to have a natter to a couple of other Janathonists.

Highlight of the  afternoon was definitely seeing Cathy (the originator of all this Janathnonsence) receiving tokens of thanks from Cass and Adele on behalf of all Janathonites. Cathy brought hands up to face, to cover mouth-agog, and had a little happy cry. Which I think was shock and gratitude, rather than fear and sadness. They'd also produced some fantastic gifts to commemorate the occasion for her. Well done team.

All in all, a really inspiring day: a love affair with road-bikes truly rekindled, and a very fitting and comfortable conclusion to all that jogging and blogging.

Wheels of freedom.

There is a mathematical formula that relates to bikes. It is as simple as it is accurate. It is:

N = n+1

"N" represents the ideal number of bicycles a person should own, and "n" is the number of bicycles that person currently owns.

I have for some time, been a two-bike man. As of last weekend, I'm now a three-bike man, and I have to say, my life is considerably improved. Whilst I bask in the dewy afterglow of my recent acquisition (the formula above only applies once this honeymoon period wears off), let me share my bikes with you.

I got my first bike aged three and a half. My parents bought my elder brother and I identical bikes for Christmas, which my Dad assembled out of large, flat boxes. These "Golden Arrows" came complete with one brake, solid tyres and stabilisers. My brother and I tore up and down the flagstone pavements of our seafront road, and before long it was a race to see who could take the stabilisers off first. I think mine lasted about two weeks.

Our next bikes were Christmas presents again, a few years later. The Golden Arrows had fallen from favour, and the three letters in the heads of small boys everywhere were BMX. Our parents took us to the shop to pick our bikes, and a yellow Raleigh Boxer was the closest thing I could get to the Holy Grail, in my size.



Raleigh Boxer



By that spring, my brother and I would be lost for hours on evenings and weekends, riding our bikes up and down our road to a quite cul-de-sac so we could jump off the kerbs, and over the park, where we would see if we could clear the bunkers at the pitch-and-putt. Always returning home "when the street lights come on", we'd rig bicycle assault courses in the garden from bricks and planks, turn all the lights on in the house, and ride in the dark.

At barely seven years old, I took a fairly innocuous tumble, and unbeknownst to everyone, busted my spleen with the end of a handlebar. The following morning I was rushed to hospital and brought back from the brink. A week later I was back on the bike.

Peugeot Super Sport



Eventually, as we grew, so did our need to get further afield, and for our birthdays, our parents bought us second hand racing bikes from the newpaper. My dad cleaned them up, put new tyres on, rewound the handlebar tape, and we got to grips with gears for the first time. As much as I still wanted a BMX, there was no hiding the fact that this little ten-speed Peugeot gave me an independence that I thrived on. For the first time, we would venture from the house at a weekend, either together, with friends, or solo, armed with basic supplies and spares, and pedal between towns and villages we'd previously only thought you could drive to. The outside world became smaller, as ours suddenly seemed huge.

Redline RL20



These racers got us into paper-rounds. Pocket-money stopped, if there was anything we wanted, we got on our bikes, and earned it. My brother first, then a year later, I followed, and soon enough, every day began at 0530, as we each took a couple of rounds to save for "stuff".

We both bought second hand BMXs. We stripped them down, and fixed them up, and these became daily workhorses, and weekend thrashers. Sunday morning excursions across building sites and waste ground would often leave one of our group coming home on a "backy", someone else carrying the broken bike. Mostly it was me. If there was something stupid to do on a bike, I was your man, and by now I'd learned how to heal fast and fix anything.

Raleigh Pursuit

In the meantime, our parents had put some money towards "grown up" bikes for our thirteenth birthdays. Full sized racers, twelve gears, and the fastest things we'd known.

Our world widened again. By this time, my Raleigh Pursuit meant some space between siblings. The year between my brother and I somethimes seemed more, sometimes less, and whilst we still wanted to do the same things, by now it would be alone, or in the company of separate friends. By now, a week might involve hundreds of miles of cycling, just doing our paper rounds, and nipping off for a long ride at the weekend.

Understanding nostalgia for the first time as an awkward teenager, my cycle rides would often take me the fifty miles down to the coast to the old house. I'm sure my brother's may have done too. Interesting how we keep rejoining those dots.

Before the arrival of motorised transport into our lives, these racing bikes were transport. I'd cycle the thirty mile round trip to college a few times a week to pocket the train fare, and if I wanted to take a girl out,  I'd leave my bike locked round the corner of her house, with a binbag full of my cycling gear tucked under a hedge.

And then, motorcyles, and cars. Suddenly, the bikes just stopped getting used. The appeal of the open road was now measured in tanks of petrol, and after years of BMX related injuries, I just wasn't that crazy kid anymore.



Issimo F100



The combustion engines have stayed with us. But like the bikes before them, the cars and vans have become the transport, the means to an end. My brother's back on two wheels at the weekend, bombing about on his 900cc Triumph Bonny, but for me, it's still pedal power.


On-One Inbred


I realised this evening that in the last seven days I've ridden all three of my bikes, covered over fifty miles, and unthinkingly, bicycles are an important part of my life again.

Last Wednesday's commute to the office was on my Issimo folding bike. A £40 eBay bargain, and now wearing triathlon-style "aero" bars. You can't help but see the funny side, especially when you're doing fifteen miles on most outings, overtaking everyone.

Monday saw me darting around a country estate on my steel-framed hardtail mountain bike. Frame by UK firm "On-One", and built by me, this bike has won races, crossed the Hebrides, taught people to ride, and belted up and down the trails and mountains of this country in the company of my friends. It has never let me down.



bTwin Sport 2

Finally, today I pedalled my new roadie to Farnborough Pool. The swim was rubbish, I got out early, rode the long way home to blow it out of my hair, and felt better for it. For the first time in years I was back on a bike that seems to weigh nothing, and yet devours the tarmac beneath it, craving the far, and the fast.


Every bicycle I have owned has come with something intangible, beyond the glow of owning a new trinket. Quite apart from the exhileration of the actual riding, the bikes themselves awake within me a sense of opportunity. Whether it's the foldie that slices past public transport; the mountain bike that thinks it's a sheepdog; or now, the roadie, that may only come out when the sun is shining or the roads are dry, but feels like it may again broaden my horizons.

The Thames Trot

The Thames Trot is a race from Oxford to Henley on Thames, comprising of almost fifty miles of the Thames Path, on foot.

I wouldn't recommend it to anyone that's just doubled their "most mileage in one month" record, for the following reasons:

1. It's an early start. An 0515 alarm call and an early train - euch. 

2. It's a long way, mostly through vast riverside fields of grazing sheep, with the occasional narrow footpath of mud so claggy you finish each section an inch taller than you started.

3. It's flat. No hills means no reason to slow down, and no chance to catch your breath. It's relentless.

For the freakishly fast, the course record is something like six and a half hours. Which, frankly, is just ridiculous.


I was one of four Hart Road Runners to enter this year: I'd pulled out of this event after thirty miles in 2010, so I had unfinished business; Javed has run sections of this route in other ultra challenges; plus Fiona and Nellie, for whom this would be an ultra-landmark of going beyond thirty-ish miles.

All in all, I had a pretty worthwhile run. Nine and a half minutes per mile felt comfortable (if a little slow) initially, and I managed to maintain this pace for the first half. I suspected it was probably half a minute too quick on tired legs, but any slower felt uncomfortable.

Approaching mile thirty the pace started suffering. The morning's headwind returned a field at a time, along with some soft ground underfoot. Keen to dispel last year’s bad memories, head down, I held position among the few runners ahead and behind.

Thirty two miles and it was time for a mental adjustment. The legs were dead weight, and I was struggling to lift my feet high enough to clear mole-hills, or move them fast enough to maintain a run. No cramp, no blisters, no stomach upsets, but just nothing there.


“A to B, Vallance, A to B”

I pulled my windproof on, and continued at a fast hike, running sections when the wind died, or "past that gate", or "beyond that bridge". A couple of runners overtook me, with pats on the back, and words of comfort. I assured them I was going to make it, and continued my run a bit, shuffle a bit strategy: chin up, taking in the view.


“When going through hell, keep going”

But I really wanted to stop.... but I couldn't, and I wouldn't, so I didn't. So I'd walk instead, because running was too hard. But then I'd think about how long I'd have to walk for, and I wanted to finish sooner, not later. So I chose to run, or to walk. At times, I had to make that choice with every step.


“Play the odds” 

There must be a better analogy, but I don't know one, so this is what I mean:

Consider the goal, and the path that leads towards it.
Consider whether the choices you make on that path increase your chance of success, or defeat.
Choose success.


It sounds easy, but the reality is hard. If the target is to run fifty miles, then the only choice is to keep going. Commiting to run the next step is much easier when you're already on foot, moving forwards; particularly if the alternative is to stand in the middle of a field.



Drop the spade, and you never find

out how much deeper you can dig.



Yesterday, as I plodded forwards, there was never a question of stopping. I was finishing, it was simply a matter of when. After every few minutes of dragging my feet, the legs would recover enough to start running again, and if the ground ahead was good I might string together a couple of miles before I had to slow again.

When I was told at the final checkpoint that only six miles remained, I saw a chance to finish in eight hours twenty, my original “best case scenario”. I’d need to run at least two thirds of this last section, though possibly more as my pace waned with the evening light.

With the end ever nearer, the ground hardened, the running became sustained, and places were held and regained. Then finally, from half a mile away, the illuminated finish line dragged me towards it, while the first of the spectators cheered us in. Within minutes my world had turned from grim determination to a deckchair, a cup of tea, and a glow of satisfaction.

Javed, Fiona and Nellie all finished soon after, with smiles intact.

....and the rest

Ahhhhh, Rest.

I've always prescribed to the principle that training makes us weak, and only rest makes us strong. But I've always suspected that rest alone is an over-simplification, hence the accepted abbreviation of R&R.

Different people take the expression R&R to mean different things, most assume it's "rest and relaxation", but perhaps the sportier minded prefer "....and recovery" instead.

So my Janathon of daily masochism finally reached a conclusion on Monday night, with a short(ish) run bringing my total distance run in January to a very satisfactory, and slightly mind-blowing 450 miles. With that particular episode of my life complete, I looked forward to a few days to "repair and recharge".

At which point I was reminded of two things:

1. That simply "not running" doesn't really count, you have to get some sleep too.

2. The body can feel worse before it feels better.

The first three days of February were less comfortable physically than the last three weeks of January, and I felt shattered. With the constant weight of planning runs, running runs, and blogging about runs lifted from my shoulders, it's as if I suddenly lost traction, and instead of floating above it all, I just spun my wheels, late into the night, convinced there was something I should be doing.

Multiply that by a couple of very early mornings, add some whooshing around on the folding bike, plus some dashing about in a country park, and I've been really glad of today, my first guilt-free lay-in of the year, and the first day of real R&R.

Ahhhh, Recovery.

Oh yeah - I almost forgot! We have a new addition to the family!

On Friday night, I arrived home the proud father of a beautiful bouncing bike. 21lb 11oz, with perfect little carbon forks, and perfect little carbon seat-stays. It's a roadie.

Father and bicycle are doing well.

Mother is going to the pub to wet the bike's head.

....and ....I’m ....spent

Summary time! Let the cringing commence!

True, perhaps, but it would be remiss to wrap this up without some reflection.

For me, Janathon has been equally invigorating, and exhausting. From the initial trepidation of logging and blogging, the dread of watching Jenks and Auswomble bunging on the miles in that first crazy fortnight, and finally the enduring battle to honour the efforts of Janathoners everywhere, to keep it on, and make it good.

I’ve become increasingly grateful for many things, but particularly: the sense of community, the applications of technology, the joy of geography, and ultimately, the arrival of February.

But three things stand out above all else, which have continued to amaze, inspire and encourage.

First, that this carcass of mine has gone the distance. I expected some degree of dilapidation, but it’s hung together, and I’m hugely relieved. To put this into perspective, this is seven and a half times further than I ran in December, and the last time I last ran for six days in a row was 1993. I hadn’t planned on reaching half the mileage I ended up with, and good health should never be taken for granted.

Second, that runners of all abilities, with very different demands on their time and efforts, have risen to the challenge, and motivated one another with their blogs, comments and daily miles. Personal goals have been set and smashed, and I’ve watched people with plans foiled by illness, injury and loss, simply pick themselves up, set new targets, and go on to reach them. When I’ve felt least like hitting the trails, or most like just going round the block, it’s the thought of these achievements that have produced the miles.

Thirdly, that my wife puts up with all this. She doesn’t necessarily understand why I choose to set these targets, or why I feel compelled to exceed them (how could she, when I don’t?), but she understands that it’s important to me. She’s lived with a month of stinky running gear, prolonged absences and late nights, and my limited ability to focus on much else than the next run, or the last blog. I love you Rabbit.

As much as it would have been nice to finish with a mammoth run, thankfully I did that yesterday, and tonight’s run had a pleasant irony instead. On the 4^th of January I printed a map of an eight and a half mile tarmac loop and stuck it on my wall. I’d intended to run it that night, and to continue with five to ten miles on weekdays, and a bit more at weekends. However, seeing myself in the top three, the game changed, the route never got a look in, and I beasted myself on ten and fifteen milers instead.

In order to hit the magic 450, yesterday’s efforts left just eight and a bit miles to go, and the discarded route was finally unpinned and studied. Perfect. For the first time in January I left the pack at home. No bottle, no phone, no iPod, no map: just the route in my head, and some ground to cover. It felt good.

Running clockwise left a gradual descent for the final mile and a half. Kicking hard on the home straight was such a luxury, I felt alive, and optimistic. I hope that Janathon becomes for many people the foundation stone of a year of activity. I'm glad to have been a part of it.

Thanks to Cathy and Sean for setting it up, and roping me in respectively. To the dozen or so local runners that have joined me, and to all those that have jogged, logged and blogged alongside.

I look forward to meeting as many of you as possible in London, on the 12^th. I’ll be the sleepy looking one in the corner.

: )


Summary:
Today: 8.6 miles, 1:04 hrs, 1204 cals
January: 450.3 miles, 65:05 hrs, 61025 cals (that's 263 Cadbury's Twirls I owe myself)

End Game

Yesterday, Javed and I discussed my final targets for Janathon. It seems a little late in the day to be working out what to do next, but Janathon Plans A, B and C all went out the window weeks ago, and with two days left, three possibilities remained:

A. Do very little. I’ve cleared 400 miles, I’ve exceeded all my expectations. Let recovery begin.
B. Do a “reasonable” amount. Back off the mileage a bit, but not so much as to look like I’m resting on any laurels, taking the mickey, or whatever.

C. Keep it on. Set a target, make it happen.

In the process of discussing this, we also weighed up some potential targets, if option C were chosen:

434 miles – equivalent to exactly 14 miles every day in January. Tidy.

438 miles – equivalent to 700km. A nice round figure (in metric at least).

444 miles – equivalent to nothing much, but a good looking number.

450 miles – beautiful, but realistically ridiculous. Too much, too late.

I realised by late afternoon that our discussion had rendered Options A and B obsolete.

With 416.5 miles already banked, I’d need to average over 9 miles today, and tomorrow. Potentially less than I’ve done up until now, but would I be content with hitting the lowest of those targets, if the opportunity was there to do more? I was sure the bigger numbers remained possible, though a month ago I wouldn’t have believed I’d be sat here writing this.

But....  I want some time at home, I need some more sleep, I have a long trail run in the diary for next week, and frankly, the tanks are pretty empty.
 

Anti-Janathon Public Notice

So last night, I considered today’s run. I figured the least I should do was enough to keep my options open. Thinking back to last weekend’s long ‘un, I decided on a quick train journey to Alton, then a run home on the St Swithuns Way: no short cuts, no bail outs. I could get home with much of the day left, or tack some more miles on the end, depending on how I felt. I printed a map, prepared my waistpack and set out my clothes.

I awoke feeling ropey. Ablutions, clothes, breakfast, run to the train station, no turning back. From Alton station, map in hand, I pointed myself northeast, and followed residential roads to pick up the trail at Eggar School, which coincidentally hosted my first LDWA hundred mile walk in 2009. Another half mile of familiar track, then new ground, knowing that in a hour’s time I’d be recognising the trails once again, from the outrun of last weekend’s big loop.

The going was thankfully good, with an overnight frost and bright morning allowing steady progress. Rough, hard trails might be slow going, but a firm footing saves precious effort. Two steps forward, no steps back.

As the sun continued to rise, the wind dropped, and soon enough, I found myself covering old ground. The trail became hillier as I neared Farnham, and I faced my first choice, to either head north for home and bank thirteen miles, or open the box....

Private driveway to Wayne Manor

I turned south, towards Farnham station. I could link to the start of the North Downs way, and that little swerve alone should be worth another three miles. I ran on.

A mile later, I figured I could keep heading up this road, jump onto the footpath at Compton Way, and probably add another half mile, of good running. I ran on.

Soon after, and I was on trails that formed my regular loop, south of Farnham. Having been on my feet for over two and a half hours, I was already pushing the mileage, out of liquids, and with one big decision approaching. A left turn would head home, and a right turn would commit me to at least another hour of running, but a chance to hit 450 miles.

F#@K IT!  LET'S GO CRAZY!

My thirteen miler became a twenty five. I feel like I’m joyriding in someone else’s body.



Summary:
Today: 25.1 miles, 3:34 hrs, 3474 cals
January: 441.7 miles, 64:01 hrs, 59821 cals

Lord Wandsworth Loop

I look at maps with an inquisitive mind. As habits go, it’s probably not as infuriating for other people as leaving the lids off things, or playing music loudly on the train; but now and again, I might blurt out an oblique observation that’ll have my nearest and dearest rolling their eyes in despair.

However, I, like most people, take my immediate surrounding for granted. Not necessarily the landscape, or the features, but more the names that these places are given. Once you’ve spent your formative years in a particular part of the world, place names become part of a geographical vocabulary, and retain very little of their original meaning.

For example, there is an agreeable town nearby, surrounded by mixed heath, good transport links etc, but my wife (who’s not from round these parts) had no intention of living, or even going there. When asked why, she replied “It’s the name... ‘Deepcut’...  like a deep cut... that’s horrible”. She screwed up her face, and I conceded the point, I’d just never thought of it that way.

This is much easier done with the objectivity of a stranger: I’m sure a hill called Brown Willy isn’t particularly funny if you live in North Devon, and if Brooklyn Beckham’s baby sister were to be conceived in Surrey rather than New York, the people of Leatherhead would see no harm in Dave and Vicky continuing the naming tradition.

Pip leads the way

Today’s run was led by Javed, in the company of Fiona, and Pip the Labrador. We were initially joined by Andy and Huw again, on one of their pre-marathon long runs from further afield. Javed once again took us from his home, and over windy fields towards the villages of Crondall, Well and Bentley. Some fresh growth underfoot highlighted the mild January we’ve experienced in the South, but last night’s frost had set the ground rock hard in most places, and broken it into chocolate sponge cake in others. Javed and Fi were great company as always, and the running was so much easier than yesterday, it felt good to be out in the morning, in crisp air, and gently ticking off another thirteen miles.

This morning’s far point was the rolling farmland estate owned and run by Lord Wandsworth College. This location also planted the seed of this blog, but the link is tenuous. Wandsworth himself created this school to teach farming skills to orphaned boys. Yet, the name “Lord Wandsworth College” on its own might conjure up a host of preconceptions.

Some might automatically associate the name with the urban density of south west London, others may focus on the title within, and assume this is a private school, for privileged children (and it might well be). I, as a local, always remembered it as “the school that wouldn’t play rugby against ours”. I've since learned that the college has nurtured ruugby internationals like Jonny Wilkinson, so had this not been the case, I may instead think of it as “the school that used to batter us”.

A clearly wandering mind today – which feels good.


Summary:
Today: 13.2 miles, 2:03 hrs, 1830 cals
January: 416.6 miles, 60:26 hrs, 56347 cals