While blogging is sporadic, training has not been, and yesterday (21 Feb) we completed our first half marathon.
The snow having gone, I got back out there, but Mac suffered from an interrupted training programme having fallen and cracked three ribs.
Experience is telling us that there is little correlation between prediction and performance. What on earth does that mean? One day we'll go out and be feeling a bit jaded, but have a fantastic run where everything seems to flow (everything that should flow that is!), and the next we'll feel really good, and find that running is like wading through treacle. I think that this is a common dream - you're trying to run at pace but don't seem to get anywhere. Surely a psychologists bonanza, but we've put the dreamworld into reality, and wish we hadn't started almost as soon as we have.
Our reputation as two fit studs with whom it is cool to be seen has spread, and people are queuing up to train with us. Well, that's my interpretation of the situation. An alternative is that we know the local routes, and others are keen to discover them as well. 10 days ago, two Cla(i)res came out with me (Mac dead again) and tried to run me ragged. These ladies have the advantage both of youth and the appropriate physique, more given to stamina and style than my "fitted-for-comfort" body. Despite slowing them down, we did 5 miles at an average of 9m 30s per mile, which was a great achievement for me and actually quite enjoyable.
This Thursday, our numbers are being swelled by another female racing snake, although I was encouraged that she also said that Clare was too fast for her, so maybe a cuddly body is not the indicator of performance I thought that it was.
Yesterday, in grey and occasionally wet weather, we ran for 6 miles along the sea-front at Portsmouth/Southsea, and I reminisced on the many entries and exits I had made into Portsmouth Harbour over the years, from sailing in HMS FIFE in 1987 on my first training patrol, to HMS SCYLLA the following year to patrol the Gulf over Xmas 87/88, to taking HMS OTTER, a diesel electric submarine in and out of the harbour on many an occasion en route the Mediterranean, Copenhagen, the Atlantic, Ibiza, Naples, Gibraltar, Catania, and Hull. Then when HMS SPARTAN, a nuc, broke down and had to come in to be docked, and finally when I was commanding my own ship, crewed by students from Cambridge's Universities. 10 seconds after that, there was still another 5.75 miles to go...and then a further 7.2 miles around Eastney, taking in muddy playing field and shingled beach.
One or two moments of mental catastrophe were offset by regular supplies of Jelly Beans from the Marshalls, and an amazing psychological boost from Jess and the kids and unexpected vantage points along the route - had to keep my strut going for fear of being considered only mortal - resulted in a fantastic time (my own assessment!) of 2hrs 1min - or 9m 24s per mile.
Training with the ladies obviously paid off. Quite how I will do 26 miles remains a small obstacle to be overcome, but I doubt that it will be quite at this pace.
