An Impulsive Holiday

Last minute. Really last minute. I think I booked my trip about 14 days before flying - a conversation in the canteen at work, an idea sown, money waiting to be spent. Four nights in New York meeting up with a friend on a 2 week stay there.

I packed woolly, expecting biting cold and ice. I packed my running gear, despite being in rehab for a stress fracture. Even a mile run in New York would count as a big tick to me. I packed Cadburys Fruit and Nut for my landlady I found through airbnb,and Weetabix for my friend's ex-pat host.

I flew via Dublin and was treated to the luxury of clearing immigration in Ireland. The full stern American border guard experience but without the queues and hard questions. At least, I thought it was easy. Arrived at jfk and sailed through domestic arrivals.

So began what I expect they call a whistle-stop trip. Met giuseppe at Columbus Circle and followed him, drowsy and wide-eyed, through streets with familiar names. Saw a big Christmas tree, a skating rink, another skating rink. Rode the subway back to Brooklyn and went out, to a benefit for animals affected by Hurricane Sandy. I know, really. It was a friend of a friend situation and it was a real two men and a dog audience. Beers were good though, and ramen was good afterwards. The next day I did my run. I got my 'running in a foreign city' grin out. I didn't care that it was drizzling and I could only run for 20 minutes. I even ran up a small hill and then recklessly down it on dead leaves and mud. Fort Greene Park I salute you.
The next morning was spent excitedly and untidily purchasing tickets to Smashing Pumpkins.
The afternoon was spent mooching around town with the three wiseguys. One, my friend giuseppe - sicilian, photographer, warm and funny, late every time we met. His friends Marc - baby-faced, cheeky and downright dirty, slight stutter, indieboy handsome. And Chris - professional photographer, floppy foppy hair, another indieboy handsome with a need for affirmation a mile wide. We shopped, correction, they shopped, whilst I looked on and gave opinion on coats, jeans, ipads. We never made it to the MOMA due to Chris' marathon coat-buying mission, but I enjoyed it thoroughly. And we all agreed Chris looked great in his new coat.
We arrived at 9 at the immense and shiny-new Barclays arena (yes that Barclays bank) to find the headliners already underway. One ten-dollar beer down and my eyes were heavy. The music was heavy too, so I fended off sleep until the second encore at which point Marc shook me awake. How undignified. I came round enough to walk to the Brooklyn Public House to enjoy a Weihenstephaner weisse and set the world to rights relationship-wise all round the table.
I attempted a lie in then failed. Rockefeller day. Giuseppe had a yen to photograph from the top.  I'll go for that I said, two englishers with vertigo and hangovers on top of a high building, great idea. The fog and drizzle had cleared and the views were amazing. We both held it together, high-fives us. Back home for a power nap and then the hotly anticipated Brooklyn Brewery tour. Brooklyn lager is my absolute favourite beer for any occasion, and giuseppe was curious enough to come along. Walking through Williamsburgh I realised I had seriously missed out on the hipster district, but a mission was underway. The beers we tasted were the brewers choice types. Interesting. We met a couple from Ashton and giuseppe had a small world moment when he realised he'd dated a friend of theirs at college. I bought souvenirs and we drank Sorachi beer and ate jerky. We then headed to little Italy where I got pizza, coffee, pastries and indigestion. And a massive childish hump. I tried to atone for my petulence by buying a ridiculous.expensive round at a craft beer posing joint but that only made my tummy worse. Taxi!

Final day with the wiseguys, who by now were banned by me from speaking in a faux-mobster accent, we met at lunchtime for the MOMA. I have to add that I fit in another 20min turn around the now sunny and bustling park before heading uptown. MOMAs 5th floor collection is a feast of colour and familiar works. I discovered that Munch and Klee's other stuff is very very pleasing, and the waterlilies becalm a room charmingly. The rest does fall into 'modern art' quite firmly. We skimmed through all that guff, and I bid farewell to the boys on 5th avenue.

Beer and burger with my effusive and interesting landlady wrapped up the holiday for me. The only thing left for me to do was walk over the Brooklyn bridge to Lower Manhattan. My final morning dawned another shining crisp day which made it a perfect walk. Battery Park was disappointingly under renovations and the queues for Ground Zero put me off. I walked back, marvelling at the well maintained cycle-and-footway which I totally missed on the outward trip,and had a lovely lunch of soup near my lodgings at the brilliantly-named baguetteaboutit.

I had no preconceived ideas about New York and nothing I really wanted to do, bar run a little and visit the brewery. Manhattan is much like any other city centre but bigger, shinier and too familiar given the amount we see it on tv. New Yorkers are to a man polite and smart-looking, and Brooklyn seems a cool place to live. I felt tired from day 2 onwards, I've never flown west and experienced what one understands to be the worst form of jetlag before. Now I feel super super tired sat at Dublin airport waiting to complete the final leg home. I need a holiday.

Ps I'll put some pictures up on this soon...boarding flight!

Replacement therapy, or, happiness through injury

Injury is part of the whole deal for runners and anyone who tells you it isn't so is either very lucky or doesn't train enough. From minor tendonitis to major tears and breaks, the spectre looms over all training plans, archly whispering caution, the devil to ambition and ability's angel.
I'm not going to use this post to whine about how much I miss running. Six weeks ago my foot exploded whilst on a flat road route. A sudden bloom of heat and pain which I foolishly ran on for another 15 minutes. Diagnosing a stress fracture I now know isn't easy but a process of elimination led there. Thanks to Global Therapies
Due to my four months off last summer I was able to bypass the rage and gloom stage (well, mostly!) and once able to actually walk without wincing (about 3 weeks in case you're wondering) launched into my plan. The aim: keep the engine running at full capacity whilst strengthening my core and trying as much as possible to keep my legs in condition.
Motivating myself to swim is a bit of a challenge now openwater's out of the question but improving my stroke is some kind of carrot, and the meditative calm and silence of the water goes a little way to replacing the wind on my face and the scenery spooling by.
And then there's this years newest game - the bike. Twenty years since I last rode on the roads and its taken about a month to feel anything like comfortable. I'm not going to rant about traffic or car drivers, I've not experienced that yet. I am going to rave about how good it feels when I get to the die-straight flat last two miles of my ride home from work and my second-hand ladies folding bike becomes a charging yellow Pinarello. I can almost feel the sideburns growing.
Suffice to say, the triathlon is becoming more and more of a reality.
So to the point. It's tragic and horrid to be disabled from doing the very thing which defines you. Settling for second best can be a stack of fun though, deftly kidding the inner sheepdog that its getting its exercise whilst feeling good about learning a new skill.
I'm now taking my first baby steps in my Nikes, looking forward to running next season, though I'll be listening to that spectre. I think it has some kind of grudging respect for me now.

A different kind of clubbing

'we off clubbing tonight?' - a common question between me and my mate Steve, on a Tuesday. He once actually thought I meant, are we going to a hip music event at a dingy ex-mill or warehouse. I meant, are we off to train with the running club.
Early this year I decided to dip my toe in the water of running with a club. I've always been a lone wild runner, enjoy training with friends now and then. But the arguments for were good - directed speed training isn't something many people can do alone, I take my hat off to anyone who can do the right amount of reps at the right pace without someone shouting at them. Other runners swore they got loads faster after joining, etc.
I was on the fence. I tried it anyway.
Half a year down the line I  can't say I'm a dedicated member. I make maybe 3 sessions a month out of a possible 8. At the beginning it was odd, no-one told me what to do, I didn't know anything about the rules, or whether to get a club vest, no-one mentioned any events.
After a while it changed, after I entered a few races I knew some others would be going to. It's fun to be part of a team, us versus the ones in the other-coloured vests. Then I got all giddy and joined one of the other-coloured vest clubs. I now have one club for road-running and one for fell-running, and I'm just about managing to keep up both.
Being with a club has changed the way I train. I used to train in the gaps in the days before breakfast, on the way home from work, on lunchbreaks. Now I can do two fun sessions with people I know in the evenings. However I now value and covet my 'alone' runs of a weekend or a lunchtime Headphones in, thoughts going along by themselves. I am essentially a lone wolf with a sociable bent, which is a bit schizophrenic but there you are.
So this summer's been different and I did get faster, new 5k and 6 mile PBs and lots of messing about in the hills, though I attribute the speed to the hills I've run up rather than the track laps. I'm now on another enforced rest due to a new injury but I'm looking forward to donning my coloured vests again in the Spring.

Running with the Jedi

Any sporting community has a kind of mentor system, both official and unofficial. My community (yes, my name's Zoe and I'm a Runner) has both in spades. Anyone who starts to run, be it for a 5k charity run, for fun, to lose weight or to meet skinny wide-eyed men, will find someone they know who runs too. They will either be afraid of their prowess and form, or drawn to them for advice.

Novice runners, know this: however fast, strong or crazy we seem to you, we LOVE taking on a padawan. We don't car how slow, ugly, sweaty or ill-kitted out you are. We want to share our crazy love for the sport of running and we want to gradually take over the world with our kind...mwah ha ha ha. So, don't be afraid to have 'that chat about running' in the pub or by the watercooler. It may end up a very long chat. Stop us when we begin to get too boring.

I have had a few running Jedi Masters who I have looked up to and learned from. I hold them all dear to my heart. They have given me training advice which worked, they have recommended shoes, bras, types of gel and sunglasses. I have gradually become a Young Jedi myself. It has now got to the point where I have padawans of my own, and I love it. I love to hear their fears and quell them. I love to push them to breaking, in training and in races. I love to talk kit, give recommendations, and plan race expeditions and challenges. Jedi Masters and Mistresses they will become.

My Jedi Master of the moment is a fab Northern Chap who came 49th in this year's London Marathon. He trains about 100 miles a week - I'm not kidding. But he always has time for a chat about downhill technique, stretching, or beer. He goads me into harder and faster races. He has helped me stay focussed when I am injured. The running world is all the better for relationships between runners like this.

And finally, in the style of Yoda...
10ks lead to half marathon..hmmm...half marathon leads to marathon..hmm.mmh...marathon leads to fell running..!!!

Midges and peat

Run away! We fled the jubilympic elations, put a pin in the map of Ireland and found the Galtee Mountains - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia mountains. Having visited Ireland before, experienced the exaggerated claims of its various tour info boards, we double checked the height on Googlemaps. A reassuring 919m. A actual munro, if you like that kind of thing.
Campsite Caravan & Camping in Tipperary Ireland at Glen of Aherlow Motor home, Caravan, Tent, Touring, Hillwalking fab for the light traveller - kitchen and lounge and ace showers included in the rather steep 22 euro fee.
Walked out into a sunny valley and up into pine woods. Easy route finding. The galtys remind me of the brecon beacons. Like the letter m viewed from above, actually mn. Tarns cupped in the bottom. Ascent rough, ridge gained. Spotted our nemesis, the walking festival group loitering tiny and colourful by the lake. Clear conditions meant the summit route was obvious, rounded the corner at about 750m and hit peat. Lovely Irish peat. And, Midges. I swear they are the highest Midges in the isles. Any Scots who wish to prove me wrong please do.
They rather distracted us from the view, which was, Er, flat. To the south anyway. To the north were some pretty hills and a nice looking bridleway.
The top - rocky and a metal cross, and the beginnings of what passes for a bank holiday crowd in county tipperary (a few picnicking hikers and a family sweating it up from the other side in jeans and footy shirts) Lake district, in your eye.
On the descent the peat got silly. Wet, deep, unavoidable. Irelands highest inland peak is in need of an erosion-busting path but I don't expect one soon.
My only other comments of interest are that the lakes in the feet of this range all offer good wild camping opportunities but I have no idea how wild camping is in Eire.
And.. there are some nice boulders near lake diheen. For those who do.

How to squeak it in a marathon

Most people are know are hard into about their 4th week. Me, I'm chilling. I'm laid back. In 2010 I had a bad time following a plan I got from a famous maker of shoes (rhymes with greysicks) - by week 10 I was losing the will, and injured to boot. So second time round I thought, I'll squeak it, I'll be a jammy little cow, and I'll do it in ten weeks. This of course leaves no time to be ill, no time to get injured... but the very fact the plan was shorter made me confident that injury was less likely.

So, out came my 2010 calendar. In October 2010 I ran a 3.48 marathon. I'd like to do that in April 2012, so I've basically copied my plan from back then. Someone suggested I share it. It's not in Excel or anything advanced as that. It's on a Chris Packham Photography 2012 calendar if you must know. In biro.

The key bits of it are...

• It's ten weeks long
• For the month leading up to it I have been laying down my base. Three or four sessions a week, plenty of core and stability exercises (thanks for the advice Clive Riley physio), get my head and body into the right place. About 20 miles a week max.
• Long runs start at 8 miles and go up in 2-mile increments (roughly) and I do them mostly on Saturdays, sometimes Sundays.
  
• Alternately 'hard' weeks and 'soft' weeks - only 3 runs in a 'soft' week but 'soft' always augmented by a 30-minute swim. 4 in a 'hard' week.
  
• Peaking at 18 miles 15 days before race day.
• Club sessions once a week to kick me up the arse speed-wise

Anyone reading this who's not a runner, sorry if this is boring/making your eyes pop. It's what we do, runners, we obsess. That's how we achieve what we do, whether it be the Race for Life or the biggest marathon in the world.

And oh, don't even mention Easter weekend to me. Shudder..

A short walk to the beach

Gran Canaria. Christmas time. Outdoor types trying to just chill out and prepare for hard training to come. It was never going to work.

Puerto Mogan - the nicest, most middle-class resort on the island. We tried a day on the loungers but the next day dawned cloudy. I'd read about Playa Venegueras on a blog somewhere, so our hardly-used Kompass map came out. hmmm..about 5k each way. Fine.

The path's a road winding in hairpin turns up the valley side. They have lots of roads like that in GC, but this one has no traffic. Blocked off at either end, as denoted by little red dumb-bell shapes on our map.

You see a fair few folk walking and running up the first stretch from the main road. There's a viewpoint on the clifftop from where you can spy the pretty harbour and yachts, and also the nasty shopping centre development and failed would-be nasty developments further inland. A nice walk of a morning. Carry on though, and it started to feel rather 28 Days Later.

A well-enough maintained road with scenic aspects. No cars, no houses. What got me the most was the ornamental trees and blooming shrubs which had been planted at regular 10-metre intervals, making it a pretty winding avenue through the scrubland and gorges. The trees even have their own irrigation system. We passed a couple of failed fincas, just their foundations and some hosepipe remaining. Surely these trees weren't just here for the walkers and cyclists, who numbered maybe 15 at most.

But who am I to complain? Easy route-finding, shady spots to stop (and pee behind), wildlife flitting and scuttling here and there. After a while we realised that it was probably more than 5k to the beach. It took us a while due to bird and lizard-spotting stops. Just as we started to give up all hope of seeing the beach, we made a winding downhill down a ravine-side, with spectacular mountain views on the horizon...and spied the beach. Mucky brown, rocks, a bombed-out looking building. Buh.

My hopes of an enterprising local selling ice-cold refrescos dashed, we headed along the drainage canal to the beach, via almost a wrong turn into someone's tumbledown garden.

It looked better close up. A calm bay with black sparkling volcanic sand, pebbles, and a rocky cove to shelter in. The wind had got up, and to our minds it was too cold for swimming, so we sat down and ate our picnic then went exploring the rocks, also black, ages-cool lava flowing into the sea.

On the way back we had fun looking at the songbirds and the best funny sign we've seen for ages..