The Road to Ru(i)n

I've always said that I wasn't a runner. And I'm not. Not going by my technique, times, attitude or build.  I had never enjoyed running. Puffing around the rugby pitch (approximately a minute behind the play), getting knocked out first in the primary 7 'beep test', and the seemingly endless 6-minute run in S3 all served as evidence to prove my point. So what got me running?

Initially the frustration of unemployment out of university had me trying to build up a bit of running fitness, though this went right out the window as soon as I was in a job. Then my girlfriend at the time got into running through her friend. Was that it? Not quite. I'm okay with a partner who is better than me. But it certainly planted a seed, seeing her progress from the run/walk to 10km races.

One fateful morning I hit the top notch of my work belt. I was getting fatter. Something had to be done. Then the stars aligned and my office moved to a new location - across the street from a good gym. I could see it from my desk. I could afford it. I needed it. I joined.

My initial training program included fast flat runs, hill runs, and a hill sprint. All of short duration (3min or less). I could handle that. Then one of the trainers persuaded me to attended her morning treadmill torture class. Slowly my running ability increased. My confidence in what I could achieve increased.

Then the gym threw a 'TRYathlon' (as Virgin Active was sponsoring the London Triathlon) to get slobs like me to give the sport a go. Never one to back down from a wee challenge, I opted for the 'Supreme' over the shorter 'Dash'. This meant running 2.5km on a treadmill and 10km on the bike before hopping in the pool for a 400m swim to the finish. Easy right? You underestimate my level of inactivity.

My training? What training? Who needs to train for a weeny little thing like that? So, on May 6th 2011, I rocked up at 6.45am in my shorts, ready to feel some burn. They penned my number on my arm, stuck me on a treadmill, and off I went. 11:58 for the run. Not too bad. 18:43 for the cycle. Not great. Then...24:44 for the swim. Yeah. That happened. A bit of me died in that pool. Both legs cramped at 200m. By the end the staff were cheering the fat kid on to get him to the finish...with the slowest swim leg in the UK. True story.

So what next for the somewhat humbled Al? A 5km fun-run being staged by a friend of a friend fit the bill. Out came the running shoes and far-too-small rugby shorts (pictured) for the Chariots of Fire themed (hence the need for white shorts) run along the glorious West Sands in St. Andrews.

Normally glorious.

May 15th 2011 was cold. And windy. And wet. Not great weather for tiny shorts at the seaside. My legs were going blue. Oh, such relief when the start was signalled! Running on familiar turf, surrounded by familiar faces, was fun. Running outdoors for a change was nice too, even if it was a miserable day. After a 27 minute slog I was at the finish and shortly thereafter I was picking up the free beer, free ice cream, a few other bits and bobs, and the medal. Nothing like free beer and ice cream to cap off a wee seaside run.

 5km in the bag. Time for a 10km. A proper run. Time for long treadmill runs and, eventually, finally, some outdoors training runs around the rolling metropolis of Dalgety Bay. Having missed the May 10km in Edinburgh (showed up a day late - oops!), October 2nd 2011 became the date of my first 10km event. Scotland, with its ever dependable weather, served up another scorcher. Suppose the rain and cold saves the hassle of sweating too much. The city threw up something so much more interesting - a bouncy, ginger running mate. An old friend had entered the race a couple days before just to compete with me (read as show me up). He pounced on me during the warm-up, bantered with me to the halfway point, then left me in his dust as I soldiered on to a 55 minute finish. Much better than my expected 1hr 10min - the ol' event adrenaline.

I was happy. I had never expected to finish a 10km, especially not in under an hour. Contented.

Then I moved to the frozen wilds of the north and had to shift gym. Except the big gym in my new town was much more expensive and nowhere near as good. This discovery made me so angry I hit the pavements, knocked out 10km, and decided to run 10km every Saturday. Then I joined a wee running group to get me out mid-week over the cold months. Contentment re-attained. Or so I thought.

What do you do on your birthday when you're going to be spending it alone in a small town in the north of Scotland? My answer? Run the local half marathon which just so happens to be on your birthday. My training plan? Similar to the TRYathlon. Increased the weekend run to 13km for the two weeks before. Running a half isn't too much more than running 10km, right? Right?

Almost right. Despite the dispiriting bus trip along the entirety of the course and the snow, the run was mostly fine. I took it easy. I breathed. I focussed on technique, landing softly and putting the load through the glutes. All was good. The sun came out. I warmed up in the 3C heat. I overtook weary runners. I looked on course for a sub-2 hour finish.

Then it happened.

I hit the wall. My strength went. The fuel tank said empty despite the slap-up breakfast. This was a new and unpleasant experience. I slowed down. I forgot the 2 hour mark. I tried to relax. Not long left. Not long. Where is the finish? How big is this damn RAF base?!

A final push got me in at 1:55:40, singing happy birthday to myself. Sad, eh?

That done, I was content again. Except, in a bout of pre-race jitters, I had applied to the Edinburgh Marathon as a charity runner for The Stroke Association. The half marathon put on course for a first-timer training schedule. Why not run for a good cause?

Two days after the half marathon I received an email. The Stroke Association had accepted me and entered me into the race. Oh my. Time to get training. You can back out of a self-entry but to back out on a cause like that? No way. So I got serious. I did some reading. I got vaseline. I started running four times a week. I had to earn some sponsorship for The Stroke Association. I couldn't back out now.

Many a cold (often freezing) morning saw this lumbering fool slogging his way through the woods or around the town before work. One Saturday morning saw me out of the house at 4.30am in order to get three laps of the town in before a morning food hygiene course.

Even after all this time I told myself I hated running. Don't get me wrong, I loved finishing the run. I could then justify sitting on my butt and eating junk all day. Or so I told myself. Even seeing my weight drop to its lowest level since school did little to endear myself to the early morning runs. This negative mindset did nothing to help me. Nor did the foot injury incurred during a deeply unpleasant run in high winds, sleet, snow, and hail. The injury - made worse by trying to pretend it wasn't a problem for the next run - meant I spent April surfing the couch, putting back on all the weight I had lost and losing all hope of the 4 hour pace I had been running.

During that time off I realised I missed the runs. Maybe not the frequency, the cold, or the long runs, but I missed getting out there nonetheless. In May I got back out. Slower, heavier, but happier about it. A stronger mindset for cruising through the bloody nipples and chafed thighs to get to the fitness necessary to put on a show for my sponsors.

 After a bitterly cold start to the year which continued through May, what weather did Scotland serve up for the big event? 22C without a cloud in the sky. Well above the 5C weather in which I had trained. Perfect for the spectators, not so great for the runners. No point in worrying about matters out with ones control though. Showtime.

From the Regent Street we headed out of town and along the coast. The course was lined with cheering crowds. Some people were out hosing down runners, some were providing music, the atmosphere was great. Best of all the runs to date. The miles were falling away. My pace was as planned. Good times.

Then we headed out of town. Out to the barren coast. Under the hot sun. So hot. Water stations seemed to evaporate. We ran through a stinky cow farm. My back started to ache. Bad times.

Somewhere between mile 21 and mile 22 I had to drop down to a walk and stretch out my back. Bad bad bad. All I could think about was water. My expected time slipped away. But eventually I got going again, emptying the tank on the final 300m. So focussed on the line that I missed my brother shouting and waving on the final turn. I had finished. Not in great style, it must be said, nor quickly (4:44:11). But I finished.

Though I still don't consider myself a proper runner, many might disagree with that. I run. I'm even enjoying it now. It doesn't really matter what I call myself. I've made my peace with running. Have you?