Phase two of ‘Operation Athlete’ is in action. Gone are the pathetic 50 minute 10,000m runs, and in their place, mammoth 2 ½ hour marathons (well, technically, half marathons). This was my bright idea tonight, after finishing work with a runny nose and tired eyes. I was inches away from not even running altogether, but my will power shone through for once, and I took to the roads.
Usually I take a run along to the sea wall, up the shore to Stanley Park, then after reaching Second Beach (which isn’t particularly far), I turn around and head back along the dead straight, albeit slightly inclined, Nelson Street. It doesn’t take an hour.
Today, as I reached my turning point, I felt a surge of commitment to the Vancouver (half) Marathon on May 4. I did my power run up the steps to the Sequoia Grill, but instead of carrying on up the track on the way to the hostel, I turned back, headed down the steps and carried on along the sea wall.
This involves circumnavigating the whole of Stanley Park. To punish myself further, I took some detours into the park, up the massive hills (sprinting) and then returning back to where I left the sea wall to continue my jog.
Without my watch, I had no sense of time, but my legs weren’t too heavy as I came around the bottom of Stanley Park, so I made a conscious decision to take a similar route to the Sun Run, over the Burrard Bridge and back over Cambie. I knew that on Sunday, this took half-an-hour at the most. But on Sunday I hadn’t already been running for an hour.
As I neared the Burrard Bridge, I reminisced about the nipple agony I had been faced on Sunday. With the adage ‘Once Bitten Twice Shy’ in mind, I had cleverly covered up the offending nipple with a massive plaster that I stole from work. It was still a little bit uncomfortable as it came to terms with Sunday’s damage, but the ‘band-aid’ was doing its job.
Then my legs (and arse) had a say in the rest of the run. I had to stop momentarily at traffic lights, and suddenly my body remembered how far it had ran, and my legs muscles decided to totally seize up. I could have turned back to the hostel at this point, which would have taken five minutes- but I wasn’t going to be beaten.
I got myself over the Burrard Bridge and knew I had to brave the pain now. Triumphantly, I saw the clock on the Molson Brewery news reel. It was 7:15, and I had left the hostel at 5:25. Almost two hours. I had finished the Cransley Half Marathon in 1 hour and 49 minutes. I now know I can do the half marathon next week.
No walking allowed- that’s my long distance motto. I don’t care if I am jogging as fast as a turtle sleeps, as long as I am technically jogging, I am happy.
I was chaffing everywhere. Almost everywhere, I should say; my nipple was holding firm. I took a wrong turn along the sea wall, which meant I had to double back, following the Cambie Bridge away from the water until I could find some steps to get up onto the bridge and actually get across False Creek.
No walking allowed. Over the incline, up to the middle of the bridge, and I could feel the pain, but knew that I could make it.
One more stretch up Nelson Street, three blocks. It was uphill, but I dug in and sped up. The traffic lights played into my hands. Each crossing was flashing red so I had to sprint to make it over the road. It was an added incentive.
Suddenly I was turning onto Granville. I had done it!
It was when I stopped running that the pain really started. My muscles seized up, I struggled up the stairs to my room, and I slumped onto the ground. With the energy I had remaining, I attempted to stretch my muscles out somewhat. I caked them in muscle re-energizer that I had been given at the Sun Run fair. I wolfed down four Weetabix with two bananas chopped off.
I’m dreading tomorrow, and the next day. I envisage myself walking like a ninety year old. Was it worth it? ‘Cause it bloody was!
Usually I take a run along to the sea wall, up the shore to Stanley Park, then after reaching Second Beach (which isn’t particularly far), I turn around and head back along the dead straight, albeit slightly inclined, Nelson Street. It doesn’t take an hour.
Today, as I reached my turning point, I felt a surge of commitment to the Vancouver (half) Marathon on May 4. I did my power run up the steps to the Sequoia Grill, but instead of carrying on up the track on the way to the hostel, I turned back, headed down the steps and carried on along the sea wall.
This involves circumnavigating the whole of Stanley Park. To punish myself further, I took some detours into the park, up the massive hills (sprinting) and then returning back to where I left the sea wall to continue my jog.
Without my watch, I had no sense of time, but my legs weren’t too heavy as I came around the bottom of Stanley Park, so I made a conscious decision to take a similar route to the Sun Run, over the Burrard Bridge and back over Cambie. I knew that on Sunday, this took half-an-hour at the most. But on Sunday I hadn’t already been running for an hour.
As I neared the Burrard Bridge, I reminisced about the nipple agony I had been faced on Sunday. With the adage ‘Once Bitten Twice Shy’ in mind, I had cleverly covered up the offending nipple with a massive plaster that I stole from work. It was still a little bit uncomfortable as it came to terms with Sunday’s damage, but the ‘band-aid’ was doing its job.
Then my legs (and arse) had a say in the rest of the run. I had to stop momentarily at traffic lights, and suddenly my body remembered how far it had ran, and my legs muscles decided to totally seize up. I could have turned back to the hostel at this point, which would have taken five minutes- but I wasn’t going to be beaten.
I got myself over the Burrard Bridge and knew I had to brave the pain now. Triumphantly, I saw the clock on the Molson Brewery news reel. It was 7:15, and I had left the hostel at 5:25. Almost two hours. I had finished the Cransley Half Marathon in 1 hour and 49 minutes. I now know I can do the half marathon next week.
No walking allowed- that’s my long distance motto. I don’t care if I am jogging as fast as a turtle sleeps, as long as I am technically jogging, I am happy.
I was chaffing everywhere. Almost everywhere, I should say; my nipple was holding firm. I took a wrong turn along the sea wall, which meant I had to double back, following the Cambie Bridge away from the water until I could find some steps to get up onto the bridge and actually get across False Creek.
No walking allowed. Over the incline, up to the middle of the bridge, and I could feel the pain, but knew that I could make it.
One more stretch up Nelson Street, three blocks. It was uphill, but I dug in and sped up. The traffic lights played into my hands. Each crossing was flashing red so I had to sprint to make it over the road. It was an added incentive.
Suddenly I was turning onto Granville. I had done it!
It was when I stopped running that the pain really started. My muscles seized up, I struggled up the stairs to my room, and I slumped onto the ground. With the energy I had remaining, I attempted to stretch my muscles out somewhat. I caked them in muscle re-energizer that I had been given at the Sun Run fair. I wolfed down four Weetabix with two bananas chopped off.
I’m dreading tomorrow, and the next day. I envisage myself walking like a ninety year old. Was it worth it? ‘Cause it bloody was!
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