5.10 am – 3.6 miles relaxed, including the Fat mile.
Many magical moments this morning (apologies for the alliteration.). Let me start at the beginning…
I woke to the soft wheezes of my sleeping wife. The clock read, 4.40 am. For a moment, I wanted to take my pillow and smother the sleeping beauty which roused me from my slumber. For a few seconds, I listened to her rhythmical breaths and wondered what she might be dreaming about. Oh yes… Me, I surmised.
I took my pulse and that was the first of the magical moments. 57. No way, I thought. I took it three more times and it was 58. Now, after yesterday’s diabolical performance, I expected my RHR to be up near 70. But no, 58 pulchritudinous beats.
So I got up and dressed. My legs felt fine and the silence of my feet and right Achilles suggested that yesterday’s cumbersome traipse was merely a blip. I slipped into my glove-like Pegasus boys and headed out the front door.
The wind whipped in off the Atlantic Ocean and swirled and whirled and whirred and whispered its confounding secrets. I managed to decipher one thing: ‘Out again, fat boy. You’re a glutton for punishment.’ And then it scuttled away wailing, ‘See you up on the Fat mile…. Up on the Fat mile… The Fat miiiiiile.’
I did the dramatic shudder thingamajig and gave my right Achilles tendon a cheeky little stretch. Then off I went. As I jogged along my street, all seemed well with the legs. Good stuff, I thought. The wind’s done one and this codger feels like a whippersnapper.
Just as I hit the Fat mile, I noticed a vertically challenged man standing at the corner. ‘Top of the morning to you, mister,’ he said. ‘Would you be kind enough to give me some directions?’
I stopped and jogged on the spot. He was a mighty strange looking fella. His wrinkled skin suggested he was pushing on a bit but there was a powerful sprightliness about him.
‘Can you tell me the way to Tipperary?’ He said.
‘It’s a long way,’ I said.
‘You’re a funny expletive,’ he said. ‘But take a care fat fella or I’ll have them there swanky runners off your feet quicker than Bolt can run the hundred.’
Not wanting a ruck at this time of the morning, I told him the way.
‘Now, you can have a wish,’ he said. ‘But be quick about it and it has to be for you and only you. No altruism. And no, I will not tell you if you’ll run sub 2.23 and win the 2013 Cork marathon outright.’
Jakers, I thought. This fella’s for real. He’s a living, talking leprechaun.
‘Sub 2.23,’ I said. ‘That’s about 5.27 minute mile pace and at my age.’
‘Sure it is,’ he said. ‘But when you hit 142lbs (the weight you keep prattling on about) you’ll be ready for three months of 100+ mpw with a few hills and threshold runs. That'll bring you down to 133lbs and then we’re ready to rumble.’
‘Rumble?’ I said, perplexed.
‘10k multi pace training,’ he said. ‘We’ll have your 10k time down to 31.15 before the end of summer 2012. Then you can get stuck into my revolutionary 10 by 10 marathon training that’ll deliver a sub 2.23, even for a codger like you.’
I started laughing. ’10 by 10?’ I said.
‘Don’t you worry yourself,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when, etc etc etc.’
‘But my wish?’ I said.
‘Will you ever hurry it up and spout it out,’ he said.
‘How do I combat the wind?’ I said.
‘Your diet,’ he said. ‘The Irish are prone to suffer from the wind – it’s the Guinness and cabbage.’
‘No.’ I said. ‘How do I run in the wind?’
‘Like a hot knife slicing through soft butter,’ he said, as he vanished in a plume of smoke.
So, along the Fat mile and all the way home, I ran like a hot knife slicing through soft butter. Got in the door and I’d knocked a couple of minutes off my usual 30 minutes. And, I felt easy. I stripped and hit the scales. 1lb lighter. The wife walked in.
‘Jakers,’ she hollered. ‘Would you ever put some clothes on? The kids’ll be up soon. And I’m telling you - as sure as this beautiful and green land is full of little green leprechauns, I’ll smother you in your sleep if you wake me again at this ungodly hour with all your running malarkey.’
'But sweet pea,' I said. 'You'll never believe...'
'You're right, I wont,' she said. 'Any chance of some breakfast for a starving woman.'
RHR 58.
Post lunch power nap - 20 minutes geriatric stretching. Just thought of something, that leprechaun fella didn't grant me my wish. Oh well, maybe next time. | 