Having been told in no uncertain terms by the weighing scales that it was time to get off my arse I set off this morning to do my first run of any decent distance in 2013. A new running group has sprung up in my hometown Run Monasterevin Run, who can be found on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/runmonasterevin.run?fref=ts so Brid and I went down to meet them for their regular Sunday run. I’ve been out with the group, usually three or four strong, a couple of times before but this morning there was about ten lycra and neon clad runners all milling about at Super Valu waiting for the off.
I know New Year’s resolutions and all that must have played a part in the size of the group but a large part also has to be the burgeoning popularity of running in Ireland. When I started running first, almost two years ago now, the only other person I’d see out running regularly was Paul Molloy (the guy who started up the group). Now most evenings there’s people out running individually, in pairs, in all sorts of weather too, so it makes sense to get a group together. It’s much safer as a group on these dark, dirty evenings, it’s a great motivator to go out when you’ve already arranged to meet up and you don’t want to let anyone down, plus it’s much easier to run as a group.
The other great thing about it is the social aspect of it. I’m not from Monasterevin originally, I’m only a blow-in, despite being here over ten years now. I did know some people from the town when I moved here, due to my brother and I doing a little carousing over in this direction in our younger years, and most of the other people I know is through coaching my son’s soccer and gaelic football teams for years. That and the fact that Brid’s an incredibly social, community minded person and is on every team and committee going, and therefore I meet people by proxy. If like a lot of people however, you’re not from the area at all and moved here during the housing boom, commute to a job miles away, and have no kids, it can be a bit tricky to meet people so a group like this serves a great social purpose.
So you can meet new people, it’ll help you get fit and healthy, and on top of all that, it’s free. What more could you want?
Anyway, we did 7km as a larger group at a nice, relaxed pace before people began to splinter off, having done enough for them. The smaller group that was left kept going, picking up the pace to about 5:30 mins/km initially, then for the last couple of kilometres kept gradually increasing it to about 4:45mins/km at the end. It felt fanbloodytastic to get out and blow the cobwebs off and get the legs actually working again.
85.5* – that was the number staring back at me from the scales. 85.5kg! Jesus H. Christ. This is the heaviest I’ve been in about eighteen months, definitely the heaviest I’ve been since my initial training and weight loss. I knew I’d been piggy over Christmas, who doesn’t indulge over the festive period, but the pigginess combined with the lack of proper training over the last couple of months meant I’d taken “comfy” and “winter insulation” to a whole new level.
Proper training has to recommence. Eating like a pig has to stop. No more late nights which lead to snacking and lack of sleep which leads to tiredness which leads to excuses for not training. I have a 50k to do in less than a month for God’s sake and right now I’m a moustache away from being Paul Blart: Mall Cop.
2013 starts here (just a little bit late).
It was actually 85.9 but that was fully clothed, shoes and all. Come on, you can give me that.
Seeing as my complete lack of preparation for Dublin City Marathon had paid off so well I thought I’d head into Clonakilty by doing even less. And having the greasiest chips known to man and a manky chicken burger as my pre-race, night before meal. Not that I was really worrying about anything but one thing I certainly didn’t have to worry about was the weather. Despite being filthy and wet driving down last night this morning it was just as the forecast had predicted – crispy cold and without a cloud in the sky, which made for a pretty nice view on the walk up to Inchadonny House where the race was starting from.
In fact the view was pretty spectacular.
As usual I was as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning waiting to start the race, so giddy in fact that I hadn’t noticed I was back among the half-marathon runners until just before the off and I had to almost fight my way to the front.
Too busy posing to notice where I should have been starting.
After only about 50 metres of flat ground I got a hint of just what the Clonakilty marathon is all about as I encountered the first of the many, many hills on the course. I also saw one of the most unusual sights of the day – a young lady wearing just a bikini and a Santa hat helping to push a wheelchair competitor up the ridiculously steep hill. The narrow road was already quite congested and she almost caused a huge pile up with guys turning, and in some cases stopping altogether, to get a better look at her.
We ran past the beautiful Inchadonny Strand for a bit before heading out into the countryside, with the four hour pacers setting a fairly brisk pace. Despite my lack of preparation I decided just before the start that I’d go with the four hour group, but unlike in Dublin I’d stick religiously with them. However, unlike in Dublin these guys were motoring, generally hovering about the 5 mins/km mark, a bit slower on the uphills, a bit quicker on the downs. After about forty five minutes of this I asked the guys, jokingly, if they were aiming for 3:59:59 (we were on pace for about 3:40 if we kept up the early pace). They explained to me they were putting a bit of time in the bank as the second half of the race was “a bastard”. That was all well and good but my “easy from the start, wind it on a bit at the end” plan was completely out the window at this point, as was my heart rate. I was averaging about 165bpm, way above what I’d intended (about 150-155bpm), which meant I was burning energy/glycogen/stamina that I wasn’t sure I had.
It was such a beautiful day though, and such an amazing course, that I just tried to forget about it and thought I’d deal with the pain later.
We hit some really big hills then and I actually felt fantastic and began to drop the group I was with. Marquee Moon was playing on my mp3 player, building to a crescendo as I approached the brow of the hill and as I crested it I caught sight of the most beautiful white beach, the sun was a shimmering, white hazy ball filling the sky and the sea a glistening mass of crystal waves. At that point in time there was nowhere else in the world I’d rather have been, and nothing else I’d rather have been doing. It was a staggering, breath taking, wonderful scene. I honestly didn’t know this little island of ours was capable of such beauty. I practically crawled down the other side of the hill, looking out to sea, my jaw still on the floor, just taking it all in.
Not long after that we hit another hill, this time a much longer drag, but just in case I needed any inspiration my mp3 player flicked on to Freebird and I knew I had about six minutes to get to the top just before the really big solo kicked in. I got there just in time and came over the top of the hill just as the Allman boys went crazy, another amazing coastal view and visions of The Devil’s Rejects playing in my mind.
Going tearing down the other side of that hill might have used up just about the last bit of fuel in my tank though as suddenly my wheels just came off. For twelve miles I’d been with or just ahead of the four hour pacers, now it was beginning to be a real struggle even to stick with them. I managed to do it for another couple of miles but any sort of an incline, never mind proper hill, was really starting to wear on me. I tried to get my second gel into me but my stomach was doing somersaults and all I could bear was some water. I laboured on to the next water station at the fifteen mile mark where I planned to get a fresh bottle, really water down my gel and walk for a minute or so. As soon as I stopped to do that my calf muscles on both sides really tightened so I stopped to stretch them out. I tried to start running again after that and there was just nothing there. Absolutely nothing. There was still eleven miles to go and my tank was completely empty. Oh balls.
I eventually got going again but only shuffling. Mile twenty two or three shuffling, at just past the half way point. The next hour or two were not going to be fun.
I tried to forget about how early in the race it was, and ow slowly I was going, and tried to figure out just what was wrong. I know I hadn’t exactly prepared in a professional manner but I hadn’t done for Dublin either and that had gone fine. Maybe there was only so much winging it you could do when it came to marathons? Had I learned something earlier in the year about winging it? Obviously not. Well, if I hadn’t learned my lesson by now I was going to have plenty of time to think about it as I spent a couple of hours trudging around the West Cork countryside. To be honest though I was having a lot of trouble thinking about anything other than my churning guts. I wasn’t quite at the point where my lovely Race to Glory buff (pictured below) was going to be called into action as emergency toilet roll but only because the contents of my stomach were up around my epigolottis. How the hell was my stomach in such a heap when (a) I’d only had a couple of gels and (b) I was barely moving?
Trying to figure this out at least took my mind off the fact that the beautiful early morning sun was dissipating and it was now looking far more like a regular Irish December day, though thankfully at least there wasn’t a hint of rain. After quite a length by myself I spotted another sorry soul trudging along, so I decided misery might as well have company, and slowed my shuffle to walk along with him. We walked the next four kilometres, a horrible, wet, dirty, shitty, cold four kilometres, together and even though we were walking it I didn’t feel too guilty as we were pretty much managing the same pace as the one or two others that were attempting to run up this horrible hill. Admittedly one of those others might have been in his sixties but still, he was barely quicker than us. I could take no more though when some white trustafarian type, who’s legs not only had less muscle content than the average kitten but were never seemingly moving in the same direction, overtook us. I bade goodbye to my shuffling chum and, churning guts bedamned, set off running.
For a bit. Minutes later I was in the hedge, heaving and desperately trying to empty my guts. Via my mouth I meant. Sorry, I just read that back and it sounded like I meant something else and it conjured up a horrible mental image. Anyway, I’d had enough lollygagging and loafing, and a marathon is meant to hurt after all, so I cranked up the death march and tried to pick off the few straggles that were left on the road with me. First the lady, then the guy from West Cork Tri Club who looked to be cramping horribly, then as I finally approached the finish the guy who was shuffling horribly, weaving a little and who looked like, even with only about half a mile to go, he was in danger of not finishing.
Perfect. As terrible and all as the last couple of hours had been, I could still overtake someone as I approached the finish and it would look like, at least to my wife and anyone else who might be hanging around the finish line, that I was finishing ‘strong’. I was gaining on him, only about a hundred metres or so back and with that last horrendous hill I knew he was mine, right up until I saw these two rosy cheeked little girls jumping up and down and cheering “Daddy, Daddy!”. His stooped, twisted frame straightened a little immediately but he still didn’t look as though he had it in him to go any faster. I picked up my pace just a smidgeon and was gaining on him, byt the tiniest margins, but gaining on him all the same, when some interfering goodie two shoes on the other side of the road shouted at the two little girls “run to your daddy, go on down to him”. Before I knew it those little bundles of joy were on him, jumping and prancing like a little pink My Little Pony that had been hewn in two and taken adorable, laughing, loving human form.
It would have been callous and underhand of me to rush past and steal his glory while he was so enraptured by his little ladies so I hung back a little, let him and his girls cross the finish line and have their moment in the sun, before skulking across a moment or two later, completely and utterly shattered.
It took some time, a foil blanket and the kind words of one of the many lovely Clonakilty ladies who volunteered on the day before I started to feel even remotely human. My wife, who’d turned in a magnificent effort in the half marathon and had a far more pleasant day than I, poured some sort of burger/sausage hybrid down my throat and after that, a large handful of jellies and a Lidl’s best ‘Snackers’ or two I started to come back to life. I wandered over to the finish line and spent some time cheering in the few hardy souls who were still out on the course, not to mention the chap in the wheelchair who I’d seen at the start, now sadly missing his bikini clad sidekick, who was dragging himself, inch by inch, up the last horrible incline to cross the finish line. Any element of still feeling a little sorry for myself quickly disappeared, and I remembered, as is the case with everything really, that you get out what you put in.
I heard a great analogy on the Marathon Talk from Australian marathon runner and multiple Olympian, Lee Troop – running is like a bank account. In training you make your deposits, and then when it comes to race day, you make withdrawals. Since about August onwards I’d been making withdrawls and today I finally went overdrawn. Sure there were other contributing factors but the fact of the matter is I didn’t respect the distance, I didn’t respect the race and I though, been there, done that, what were you worried about? When it came down to it though Clonakilty well and truly kicked my arse, so despite me cursing it for at least half it’s distance, and swearing never, ever to go back there, there’s now way I can leave it like that. I’m going to have to go back and give, what is possibly Ireland’s toughest, but definitely friendliest, marathon another go.
Anyway, how can you not love a race where the transport to the start is a model railway?
I don’t think it’s just down to the weather at the moment but I’m really struggling for motivation to go out running. I’ve got one more marathon to go this year (Clonakilty, 8th of December) and even that isn’t making me go out and train, in fact I’ve barely run at all since Dublin. I know I can run the distance, so there’s no fear factor, and I’ve no sort of goal or aim for it, so I’ve no driver there either.
On top of that I sold both my road bike and my cyclocross bike a few weeks ago so I can’t even get out for a cycle, either by myself or for the weekend club session with Trilogy.
I think the length of the season is catching up with me – my first race was on the 22nd of January this year – and I’ve really just been going through the motions for the last couple of months. Next year I really need to periodise things a bit better and take some breaks earlier in the year. I also need to be a bit more selective about the races I’m doing and wait until I’m certain that I want to do them before I go signing up for a ton of stuff. At the moment the only thing I’m already signed up for is the Connemara Ultra in April, which I kind of wish I wasn’t signed up for as I really want to concentrate on short course triathlon, but hey, what’s done is done and anyway, it’s going to give me one hell of a base.
I couldn’t make it over to Portlaoise this evening for Trilates with my club so instead opted for some Sitting Room Pilates with Benny. He’d been to a few of Lisa’s classes before, and I opened Youtube on my phone, so surely between us we could knock together an hour or so of core strengthening and flexibility improving exercises right?
Eh, not quite. After various versions of the plank and some ab stuff that was an amalgamation of what Benny remembered and what I remembered from some ju-jitsu classes from ages ago we ground to a halt. Roughly ten minutes or so in. We turned to Youtube then but due to a shoddy connection all we could get from that was a freeze frame of some lycra clad buttocks, which in fairness wasn’t bad, but it just wasn’t what we needed at that point in time. We stumbled along for another while, occasionally thinking of something new to do but mostly stopping for drink breaks and trying to figure out what to do next. Not ideal but then it was our first session, and you really don’t want to rush into these things.
Also, due to space limitations we had to put our mats right in front of the fire, so it was kind of like doing hot yoga. In a way.
It’s been two weeks now since Dublin Marathon and while I might have winged my way through that I really should do a little bit of training before Clonakilty. I’ve spent the last two weeks working towards a case of gout but enough is enough, time to get back out training.
Winter training for our triathlon club started last week but I was still recovering from the combined exertions of the marathon and Amsterdam, so tonight was my first night back and it was my favourite session of the week the track session. Early season enthusiasm was really high and we had a very big turnout with about twenty of us, maybe more, milling around in the dark at Portlaoise VEC. After the always thorough warmup and drill from Denise, which actually had me more tired than most of the runs I’ve done of late, we did a little time trial to measure early season fitness and VO2 max – 12 minutes running laps and then measuring how much distance we covered.
I’ve done all sorts of running and distances this year but for some reason running laps always makes me feel like the chubby, unfit kid I was for most of my youth, and a kid who absolutely hated any sort of running without a ball. Give me a marathon any day over trying to run laps (relatively) quickly. I always set off too quickly (something of a common theme), feel horrendous for a bit, slow down before starting to feel right again just as the run is ending. I managed 2600 metres in the 12 minutes which was ok but as always in these sort of tests I finished feeling I could do a whole lot more. Pacing for shorter distances is something I really need to work on.
After finishing we did some strength drills before another spot of stretching and cooling down. After finishing the session, with less than half an hour running in total, my legs felt heavy and slightly sore in places I hadn’t experienced before – upper inner thigh, lower buttocks – but they felt far more alive than they had done in weeks. In some ways then a tough workout but it felt great to get back out there doing defined, specific sessions and to be training with a group again. Roll on next week.
Despite my abysmal preparation for the marathon I was still in a positive frame of mind heading up this morning. I wasn’t racing, I didn’t really have a target time in mind, all I had to do was go out there and enjoy it. I knew I could run the distance, and injury notwithstanding I would finish the race, so there was nothing to worry about. On the subject of target times, the question I had been asked most in the week leading up to the race was “what time do you want to do it in?” In training leading up to London to Brighton I was pretty confident that I’d go under four hours, maybe down around 3:50 if everything went well on the day. With how the last few weeks have gone I long ago resigned myself to the fact that there would be no 3:anything in my time but I was perfectly happy with that. You only get out what you put in and all I’d put in lately tequila and fried chilli pizza. Once I was quicker than my 4:15:54 from Belfast I’d be happy.
Looking As Excited As Ever
Despite everything I just said there when I lined up at the start I did so right beside the four hour pacers and was soon visualising a heroic final sprint to the line to sneak in at 3:59:59
Lining up at the start I suddenly realised I was part of something quite special, and far bigger than I’d thought. I’d approached all aspects of the marathon with quite a blasé attitude, despite not having run the Dublin Marathon before, and only having run two previous marathons (three if you count London to Brighton). I hadn’t looked at the route, I hadn’t read any race reports or looked up anything about the race at all. I was really surprised then when I arrived at the expo yesterday evening to find that there were almost 15,000 entries in the race. Belfast only had about 3,500 and a large number of them were doing various relays. Half of Dublin seemed to be packed into the streets around Merrion Square and half of those seemed to be wearing runners and race numbers. Standing in my pen there seemed to be an endless throng of runners ahead of me and almost the same again behind me.
The race announcer talked about how there were runners taking part from every county in Ireland, from 64 countries around the world, people of all shapes and sizes, people from every sort of background and every walk of life and we were getting a city, my, our capital city shut down for a few hours so we could run around it. When the national anthem was sung I could hardly believe that I was standing there, about to take part in a national sporting event, the biggest sporting even in the country today (despite what RTE might think). I was reminded of something Gerry Duffy* posted on Facebook recently: “I don’t have to run a marathon, I get to run a marathon”. To be fit and healthy enough to do something like this, and then to get the opportunity to do it is a privilege. It’s something I thought of quite a few times while out on the course, particularly coming into Chapelizod and Milltown, where crowds of people thronged the streets, four or five deep on each side of the road, cheering like crazy for us, the ordinary Joe, just as much as they were cheering for the elite guys going round in half the time. I’d heard before that the crowds at the Dublin Marathon were fantastic, and it’s something that always gets mentioned in relation to Dublin, but it still amazed time after time. You’d kind of get used to it after a bit, but then you’d turn a corner only to be hit by a wall of noise and be blown away by it yet again.
I haven’t really talked much about the race itself, or at least the running part of it, because to tell you the truth I can’t really remember too much of the first three hours. The running itself was going really well, after about 10k or so I was loosening up from muscular hibernation of the last month and pushed on ahead of the 4:00 group. I knew full well that I was probably going to pay for it later but I convinced myself that it was time in the bank, and anyway, I had got on to the Slayer portion of my playlist and Slayer don’t allow you to slow down. My overriding memory of the race, for the first three hours at least, was the crowds (especially the kids who cheered and high 5′d every runner they could going past).
Running In Formation
That all changed at the three hour mark though. I’d hit 32km at that point, which meant that if I could do the last ten (and a bit) kilometres in under an hour I’d go sub four. The problem though was this was also the point where my lack of (recent) training was starting to kick in and I was starting to slow down. Still, 10k in an hour, that was definitely doable. Or so I thought. I tried and tried to make my legs go a bit faster but at this point they were really grumbling. To be fair they had a point, they’d practically been in a coma for a month and now I was asking them to actually run. With about 8km to go I slowed to take my last gel when I was consumed by a wave of runners from behind me. Instantly I knew that was the 4:00 group and they were going past me like I was standing still. My heart dropped at that point as I saw my hopes of a sub four finish disappear up the road, a little purple flag of disappointment bobbing away from me.
I spent the next two or three kilometres arguing and bitching with myself, convinced I couldn’t make it, convincing myself I could make it. Unlike previous marathons though I didn’t stop, or even pay any serious consideration to stopping. One thing I learned from London to Brighton is that carrying on, even if it’s just shuffling along, is far preferrable to stopping. With about 5k to go I’d had enough of the whining. Five kilometres is a paltry distance, nothing really in the greater scheme of things, half an hour of hurting and it would be over. If I could manage to do the 5k in 28 minutes I might just about squeak under the four hours, but there and then I just wanted to finish in the best time I could do. I gritted my teeth at that point, literally and figuratively, and tried to focus on just catching one person in front of me, then the next, then the next. I couldn’t tell you how many people were out supporting at that point, what streets I ran through or where I was. All I saw were the heels of the people in front of me.
With about a mile to go I spotted an older chap a distance in front of me. I had passed this same gentleman quite a while back (while I was still running reasonably well) and I’d thought to myself I’d love to be like him some day. He was probably in his early sixties, short and not particularly athletic looking, but he was proudly wearing his Donore Harriers singlet which identified him as a founding member of the group, so he’d definitely put in his miles over the years. When I passed him he was definitely working hard but moving well, checking his Garmin, and probably bang on target. He’d obviously stayed rolling along right on pace, and my erratic pace and an (almost disastrously delayed) toilet stop had seen him roll right past me. As much as I admired him however he was now my target.
I figured we must be closing on the finish line and as I saw my target about to round a corner I visualised myself running quicker and quicker, firing off the bend, passing my target and sprinting triumphantly up to and over the finishing line. The first part of my vision actually came to pass, I made myself speed up, taking an outside line around the ever more congested road, came around the corner, passed my target and looked up to see once more only a horde of runners as far as the eye could see. Where was the finish line? I could see straight ahead for what looked like miles but no finish line. I tried to maintain speed as much as I could but I was really, really hurting at this point. I couldn’t slow down now as (a) finally the finish line had appeared and (b) I’d just noticed again quite how packed the street was. There was thousands of people crammed along Nassau Street and I was essentially running down a tunnel with all of them looking at me. This is Ireland, there’s bound to be someone watching who knows me or would recognise me. Can’t. Slow. Down.
I hate to not be able muster some sort of sprint finish to a race but I was done. I’d given everything I had and it was all I could do to stay running to the line. The second I stopped my left hip stopped working properly, my IT band on the same side curled into a ball and my right calf felt right on the verge of popping. I staggered around for a bit in a complete daze, just shuffling where I was pointed by the race staff. I was completely and utterly spent. I checked my Garmin to see a time of 4:01**, which a little bit later when I started to come to, I was absolutely delighted with. Yes it would have been great to sneak in under the four hour mark but I’d given everything I had and come up a little bit short. One thing I promised myself starting the race was that I’d leave everything out there. I had no definite target in mind but I was still going to run as hard as I could, and I did. I can’t do anything more than that (apart from prepare properly obviously).
* Gerry Duffy – 32 marathons in 32 counties in 32 days, Decaman champion, author of Who Dares, Runs and all round inspirational character.
In the weeks since London to Brighton I’ve only managed a handful of easy 5km runs and one 12km run. In fact I’ve drank more bottles of tequila than I’ve run long runs and I’ve eaten more pizzas than I’ve done any sort of run. That means in the last seven weeks the only real run of note I’ve done is London to Brighton. And Dublin Marathon is tomorrow.
Last weekend was a prime example of my appalling preparation for Dublin. We had some friends over on Friday night, I was making dinner and we were to watch a film, with the dinner and the film to be from the same country. My first mistake was probably choosing Mexico as the country for our themed night. I’d never drank tequila before but decided that now would be a good time to start. With shots before dinner. We were then joined by other friends just after dinner, with more booze, and the night ended many, many hours later with many, many empty bottles. A similar situation arose this Friday night which meant that the few days before Dublin Marathon, when I should have been preparing my body for the rigours of running 26.2 miles, were spent sitting on my hole, on the couch, stuffing my face with hangover comfort food.
Friday was the first day actually that I’d felt like my old self (not my old old self, which would be bad, but my new old self, which was good). For weeks now, since London to Brighton, I’ve felt sluggish and tired, I’ve struggled to get up in the morning and I’ve had absolutely no desire to get out and train. On Friday however I woke up early, despite having a relatively late night, and all day in work I was full of beans, just feeling brimful of energy and enthusiasm for the first time in weeks. I think I may have been feeling a little too enthusiastic however and channelled all that energy in an entirely inappropriate manner. At least my pre-marathon meal was just what the doctor/nutritionist/experienced marathon runner ordered – bucket after bucket of fried chicken. Anyway, there’s very little I can do about it at this stage now other than just get out there and run tomorrow.
I’ve started back training again this week after a complete break last week, just a couple of easy 5k’s to start with, then an interval session (5 x 1km @ 5k pace), with the intention of doing a longish tempo run on Friday and then a long, slow run on Sunday. However, I’ve found myself to be a little sore and stiff, even after the short runs and ended up skipping the longer ones altogether. I never usually get that sore or stiff after a run, not unless I’ve done 20km+ anyway, so this is a bit unusual. I’ve had aches in my left hip and thigh, stiffness in both calves, even a sore foot, and all off piddling mileage and pace.
Presumably this is the after effects of my first ultra, and despite feeling like I could go running a day or two later my body is saying to me “relax, take it slow, I’ll let you know when I’m ready to get back into it”. When I was looking up a short, inverse taper, post ultra training plan a lot of the articles and sites did say that it takes 2 – 4 weeks to recover fully from a marathon, anything longer than that obviously takes proportionally longer again. That’s all fine and dandy, or would be at least if I didn’t have Dublin Marathon to do in a couple of weeks.
I was really surprised by how good I felt in the aftermath of London to Brighton. That evening, and the following morning, I was pretty stiff and shuffling around like an early Romero zombie, but by the time I got home on Monday night I was feeling fine. Even with the contortion required to squeeze into a Ryanair seat. I generally recover quite quickly from these things, which I attribute, in part at least, to getting into full compression gear as soon as I can post-race. The couple of hours shuffling round Brighton definitely helped to get the legs moving again, plus it was great just to get to see Brighton again for the first time in fifteen years.
Having done some research on post ultra (or marathon) recovery, and in light of Dublin City Marathon being only four weeks away, I decided to take a bit of a break this week. I would have probably gone out for a spin or two on my bike but I actually sold both my bikes last weekend and now find myself (almost) bikeless. As it was I don’t think I did anything that even vaguely resembled exercise for the week, and instead just worked on my winter insulation. I know I’m probably going to curse myself when I’m hauling these extra pounds round the streets of Dublin on the 29th but as of now I was just enjoying being a lazy git again.
