“They’re only noodles Michael’

David, The Lost Boys

I had already started this post last week, and my opening line was ‘what Cup Final?’

I’ll tell you what Cup Final. THE CUP FINAL WE ONLY WENT AND FUCKING WON. In my last post I mentioned that I was off to London for the weekend to watch my team get beat. Did they get beat? Did they shite. I was never worried. Ahem.

22 successful miles completed on the Friday, from Saturday morning when I got on the train till Monday evening when I returned back in Gods Country, I drank copious amounts of alcohol. The Saturday especially, I was sitting in a curry house at midnight, slobbering on a Kurma and downing what was probably my gazillionith pint of the day.

What an athlete.

I had an amazing time, I wouldn’t swap it for anything, and my liver will eventually forgive me.

But to quote Soul II Soul – back to life, back to reality. We’re into Week 10 of Marathon training, there is no escaping it.

And Tuesdays session is an absolute shitter to come back to. Hills. Not any old hills, the Hill at the Priory that I mentioned a couple of weeks back. And this is not 10 cushy seconds of reps, this is 3 and half relentless miles of going up and down the bastard.

I set out on my warm up, the first time I’ve run since Friday morning, and my stomach feels like it still has all of the contents of the last 3 days in it. Guinness, shots, fry ups, etc. I know this is going to hurt.

There’s an awful, and I mean fucking awful head wind on the way to the session as well. I’ve got a painful upper back, another old injury that I usually keep at bay through daily Yoga. The daily Yoga that I haven’t done for 3 days.

I also have a slight pain in my right hip. And this one’s not a running injury. I have a huge bruise, caused by celebrating one of the goals at the Cup Final. I only realised I’d done it when I woke up Monday morning. Which is almost a drunken cliche.

This session is easy in structure, but hard in content. Start at the very bottom, hard to the first lamppost, easy back to the start. Then hard up to the next lamppost, back to start, and so on until we reach the top. There are a shit load of lampposts.

About half way through, I’m not sure if I want to throw up or shit myself. Both seem feasible at this point. Somehow, I battle through both of these potential faux pas, and no bodily fluids are projected onto or around my fellow club runners. I jog back home, for a very tired 10 miler in total.

Wednesday evening I head out for my Easy 6, but there is nothing easy about it. It’s by the far the most tired I’ve been on a run in a long time. I somehow drag my alcohol detoxing arse around for 10k, thankful that it’s just out the way.

It’s not due to get any easier. It’s Threshold Thursday. Having escaped it last week due to switching my long run to Friday, it’s back with a vengeance this week. 3 x 3 mile Intervals. Fuck my life.

Thankfully, I’m not the only one who is dreading this 9 miles of shite. A couple of lads from the club, who are also Marathon training, ask me if I want to go out and do this together, to try and make it less of a slog. Absolutely.

We meet on the sea front and head out towards Tynemouth, into North Shields, then back again. The pace is quickish, but it’s just what I needed. It’s not only great to have someone help pace me, it’s also nice to have good company. The time flies.

When I get back, I’m starting to feel human for the first time since getting back from Wembley. I’ve sweated out the crap and got back into the groove.

It’s 4 miles at easy pace with hill reps on the Friday morning, and the legs are heavy. I find all of this hard work, but it’s another of my training plan sessions knocked off. In the evening I do a core weights session, something I would usually do on a Monday but didn’t, as I was still pissed.

Saturday is going to be a rest day. I’ve earned it. I do another weights session in the afternoon, nothing too intense, but no running.

The Sunday long run is only, ONLY, 18 miles. Officially, I’m supposed to be starting slow, finishing quicker on this one. The weather, for once, is perfect. Dull, 7 degrees, dry – I would have killed for this 6 weeks ago.

After last week’s enforced change in course, it’s back to the usual route – south along the sea front, inland, turning dependent on the length, then back towards the coast.

After completing 20 and 22 miles, it would be easy to approach this run with the mindset that it’s a piece of piss. As I’ve said before though, respect the distance and all that. And that’s exactly what I will be doing.

The plan is to set off a little bit quicker than usual, by about 10 second a mile, see how I feel, then hopefully either stick with that or get even quicker.

The first 7 miles I hold at about 9:25 mile pace, exactly what I was looking at. Then from mile 8 I step it up a tiny bit, and by mile 11 I’m hovering around the 9 min mile mark. I feel like I’m pushing it, but not to the point where I’m going to punch myself out.

Apart from a bit of wind when running North, the weather behaves itself all the way round, and I complete 18.24 miles in 2:48:47 – a 9:15 pace.

That’s the ‘quickest’ long run I’ve done since starting this process 10 weeks ago. Could I maintain that pace for another 8 mile? Not sure. Probably not. While it’s tempting to have a go (this pace would get me a 4:02 finish) the realist in me knows I should be aiming more towards the 9:20s.

Anything from 9:20 to 9:31 pace gets me a sub 4:10. Honestly, if I get a finish with anything that is 4:0x, I’ll be as happy as a pig in shit. I’m not tempted to try and push myself to a sub 4 hour (9:09 pace). Not this time, anyway. What is it I’m always saying? Nowt daft!

So, what a fucking week. A drunken Cup Final in London one Sunday, a quick 18 miler the next one. What a time to be alive.

Mood: Winning