“Is it too late to kill my stepfather?”

Danny Dallas, Soap

Monday 20th July

I am tired today. Real can’t-be-arsed tiredness, both physically and mentally. Legs heavy, brain foggy. I felt it coming on yesterday evening. I even got a decent night’s sleep as well.

I’m feeling so leggy that I’m not looking forward to the lunchtime weights session. However, once I start, I get somewhat of a second wind. It’s not that bad, and I seem to fly through it.

After lunch, though, another dip.

Then news comes in that Kevin Keegan has died. To all of us in this part of the world, it’s like the Pope has died. I feel very sad, although I can’t help thinking that part of that may be because he’s someone from my past who reminds me of my dad. It’s like re-grief, or something.

Doing my yoga cheers me up a little. There’s nothing like a bit of routine to help you get through any trauma. By the end of the day, though, I really am spent and flat.

Tuesday 21st July

I feel less tired today and really get stuck into work. I was massively unproductive yesterday and, as someone who works fully remotely, I feel a lot of guilt if I don’t think I’ve put in a proper shift.

The day flies by and then it’s time for the club session. For the first time in what seems like ages, we’re doing a session on the “Field of Dreams”. That sounds quite exciting, but it’s basically a local sports field that everyone has named ironically, as most people hate any training we do here.

It’s just over a kilometre in circumference, and whatever kind of session we do here always involves going round and round and round it. We come here during the summer as the coast can get quite busy and we end up pissing people off.

I personally have a love-hate relationship with it. Sessions here are tough, but I’m convinced that the monotony of lapping the field is inadvertently helping with our mental strength. Or it’s punishment.

I do a five-mile warm-up on the way there and the legs are still a bit, well, leggy. It’s a lovely summer evening: warm but not too warm, with a bit of a cooling breeze in the air.

We’re doing “Mystery Fartleks”. The idea is that we’ll run as a group and a different person will take the lead and push the pace. They can push it for as long as they want, anywhere between 30 seconds and six minutes, the idea being that they don’t tell the rest of the group. That’s the mystery bit.

When someone is done, we jog easy for a minute, then the next person takes over. We do that for 30 minutes.

This session is always tough. There’s something uncomfortable about trying to keep up when you don’t know when you’re going to stop.

Having said that, when you’re the leader and in control, it’s suddenly really easy.

When I lead, I have no idea of time, so I tend to pick a tree or a corner in the distance that I know will be around a couple of minutes away.

One of the group does the full six minutes.

Fuck my life.

Although it does eat into our 30 minutes, so fair play.

I’m knackered at the end, but I know it’s one of those sessions that’s done me the world of good. Fartleks and thresholds are hard work, but good work.

That’s what I’ll keep telling myself anyway.

Wednesday 22nd July

I get one of the best night’s sleeps I’ve had in a while. I put this down to a couple of reasons, mainly that our cat stayed out all night and didn’t wake us up.

He’s a sociopath, our cat.

But he doesn’t wander in until 7am today, which means I get a respite from waking up in the dead of night to find him sitting on my head.

Newcastle have set up a shrine for Keegan at the ground, so I’ve decided to go there straight after work and leave one of my old scarves. I can then incorporate my six easy miles on the way back, probably getting off the Metro early and running home.

It’s a sombre but respectful mood at the ground. There is quite a crowd, a real mix of young and old, men and women.

There are all sorts of tributes, mostly shirts, scarves and flowers. Although I do give a wry chuckle to the box of Special K someone has left.

I tie my scarf to one of the railings on the stairs, then pop in to sign the book of condolence. I’ve no idea what to write, so I just put:

“Thanks for the memories. Always our Number 7.”

Wanky guff, but I was put on the spot.

I take the opportunity to visit my dad. Well, a memorial stone we had placed in front of the Milburn Stand after he died. I give it a quick wipe, tell him I’m alright, then head back off to the Metro.

Re-grief, I told you.

I’ve figured out that if I get off at Palmersville Station, that’ll be around six-ish miles back home. The first mile involves climbing a fairly steep hill, but it takes me to a bridge over the A19 rather than the flatter route, which would involve negotiating a very busy roundabout.

The death of Keegan and thoughts of my dad have really triggered the nostalgia in me this evening.

The hill I’ve climbed takes me into Killingworth Village, and from here the view reveals a lot of ghosts from my past.

In the distance I can see the remains of Fenwick Pit, where my grandfathers and great-uncles sweated out a hard living. I can see Shiremoor, where my dad and a lot of my mam’s family originally came from. I can see the sea and the Cheviots on the horizon.

All that’s missing is some Elgar.

I cut through the Lonnen and the fields next to where I grew up. I used to play with my mates around here as a kid, and the nostalgia is now completely overwhelming.

I’m not really a crier, thankfully, or I’d be in trouble at this point.

By the time I get back home, I notice I’ve overshot by about a mile. Seven instead of six.

It’s been a strange evening and a strange run. But rather than ending it sad, I feel happy.

Proud of where I’ve come from. Proud of all those before me who grafted to give me the opportunities I have today.

I’m going to Poland to run a marathon.

My grandad would have thought I was going to the Moon.

Thursday 23rd July

After the emotional rollercoaster that was Wednesday, we’re hit with the reality of Threshold Thursday.

This is a repeat of last week: five times two miles, except it’s going to be warmer.

I also feel drained today. I’m not sure whether it’s physically drained or emotionally drained, but the legs are heavy.

I spend the day getting as much energy into me as possible before heading out the door at about six-ish.

I do the same route as last time: warm up to the local estate for the start of the first rep, then head down to the seafront.

The paces are also the same as last week. First mile at a fast threshold pace, second mile at slower marathon pace. Each is followed by a two-minute recovery, which can either be static or a slow jog.

I always choose the jog, as I’m crap at starting fast again after coming to a complete standstill. I’d much rather keep moving.

I’m heading further north up the coast than last week, and it’s warm.

I complete rep three as I hit Blyth Battery and turn back south, whereupon I’m immediately blasted with a headwind.

Where the hell did that come from?

As with any headwind, it makes things hard work. In fact, for the first time in the seven weeks so far, I’m feeling tired.

Not to the point where I want or need to stop. More that I just want the session to be over.

I battle through the fourth rep before a surprising second wind appears from nowhere during the fifth and final one.

I finish tired and have to lie down on the grass for a bit.

This has probably been the hardest session of the plan so far, but it’s done. It’s one of those sessions we’re supposed to bottle and remember if we ever need to dig deep later on.

Friday 24th July

Today I feel exactly as I thought I might: heavy-legged. I would have been shocked if I’d felt any other way, to be honest. My lunchtime weights session is a bit of a slog, but it gets done.

I head out in the evening for my four easy miles and hill reps, and the legs really are feeling it now. Even before I reach the ramp where I’ll be doing the reps, I hit a very slight incline and feel like I’m struggling to get up it. That’s not a great sign.

Expecting the worst and hoping for the best, I get to the ramp and start the reps. They actually goOK. It seems to pass quickly, and the legs find something to get me through. This is what marathon training is all about though: pushing through on tired legs.

Saturday 25th July

It’s rest day, which also means parkrun volunteering day. I’m back on funnel duty, and the weather is much warmer than last week, although unseasonably windy. And when I say windy, I mean windy.

At one point, my hat flies off, and only a wall stops it from meeting a watery grave or being carried off on the current to Denmark.

Unlike last week, this one passes without incident. We have around 100 fewer finishers this week as well, which helps. I’m starting to get the hang of this funnel stuff now. I think I’ve perfected the tone needed to get runners to hurry through the funnel whilst simultaneously praising them for a job well done.

Aware that tomorrow is a 20-miler, I do as little as possible for the rest of the day. I sort out a bit of gardening, pruning and weeding, but that’s about it. After stuffing my face with pasta, I get an early night and set my alarm for 5:20am.

Saturday nights in your 40s, eh?

Sunday 26th July

I’ve been a little nervous about this long run. It’s 20 miles, the longest so far, but also the first time I’ve gone 20 or over since the marathon 13 months ago.

I did 18.2 miles a couple of weeks back, so technically all I need to find is another 1.8 miles in the legs. Hardly a massive jump, but psychologically this is a really important run. If I can complete a nice, steady, dare I use the word comfortable, 20 miles at my marathon target pace today, then my confidence going into the second half of training will be massive. If I struggle at all, self-doubt will creep in.

It’s a fine line we’re walking. Or preferably running.

The other factor at play here is that I’m going away on holiday for 10 days next week. I’m off to Menorca, where the temperature continues to sit around 30-35°C most days. As much as I’m taking my running gear and attempting to keep my plan going, I’m also not completely nuts. I already fear the weather will defeat me while I’m away, but knowing I’m on track will mean I don’t mope about it.

I’m up early as planned, and it’s raining. It feels like it hasn’t rained in ages, not properly anyway. It’s forecast to rain all day (and it actually gets worse and heavier in the afternoon), and I’m quite pleased. It’s still going to be warm-ish, and with the heat we’ve had lately, it’ll make a pleasant change.

I do, therefore, make sure I smear myself in anti-chafing cream. It’s perfect chafing weather, so I’m taking no chances.

I’m soaked through within the first two miles, and it’s glorious.

I’m doing my original 20-mile training run from last year, so I drop down onto the coast where it’s much quieter than usual. It seems those Instagram “runners” won’t be getting their sunrise shot in this rain and gloom, so they’ve stayed away.

This is also going to be a dry run (pardon the pun) for a slight change in my fuelling, as I’m now going to incorporate my accidental electrolytes. So far, so good.

The legs are good, the evil seagulls are now chill, the rain is light and intermittent, and my pace is spot on.

I turn at about 11 miles and feel a little fatigue for the first time. However, it doesn’t stick around for long, and I’m fairly comfortable all the way home. Possibly too comfortable.

My last seven miles are all under my target pace. In one way that’s good. It shows I’m certainly not struggling and that the training is doing its job. But in another, I need to show a bit more self-control. I’ve set a target pace and I need to stick to it. I still have another six miles to find on race day, and I don’t want to blow up because I’ve gone too fast.

I end up completing 20.3 miles in 2:59:09.

There’s another little psychological boost there: 20 miles in under three hours.

My fuelling has gone well, I’m tired without being completely knackered, and I have NO CHAFING.

I’m absolutely delighted.

I had a plan, and I’ve executed it perfectly. In fact, I’ve gone slightly faster than anticipated.

And do you know how I celebrate for the rest of the day?

I do NOTHING.

Mood: Fuck yeah