End of chapter three

End of 2108 results sheet:

14 miles achieved.

117 days to go.

Need to work on strengthening my knee.

Pleased with my progress so far. Looking forward to pushing onward and getting more miles under my belt.

The History of the Marathon

Another wonderful Christmas is in the books. I ate, drank and made merry. Now it’s time to get back on track, and what better way to do that than by reading a story?

It's funny because it's true.

I’ve been wondering about where the marathon originated for a few weeks now, so here’s my take, based on minimal research and absolutely no effort whatsoever:

The History of the Marathon:

Most of this story comes from Ancient Greece. Like many tales that originate in those long-forgotten days, most of this tale is probably romantic invention that was added, fabricated, and expanded upon by later historians and chronicle writers. As such, this tale should be taken with a shovel-full of salt because it’s closer to a Hollywood story than actual history. The story of the modern marathon begins with a battle.

490 BC. Late summer. Greece. The desert-strewn plains of the Marathon coast gleamed with swords and spears and shields. At one side of the field stood the Greek army – hopelessly outnumbered, still awaiting the arrival of their Spartan allies, who were at least ten days away. At the other end, with the sea and a fleet of ships behind them, stood the Persian army – a mighty force of conquerors and master tacticians who had never lost a battle. Things looked grim for the Greeks. If they failed, all of Athens would soon fall to Persia.

But luck was on the side of the Greeks that day. Many of their warriors were hoplites – men armed with short swords and shields – and would not have stood a chance against the much larger Persian army, especially not with the cavalry lying in wait. No historian can agree on what triggered the battle, but it seems that the Greeks lunged first. Perhaps the cavalry left the field, or were moving into a more strategic position. Whatever the case, the horses left the arena, prompting the Greeks to charge their enemy.

A modern view of the battlefield.

The Persians were not used to this sort of combat. They had swordsmen and archers, yes, but most of their victories had come from keeping the enemy at bay and crushing them with cavalry. Now that the battlefield was even, the highly-trained Greeks were in control. They marched to the limits of the Persian archer’s arrows and sprinted the remaining two hundred metres, weighed down by metal helmets, leather armour, heavy short swords, and rounded shields. This sudden lunge was either a surprise attack or a desperate gamble, but it worked. The extreme edges of the Greek army made quick work of the Persian flanks, then pressed in toward the centre, where the fighting was most fierce.

Nobody knows how long the battle truly lasted, nor how many died (Herodotus says over six thousand Persians slain and only one hundred and ninety-two Greeks, but history is written by the winners). In the end, the Persians broke and fled back to their ships, awarding victory to the defenders. This is a defining moment in western history – the first time the Persians had ever been defeated, decades before 300 Spartans would achieve a similar goal. The Persian global conquest was halted, possibly even foiled forever by this one battle.

This is where romantic invention steps into the fray and muddies the waters. A runner named Phillippides (who we shall call Phil to spare my poor fingers) was tasked with hurrying back to Athens immediately after the battle and informing the population of this stunning victory. Phil dropped his helmet, sword, and shield and began running, clad only in his linen undergarments and a pair of sandals. What’s the distance between Athens and Marathon, you ask? Why, it’s twenty six point three miles exactly.

Phil raced across the dusty plains, feet thundering along the ground, blood pumping hard in his ears. He ran and he ran and he ran, until finally he reached Athens and burst into the council chambers. Then he either shouted, ‘Joy to you, we’ve won!’ or ‘Joy, we win!’ to the stunned counsellors. And you know what the world’s first marathon runner did next?

He-

fell-

down- 

dead.

The story of Phil the marathon runner is likely a confusion of two other similar events that took place around the same time as the Battle of Marathon The first is a runner named Pheidippides, who was tasked with asking the Spartans for assistance before the battle began. Pheidippides laced up his sandals and raced to Sparta from Athens, a little over one hundred and forty miles away. This is the same as running from London to Normandy, and he managed it in less than thirty-six hours. This event inspired the modern ‘Spartathon’ endurance challenge, a similar race that takes place in Spain every year.

The second event is the massive return journey the Greeks had to make immediately following the battle. Once victory was granted, the army needed to get back to Athens right away – the Persians had sent ships around Cape Sounion to attack the defenceless capital. That meant the army – exhausted, bloodied, victorious – needed to march twenty six point three miles, still clad in their armour, before the ships could dock and unload. They reached Athens in the afternoon on that same day, just in time to watch their enemies turn away from Athens and sail off into the sunset.

And that’s where the modern marathon comes from. This legendary event was brought back into public consciousness in 1896, with the very first modern Olympics, held in Greece. This event even traced the original route, starting in Marathon and concluding in Athens. I have nothing but respect for the runners who managed to complete that incredible course in those days. This is what their training looked like:

This was before anybody understood how to train or tone or condition the human body. This is all sheer willpower.

Nowadays marathons are held almost every week across the globe. Hundreds of thousands of people compete every year, running the same distance as those legendary Greek warriors. I have to admit, the thought that I could consider myself on par with the world’s greatest soldiers is an exciting one. I might never have anything else physically in common with these people, but I could compete in a similar endurance challenge. Maybe when I cross the line, I’ll shout ‘Joy to you, we’ve won!’

Do I have any desire to take part in the Spartathon, you ask? Um… no. Let’s try and do one ridiculous thing at a time, shall we?

Mistletoe and wine

You know what it is.

Here we go. My first Christmas since deciding to train for a marathon. I should be careful. I should sit back and count the calories and insist on drinking low-fat beverages and definitely not have a second helping...

Bugger that. It's Christmas, as a merry Brummie once yelled into a microphone. The season of goodwill, merriement, and overeating. My plan is to enjoy myself, as you should, too. I'll get back to business after the fesitivities are over. But probably not at the gym. January is the worst time to be a member of any gym. I'll be better off sticking to the roads for the first few weeks of 2019.

Until my next update, whenever that is - take care of yourselves. Have a Merry Christmas, one and all.

A traditional Yuletide greeting.

Farting etiquette

I made a deal with myself that I was going to openly and honestly discuss any and all running issues that I encountered while training. Today, I want to address the elephant in the room. I want to talk about the real issue, the one problem that no other running blogger has the guts to address:

Farting while running.

That's what it feels like...

We've all heard the myths and legends about people who do yoga for the first time. These stories all follow the same basic principles - someone attends a class, stretches their body in a new way, and lets rip unexpectedly. This happens because the muscles are stretched and squeezed in ways they haven't been bent before and trapped air is forced to travel through the body. All that air only has one place to escape, leading to classrooms of new yoga students dropping stinky presents every night of the week.

I always thought that story was restricted purely to yoga. Then it started happening to me.

It seems to happen around the same point in my run. By the third or fourth mile, pressure starts to build in my stomach. I can feel it coming from a long way off. After a few moments of discomfort, it finally happens. Every step I take pushes another gust out - and it's never quiet. There is no such thing as a 'silent but deadly' on the road. Everything is loud and proud. It sounds like a bent trumpet playing along in my wake, each step hitting a different note. It feels like an extra boost of speed, a butt-powered wind machine blasting me along the course.

That usually happens fairly early into my run. After that, I get random and unpredictable bursts of bottom-assisted speed boots until the run is over. They tend to strike without warning. Luckily I'm always well past the scene of the crime before anything can happen.

When this happens on the road, it's totally fine. There's usually nobody around, and if there is, I can always keep moving until it's safe to unpack a stinky botty biscuit. When it happens at the gym, however, that's a different story.

What do you do when you're on the treadmill in a crowded room and you feel the familiar clench in the pit of your stomach? You know what's about to happen. You know you're about to unleash an unholy drum solo. There's nothing you can do. You can't even pretend it wasn't you.

The only thing you can do is crank up your music and pray that nobody will hear you shredding the low bass note over their own headphones. If you aren't wearing headphones, try and keep up with the beat of whatever music is currently playing in the gym. And if there's no music... well, you'll have to find a new gym. You can never go back.

This is all well and good in training, but what happens on the day? What if I start farting like a derranged wilderbeast during the marathon? Will everyone else be dropping eggs like I do when we run through London? Will we unleash toxic gasses on the poor spectators around the three to four mile marker, enveloping the crowd in a cloud of brown stink? What happens if I run past a BBC cameraman and the viewers at home hear my bum playing the tuba? Does this happen every year? Is farting while running the unspoken horror of the marathon?


These are the kinds of questions that keep me up late at night.

Running makes my knees weak

I mean that literally. As my distances improve and my core begins to get stronger, I'm finding all new aches and pains breaking out here and there. The latest niggling ache is a dull pain in my knees that usually starts while I'm running and continues for a few hours after I've finished.

Damn, my legs don't look that good.

So what can I do to combat this? Well, firstly I can start by taking extra iron vitamins. I usually take a multivitamin tablet every morning, but it seems that I need to focus on getting some extra iron in my system, too.

In addition to this, there are plenty of knee exercises that can be done to build up the joints. There are plenty of videos on the subject, just like this one:

And there are dozens of blogs and websites with various useful pointers and exercises that I can add to my arsenal, including this rather excellent page on the NHS site with lots of different stretches for runners.

It feels like I'm still learning new information every week about how to train and look after my body. I keep walking on lunch breaks, keep squeezing 10K runs into my days, keep pushing myself further and further, but there's always something else to keep in mind. Just gotta keep telling myself it'll all be worth it next April.

Running is addictive

Small confession: I treated myself to a lazy weekend. The weather wasn't great, but that's no excuse. I took the time off because I wanted to lounge around and get some of my own projects completed. As a matter of fact, I haven't gone for a run since last Thursday, when I squeezed out a quick 10K on the threadmill.

I'm not telling you this because I feel guilty (and I do!) - I'm telling you this because I really want to go for a run. I've got all this energy inside me and nothing to do with it, like a hyperactive child in a toy store. Part of me doesn't care about the weather - Go out and run!, says that little voice in my head. Even if it's raining, I still look out at the streets and wonder if I can squeeze in a quick jog - which, for me, now takes around an hour...

'Hyperactive kid' Google search result. It'll do.

This is a totally insane way of thinking. A few weeks ago, I would have slapped myself for thinking like that. Hell, I still could slap myself sometimes. But I keep telling myself that it's all going to be worth it in the end. I'll do something utterly incredible, something I've never done before, an achievement I'll be dining out on for years and years to come.

I think I'm addicted to running, you know. I crave it. I spend my days looking forward to the next one - rain or shine, gym or outdoors. I plan routes in my head. Today on my lunch break, I went for a walk around the park, remembering how damned good it felt to crack fourteen miles the other week. I can't wait to hit my next target. They say exercise is addictive and I'm starting to see what they mean.

Back in one piece

Monday was an interesting day. Following my lengthy run the previous night, I was in a new world of pain. Firstly, my knees were in agony. It hurt to keep my legs in one place for too long, but it also hurt to move. The only way to cope was to keep bending my legs the entire day and push through.

The second biggest pain was the chafe on my right thigh (mercifully, my nipples were intact). This was horrendous. It was like having a burn mark on my leg, right where my underwear rubs the skin. Every time I walked, my knees popped and my leg chafed. I was moving like a penguin who had just ridden a horse into town.

But the worst part of all this didn't actually hurt at all. The worst part of recovering was the feeling the tendons in my feet shifting under the skin with every step. Move forward, my heels slide and pop. That feeling was utterly disgusting and I never want to experience it again.

Thankfully, my future wife is a dab hand with yoga and suggested a few stretches to alleviate most of the aches and pains in my body. I can't describe what a relief it was to bend and stretch and feel the muscles returning to normal again.

I totally looked like this.

So I've allowed myself three days off from training to recuperate and make sure I'm fighting fit again before I push myself some more. My new goal is twenty miles by mid-February. At my current rate, it's looking good. I'm hoping to get some time off work at the end of March so I can put in one final burst of training and get completely prepared for the big day. I've read a few articles that advise reaching your peak a month before the race and then dialling it back in the weeks prior, to keep plenty of energy bottled up inside, so I'll give this advice a whirl and see what happens. What's the worst that could happen?

136 days to go!

Half a Marathon

Last night, I challenged myself to hit a personal milestone and run half the marathon in practice. I succeeded.

Look at that! Smashed it!

It was a chilly night, but dry enough to give it a go. I only slowed down a couple of times near the end - even kept running every time my headphone cable slipped out of the phone. The satisfaction of hitting this target is indescribable. Never in my wildest dreams did I even hope that I could run this far this fast. The best part is that I managed it in less than two and half hours! You could start watching Captain America: Civil War when I begin running and I'll get back in time to watch Steve and Tony beat the daylights out of each other at the climax. (Note to self: put Marvel movies on your phone and listen to them while running).


I'm paying for it now, though. Despite a wonderful sense of achievement and pride (feelings I don't often experience), my lower half is in agony. My knees ache every time I move. My right thigh is chafing like you wouldn't believe - it actually looks like a burn mark - and my back aches despite the yoga stretches Nikki put me through when I got home.

You know the weirdest part of it all? It was worth it.

Next up: twenty miles. Watch this space.

End of chapter two/ getting back in the game

After a wonderfully refreshing week away from it all, I now need to get back in the game. We achieved all our targets - bought too many Christmas presents, put up the tree, gave notice of marriage at the registry office, and I even managed a couple of good runs. I also learned that the 'emergency stop' button on the treadmill is really freaking easy to accidentally knock so you slam groin-first into the machine at several miles an hour, in front of a room full of witnesses. We live and we learn.


But now it's time to get serious again. With Christmas fast approaching, I need to drop a bit more weight so I can enter the new year at a good size and not have too much to worry about besides training. At the moment, I'm hovering between 180 and 190 pounds. This is lowest I've weighed in about ten years, but it's still not low enough. From all the reading I've been doing, actual professional - and prepared, cough - marathon runners weigh somewhere in the region on 150 pounds. I think my upper body alone weighs that much! So it's time to get my game face on.

It looks a lot like this, actually.

Time to focus. The year is rapidly drawing to a close (I blinked and missed September, what happened there?) and I still have one big target to achieve before then. I want to reach the halfway mark before 2019 dawns. At the moment, my best is still eleven miles. I want to hit thirteen in the next three weeks. It's not going to be easy - as I write this, the clouds outside are gathering  for yet another massive downpour - but it's got to be done. I can't avoid the crap weather if I'm going to go for it. The treadmill only gets me so far (and my groin still hurts).

Three weeks to the end of the year. Three weeks to hit my personal goal.

One hundred and forty two days until the marathon.

Sure thing, Groot.