Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Plugging the Void: My Running Life

While my main crumbs as a freelance writer have come from articles about pubs and beer, I've penned all sorts of different stuff, from weddings to Christmas lights; Melbourne's most durable haunts to my toddler's F-bombs; the death of the video store to the boom in barefoot bowling; personal yarns and footy-themed pieces.
And yet, I haven't published a word about an enduring part of my routine: running. So here goes.

It’s 1989. I’m twelve, in grade six at Appin Park Primary School in Wangaratta, and I’m belting along the Apex Park grass. It’s the Eastern Zone cross country championships and I’m in third place and closing fast on the second-placed boy as the finish line nears. Mixing with my exertion is a level of surprise, because after finishing third in the regional event a few weeks before, I expected that with the step up in standard that I'd be down the rankings somewhere; top 20, perhaps?
But here I am, running strongly, and with about 50 metres to go, second place is mine, with only a gangly kid from a neighbouring school (the same one who trumped me in the previous race) denying me a gold ribbon. I took the silver happily, though; I was off to Melbourne for the state championships!
As I got my breath back I noticed dad, unannounced, walking towards me. “Well done, mate,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. He looked pleased, but not surprised. “You could have got the first guy, too,” he said.
The old man: always the leveller.
I shook my head. “He’s too quick for me.”
“You’ll get him in Melbourne,” he said.
As it turned out, I did get him at Bundoora Park, finishing the 3-kilometre course in 47th place; my nemesis languishing in the 60s.

I got him, too, in the 800 metres later in the year, jumping out of the blocks and practically sprinting the two laps like a rabbit in the headlights for fear he’d run over the top of me. He didn’t, and, in a then-zone record of 2:31, I won through to Melbourne again – only to, again, be found out by Victoria's best: fifth place in my heat and missing a spot in the final.
It didn’t matter: I loved running; I loved the feeling of running fast for as long as I could. While I enjoyed footy and cricket I was merely handy in those sports; with middle-distance running I was better than most. At least until I encountered the wunderkinds in The Big Smoke, that was. Then I was made to look mediocre.
My folks toyed with the idea of hiring a coach but surmised that I probably needed to show a bit more at state level to justify the effort and cost. They were proven right, for I came back to the pack somewhat in my high school years; still among the top dogs in the 800m, 1500m and cross country at Cobram Secondary, but an also-ran at the next stage as my natural ability plateaued and later-developing kids left me for dust.
Slowly but surely the stuff that engulfs many a teen – social unease, interest in the opposite sex, musical fanaticism, cigarettes and alcohol – imbued me. By year 10 I wasn't even bothering with the school cross country.
Still, I retained a reasonable level of fitness through my later teen years through footy, as evidenced by a 1500-metre time trial of 4:50 during pre-season training at the age of 18. But any residual fitness I had evaporated once I headed off, aged 20, for two years in the UK, Ireland and Europe, a crazy, game-changing journey that covered the best part of four years.
But that, of course, is another story.

More than two decades on, and the passion is there again. For more than five years I’ve been running regularly although, of course, things are a bit different now: the passage of time brings limitations, and the responsibilities of parenthood – to three girls, aged six, four and two – crowd the blocks of time in which I hit the pavement. It would have been much easier to become a decent runner again in my free-as-a-bird twenties, but, of course, that would have meant a thousand less hangovers; far cleaner lungs and some semblance of direction. And I wouldn’t be the person I am now; thankful that, at the age of 39, I find myself in a much healthier place than at 29 – and, indeed, for most of my twenties.
It’s a common theme, judging by the running community I've gradually assimilated with over the past half-decade. Get the craziness out of your system in your twenties, before settling down, starting a family, locking yourself to the bank and moving into 'responsible' roles at work. Many discover – or rediscover – running as a means of getting fit again, before it slowly upgrades from hobby to fulfilling the space once occupied by weekend competitive sport. These are the bug-bitten: those who use running as a means of unwinding from the stresses of work and family (although it's hard to convince non-runners that a pre-dawn 10-kilometre jaunt in the wind and rain can be a form of relaxation); for whom the chasing down of 'PBs' melds into their psyche.
Although elite runners generally have youth on their side, it's not a young man’s sport; just look up the results of any city fun run and you'll see that men and women between 35 and 55 more than hold their own at the pointy end.

It was early in 2011, my firstborn Edith having just turned one, that I found myself yearning to run again. And not just a few sporadic kilometres each fortnight, as I’d been doing, but regularly. I was soft in the tummy from booze, bad food and a lack of fitness, and my lungs were wheezy from a near-on 20-year smoking habit that, while mostly only in a ‘social’ capacity with a beer in the other hand, needed to be stamped out.
I started with three or four kilometres twice on weekdays, and a longer run on the weekend. For the latter I began with 30 minutes, and, on the advice of my father-in-law Terry – a runner of 10 marathons and a superb personal best of 2:53 – increased this by five minutes each weekend. I was always puffing, not enjoying it at all, but I grinded it out and, after a month, found the going easier.
I converted one of the weekday runs into a seven- or eight-kilometre effort, my pace ever increasing; I was soon sitting comfortably on 4:45 for these runs. My 10-kilometre times rapidly fell – 49 minutes; 47 minutes; then sub-46 – as did my weight. With my weekend runs now ticking over the hour mark, the kilograms simply fell away. I dropped eight, might have been 10, in a matter of weeks, purely from running.
My mother, having not seen me in a while, commented on my "gaunt" features. "There'll be nothing left of you if you keep this up," she said.
Hitting a sub-45 for 10 kilometres was a tougher proposition, but by September I’d done that, too, as well as my first half marathon: a solid 1:42 in the Run Melbourne event. It was a race bookended by vastly differing emotions: a feeling of sprightliness in the early kilometres that I hadn’t experienced in many years; and a mental and physically awakening from the 16th kilometre onwards, as the mantras “you’ve got this” and “never, ever again” competed for space in my frazzled head.


But it didn’t go away; in fact, the fire burnt brighter and brighter. It seemed I was trying to run out all those wasted years: all the pot-smoking, the beer-sinking, the corn chip-scoffing, the bombed-out music. No up-and-go at home, nor in the dead-end office job.
My second daughter, Avie, arrived in March 2012 and that, really, should have been that – at least for a little while. Multiple children meant twice the work – in fact, I’d been warned it would feel like two-and-a-half times the work – so this running routine would surely face the chopping block. But as the workload increased and things turned rabid – our second daughter’s sleeping habits mirrored the deplorable ones of our first, and my sleep-deprived partner Tash had reached the end of her tether – I relied on running more than ever. It was my outlet; either I ran or I'd go insane – or, at least, become an alcoholic. The fridge or the running shoes: it was that simple. I’d need to fit it in somewhere.
Instead of the creature comforts that came with late-afternoon jaunts I started heading out the door before dawn ahead of a 7am start at work, or, more often, at night, once the bubs were down. There were times when I easily could have let it pass, but like any addiction, the want – the need – won over, propelling me out the door. In deepest winter I’d cook dinner for Tash and I, often a steaming casserole, nutritious stir fry or a tasty pasta dish, ready to serve up, and I’d be out the door, into the darkness (sometimes as late as 8:30pm) and down to the Maribyrnong River; the only the light from my trusty iPhone 4; the only voice hitting my ears from the RunKeeper ‘lady’ every four-and-half minutes or so, advising that another kilometre was down, what my average pace was, what the last kilometre was navigated in.
About 45 minutes later I’d be home, re-heating my dinner and plonking in front of the TV; my day now complete. I did that for at least two weeknights every week, and always slept like a baby. But not our baby. And, therefore, not like Tash, who copped the brunt of Avie’s bedevilled witching-hour behaviour. But – selfish as it sounds – at least I was finding a way to cope with it all. While I had three others to worry about now, I’d conjured up a healthy way of looking after Number One. Far from putting exercise to the backburner like so many parents who "let themselves go", not to be resurrected until middle age came a-knocking, I was registering 30 kilometres or more each week, and enjoying every pounding step.

The training paid off, for the two races I partook in towards the end of 2012 – the City2Sea and Emma and Tom’s Christmas Run – were, to my mind, blinding successes.
In 2011 I ran the City2Sea's14 kilometres in 1:04, frustratingly 15 seconds behind a good mate who ran over the top of me in the final few kilometres. My goal in 2012 was to break 63 minutes – an average of 4:30 per kilometre. I'd sold myself short, big time, finishing in 1:01:20, at 4:22 per kilometre. It was, to that point, the best-paced race I'd done, starting out steadily and gradually gaining pace; the final four kilometres covered in 16:49 and the last kilometre in under four minutes. And I felt I had a bit in reserve.  
In the Christmas run – a 10-kilometre, two-lap loop of Albert Lake – I again started out conservatively, but settled into a nice groove. The wind was in our faces on the first lap, which I covered in 21:10. Conditions died down on the back five, and I ran strongly to finish in 41:55, a PB by almost a minute. I was surprising myself all the time; if I wasn’t already hooked I was now.

In March, 2013, I found out, with a fair degree of shock, that I was going to be a father for a third time. I made the decision, while still reeling with the news, that I'd tick one item off the bucket list and complete my first marathon. With three children under four by the time Bonnie – yes, another girl – arrived, I surmised that I wouldn't get another chance for a while; perhaps, with all of life's unpredictability, I never would.
I had the base, after all: I couldn’t do all this running without going the full hog, could I?
I started building the weekend long runs to hitherto unreached heights. I knocked over the 15-kilometre Run for the Kids in 66 minutes. On a freezing winter's day in July I finished the Run Melbourne half marathon in 1:35, holding my 4:30 pace goal nicely throughout. It was a seven-minute improvement on two years prior, and a nice confidence booster for the upcoming block of training ahead of the marathon.



Three months later, on a slightly humid October morning, I was mingling with a few thousand crazy cats ready to tackle the Melbourne Marathon. The race organiser warmly congratulated all first-timers on the achievement of simply getting to the starting line. Many people get injured or disenchanted by all the training, he’d said, and a lot of things need to go right even before stepping up for a marathon. In my case the body had held up well and I’d mastered the art of juggling running with family, the day job and various freelance writing projects, but still I was cutting it a little fine; due to complications with our first-born Tash was to be induced a couple of weeks early, a mere nine days after the marathon, and, of course, with late-term pregnancy, unpredictability is par for the course. But women's intuition when it comes to their bodies has never ceased to amaze me, and I trusted Tash in her judgement that the baby wouldn't come early.
My aim, pre-race, was to finish in 3 hours 30 minutes – a tick under 5:00 pace. I based my goal time on how easy that pace felt on my long training runs, but still, with my relatively low mileage (at my peak I was doing 45- to 50-kilometre weeks, with 27 kilometres the longest single outing) I had a little plan up my sleeve. The first 10 kilometres, I'd treat as a warm-up; I'd try to expend as little energy as possible before I 'began', when the distance to run was a more manageable 32 kilometres.
After cruising down St Kilda Road and around Albert Park Lake my plan was taking hold: I'd covered the first 10 in 52 minutes flat; it was a little more humid than I'd anticipated so I was already sweating up big time, but my breathing was fine; my legs, fresh. Things were on track.
The next two 10-kilometre blocks (48:23 and 49:16) were spent in somewhat of a trance, and I was feeling in control and unhindered until the 28th kilometre when I allowed myself to reflect on the fact that I was now in unchartered territory. The 10-kilometre 'warm-up' tactic was long forgotten. Still, even as we passed 30 kilometres and the negative thoughts starting setting up shop, I kept banging out the 5:00 kilometres; I just needed to hang on.
But the 32-kilometre drink station resembled the scene of a car crash, and, at 34 kilometres, the dreaded wall hit.
I spent a good portion of the seemingly endless St Kilda Road stretch alternating between walking and shuffling; light-headed and self-pitying, I was thinking only of the finish line. For that fourth 10-kilometre block I registered 57:41. With the MCG in sight at around the 40-kilometre mark I found the will to go again, and shuffled, without stopping, to the finish line inside the MCG for an end time of 3:39:01.
Afterwards I was sore and sorry for myself, and a little down on my inability to push through the wall at 35 kilometres, but I was exhilarated at the same time: I was a marathoner; I'd done something that only a small portion of people – apparently around one per cent of the population – achieve.

I maintained a base level of fitness for much of 2014 and 2015 but running was pushed down the pecking order as the family unit underwent some changes. I found myself drinking more; not excessively but enough most weeknights to bring about sluggishness and dimmed productivity the next day.  And when I did run I simply went through the motions. I ceased the tempo efforts and only sat on a comfortable pace. Dogged by the dog, I'd lost the will to extend myself. It was no wonder that the one race I entered in the first half of 2014 – the Run Melbourne 10km event – was a shocker: a 43:50 with a positive split of around a minute. I hated that run.
My girls, however, kept me on the straight and narrow, and witnessing the milestones they achieved, one by one, watching each of the three bloom in their own way, helped me get my mojo back towards the end of the year. On the back of a month of crammed training I ran an out-of-the-box 1:05:16 for the 15-kilometre City2Sea (one second per kilometre faster than in 2012, and an extra kilometre in distance). It was a reminder of all the good I'd done – indeed, all the good I had – and it was enough for running to remain a steadying player in my little world for the next 12 months.

So far, 2016 has been a year of balance. I've returned to a more relaxed role at work, gone down to four days each week in order for Tash to return to work so I can look after the youngest two on Mondays. Less addled, and – almost – rejuvenated, I made two new year's resolutions: to write more; and to up my mileage from 25 kilometres a week to a minimum of 40. Here we are in May, and both resolutions are holding shape. The latter I've done comfortably, averaging around 45 weekly kilometres, including more than 60 in the week I completed Wings for Life – an event that I'd been building towards since the start of the year.
Wings was an event with a difference – 9pm start, no finish line, sporting head lamps and fluorescent shirts, along the Monash Freeway going away from the city – that I'm glad I did but probably wouldn't again. The late start and lack of hills training sapped my energy and my 25.3 kilometre distance fell short of my 30-kilometre target.
Initially I was disappointed, but hindsight – and the realisation that the course was, indeed tough, and that I'd finished in the top 200 of 3000 runners – softened my stance somewhat. It was, like many of my effort runs (including the Maribyrnong parkrun, which I partake in semi-regularly) so far this year, solid. Not spectacular, but solid.
Even with varied training I’m roughly hitting the same times as I did in 2012, when I didn’t really know what intervals were. My training back then was all about bringing the average pace down on distances from 5 to 10 kilometres; and because I rarely ran successive days, I was often fresh, or fresher. Now that I’m running five times a week instead of three, including one speed session and trying to run sensibly otherwise, I'm not really seeing the results; I still find four-minute kilometres the pace threshold on which I cross over to running hard. To watch the elite African marathoners coast around at less than three-minute kilometre pace for an entire marathon – around my 800-metre pace in high school, and a pace at which I now could hold for, maybe, 300 metres – is awe-inspiring.
I'm hopeful that by continuing to balance the hard yards with body management, the times will come down. Because while it’s nice to finish in the top 5 or 10 per cent of races, it’s the ones you see just ahead – particularly the 19-minute guys over five kilometres – that you want to link up with. You forget about those behind. It’s the natural inclination to competitiveness; of wanting to better yourself; of wanting to continue the journey. You don't want stagnation; you want to revisit that shiny feeling of making the quantum leap from 25 minutes to 21 minutes back again, not to lull in the gulf between 20:59 and 19:59.


There are, indeed, times when I don't feel like running, but generally it's not a chore. It's the elevated, meditative state; the clean-thinking; the clarity of thought; the acknowledgement of thanks for having the physicality to run. To quote Steve Moneghetti: "For me it's a really important part of my life, in fact it is my life."
I've used all the excuses for not running that I still hear regularly. "It's too boring" or "It's not enjoyable" are two that spring to mind. While running is, generally, not an action-packed adventure sport, and it's certainly not sexy, once you're fit the thought of being bored doesn't cross your mind; not once. Once you've slogged through the initial hard yards to a place of fitness you can focus on the environment around you – enjoy the music through your headphones; enjoy the space – even if it's the same route that you've been tackling for weeks, months, years.
"I don't have the time," is another common utterance. As exemplified on Strava – the Facebook-for-runners community on which people upload their efforts, and keep up the momentum through comments and 'kudos' from their pavement-pounding peers – runners, elite and otherwise, are busy in other aspects of their lives. They have families, they run businesses. They plan their schedules ahead of time and identify windows for running. They set goals and do all they can to get there. It's like anything else: if you really want to do something, you'll fit it in.
Strava is proof that while the running world is small, it doesn't feel like that when you're part of it. It's reassuring to know that you’re not alone in the madness of running up hills in the rain or setting off for a quick 30 minutes in the dark, or sprinting around a track on a 40-degree day. And while it’s a competitive sport for each and every one of us, you won’t meet a more supportive, encouraging tribe. Runners are interesting people from all sorts of backgrounds and each with their own story to tell.
The elites, in particular, are just a little sadistic in their strict routines and the mileage they subject their bodies to each week. Without fail, even over Christmas, they'll punch out 150-kilometre (or more) weeks. Pre-dawn long runs on Wednesdays. “Doubles” on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Interval sessions a couple of days a week; and a long run on surely-sore legs that would leave most mere mortals sobbing. These are the rake-thin, all-year-round warriors on the fringes of national titles; blokes under and around the 15-minute and 30-minute marks for five and 10 kilometres; a couple of minutes back for the top-end ladies.
Then there are the ultra-marathoners, to whom running around a track for six or more hours – at four minute pace – is a leisurely jaunt (try running around a track for an hour and see how you feel).
And the mountaineers, who need elevation and bushland to complete their running experience.

For me, it's the little things in running that combine for a satisfying whole. Like my other sporting passion in cricket, it's laden with statistics, none more so than "pace". I recently took the plunge and purchased a Garmin 220 Forerunner but previously while racing, when I only had a stopwatch (and not my watch to hand like I did training), I had the numbers down pat at each kilometre marker anyway: 5 kilometres in 23 minutes is 4:36 pace; 10 in 43 minutes, 4:18 pace; 15 in 65 minutes, 4:20 pace. Then there's kilometres covered for the week; heart rate average; calories burned; and, for Strava nuts, segments.
Doing good things to your body on a regular basis also allows for "perks and indulgences". While running often forces me to "be good" – particularly for parkruns when the Friday night "drink dilemma" takes hold – I love being able to pretty much eat what I want, whenever I want.
But beer, like running, is part of my make-up (I do have "research" to take care of, after all) and I have, often, crossed over to the point where the smell and taste of alcohol wisps about my nostrils and mouth on a morning run. These are "Band-aid runs"; where the hangover is temporarily forgotten while pushing through a post-binge trot, only to return soon afterwards, sending me to the couch where I'm accosted by a gaggle of little girls.
Those with young children will understand that resting up after weekend long runs isn't always an option. I, for one, spend more time on my feet, post-run, than I'd like, running about after the kids at the park or tending to their every demand at home. But I've always felt there's a certain gorgeousness to soreness in the joints and leg muscles. (As long as the "gorgeousness" doesn't grow into something more sinister than sends you to the sidelines.)
Because each run is an event; a building block towards something bigger and better. Individual runs are quickly forgotten as we move through our lives and, in the wink of an eye, embark on the next one, but each is special: a credit in the bank; a vital cog in the cycle.
Now, if I find a window of 30 minutes in which to do as I please, I generally run. While at the desk job I think about running that night; what route I’ll take, how I'll tackle it.
Finally, there's the nirvana of running, and the major reason behind all this madness: achieving results when you don’t expect them. And I'm not necessarily talking about a race. There’s nothing like the runs where you're gliding along without any perceived effort, listening to good music, a nice cooling breeze over the body and a postcard-blue sky above – and you drop a fast kilometre. For me, it's a 4:30 while going easy, or a low-4:00 on a tempo run; that's when I know I'm getting somewhere.
Or you could be on an easy jog with with a running partner, and you're so relaxed that all of a sudden you don't know where the last five kilometres went.
While I know life is only going to get busier, and my weekend freedom increasingly eroded as my girls ascend in years, I also know the simple things will be indispensable. Well-crafted music, words and beer; the love of friends and family; and running. I'll keep trotting as long as I'm able, oblivious to the finish line. Because for a sport in which the finish line is of utmost importance, to those of us "life runners" it really isn't; we don’t really want to know where it will end.


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