Water, Water...

Having been caught short of the dunny destination on my first attempt, there was nothing for it other than to attempt it once more the following weekend, whence Rach was next working in the Hutt. This time my MP3 player was flat out of juice and I knew there was no time to charge it, so Gogol Bordello did not join me. However, a recently eaten tea did join me, which was a tasty mistake; more on that later.

Setting off I soon realised that I hadn't drunk enough water throughout the course of the day, not by a very long way. The slight uphill soon created a greater than expected ache in my calf muscles. This caused me to contract my stride more than usual, which made the whole aching thing worse. I tried bigger steps but my body refused, so I shambled on regardless, lurching along like a sweaty zombie, mumbling "water, water" as I went. Ironic when running next to a river.

Despite the fog of the run I couldn't help noticing that, compared with the previous week, there were a lot fewer folk around. No hockey was being played, no bunches of kids walking back from a day swimming in the river, no psychic name guessers, no girls walking past then laughing hysterically and no man on a mountain bike, out with his family, looking at me in a way which I couldn't work out - was it admiration for my pained running effort or jealousy that I could at least go at whatever pace I wanted. This is Wellington on a public holiday weekend, everyone leaves. Although, I did see two separate cars walking their dogs, in both cases small poodles. Yep, you read right, cars. The dog walkers were in cars, driving along a dirt track, with their dogs sprinting hell for leather behind, not, I might add, on a leash. I have been unable to decide if this was cruelty or abandonment. For sure, the dogs will have had awesome cardio workouts, but they may have whimpered all the way.

After a lonely run I was up to the point I had turned back from before but, of course, kept running. In a matter of minutes I arrived at the sacred toilet spot. The sense of accomplishment was tempered though: I had been drawn this far as much by the belief that there would be a water fountain near the toilets as the sense of pride, but my hopes were dashed, there was no such facility, and the toilets were much more scuzzy than I had built them up to be in my head. Yes, I had been fantasising about this location for pretty much the entire run so far and the whole place was splendid in my head. Instead, all I found was a really rather simple single toilet brick building. Before setting off I had the feeling that I needed a poo. This had happened the previous week, which might have been why I chose the toilets as the turning point in the first place. However, once I was trotting along the sensation had abated. The same was true the second time around, which suggests that these longer runs make me a little nervous. I'm glad that neither time have I had to do a Paula Radcliffe and facilitate the gutter in full glare, although she can run a marathon in only 30 minutes longer than it takes me to cover 12 kilometers, so perhaps I should have a go at going. Anyway, with no water to be drunk I thought I might at least hop in the bog for a number one, and it's a good job I did, I had a full tank in there, no wonder it had been such a slog going uphill.

Lightened and thinking stuff like "hell, I was kind of banking on there being a water fountain, if I don't put some strides into this then my legs are going fall off before I get back" I picked up the pace. Going downhill and knowing I was past the halfway point made everything a little bit easier and I dashed away from the bogs with a new spring in my step. I'm not sure if anyone could see this from the outside, but it was there on the inside. As I sped (ahem) along the light faded fast, the previous week had been the last Saturday of daylight savings and now I knew it would be dark quite some time before I got to the end. The fading light can have a slight demoralising effect, but on the flip side it allows one to wear the ugly face of the exercise pained without fear of scaring small children. The increased speed also churned the undigested food in my belly, creating a wicked stitch. Not wanting to sacrifice speed I instead held the afflicted area with one hand, which seemed to do the job quite nicely. And the tyre of fat I cradled helped to remind me why I needed to go out running.

Finally I got back to the car and checked my time. Hmmm, the extra distance and slash cost me an extra 5 minutes on my time, which was a shock, I thought my return leg was faster than before, despite the lack of music. Clearly I had underestimated the power of a thumping tune. Thinking back it might have been the banging beat coming through the vent of the toilet from car parked next to it that had given me that spur, post potty break. Perhaps those lads could drive alongside me next time, that would save me some music device weight. Although they'd probably want petrol money, which they'd waste on pop and crisps, no doubt. The cheeky young tykes.

A Suburb Far, Far Away...

It's shameful how much I've neglected this blog of late. After my last post I actually went running twice more that day - once at lunch time and then again in the evening. The idea behind this madness was to give my body such a shock that the dragon boating final that week would feel super easy. It kind of worked and it certainly shocked the hell out of my body. However, after the pressure of dragon boating abated with the hard fought festival day I continued to run but, I'll be honest, it seemed less important to push myself. I even deliberately took a week off at one point, which was a severe blow to the routine, although my knees were extremely thankful.

But, even when not running, I thought about it a lot. You see, the day after the dragon boat festival me and Rach were at a friend's house for a Christening and one of the other guests was talking about his training for an iron man triathlon event. I'm not sure how it came up but it was suggested that I run the Wellington half marathon in June, as the event helps you focus. Of course, I didn't really set my efforts to accomplishing the 21 kilometers of a half marathon, but I didn't stop pondering the idea.

So, after dropping Rach off at work last week I looked at the map we have in the car and picked a spot to run to, some public toilets, a spot much further away than any distance I had run before, and that was just one way. Of course, it didn't look all that far on the map. If I finished the run then the half marathon was on, if not then I could eat some chocolate, or something.

Away I went, running through a sports park (Fraser Park, where kids were playing football and a hockey match was in progress) at a pace I suspected I could manage for a while. I don't normally listen to music while running around but this time I had my MP3 player on me, loaded with some fine Gogol Bordello, a supreme Ukrainian band whose music forces you to dance. Frankly, it was too much for me and made me feel all panicked and weird, so I turned it off again and listened to the blood pounding in my ears instead.

I knew my destination loos were ambitiously far away but after a while I kept thinking that they must be just around the next corner. I thought they were near Stokes Valley somewhere, but when I got there I saw no toilets. I carried on jogging along, and Stokes Valley ended up behind me. All right, just one more corner. Eventually I came to the sign remarking the outer limits of Upper Hutt City, which is a fair trek from Lower Hutt, where I started. I was sure the toilets weren't this far, damn, I must have missed them. So I took note of my surroundings, so I could pinpoint them later, and wheeled around.

The journey back seemed even longer than the journey there and jogging along for that kind of time is, I must confess, kind of boring. Along that final stretch I could only see the big long track of where I'd come from and figured that, my legs plodding along far too slowly and in pathetically close step I should, once again, attempt to invoke the spirit of Gogol Bordello and this time they were much more value to my brain. Their gypsy punk joy rattled me into the same beat, which forced me to stretch my gate, although I probably didn't go much faster.

Of course, as is the way of the world, once you are listening to good music, someone wants to speak to you. Passing some kids one hailed me to ask a question "Is your name Jon?" she asked (she may have asked if it was John I guess). "Yeah, how did you know?" It turned out it was her friend that got it right, but he had simply guessed. I wished him luck using such skills to get rich and was on my way. While talking to the kids I did that dickish running on the spot thing, fearing my legs wouldn't start again if I stopped. It took ages to cross into Fraser Park again, and interminable age, I really need to get faster at this game.

Then my MP3 player ran out of juice, but I was nearly back. Vaguely pretending to accelerate towards the finishing line I noted people were still playing hockey, but I can't tell you if it was the same game though. And then the end. I don't remember feeling exhausted like I do after shorter runs, where I feel like I'm going to hurl. Perhaps because the end wasn't uphill, perhaps because I didn't sprint final 20 meters.

Hopping in the car I grabbed the map. Balls, I hadn't read it wrong, I had remembered it wrong. The toilets were at Silverstream, not Stokes Valley and I wasn't far off when I turned around. Satoru Nakajimaaaaa!

I did a quick guesstimate on the route though and the number seemed as big as it felt. several times longer than I'd ever run before. Really? Had I honestly been that ambitious. The only way to know would be to consult Map My Run. Once home I grabbed the computer and crunched the distance. Nearly 12 kilometers, wow, that really was about four times further than my longest effort. Well, I guess that does it, if I can do that without much training and just time and stupidity on my hands I reckon the half marathon is definitely possible. Perhaps even the marath- no, 12km might be four times longer than my previous efforts but 4x4x4 (ish) is probably just plane stupid. Oh...

Of course, it took me about one and a half hours to run this distance, which gives me a rate of 8km per hour. Record breakers? You should probably sit this one out Norris.