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Sunday Apr 22, 2012 #
Event: Virgin London Marathon
Running race 2:40:50 [5] 26.2 mi (6:08 / mi)
shoes: Adidas AdiZero Tempo
:)
Knowing yourself, surprising yourself.
When I was a young lad, I used to think that running was boring. That training was cheating. That I was too cool to run. That I was too cool to try. I know better now.
We arrived at Euston. It was very busy. We went to Marks and Spencer. It was busy. We got the underground. It was very busy. We go to the expo. London is very busy. I look out the apartment window, at the Thames and St Paul’s, at the boats and cars and vans and buses and bikes and railways. London really is very, very busy. I look out the apartment window and onto the footpath below. Look out on all the people. Look out on all the little people; on all their hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, their own little lives. Their own little, complex, multi-faceted, fascinating little lives. Their stories, their Good friends, close family, nice houses and boring jobs. Lives like mine. People like me.
The marathon is like London, only more so. It’s life in miniature. Life under the microscope. Life fast-forwarded, exaggerated, compressed, everything there is and nothing. Each runner – and I need not point out there are many of them – is there. Is right there, living that moment. This moment – the focus for months, maybe years – this moment that lasts for hours, that will linger, that will stay, like a photo flashbulbed to a retina, like a heart carved to an oak tree.
Each runner, lightweight, honed and focused, laden with baggage. Laden with a history of adventure and a plan for the living. With the search for meaning in a sea of tedium. Of being true to themselves, whatever that means. For seeing what they’ve got. For giving it their best shot. For that insight, that glimpse, that fleeting glance – what am I made of? What have I got in times of trouble, when it comes to the crunch, the bite, the crux of the matter? Running, running in search of roots. A pure and basic instinct. Running from the noise, the consumer convenience crap and info-overload, the online blogs of pseudo-psycho pretension from self-obsessed “athletes” avoiding real work. Running to find peace, tranquility, inner calm.
London is intense. The marathon is intense. The London Marathon is very intense. And that’s before you even start.
I could tell you about the lone runs in dark December. And how easy they were. I could tell you about Jonny Brownlee, 10x400 and how impressive he was. I could tell you about body breakdown or rare orienteering wins or unnoticed excellent race performances or amazing hill runs or faux-illnesses or doubts, fears, distractions. But that’s just training, that’s just history, that’s baggage, that’s context. And you probably know it already. I could tell you about missing trains because they’re too full and long queues out of stations and through streets and for toilets. But London’s busy and you know that already. I could tell you about the championship pen perks and the big balloons and the old jumpers and the little warm ups. About the slow shuffle to the line. But we’ve not even started yet. And you’re only reading this to find out what 2.40.50 feels like and I’m only writing this so I remember.
But you have to - just have to - understand the context, the history, the journey, the personal journey that the marathon is. It’s not just some poxy little road run. Not if you’re treating it with the respect it deserves. Not if you know even a little of what you are in for.
I hang back as we shuffle to the start, conscious of being slow in championship terms, of having a foolish tendency to start quick. As we edge forward I spot a Falkirk Harrier rival ahead and then realise I am shuffling next to Ed Catmur, one of the Orienteering Six, all aiming to beat 2.40. I don’t know if Ed really knows who I am, but I strike up conversation. Earlier, I’d spotted Paul Couldridge; he was right at the front, I knew that was wrong for me.
The start came and I was calm, I was ready, I was excited. I’ve done big races before; at the start I’ve been wide-eyed, jumpy, flighty, like an excitable horse before the National. But now I’ve done big races before. I am an experienced athlete, I know what I’m doing, I understand the marathon, I understand me. We set off easy, I keep Ed in sight and we run close for an easy first mile in 6.09. In mile two we join Mike Sprot, Paul and also Todd Oates. The Orienteering Six is (pretty much) complete. We never see Harold Wyber, who is apparently the final member. A posse of orienteers from around the land, brought together by a weird little online training community and a common purpose: to get under that elusive 2.40 mark, this time.
I don’t know Todd so well, but I know Paul and Mike are experienced, disciplined runners whilst I have a tendency to go off quick. I match my stride to theirs and resolve to stick with them. There will come a time when decisions have to be made, when a lone furrow must be struck, but for now we are a team, a unit, we’re not racing each other; we want each to achieve his goal. Well, Ed doesn’t, he’s already sneaked ahead unnoticed. We chat and exchange jokes, before settling into it. Paul and I run side by side, stride for stride, Mike and Todd normally a little behind. In fact I don’t really see Todd the whole race. Although he is there. It’s a fantastic experience, the running is easy, the natural state, I feel a real sense of camaraderie, kinship, brotherhood with these guys, which is strange, because I don’t know them well in the traditional sense, yet I know them oh so well. After months of plugging away, solo, it’s great to be in the here and now, really part of it. And the crowd, well the crowd is amazing; vast and continuous. Around 9 miles, it’s only at the very last minute that I spot Fi and Jon and MC - the noise and numbers make it hard. They’re past in a blur, or maybe it’s us who are past in a blur, either way we press on. Their support is precious to me. Especially later.
But these ten miles have been an amazing experience – even the simple act of sharing our water bottles has made things better, has added to the beauty, made us feel part of something. Part of it. Yet we’ve just been waiting, waiting for the race to begin. Mike, master of the most beautiful training graphs in Attack Point, recent PBs at every distance. Paul, experienced and with the fastest marathon mark to date. And me. With bagpipes blaring, Paul jokes I should feel at home. And I do. I am fit. I am in that rare place where running is the natural state. The way things should be. I am still and the world is moving for me, gliding effortlessly for me, at my command, my beck my call. If I wanted it to go faster, I could make it, but I don’t; I want it to be mine for many miles more.
Still, everything ends and at 11 miles our posse breaks. It’s not a conscious decision, not on my part anyway. Paul is no longer by my side, he’s been replaced by Mike. (I don’t recall seeing him again, he is just behind until 15 miles, but sadly drops out at 18, dehydrated and with a tight glute. It’s hard to believe; he looked smooth, effortless and untroubled. It’s strange, we’ve been carefully hydrating.)
I’ve dropped out of a few races in my time, but not today, no way. Today I will be in the 99% to complete. Marathons are in the head and this is in my head. As we cross Tower Bridge the crowd is immense and I get excited, before I know it I’ve got a little gap on our posse and I’m working to catch the guys in front. Nevertheless, through halfway, all is good, on schedule. Our pace has been fractionally slower than I planned so there is little room for manoeuvre. But I’ve sped up a bit and around 14 things start to feel a bit tougher. Still far too early, this is no good. I try to ease off, but miles 14 and 15 are still under 6 minutes each and this is too quick. For the first time, I’m feeling negative, I image the others cruising through as I curse my stupidity. It’s only tiny fractions, but the marathon is a relentless, unforgiving beast; steal a second and it will have your minutes. But the others are pretty much with me or at least Mike is; as I check my splits, he appears on my shoulder. I slow my pace by a few seconds per mile only and we never again run at our earlier pace. Thankfully I don’t know this, and Mike is feeling good. We’re now starting to come through runners as well and their pain is our encouragement: I can really relate to dropping 30 seconds off target, been there, I have the t-shirt.
By 18 miles I’m an orienteer alone though, Mike ruing his lack of LSD. Winding through Canary Wharf, the form is going, no beauty here amongst the steel and glass towers. So it’s a massive lift when I hear and spot my posse again. I wave my arm in the air, suddenly I feel elated. Back on track. After all the twisting and turning I have no idea what direction I am going in, but I do know that I can see a Falkirk vest ahead and I’m happy to sweep past my rival. At 20 miles I finally pass Dracula, who goes on to set the fastest time for a character from a book and at 22 there’s Ed and he is struggling a bit now and I am a little too but not as much as him so I’m just going to keep going, keep passing others, keep the form, keep the cadence up, who cares if the stride is short keep the cadence up, stand tall breath deep the crowd is cheering this is the race you’re doing awesome you’re going for it lap it up keep working keep going my son this is yours. The wind is a little against on the way back, the sun is out, without really thinking about it I’ve been pouring water on me – keeping the core temperature down – and now a guy from Norwich I think, in a blue vest at least, gives me a nice little tow through the worst of it. At 23 miles an announcer says And here’s Todd from New Zealand and sure enough, there he is and there he goes. I cannot keep up and by 24 miles things are not looking so good. I’ve not hit the wall or anything. Others have. I’m not clutching my hamstring. Grabbing my glute or stretching my calf. Others are. But I am in pain. I am working it. Raceface is on. No hi-fiving kids like earlier. No waving to the posse. No looking at the sights. No marvelling at the wonder of it all. This hurts. This is sore. This is not fun. This is stupid. And I am going too slow and Jon says I’m on target and I’m not so sure. But it’s only two miles. I’ve already done 24. Soon this will be over. I’m in a much better state than many others. Keep Todd in sight. Keep working. The tiny, trivial slope up to Big Ben is a real struggle. The road past the Horse Guards parade is fucking endless. 800m to go. 2.37. Gutted. That is just not going to work. But still, it’s a fucking PB, it’s an amazing effort, it’s in the ballpark and this is what you’ve got. This is where you find out what you’ve got. You wanted to know what you’re made of, well now you know. No questions, no doubts, right here right now this is what it is about and this is what you are. Here you go. You want the truth. You can’t handle the truth. Of course you can, dig in, two laps of the track, so what, your hamstrings are quivering, your feet are screaming, your glutes are mush. Here you are putting it out there, laying it on the line and this is what it is about. I see the finish, the clock’s already reading 2.40, but the quicker you run the quicker it is over. I am not quick, but it is over. I’m gutted at not breaking 2.40, but I’m delighted I ran a great race, I got the best out of myself it was amazing and I am fucked. I can barely walk. I chat to Todd, get some photos, a nice red bag, hug Mike. I have to have a seat. I sit down and let it wash over me. Everything. It’s over. I don’t need to go out at stupid times for a run. I don’t need to not drink. I don’t need to panic every time someone sneezes. I feel – surely not – emotion welling up inside me and I am on the verge of tears. I don’t understand why. Am I happy? Am I sad? But it is obvious. I get myself together and walk very slowly and painfully to meet my wonderful supporters. I don’t get very far before I’m nearly crying again. I stand still, squeeze my eyes shut and just feel. I meet Fi and Jon and MC and the Wards and it’s wonderful to be with them and I am so happy to be sitting in the sun and not having to run another step. At least not today that is.
Marathons are silly; in essence, running is a means of transport. A way of transporting yourself from where you are to wherever you want to go. I used to think that running was boring. That training was cheating. That I was too cool to try. Too cool to run. I know better now: I’m too uncool not to run. I’m too human.
Split time diff min/km km/h
5K 00:18:49 18:49 03:46 15.95
10K 00:37:43 18:54 03:47 15.87
15K 00:56:36 18:53 03:47 15.89
20K 01:15:25 18:49 03:46 15.94
HALF 01:19:30 04:05 03:44 16.09
25K 01:34:09 14:39 03:46 15.99
30K 01:53:12 19:03 03:49 15.75
35K 02:12:23 19:11 03:51 15.63
40K 02:32:04 19:41 03:57 15.24
finish time 02:40:50 08:46 04:00 15.04
place (M/W) 186
place (ag) 149
place (overall) 186
1: 6.09
2+3: 11.53
4: 6.06
5: 5.58
6: 6.09
7: 6.06
8: 6.00
9: 6.01
10: 6.05
11: 6.02
12: 6.04
13: 6.04
14+15: 11.54
16: 6.13
17+18: 12.16
19: 6.10
20: 6.08
21: 6.09
22: 6.12
23: 6.13
24: 6.12
25: 6.36
26.2: 7.50
Knowing yourself, surprising yourself.
When I was a young lad, I used to think that running was boring. That training was cheating. That I was too cool to run. That I was too cool to try. I know better now.
We arrived at Euston. It was very busy. We went to Marks and Spencer. It was busy. We got the underground. It was very busy. We go to the expo. London is very busy. I look out the apartment window, at the Thames and St Paul’s, at the boats and cars and vans and buses and bikes and railways. London really is very, very busy. I look out the apartment window and onto the footpath below. Look out on all the people. Look out on all the little people; on all their hopes and fears, joys and sorrows, their own little lives. Their own little, complex, multi-faceted, fascinating little lives. Their stories, their Good friends, close family, nice houses and boring jobs. Lives like mine. People like me.
The marathon is like London, only more so. It’s life in miniature. Life under the microscope. Life fast-forwarded, exaggerated, compressed, everything there is and nothing. Each runner – and I need not point out there are many of them – is there. Is right there, living that moment. This moment – the focus for months, maybe years – this moment that lasts for hours, that will linger, that will stay, like a photo flashbulbed to a retina, like a heart carved to an oak tree.
Each runner, lightweight, honed and focused, laden with baggage. Laden with a history of adventure and a plan for the living. With the search for meaning in a sea of tedium. Of being true to themselves, whatever that means. For seeing what they’ve got. For giving it their best shot. For that insight, that glimpse, that fleeting glance – what am I made of? What have I got in times of trouble, when it comes to the crunch, the bite, the crux of the matter? Running, running in search of roots. A pure and basic instinct. Running from the noise, the consumer convenience crap and info-overload, the online blogs of pseudo-psycho pretension from self-obsessed “athletes” avoiding real work. Running to find peace, tranquility, inner calm.
London is intense. The marathon is intense. The London Marathon is very intense. And that’s before you even start.
I could tell you about the lone runs in dark December. And how easy they were. I could tell you about Jonny Brownlee, 10x400 and how impressive he was. I could tell you about body breakdown or rare orienteering wins or unnoticed excellent race performances or amazing hill runs or faux-illnesses or doubts, fears, distractions. But that’s just training, that’s just history, that’s baggage, that’s context. And you probably know it already. I could tell you about missing trains because they’re too full and long queues out of stations and through streets and for toilets. But London’s busy and you know that already. I could tell you about the championship pen perks and the big balloons and the old jumpers and the little warm ups. About the slow shuffle to the line. But we’ve not even started yet. And you’re only reading this to find out what 2.40.50 feels like and I’m only writing this so I remember.
But you have to - just have to - understand the context, the history, the journey, the personal journey that the marathon is. It’s not just some poxy little road run. Not if you’re treating it with the respect it deserves. Not if you know even a little of what you are in for.
I hang back as we shuffle to the start, conscious of being slow in championship terms, of having a foolish tendency to start quick. As we edge forward I spot a Falkirk Harrier rival ahead and then realise I am shuffling next to Ed Catmur, one of the Orienteering Six, all aiming to beat 2.40. I don’t know if Ed really knows who I am, but I strike up conversation. Earlier, I’d spotted Paul Couldridge; he was right at the front, I knew that was wrong for me.
The start came and I was calm, I was ready, I was excited. I’ve done big races before; at the start I’ve been wide-eyed, jumpy, flighty, like an excitable horse before the National. But now I’ve done big races before. I am an experienced athlete, I know what I’m doing, I understand the marathon, I understand me. We set off easy, I keep Ed in sight and we run close for an easy first mile in 6.09. In mile two we join Mike Sprot, Paul and also Todd Oates. The Orienteering Six is (pretty much) complete. We never see Harold Wyber, who is apparently the final member. A posse of orienteers from around the land, brought together by a weird little online training community and a common purpose: to get under that elusive 2.40 mark, this time.
I don’t know Todd so well, but I know Paul and Mike are experienced, disciplined runners whilst I have a tendency to go off quick. I match my stride to theirs and resolve to stick with them. There will come a time when decisions have to be made, when a lone furrow must be struck, but for now we are a team, a unit, we’re not racing each other; we want each to achieve his goal. Well, Ed doesn’t, he’s already sneaked ahead unnoticed. We chat and exchange jokes, before settling into it. Paul and I run side by side, stride for stride, Mike and Todd normally a little behind. In fact I don’t really see Todd the whole race. Although he is there. It’s a fantastic experience, the running is easy, the natural state, I feel a real sense of camaraderie, kinship, brotherhood with these guys, which is strange, because I don’t know them well in the traditional sense, yet I know them oh so well. After months of plugging away, solo, it’s great to be in the here and now, really part of it. And the crowd, well the crowd is amazing; vast and continuous. Around 9 miles, it’s only at the very last minute that I spot Fi and Jon and MC - the noise and numbers make it hard. They’re past in a blur, or maybe it’s us who are past in a blur, either way we press on. Their support is precious to me. Especially later.
But these ten miles have been an amazing experience – even the simple act of sharing our water bottles has made things better, has added to the beauty, made us feel part of something. Part of it. Yet we’ve just been waiting, waiting for the race to begin. Mike, master of the most beautiful training graphs in Attack Point, recent PBs at every distance. Paul, experienced and with the fastest marathon mark to date. And me. With bagpipes blaring, Paul jokes I should feel at home. And I do. I am fit. I am in that rare place where running is the natural state. The way things should be. I am still and the world is moving for me, gliding effortlessly for me, at my command, my beck my call. If I wanted it to go faster, I could make it, but I don’t; I want it to be mine for many miles more.
Still, everything ends and at 11 miles our posse breaks. It’s not a conscious decision, not on my part anyway. Paul is no longer by my side, he’s been replaced by Mike. (I don’t recall seeing him again, he is just behind until 15 miles, but sadly drops out at 18, dehydrated and with a tight glute. It’s hard to believe; he looked smooth, effortless and untroubled. It’s strange, we’ve been carefully hydrating.)
I’ve dropped out of a few races in my time, but not today, no way. Today I will be in the 99% to complete. Marathons are in the head and this is in my head. As we cross Tower Bridge the crowd is immense and I get excited, before I know it I’ve got a little gap on our posse and I’m working to catch the guys in front. Nevertheless, through halfway, all is good, on schedule. Our pace has been fractionally slower than I planned so there is little room for manoeuvre. But I’ve sped up a bit and around 14 things start to feel a bit tougher. Still far too early, this is no good. I try to ease off, but miles 14 and 15 are still under 6 minutes each and this is too quick. For the first time, I’m feeling negative, I image the others cruising through as I curse my stupidity. It’s only tiny fractions, but the marathon is a relentless, unforgiving beast; steal a second and it will have your minutes. But the others are pretty much with me or at least Mike is; as I check my splits, he appears on my shoulder. I slow my pace by a few seconds per mile only and we never again run at our earlier pace. Thankfully I don’t know this, and Mike is feeling good. We’re now starting to come through runners as well and their pain is our encouragement: I can really relate to dropping 30 seconds off target, been there, I have the t-shirt.
By 18 miles I’m an orienteer alone though, Mike ruing his lack of LSD. Winding through Canary Wharf, the form is going, no beauty here amongst the steel and glass towers. So it’s a massive lift when I hear and spot my posse again. I wave my arm in the air, suddenly I feel elated. Back on track. After all the twisting and turning I have no idea what direction I am going in, but I do know that I can see a Falkirk vest ahead and I’m happy to sweep past my rival. At 20 miles I finally pass Dracula, who goes on to set the fastest time for a character from a book and at 22 there’s Ed and he is struggling a bit now and I am a little too but not as much as him so I’m just going to keep going, keep passing others, keep the form, keep the cadence up, who cares if the stride is short keep the cadence up, stand tall breath deep the crowd is cheering this is the race you’re doing awesome you’re going for it lap it up keep working keep going my son this is yours. The wind is a little against on the way back, the sun is out, without really thinking about it I’ve been pouring water on me – keeping the core temperature down – and now a guy from Norwich I think, in a blue vest at least, gives me a nice little tow through the worst of it. At 23 miles an announcer says And here’s Todd from New Zealand and sure enough, there he is and there he goes. I cannot keep up and by 24 miles things are not looking so good. I’ve not hit the wall or anything. Others have. I’m not clutching my hamstring. Grabbing my glute or stretching my calf. Others are. But I am in pain. I am working it. Raceface is on. No hi-fiving kids like earlier. No waving to the posse. No looking at the sights. No marvelling at the wonder of it all. This hurts. This is sore. This is not fun. This is stupid. And I am going too slow and Jon says I’m on target and I’m not so sure. But it’s only two miles. I’ve already done 24. Soon this will be over. I’m in a much better state than many others. Keep Todd in sight. Keep working. The tiny, trivial slope up to Big Ben is a real struggle. The road past the Horse Guards parade is fucking endless. 800m to go. 2.37. Gutted. That is just not going to work. But still, it’s a fucking PB, it’s an amazing effort, it’s in the ballpark and this is what you’ve got. This is where you find out what you’ve got. You wanted to know what you’re made of, well now you know. No questions, no doubts, right here right now this is what it is about and this is what you are. Here you go. You want the truth. You can’t handle the truth. Of course you can, dig in, two laps of the track, so what, your hamstrings are quivering, your feet are screaming, your glutes are mush. Here you are putting it out there, laying it on the line and this is what it is about. I see the finish, the clock’s already reading 2.40, but the quicker you run the quicker it is over. I am not quick, but it is over. I’m gutted at not breaking 2.40, but I’m delighted I ran a great race, I got the best out of myself it was amazing and I am fucked. I can barely walk. I chat to Todd, get some photos, a nice red bag, hug Mike. I have to have a seat. I sit down and let it wash over me. Everything. It’s over. I don’t need to go out at stupid times for a run. I don’t need to not drink. I don’t need to panic every time someone sneezes. I feel – surely not – emotion welling up inside me and I am on the verge of tears. I don’t understand why. Am I happy? Am I sad? But it is obvious. I get myself together and walk very slowly and painfully to meet my wonderful supporters. I don’t get very far before I’m nearly crying again. I stand still, squeeze my eyes shut and just feel. I meet Fi and Jon and MC and the Wards and it’s wonderful to be with them and I am so happy to be sitting in the sun and not having to run another step. At least not today that is.
Marathons are silly; in essence, running is a means of transport. A way of transporting yourself from where you are to wherever you want to go. I used to think that running was boring. That training was cheating. That I was too cool to try. Too cool to run. I know better now: I’m too uncool not to run. I’m too human.
Split time diff min/km km/h
5K 00:18:49 18:49 03:46 15.95
10K 00:37:43 18:54 03:47 15.87
15K 00:56:36 18:53 03:47 15.89
20K 01:15:25 18:49 03:46 15.94
HALF 01:19:30 04:05 03:44 16.09
25K 01:34:09 14:39 03:46 15.99
30K 01:53:12 19:03 03:49 15.75
35K 02:12:23 19:11 03:51 15.63
40K 02:32:04 19:41 03:57 15.24
finish time 02:40:50 08:46 04:00 15.04
place (M/W) 186
place (ag) 149
place (overall) 186
1: 6.09
2+3: 11.53
4: 6.06
5: 5.58
6: 6.09
7: 6.06
8: 6.00
9: 6.01
10: 6.05
11: 6.02
12: 6.04
13: 6.04
14+15: 11.54
16: 6.13
17+18: 12.16
19: 6.10
20: 6.08
21: 6.09
22: 6.12
23: 6.13
24: 6.12
25: 6.36
26.2: 7.50
Saturday Apr 21, 2012 #
Running 40:08 [3] 7.0 km (5:44 / km)
shoes: Adidas AdiZero Tempo
The last run. With Jon, from his folks' ideally placed flat along the last couple of miles of marathon route - along Embankment, past Big Ben and Buck House, then back through Hyde Park and along the south side of the river. Very very busy, loads of tourists, but I felt good and I felt ready.
Friday Apr 20, 2012 #
Note
(rest day)
1640 to Euston woowoo!
Thursday Apr 19, 2012 #
Note
(rest day)
Looong day at work, so decided short remainder of day was best spent packing.
Last orders gentlemen, last orders at the bar please. Yes, yes I'll have two.... what was it again? Ah yes two hours and thirty somethings please thank you kindly. Are you sure? You look like you've had a bit much already laddie...
Last orders gentlemen, last orders at the bar please. Yes, yes I'll have two.... what was it again? Ah yes two hours and thirty somethings please thank you kindly. Are you sure? You look like you've had a bit much already laddie...
Wednesday Apr 18, 2012 #
Running 43:06 6.03 mi (7:09 / mi)
shoes: Adidas AdiZero Tempo
The classic premarathon session. 2 miles, 2 miles marathon pace, 2 miles. I even dusted off the old Garmin for this one. Loops round Riverside to get my 2 miles, then out and back along the Cambuskenneth road for the 2 miles and back home.
This was a semi-dress rehearsal - far too cold to be wearing a running vest! In the end I was a few seconds shy of marathon pace overall, possibly due to some tight corners, possibly due to not having done any runs at this speed at all.... I didn't feel supersmooth and perky, but the pace was comfortable.
This was a semi-dress rehearsal - far too cold to be wearing a running vest! In the end I was a few seconds shy of marathon pace overall, possibly due to some tight corners, possibly due to not having done any runs at this speed at all.... I didn't feel supersmooth and perky, but the pace was comfortable.
Note
Tea was a bit late so got the first part of a migrane, probably due to a lack of salt. Was fast asleep before the second part could kick in:)
Tuesday Apr 17, 2012 #
Stretching 50:00 [1]
(rest day)
A good stretch.
Note
Blister went all pusy on Monday, but seems to be healing fine now. Too much info I know, but perhaps a good lesson in when not to buy new shoes...