This April I ran a marathon. Next April, all going well, I’m going to have a baby. While that last hilly stretch of Connemara was murder, I can imagine that childbirth (good old natural style Dutch childbirth at that) will pip it at the pain post. But yeah, April is going a be a big big month for me next year.

So, being pregnant is pretty predictable and unpredictable at the same time. I kept running the first few weeks in and then that tidal wave of tiredness took hold and that was that. 10 weeks later, I emerged at the other side of trimester with a little more energy and a expanding waistline. Sport now counts as stairs and swimming. The steps at my local train stations are what 10km used to feel like, I’m out of breath at the top and a little proud every time I choose the steps over the escalator. I feel like proclaiming to those escalator users – “hah!!! see I’m pregnant and I took the stairs now hand me my medal and feel ashamed of yourselves” (p.s I take the escalator in the morning so this is my  Jekyll and Hyde behavior at it’s best)

I had the idea in my head that I could keep my activity levels up to pre-preg. levels,  but over the last few weeks I learned that being pregnant really does mean listening to your body, and I’ve done what I’ve felt I’m able to. I’d like to get to twice a week swimming but the frosty evenings are making the warmth of home harder to leave after a long day’s work. So the perennial battle between being active and lazy continues.

I also try to remind myself though that while I don’t feel like I’m “doing” much, my body is doing all sorts of amazing things to accommodate the little person growing inside. I’ve begun to understand that it takes 9 months to make a little person, it also takes 9 months to really comprehend that it is all REALLY happening.

With pregnancy putting running on hold for now, I hoped that wouldn’t mean that my blog wouldn’t suffer a similar fate. Almost every mother I’ve spoken to has advised me to enjoy this time, to enjoy this totally insane thing that is happening to me and thought such things can also be put down here for my own record and the pleasure of those interested enough to read. I’ll also be sharing my general ramblings on all things running as usual.

Standby for the next post.

Running is going slowly and I’ve managed to be patient enough with myself to still just keep doing it- barely. It’s been surprisingly  hard not running at times though. I’m envious to see The Man return from very long runs on the weekend with a red, salty face and enjoy his hour long baths followed up with massive dinners. He’s gone on with running – aiming for a pb in Amsterdam Marathon. I find myself somewhere else.

I am doing things though. I gave my half marathon place to my boss today- both a relief and a gift of sorts. I’ve become a facilitator, organising our business teams for the 8km and Half Marathon. It’s actually quite nice to help make the day for people. We’re already wondering what will be the next big day out for us all as a team.

There is one race on the horizon for me though, the Dam tot Dam Loop, one of the most popular races in Holland and 16km is still manageable for me. I’ll be running with business team with the Man who has promised to take the gas off for the day and run for fun with me.

I’ve been reading my blogroll the past few days, guilt had kept me away for a while, and I realised that lots of others are also trying to get themselves out of slumps and doing their best to just put down one k after another. It was quite a comfort.  Our running lives are full of highs and lows and all we can do is to just keep going, one k at a time.  Ron Teunisse says it best for me. You’ll get the idea on Google Translate.

Praten

Soms word ik gek van ‘praten’. Overal wordt

gepraat, overlegd, gediscussieerd.

Een overdaad aan zogenaamde sociale contacten.

We moeten alles bespreken, begrijpen, uiten.

Wij lopers zijn bevoorrecht. Het maakt niet uit

hoe snel, hoe goed, hoe ver we gaan: we zijn

onderweg. We hebben allemaal ons eigen

verhaal, onze eigen fantasieën. We laten het

geklets en gezeur achter ons en gaan op ons

doel af. Geen uitleg, geen tegenspraak, geen

misverstand.

Ron Teunisse.

Here’s the log:

Sunday 26th June: 9.6km 01:00:35

Monday 27th June: 5km 00:34:12

Wed 29th June: 8.4km 00:50:42

Fri 1st July: 5km 00:29:37

Sun 3rd July: 8.1km 00:48:01

Tue 5th July: 5km 00:35:15

Mon 11th July: 5.4km 00:33:54 (In Amagasaki, Japan)

Wed 13th July:  9.6km 01:05:11 ( In Amagasaki, Japan)

Tue 19th July: 5km 00:33:21  (start of holidays)

Sat 23rd July: 5.2km 00:34:10 (In Switerzerland )

Mon 25th July: 11.7km hike in mountains 03:33:12 (In Switzerland)

Thurs 28th July: 17km cycle around lake 01:31:08 (In Switzerland)

Sun 31st July: 12km 01:10:57

Tue 2nd Aug: 5km 00:34:24

Sun 7th Aug: 8.4 00:44:39

Sat 20th Aug: 5km 00:35:23

Sun 21st Aug: 12km 01:05:46

Wed 24th Aug: 5km 00:34:34

and a few more that I need to properly log.

New industry is not really the same. The buildings are places nobody wants to live next nevermind live in. One good example is the Zor oil refinery- I always pass it on my 8km loop. It’s not a super scale refinery but a small one, which has a road passing through the middle of it. Zor has a very menacing place.

The first thing that hits me is the smell. The smell reaches down your throat and seeps into your insides.  The roads around the refinery are stained black, like it’s trying to go back into the ground it was taken out of.  Sometimes, I  see workers enter and leave the building when I pass, all in protective clothing head to toe-  stopping the oil from seeping into them. They must never get the smell off though. Wives fall asleep next to that smell.

The oil refined at Zor is used in cosmetics, food and pharmaceuticals. I don’t look at butter, my make-up and a bunch of other things the same way thanks to that place.

Running takes me to Zor for no other reason other than the road that passes through it. It’s surprising what you find in these places that are not meant to be visited. They’re not beautiful or inspiring, but they are confronting, uncomfortable and thought-provoking.

The simple need to make kilometers, to clock the distance, takes me on journeys and once in a while, there is a discovery, a clearing in forest and I never know what the next one will look like or behind which bend it lies. All that and I still only ran 8km! It’s not about the total distance it’s about paying attention during the run and where it’s taking you. The longer it is of course the bigger the adventure.

It all calls me back to that statement by Jan Knippenberg:

“lopen is geen sport maar een manier van reizen”

(running is not a sport but a means of travelling).

Running round -up

Distance: 8.3km

Time: 46:34

Shoe: GEL-NOOSA TRI 5

But it’s in pink. It’s a Barbie Tsunami and I’m taking a moment to rant.

There are reasons for pink in running, the most obvious being that lots of “women’s runs” are breast cancer fundraisers and so that means pink ribbon- but the ribbon got out of control and you get, free pink t-shirts, strongly pink running clothes and shoes, pink websites and before you know you can’t call it “for women” unless it’s pink. Have a look:

Now, you’ll see that even some of my own work (AYAMi tank top product page) is implicated here so I’m as guilty as anyone, but why does women’s have to mean pink? We’ve grown up right? Perhaps we swallowed the whole pink thing when we were little girls, told to be a ” good  little girl”, our parents bought us presents from the pink aisle of the toystore (as we walked longingly past the distinctly boyish lego section) and now grow up buying pink tops and pink bras just in case we forget what we are.

Strangely enough the women’s run we’ve come to know in the media is nearly always “for ” something or someone else other than the women involved. It’s for sick people, moms, dads, kids, the elderly, the homeless and a worldfull of illnesses women doing things for other people -again. Sometimes I wonder if a run is something even a woman can have for herself? Do women need to define themselves constantly by what they do for others?

I’m a believer that if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll soon not be much help to those around you, you’ll be washed up and worn out. Running is one of the best ways I’ve found  to stay strong, stay sane and create space in my life, I’m slow to hand it over and put it under a banner because it’s one of the things in life that I truly make my own.

Running world- races, brands, charities and designers let’s resist the urge and try to go beyond the pink next time, because running for women means a lot more than a single color can say.

Leave it to the ribbon to bring the pink.

And since I’m on it, let’s have another kind of Pink on here…

So today I started with a 5km slow run around our usual Zaandam route. I felt heavy and a little tired, not surprising since I spent last week at an ASICS sales conference in Spain, and though there was plenty of sport ( I even made it home with gold medal) there was also a quantity of alcohol consumed in the company of my colleagues; they take their sport seriously but they know a thing or two about partying too.

So, wish me luck, this is a girl getting back on track.

Running Round Up:

GEL Noosa Tri 5

Distance: 5km

Time: 34 mins

The race was great, if you haven’t heard we ran 04:11:20 a twenty minute improvement on our New York Marathon of 2009. My ASICS worked really well for us, and despite feeling ill the day before, and bit a struggle for me in the first half, we finished strong and happy.

After an hour bus journey (spent eating) to the start we stepped out into the wild west. We were among the first to arrive, accompanied by Germans and spattering of other timely nations across Europe and a few Irish. We sat on a mossy ditch and tried to keep warm and enjoyed the stunning view of  Twelve Bens rising up over Lake Inagh into the clouds.

There was no starting line yet, just an A3 sign on a stick saying “Start Connemara Marathon”. Yes, we are in Connemara. It’s low tech, low fuss and super friendly. The Germans went up and took turns having their photo with the sign- some excellent return on investment for race director “Ray” on that front.

The excitement built as morning drew on people went through those same rituals I witnessed in New York: tubs of vaseline, Deep Heat, watch calibration, lace tightening, the perpetual fiddling with shoes, bibs and all manner of things.  I was surprised by the European/American  mix of people- how had they even found out about this little race? Running adventurers, seeking out exotic places to do their next 42, and it was their “next”-  their legs had years of long runs.

In the midst of it all in a growing crowd Ray tried to avoid having any runners getting run over by a buses and ambulances while waiting for the off, “Lads, will ye keep in out of the road! There’s a bus trying to pass!” People would reluctantly move,  the growing line for the port-a-los would step away so as not to lose place and cheat death by a half inch.

We got ready to start  10am but before we set off, we had one of the best moments of the day. Before the marathon start, they wanted to let the Ultra marathon leaders to run past, so as not to be hindered by the slower marathoners. We all moved over a meter or so, and then they came, fast and smiling a small group of runners  went by and a huge cheer went up, whistles, clapping, people leaned and arched their necks to catch a glimpse of them go by.  I thought  to myself – you are heroes.  Fearless and smiling into that distance. I was stunned they were going so fast.

A few more came by,  some alone, more applause and support, it was incredible. I was touched by this moment which wasn’t orchestrated, no speakers, no cheer leaders.  What could have been a better start? I was so happy to see Ultras get this support, not the usual shaking of heads and calling them crazy but respecting them and cheering them on deservingly. How could I not be inspired to run my best, they were taking on 60 kilometers I could surely do 42!

We started and my sickness took it’s toll on me at the start, uphills and downhills put pressure on the lungs that were just getting by. The Man pushed me on, pushing the pace and not letting me make excuses. As the miles went by I settled down to running and enjoyed it more. Water stops came every 3 miles and indeed with mile markers I didn’t count the kilometers any more. I just ran. The crowd thinned out and somtimes it was like we were on one of long runs.

The course was so varied it kept every kilometer interestring, we never knew what was around the next bend, uphill or downhill, bridges, crossroads, pubs and people out clapping for us. The first turn was at Kylemore on the 6 mile mark and a  with a sharp right up a hill and then later we had the slope down along Killiary Harbor and on into Leenane to ease the legs. The turn up and out of Leenane was torture and at that moment runners we greeted by U2 in Macnas style street performance outfits at exactly the half way point.  The Edge gave me a high five. They were playing “Stuck in a moment”, which may not be the most helpful song for someone stuggling at the half way point, but took my mind off the hill and that was the whole point I guess.

For me, things got easier as time went on though I was happy to have brought extra gels and a few sachets of sugar (a trick from Ron Teunisse) to keep me going.  As we dragged up the hill after Leenane, the Devils Mother  rising up on the left we set out into the second half.

I have less sharp memories of that part of the race, it was easier to run though. At one point we came around a bend and the landscape opened out in front of us and then the wind brought a abelt of drizzle into our faces. I  dont remember panicking, just thinking “well, what did you expect in Ireland?!” As I’ve had before, the drizzle was almost nice, cooling us and putting a new perspective on things.

We chatted with people, we passed them they passed us. As the race progressed we started to play our usual game of  choosing a runner up ahead and focusing on catching them. Each one you catch is a victory and then it’s one to the next one. It’s a rewarding way to run through tiredness and your mind feels reassured. One thing with this game is that there is always one irritating person who keeps speeding up and passing you out again and you have to take them again, and that can be a no win.

As we ran on, we saw what they call the Hell of the West come into view, a very very long hill stretching up and out of view. We stuck to our game but after a while, we realised that everyone was walking. I hate walkers.  I will say it plainly but I was actually angry at people at this stage, they were marathon and half marathon RUNNERS and they were all walking, a few ultras manged to run on. We always see walking as the total last resort and I would rather stop than walk.

The Man had coached me through my tough first half and now he was finding it hard to put up with running through walkers. I tried to keep us going. This is when you need inward focus, where you have to disregard what everyone else is doing and just keep going. Blinkers on, we just ran. I thought of all the Ron Teunissse stories, the Knippenburg stories, the pure determination, the need for strength that it’s not in your legs- it’s in your head.  I told The Man – “Ron wouldn’t stop now-would he?” Stop now and you’re dead.

The Hell of the West levelled out after what felt like years, but I always imagined that the finish line was at the top of the hill. You can imagine my disappointment when I saw the road stretched out into the distance, the finish not even in sight. Well, we’d have to get home so the only thing to do was run.

The finish did appear and we crossed the line in 04:11:20, exactly the same time for both of us. We got our medals- a beautiful one- and then wandered into the usual post race pandemonium. I kid you not, Irish people were queuing for BURGERS after the race,- my stomach turned.  Some people just needed a burger I guess. We got a our baggage back and then ensud the nightmare bus ride back to Galway. A bus after a race is never a good idea and after 20min we both sat there with one empty baggage bag emptied and ready for what was ever left in our stomachs. Imagine? You run 42km and it’s the kilometers in the bus that get the better of you.

We made it Galway with our stomachs intact, thought with thoroughly green faces. Text messages and phone calls made, trying to explain how it went, the message never quite getting across. You realise that people can’t really understand unless they’ve been there and it was just us.

Ray and his team of volunteers put on the Connemara Marathon. The water stations were perfectly staffed by teenagers and children showing that young people can be incredibly supportive, responsible and uplifting. Everything happened on time and as it should.

There is no cut off time at this race, Ray waits himself to give the medals to the last runners over the line, they receive the same honor and congratulation as  those who win the race. For the days after, every plastic bottle cast aside on the day is picked up and recycled. This is a race that respects it’s runner’s and it’s route. It’s not the biggest race, not the most spectacular. You won’t spot any celebs or high profile running stars. It’s full of ordinary people who do extraordinary things with their lives. I still don’t even not who won.

Running this race was good for me physically but it goes  much further than that. Have a look at the photos on flickr and you’ll see that the memories will probably never fade. I know mine won’t.

 Visit the Connemara Marathon Flickr group: Bill is was the last finisher,  Ray is the race director

The show is about cycling, about this sport. But for me the cycling was quite irrelevant in many ways, it was the sport in question it supplied  the props, the sounds, the details of the story, but the the themes followed are ones to be found in almost every sport. I realised that these stories play out in running in wonderfully similar ways.

All the stories were there, starting with that instrument of sport-the body. Wilfried introduced himself in dramatic, yet typically Dutch fashion, naked upon the stage, bicycle wheel in hand as he appears on the cover of his book. (just ordered on bol.com).

He started with high drama and  never relented, it went on and on just like cycling, the pace never dropped, it just intensified as the night went on. His words, and dramatic performance were carried by Ocobar his three piece band featuring drums, bass and guitar, he himself playing double bass when he had the moment spilling jazz and funk into this sporting odyssy. The vocals, the bikes themselves on stage and music were coupled with perfectly edited film clips bringing to life life his descriptions, and in some segments telling the story all by themselves.

We were confronted with the friendships built on sport with character of Jan Jansen, that guy who is an unlikely sporting companion, a pain maybe,  who invites you for a ride and plays the tune of the old broken man but then on the day licks the competition and acts surprised. We all know one. We know their tricks and tenacity.  We’ve all been beaten by a Jan.

We were sobered by the story of Marco Pantani, Wilfired’s hero, his fallen idol. Pantani’s cycling success  elevated him to god like status and fame, and in the end Pantani decided that he was just too mortal to bear the fame he was bestowed. Wilfried shook us with the real and powerful grip sport can have on a life.

He re-created the specatacle of sport, how a cycling race can transform the most dull, unimportnat little place into the centre of the universe, even if it’s just for the seconds the peleton passes through it. Have a look at Munkzwalm.

We ventured into the most imtimate and painful realities of cycling with the rendition of a song called the Derde Bal, which had a chorus of “smeren smeren smeren” which I couldn’t get out of my head today. Smeren trainslates as “rub in” , in this case the necessary ointment to treat saddle sores, in the song I think he likened one to a volcano…he may have scared me off cycling for life.

Towards the end we were told one of his  personal stories through a movie. We saw a cyclist face up to his own age and mortality, showing us that he is the type of man who chooses to climb Mont Ventoux on his 50th birthday.  Not only that, but he would do the climb being filmed by his 7 year old son from a car alongside the whole way up. That story, perhaps the most touching, was how sport became his language to say- here I am, this is what your father is, this is what he does, this is what he loves most along with you. Woven into the scenes we sensed hope for his son to take to cycling and wishing him a lifetime love affair with it as he has led.

In hoping to hand over this love cycling, his love of sport, he points to the time when a brithday will not bring a mountain and that he is destined to become slower and slower, that the slope will become too steep and there will be an end. “En zo verdijnt hij in de mist” (And then he is lost in the mist).

Sport can be a legacy, but it’s one that children can only choose to accept and one we cannot force. Sport is great because it’s always a choice.

But it was not all so serious, one of my favorite moments in the show was his slapstick portrayal of a man in his garage repairing a lekke band (flat tyre). He is desperately trying to find the tiny hole that’s leaving the air out and finds a very creative way to discern the location of the offending gap. Think of  an x-rated Charlie Chaplin. I laughed and laughed.

On the way home to Zaandam in the train, I thought about Jan Knippenburg again, and that line, that running is not sport but art…

“Lopen is geen sport, maar en manier van reizen, waarbij geest en lichaam zich voortdurend verplaatsen. Lopen is daarom kunst en geen middel ter bestrijding van welvaartskwaaltjes.”

…I’m not sure if it’s true but sport can become art, it can be translated, the sound of it can be amplified. Maybe the art is there already but it’s so fleeting and so hidden in our daily experience that nearly all of us miss it. Last night, we caught a glimpse of it.

All I can say is that the I could not applaud enough. In fact,  I despised the audience for the miserly two sets of applause they offered these artists. The whole performance deserves at least a trip up a mountain in praise. Hats off gentlemen.

We reached Heiloo station 2 hours and 40mins later, wondering why the hell it took us so long, and we  really hoped that somewhere along the way we ran at least 3 or 4km extra. We were lost in the forest at the start for a while but since my running watch is on the blink, and I’m being lazy about stats these days I didn’t mind. Out of curiosity I had RunKeeper on for a bit but it couldn’t find a GPS signal and just kept miscalculating distances and paces. That RunKeeper lady spoke to us from my pocket every five minutes “25 minutes- distance: 35 kilometers….just like  a female HAL 9000, out of it’s mind and making stuff up hoping we wouldn’t notice. It was funny for a while and then I turned her off.

We probably did run extra slow, because we were extra tired, extra wet and  extra cold. I  don’t actually care how far we ran.In the end we just ran from one place to another, simple as that. The point was to run a long time, and we did that.

We met this character a along the way….

I’ve tried to capture the “really? why? why do you people come here in this weather…” look that he gave us. Though I might be projecting. It was lovely to see though, the rain drops were all sitting on his coat of dark red hair which had gone all wavy in the moisture.

Cattle really are as dumb as they look. This one could scratch it’s back with it’s horns though and that’s nothing to laugh at. The Man was quite amazed at that. It’s also the kind of creature that makes you instinctively afraid if you come within 50 meters of it. A typical farm kid frame of mind. Farm kids learn that everything is potentially lethal if you approach it the wrong way. A great way to grow up. You also learn that anything worth doing must have some lethal element in it. Wouldn’t be worth doing otherwise.

I kept looking a back as we were running away to make sure it didn’t feel the urge to chase us. Just like old runner dudes in the dunes, they have strengths you don’t know about.

Again it was a run in wind, mist and rain, all reminding me of Austin Clarke:

Brightness was drenching through the branches
When she wandered again,
Turning sliver out of dark grasses
Where the skylark had lain,
And her voice coming softly over the meadow
Was the mist becoming rain.

Running Round-up:

After substantial discussion beforehand we decided to run from Wormermeer back home to Zaandam, around 15km. The Man forget to bring the few notes he had written to make sure we made the right turns. We thought of it as we walked to our station, but oh we were confident, we didn’t need those notes, we’d be fine!

We got to Wormerweer, and it was much like any other small Dutch town. It looked tired in the drizzle, huge factory buildings from the late 18th and early 20th century sadly stared at their reflections in the Zaan. All testament to the exotic tastes of a colonial power: cocoa, rice, spices etc.

We wanted to run through the Zaanse Schans, and all its famous windmills but as  we made our way through the industrial by-roads  the mist descended. When we reached the polder the light wind gathered strength across that lonesome landscape. This is the real polder, it blows right through you.

Getting lost only takes one wrong turn and we made that turn pretty early on. We ended up running out on a polder but no windmills in sight, only polder and that white strip of water in between each piece of ground, the drizzle and fog pressed down on us, leaving dark outlines of farmhouses in the distance, a few horses standing still in the wet grass, one in the corner eating hay from the muddy ground. How horrible must wet hay be to eat?

We ran on a small road, occasionally passed by cars driving too fast. ( ja, nou,  maar ze mogen daar zestig hoor!) The odd scooter with teenagers making their way to somewhere more exciting than Wormerveer. At times, there was only the sound of the wind, ducks and now and then the drone of airplane engines far above us in all that mist and cloud, probably in the sun. Yeah, the sun was still up there somewhere.

We passed a huge riding school and came to a bridge, not having a clue which road to take. We took the smaller path. More traffic now, big cars, I couldn’t help but think of the lucky kids being dropped off for riding lessons. We ran past the stables, below us on a polder field, a line of stable doors punctuated by bobbing pony heads poking in and out, making sure it was still wet out so they could really enjoy the warmth of  a stable.  A life of luxury compared to the sad group we saw earlier.

We followed the path for another while which brought us out to a four way junction and a main road. That was it, the polder was gone, the houses started, we didn’t know where to go, how to get home. Then the argument started. People looked at us from their cars, wiping circles in the windows:  zij: “oh, kijk , ze zijn verdwaald”, hij: “het is toch geen weer om te lopen”.

We consulted my iphone with it’s notorioulsy unreliable maps, giving us an idea where we were.  In the end we just followed the signs to take us back to Jagersveld, a place we know from weekly runs.  Back on the known path, tempers simmered down, we munched on supplies we brought with us and eventualy arrived home damp and tired.

Some might say it was a disaster, how such an experience could be called be exciting, pleasant or even fun. It’s a hard one to explain in response to those Monday morning enquiries about the weekend.

It wasn’t exciting, pleasant or fun, it was just the choice to share running, to go somewhere and to go together. To share the view and not have to talk all the time, consume, spend or do anything but just pass the kilometers.

We love to run, but the course of true love never did run smooth.

We raced on Sunday in Apeldoorn 18.5km for the Apeldoorn Midwinter Marathon. We ran the first 10km as a training run, just jogging along really not doing much, enjoying the view of Dutch woodland in the winter, and at 10km, we decided to go for it and do a 8km at a fast pace.  We crossed the line in 01:43:22. Pretty darn quick for a race- that we didn’t really race.

That last 8km was just a fast 8km, like what we’ve been doing the last weeks in MyASICS and the 10km wasn’t tough either so all in all it was a good day. I did push myself in the 8km, curious to see how quick I could do it, but I wasn’t dying.  A few minutes after finished we were fine again and up for beers and bitterballen with the rest of the gang who had come along for the day out.

It’s all a little surprising this new way of training, it seems easier but gives more back, even though I am running more days a week than I ever have before. Running has become easier and I’m really happy about that.

At the moment I’m reading De Mens als duurloper ( Man as endurance runner) by Jan Knippenberg, in Dutch. It’s a deep and tough read in Dutch, but worth it. He hardly says anything worthless, silly or what I feel is uninteresting. I also like his writing because it’s passionate, he’s angry, he names his enemies and counts their flaws. I’m very interested in people who have the guts to say – I think you’re wrong there, totally and utterly wrong. What is life without an argument?

As the Dutch would say Jan illustrates his problems around the modern marathon, he rages against the populist nature of marathon, that it’s taken on by far too many far too lightly and for all the wrong reasons, he feels  marathon has won a fame over other distances which it doesn’t deserve , that those who cringe, gasp and crawl their way through 42km don’t deserve the honor of marathon, since they have not run it, not in the sense of what he calls running. He is not looking down on those “runners” he merely thinks running implies a level of comfort and harmony that many of those runners never exhibit.

It’s a harsh point of view, but the ease of running is something to think about. That 18.5km the last day was probably the best race I ever had, not because of the venue, the distance or even the time. It was the way it was run. It was run with control, with a sense of pace and in the end I enjoyed it- it was really running, not trying to run.

I really want my running to feel like this as much as possible. Here is what I’ve been  doing that last few days: