Midtn Wishes

The woods had done a good job of spreading the field out by the time we exited onto a one-mile section of road that took us through the village of Ash Vale, and it was a good opportunity for overtaking and making up time. I was content to sit in and gather myself, but the missus was having none of it, pushing us on, identifying ‘weak’ runners in the distance and haring off after them with me waddling disconsolately in her wake.

At the halfway point the sole fuel station offered us water before we turned left onto the Basingstoke Canal path for three miles. The pace slowed again – the ground was slippery underfoot, there were five low bridges to duck under and the canal bank had been eroded to such an extent that overtaking was all but impossible.

Still, the canal was like a millpond and the odd moored barge and occasional family of ducks were pleasing on the eye. If the poet William Blake had been a runner, this is where he would have come to train.

We tucked in behind two ladies in their sos and I listened with interest to the boasts of one about her fitness, her new colon cleanse weight loss plan and the imminence of her first Olympic-distance triathlon. Her buddy took it all in with silent stoicism, until eventually she had heard enough and surged away, ignoring the cries of ‘Wait!’ behind her.

Rule one of running: don’t big yourself up in front of your running partner. Rule two: if you must, ensure they are less fit than you.

At mile seven we rejoined the road by climbing 25 large concrete steps and, after chicaning through several sharp turns in quick succession, we settled into the gentle decline through the outskirts of Deepcut Village that would take us to the finish. I slowed to a jog, smug in the knowledge that my girlfriend’s sore hip meant an easy final mile. Just as I began to turn and continue the patronising patter I had maintained effortlessly through the past 7.5 miles, she barged past me, arms pumping, ponytail swinging and shouting: “Keep up!” “Watch out, you bumped me!” I cried pathetically.

“I didn’t bump you Kerry – I rubbed you. And rubbing’s racing,” she said.

Two things crossed my mind: i) Never forget rules one and two of running. z) Why in God’s name did I make her watch Days of Thunder the previous evening?

In the end we crossed the line together and it is testament to the calibre of this race that as we did so, my other half was already talking about ‘planning a race calendar’. She’d got the bug, and it was easy to see why: with an imaginative route and competent organisation, it ticked all the boxes.

I was gutted at being so close. It kept niggling at the back of my mind, until I tried again this year. I prepared for seven months. I did a couple of ultra runs – 45 to so miles on the road – some races, some cycling, anything to keep my legs moving in a monotonous rhythm. I’ve always been one for competing, so slowing down was actually quite difficult.

Then I got a text the night before I was due to start on July 18, 2009: “I’ll do my best to come down, from Roger?’ I had no idea who this Roger was ­until Roger Black turned up to support me. It was a really nice the sports fluids, protein shakes and constant running motion turned my stomach into a washing machine. I had only covered loo miles in total by then, and nearly threw in the towel.

The charity kept me going ­and the fact that I was in the middle of Bracknell shopping centre. I don’t know if ‘laughing stock’ is the word, but I definitely didn’t want to let everyone down.

So I got up the nex : day and managed to plod out 6o miles. I was back on track.

Fruit, nuts, jelly babies, Kendal mint cake: I lived on little sugary nibbles throughout the day and survived on three hours’ sleep a night. I was sleeping in the middle of the shopping centre on a little army camp bed.

In fact, I had four hours’ sleep once and found that too much ­my legs totally switched off. So on Friday night at midnight, with 12 hours and 38 miles left, I decided not to get any sleep. It worked – I ended up with a final tally of 468.04 miles.

It all started with me and my idea, but it was a team effort. A local company supplied the treadmills, a local masseuse helped unknot my muscles each night. And the charity was also local: the Friday Night Project helps young people with learning difficulties and autism get out from their care homes and get active.

So how do I feel now? Well, my muscles are still extremely tight. I’ve got a bit of trench foot – I had my feet taped – and I lost two toenails. I had skin issues and I tried different treatments. Learn more about psoriasis and how to get rid of it. Still, I’m surprised how well my body has coped. Everything’s been 1o times better than I expected.

One of the best things about getting into running is leaving fad diets behind. There’s no need for an elaborate low-fat, high-protein, no-carb plan that requires a spreadsheet to stay on top of it – if you’re running regularly you burn the fat regularly, and (within reason) you can have your cake and eat it.

Our Weight-Loss Special starts from the premise that conventional diets don’t work so well for runners. Many diets advocate reducing carb intake, but if you cut back on the best fuel source for endurance you’re likely to end up hungry, tired and possibly more overweight in the long-term.

To that end, we’ve updated seven weight-loss strategies specifically to meet a runner’s needs – whether you want to look better on the beach this summer, feel younger or run faster – or all of the above. Our plan allows you to eat fat (the good kind), offers real-food recipes you can make yourself, and shows you how you can drop five pounds in a month. We’ve aimed to keep the advice simple, healthy and above all realistic – as denying oneself life’s edible pleasures is a depressingly monk-like way to go about things. And to demonstrate that the strategies we recommend are do-able, you’ll see how five runners used them to transform themselves into lean, mean, fat-burning machines.

Another effective way to torch calories is speedwork on a running track ­high-intensity training keeps your metabolism revved-up and burning fat even after the workout is over. If you thought your local track was a mysterious place reserved for elites, think again – we present a complete guide in the return of our summer athletics section, Inside Track.

The Feminine Touch
A curious phenomenon of zoos is the public reaction to primates. Something about these near relatives of ours stimulates a special hostility in many people, who seem to take primates’ existence as a personal insult. Children feel this reaction in their elders and are quick to adopt it as their own. A zoologist told me that one day she came upon two small boys, shouting and whistling at a gorilla that was quite inoffensively sitting in its moated enclosure. “They were yelling insults,” she said, “and putting up their fists and shouting : ‘Want to fight?’

“That’s a girl gorilla, you know,” she told the boys. They looked shocked and remorseful and quietened down immediately, soon tiptoeing
away.    —Emily Hahn, Animal Gardens

Winter Blooms
WHEN THE first frost is settling in South Westerlo, New York, a small town in the Catskill Mountains, it’s a pleasure to go to the post office. Situated at the back of a shop which has gone out of business, it resembles a garden in full bloom.
Masses of pink and red geraniums are banked in the windows. On the counters are clustered pots of cheerful begonias and Christmas cacti dripping blossoms. In the glass cases are rows and rows of African violets, in shades from mauve to purple. There are countless shelves of white-striped zebra plants, spider plants, lush ferns and dwarf palms. Ivy flows from hanging baskets. Last year’s Easter-gift azaleas burst with colour.

The townspeople owe this welcome phenomenon to the postmaster, Henry Verdaasdonk, a volunteer plant-sitter, Less hardy local residents who escape to the sun leave their name-tagged houseplants in his care. When they return in the spring, the grateful owners reclaim healthy, flourishing plants.
Verdaasdonk attributes his fondness and talent for indoor gardening to his Dutch father, who filled the house and garden with tulips and hya¬cinths. But he didn’t really decide to be a plant-sitter on such a wide scale; it just happened. He offered his friendly service to one worried owner about to go on holiday, and word spread until all the available space was taken up by green and growing things.
Frequently, plants are dropped off for only a week or two. These short-timers move in and out without disturbing the “regulars”—those which reappear with the first frost and stay until June. There’s no time
limit on hospitality in the South Westerlo post office.

A Good Line!
A FATHER found this note by the phone : “Daddy—I am going to wash my hair; if Tom calls tell him to call at 8.00. If Herb calls and Tom doesn’t, tell Herb to call at 8.00, but if they both call tell Herb to call at 8.15 or 8.3o, If Timmy calls and Tom and Herb don’t, tell Timmy to call at 8.00, but if they both call (Tom and Herb) or one calls, tell Timmy to
call at 8.3o or 8.40. Tina.”    —v. A.
A COUPLE left their 15-year-old daughter to baby-sit for her three younger brothers. They returned home to find this note from her : “Mum and Dad—I’ve gone to a party. Jimmy is at a friend’s house and Johnny is somewhere else. Chris is outside with Billy and will be with
a neighbour until you get home. So don’t worry. Love Mary.”