Why I won't be setting a running goal in 2021

This December 31st, we didn't so much welcome in the new year as kick the old one firmly up the arse and shove it out the door. As years go, 2020 was an absolute stinker for us all. At its very worst it tore families apart and irreparably damaged lives, it stopped us from working - or transformed us into muted Zoom zombies - and, although minor in comparison, it wiped the running calendar clean for us all. Which is exactly why I am refusing to set myself any kind of a running goal for 2021.

I was lucky. My family and I have so far managed to steer clear of coronavirus, I have remained in work throughout the pandemic and we do not live in a town overrun with covidiots. Nevertheless, 2020 took its toll in other ways. It provided unexpected challenges in the form of home schooling (an experience that reaffirmed my decision not to pursue a career in teaching), it redefined the term 'social life' to mean 'waving at neighbours once a week while banging saucepans in the street' and it brought the cancellation of organised running events across the land.

Early on in the year, as it became clear that I would not be taking part in any races and that 'mass participation' would mean a socially-distanced run with three or four club mates, if I was lucky, I set myself the goal of reaching 1,000 miles by the end of 2020. I had achieved this the preceding year and was fairly confident I could do so again, but with 250KM to go I picked up an injury that ruled me out for two months and brought a very 2020 end to my running year.

However, failing to reach my running target has given me time to think about the whole concept of setting targets in the first place. Why do we do it? Whether it's to complete a set distance, to take part in a particular number of races or to beat the benchmark Strava figures from the preceding year, all we're actually doing is applying pressure to ourselves. Yes, goals can be motivating, but at the same time they can become all consuming and take your focus away from the reason why you're running in the first place.

This is why I've decided to be utterly ambitionless in 2021 when it comes to running. The past year has shown us just how unpredictable life can be, so I'm looking forward to going into the next one with no goal in mind. Whatever I achieve will be a bonus, but my primary motivation is simply to enjoy my running again, to be thankful that I can run, to avoid injuries and see where the roads and trails take me.

I'm looking forward to running on my own during the lockdown times and with club friends once we're allowed to meet again. I'm going to run long or run short, depending on my mood, not on what any training plan or Strava statistics are telling me and I'm going to discover routes I've never run before on  runs where I have no distance or time in mind. 

So, good riddance 2020 and here's to a relaxed and enjoyable running year ahead. No pressure, no goals. Let's just see where the trails take us. 

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Running the Christmas light fantastic

Running in a 100% polyester Santa hat is like voluntarily placing your head in a blast furnace for 30 minutes. Having done exactly this yesterday (the hat, not the blast furnace), I can confirm that the material from which my festive headwear has been crafted boasts heat retaining properties that polar explorers would be delighted with. Unfortunately for me last night, however, it meant that the level of sweat pouring down my face was in no way reflective of the weather, or of the amount of effort I was putting into my run.

The occasion for my sweaty head run was an Under 11s Christmas lights jaunt around my home town. I have been helping out at the running club – which my son also attends – since picking up the injury that I have subsequently bored regular blog readers with for the past couple of months. As it was the last run of the year, festive adornments were obligatory and the chosen 5K route took in the best of the local lights.

Having not previously toured the area’s building-related Christmas extravagance, I was taken aback at the incredible array of lights, blow-up Santas, laser displays and rooftop reindeer that residents had selflessly put on, outside and atop their homes for local groups of touring children in high-viz vests to admire. It was like Christmas had exploded over the town.

The irony that 2020 has been such a dark and disappointing year was not lost on me as the children ooh’d and ahhh’d their way around the streets and side roads. Indeed, it was uplifting to see the effort that people had gone to in order to literally brighten up the abodes in which they had all presumably spent the vast majority of the year. Perhaps it’s because of a new found appreciation of home that folks are making an extra effort this year, either that or it’s because they’re so fed up with their surroundings that they’re doing everything they possibly can to disguise them as something else. Either way, if reflected across the rest of the country, the Christmas light industry has also presumably been one of the few to have had a bumper 2020.

Our run toured much of the town and, although stop-start for large periods as we passed homes with particularly impressive displays – including one with a giant inflatable Father Christmas in a helicopter (presumably having upgraded the sleigh) – it proved to be a rare moment of group-based joy in a year that has denied adults and children the opportunity to enjoy much together en masse.

No pantomimes, no school nativities, no carol singing, no concerts…our children have missed out on performing or taking part in  traditional Christmas activities this year. Parents have also missed out on the chance to squeeze themselves into child-sized seats in overcrowded school halls in order to shed a proud tear at their little ones’ heartfelt portrayal of Sheep No.4. The lack of PTA-funded, post-performance mincepie and mulled wine, meanwhile, hasn't helped either! 

So if you haven’t toured your local Christmas lights with your little ones yet, pick an evening when it’s not raining, wrap up warm if you’re walking – or choose your headwear carefully if you’re running – and turn a tour of your local neighbourhood’s Christmas lights into a festive highlight. Just remember to take your own mincepies.

Wishing you all a safe and happy Christmas.

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Why it's wrong to assume you'll always be able to run

Following an eight week layoff due to Achilles tendinopathy, I finally dug out the base layers this week, pulled on the compression socks, spent 10 minutes warming up, a further age foam rolling my calf, strapped on my trainers, locked on to a GPS signal and headed out the door. Five minutes later I’d finished my run.

I had spent more time going to the toilet beforehand but, nevertheless, the physio’s orders stated that my first rehab run was not to be any longer, so who was I to argue? The fact that I hadn’t broken a sweat made me wonder why I had bothered to get changed in the first place, but this was the first step on the road back to running, so jeans and chunky jumper didn’t seem quite right either.

The good news is that the Achilles held out and, as long as I allow 48 hours between runs and don’t increase the duration by more than 20% each time, I should be back on the trails before too long. However, this reintroduction to running has given me a fresh perspective on the activity I have taken for granted over so many years.

For as long as I can remember, if I have wanted to run, I’ve just got changed and gone. Of course, if I am honest with myself, on most occasions I haven’t bothered to warm up properly and at the end of 90% of runs I’ve swerved stretching in favour of a hot shower and something unhealthy to eat. I have never been an advert for running best practice.

Three years ago, cancer sharpened my focus in regards to looking after my body, but despite concerted efforts to improve my diet since, and at least mimic some kind of a warm up, I have still always just assumed that I would be able to run when I wanted to. My body may not always have been physically up for it, but my mental fitness would usually ensure that I got out of the door in order to at least work out the stresses of the day.

Thankfully my cancer was successfully treated, but as other survivors will likely know, six-monthly testing also puts an incredible mental strain on one’s wellbeing. My latest blood test earlier this week once again meant my wife and I were put through the ringer until the results came back - all clear, I am pleased to say. But not being able to run through it at my usual tempo has been tough and once again made me realise just how vital running has become to my mental health as well as my physical wellbeing.

At similar times over the last few years I’ve always coped with the worry of test results by pounding the pavements or hitting the trails to prevent me from dwelling on the possibility of bad news. Running has been the self-administered therapy I’ve relied on and, again, I have taken it for granted. Like the setting of the sun or Fulham Football Club’s perennial ability to disappoint, I have just assumed that it would never change.

This Achilles injury – while obviously not as serious as so many other common runners’ woes- has at the very least shown me that I can’t just assume that I’m always going to be able to head out the door whenever I want. I’m going to need to train properly if I want to ensure that I can run for the rest of my life and that means embracing all the things that I have so blatantly ignored to date: Warming up properly, stretching properly, occasional Pilates, yoga, cross-training, swimming and, perhaps most importantly, allowing myself enough rest time (I suspect a summer of five-runs-a-week may have literally been my Achilles heel). Much of this fills me with dread. In regards to flexibility, I am to bending what chocolate tea pots are to boiling water and, in terms of coordination in an exercise class scenario, I am the bloke at the back who's about 30 seconds behind the rest of the group. The thought, therefore, of dedicating time to stretching and mobility, in an effort to transform myself from Tin Man to Jane Fonda, scares me more than the thought of signing up for another marathon tomorrow.

However, the pile of Runner’s World magazines, websites and books that I’ve read all extoll the benefits of these and other routines to the average runner’s performance and longevity. So, if I want to get back to the track, trails and hills - and stay there for years to come - it looks like I’m going to have to downward dog my way to the future.

Namaste.

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The dangers of predicting December weather

Even despite the restrictions, there's something magical about this time of year; the decorations are up, the houses are festooned with lights, the kids are increasingly full of sugar and there's a general air of excitement as the advent countdown continues. In terms of running, however, the situation is slightly different.

 

To the casual observer the great outdoors is increasingly cold, wet, unforgiving and requiring of one’s ‘big coat’ at this time of year. Temperatures plummet like Donald Trump’s chances of scooping the award for 2020’s Most Dignified Loser of The Year and mobile phones across the land ping with assorted weather warnings for ice, snow, floods and gales. Those in Scotland, meanwhile, have even managed to trump the spectacle of a December snow storm by inventing an entirely new dramatic weather phenomenon of their own, thundersnow. 

 

All this may suggest to the humble runner that it is indeed time to dig out the base layers and spend Black Friday hunting for bargain thermal gloves and hats, all of which may now be needed before trainers are donned and GPS signal connected...right?

 

Wrong. This is a false dawn. December, it transpires, is a liar.

Glance out the window and the dark, grey, blustery conditions seem wholly uninviting. The neighbours are getting blown up the road as they take their reluctant dog for a walk, the rain-filled clouds are whipping across the sky at speed and the autumn leaves are being dashed against the glass. It looks bad.

 

Under such circumstances the runner does what any sensible person would do after peering through the curtains, he wraps up for the weather. Squeezing into running leggings, sliding on an Under Armour top and accessorising with hat and gloves, he heads out for his Sunday long run prepared for the arrival of the next ice age at some point over the following two hours. The thing is, it never arrives. In fact, by the time he gets to the end of the road he already realises he's made a terrible mistake, as I did this weekend.

 

Three minutes into my Sunday run and my head was already too hot. My hands, meanwhile, were enjoying the warmth, but in a 'this is nice, but not really necessary' kind of way, while my legs were embarrassed to be wrapped in glorified stockings.

 

Yes, it was cold and yes December is cold, but it's amazing how quickly one forgets that the act of running makes you hot. The appearance, five minutes further into my run, of a fellow runner in nothing more than shorts and t-shirt, only made matters worse.

 

"Morning," he said as we passed, the smug look in his eyes betraying his real thoughts; "what's this loon thinking, dressed up like we're in Siberia? He'll regret that!" And I was regretting it. I had the prospect of a further 17KM ahead of me, either overheating or having to carry my redundant hat and gloves, looking like a cross between an amateur athlete and a Victorian squire.

 

Damn you December!

 

So my advice to you all at the tail end of the year; look after the extremities (in my case gloves and a hat to keep my ears from freezing), but don't worry too much about the rest, unless you're in Scotland, in which case take a shovel and a week's rations with you, just in case.

 

[Adapted from a post first written in December 2018, when I wasn't injured and could run 17KM in the wrong kit!]

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