Pac Man

Posted: 04/12/2012 in Uncategorized

It wasn’t freezing tonight, which seemed as good an excuse for a run as any, so off I went. Buoyed by my session on the hills at Tynemouth on Friday, I figured a return trip was in order.

Off along the coast, and it was less cold than I expected, and the decision to avoid a waterproof seemed like a good one. Because I’m up for something a bit different, and because I’m theoretically in training now for The Wall in June, I strapped on an OMM Last Drop ten litre pack with a water bladder in it and about a litre of water. The run along to Tynemouth was pretty good – my legs were feeling groovy and I covered the couple of miles in under 20 minutes.

The hills. The hills, the hills, the hills. They were waiting for me in Tynemouth main square, and I piled down them willy-nilly. As I’m not a total muffin, I’d taken a head torch for the bottom bit, where I couldn’t remember there being any lights. Quite right too, and it lit up the path the the riverside nicely. I shocked a cyclist at the bottom – not on purpose, I wouldn’t do that, obviously, but cyclists are often easily startled. I did my usual “hello”, which would elicit a return greeting from another runner, and in fact already had on the way over. Cyclists are a different breed, I suspect, and this one grunted.

Down to the bottom, turn around and back up on first ascent. All good, and I was feeling strong. Reached the top, turned around and back down again.

Why is it that running downhill makes me want to go to the toilet? Flat and uphill are both fine, but there’s something about downhill that makes me want to wee. It’s odd. Actually, it’s unsettling. Is it a gravity thing? Is it my form wen running downhill? Is it an act of God? WHo knows, but it’s very strange. Does anyone else get that?

Back to the bottom, passed another couple of cyclists with a cheery “hello” and was rewarded with another brace of grunts. Maybe it’s because they’re pushing a few kilos of iron uphill and they’re not feeling cheery? I suspect that cyclists just generally need a hug. Maybe I’l try it next time, though it may end in disaster, so maybe not.

Turned around and back up again. Still feeling pretty chipper. Got to the top, back to the bottom and turned around. Back to the top, still feeling fine rather than knackered as I felt on Friday. What to do? With the certain knowledge that my (veggie) sausage and mash would be getting cold at home I figured I could fit in one more set and then head home.

Down, down, down, and to the bottom. Cue one more cyclist and another “hello” rewarded with another grunt. Maybe a tickle would cheer them up, or a quick massage, perhaps their shoulders are sore?

Or drugs?

Turn around and back up for the fourth time, and arrived back at the top. Still feeling miraculously fresh, and I headed home at what felt like a decent clip.

I hadn’t even noticed the pack with the water on my back – that was a bit of a shocker, I expected to feel weighed down, so good news for preparation for The Wall.

Back home and I’d covered six and a half miles in an hour and seven minutes, including four sets of the hills and four moody cyclists.

All is good.


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