Retrospective

Ugh. A hefty cold strikes me down, and there's no chance I'm stepping out the door today.  Notably, it's 2 months since I started my little adventure, and pleasingly for a coder, it's 128 (2^7) days until race day.  Time for a retrospective.

What went well:

• Running - given that it's nearly 5 years since I last properly ran, I'm pleased to have gotten back into it so quickly, and be improving consistently.  Sometimes I even enjoy it.  Changing my stride to a mid-foot strike also seems to have helped me avoid the dreaded knee problems.
• Losing weight - maybe not as quickly as I might have expected, but I'm fairly close to a stone lighter than when I started.  Can't be bad. I've found healthy foods that I enjoy (getting slightly tired of salmon now though), and done well at avoiding office cakes.
• You - yes yes, it's a bit mushy, but my cockles have been well and truly warmed by the kind comments on just about everything - my ever decreasing waistline, blog posts, run and ride times. Some of you have patiently listened as I bore you with details of my latest swim or my running stride. Some of you have offered help and advice. In particular, my wife has been terribly patient. Thanks.

What didn't go well:

• Swimming - still no quicker.  I don't hate swimming per se, I just don't know how to improve. I'm now invoking my kids' swimming teacher to give me some coaching. But, good news! My new jammers arrived yesterday, which promise to take seconds off my lap time and make me look like a hunk.
• Training plan -  I don't really have a training plan, other than "train 5 days a week and try and go a bit further or faster than last time". I fear that sooner or later I will just plateau unless I add some structure.
• Time - finding time to exercise 5 days a week isn't quite as easy as it seems. I dare say sometimes I've abandoned other priorities in favour of getting out for a run or a ride.  On the plus side, I'm starting to fit running and riding into the working day a bit more. The slight upturn in the weather helps.

What have I learnt?

• Targets are good
• Spit in the googles is still the best anti-fog treatment
• I quite like (some) yoghurts

Here's to the next 128 days.

You should cut down on your pork life, mate

I am sitting in the bath. Slowly I lean forward, and I find that I can actually touch my toes. But that was just a dream, just a dream.

Ella wanders in to the bedroom and loudly announces that the sun is shining.  It is indeed - a perfect morning for a parkrun.  Five kilometres around Kings Park beckons.

The clear skies mean a bit of a chill in the air as everyone mingles at the side of the athletics track. I scan around for any familiar faces, but don't spot anyone, so I resort to scouting attire.  It's clear that in the future I'm going to have to invest in running tights and and long sleeve base layer if I'm to look the part.

At the start line, 166 runners line up.  On the hooter, everyone storms away.  It's easy to get carried away with the crowd, so I try to ignore what everyone else is doing and concentrate on finding my normal pace.  Before long, I'm at the third corner.  Across the far side of the park, the leaders are already streaking away and in danger of lapping the back markers.  I look behind, and estimate that I'm about 2/3rds of the way down the field, which seems about right having looked at previous results.

In front of me is a quartet of disparate runners.  An older gent, balding, white-haired, bright green jacket, looks quite comfortable, like he's been doing this a long time.  A mum, dark-haired bob, fluorescent orange top, is running with her daughter, who can't be much more than 7 years old, and is wearing the white "10 Parkruns" t-shirt that she was awarded just before the start of the race. Given that my kids complain at having to walk from the car to the swings, it's impressive.  Completing the four is a young woman, slim, clad in all black. Her ponytail bobs around behind her like a horse shooing flies. Somehow she's looks an oasis of calm, just floating along, and I suspect she could be going a lot faster.  I wonder what she's doing back here with the semi-plodders.

We all stick together around the two smaller circuits, before the course cuts through a small wood to pick up the larger circuit.  The path heads uphill, which causes some strain on the legs, and by the time we reach the top of the first rise, Orange and her daughter have fallen away a little.  I stick solidly behind Green and Black, and we continue that way past Dean Court, around the training pitches and the athletics stadium, until halfway around the final lap.  At that point, Green starts to pull away a little.  I stay with him, and in the process move past the flagging Black.  She is still appearing to have trainers made of clouds and fairy dust, but as I get in front I realise she's breathing quite hard and not nearly as comfortable as she appears from behind.

Green and I continue off down the path towards Harewood Avenue. We turn left, downhill into the woods, when Black suddenly comes flying past like she's unable to stop.  As we hit the uphill section once more, we're all neck and neck.  Parkrun isn't a race, but my comptetitive instincts have kicked in now.  I dig in and get in front of both of them.  Green looks like he's struggling a little now.  Black is still blowing hard.  I'm wishing for the finish line to appear.  We reach the sharp left turn at Dean Court, and Black takes it better than I do.  We're now running side by side, and clearly she's also not wanting to let the fat guy win.

So she doesn't. She kicks in a bit more, and gradually ekes out a gap.  The Garmin reports a 7:30 pace now - fast for me - and it shows as I feel ready to drop as I round the corner to the funnel to finish in 27:18 (interesting stat: 27:18 is the exact average time for Bournemouth parkrunners), number 85 of 166.  At least I beat Green, although perhaps I shouldn't be quite so jubilant about beating someone 20 years my senior in an event that wasn't a race.

Overall, the time is pleasing - I was expecting 28-something, and my average pace was 8:48/mi.  The 18 seconds above 27 minutes give me a target to chip away at, and another 18 seconds again below that would get me to 50% age-graded.

Thanks Green. Thanks Black.

Away Day

Half-term for the kids, and we wend our way through wind and rain to Torquay, the English Riviera.  It's a cheap and cheerful hotel, but with really a remarkable set of facilities for the price.  The clientèle fall into two groups - the families who have come for the soft play, discos, kids club, swimming pools, large games room and ten-pin bowling alley; and the seniors who come for the bingo, the international standard indoor bowls rink in the basement, and the bracing sea air.

With breakfast and dinner included in the price, not to mention the close availability of a bar, I'm wary of undoing all my good work so far.  Luckily, the standard of the food is not terribly conducive to overeating, so I just need to take my chances to get some training in.  Shortly after we arrive, Em occupies the children in the kids pool while I take to the large pool for a swim.  The faux-Aztec theme is stylish, but the slightly cloudy water and array of discarded sticking plasters on the floor of the pool give away its true heritage.  Threading between the casual bathers is tricky, and I deliberately go slowly.  This actually proves a benefit, as I rediscover some level of endurance, and I'm fairly sure I end up going quicker.  Once again, I nearly - nearly - enjoy swimming.

On Sunday morning, the family rest in bed, and I get out the door at 7.15 for a run.  As I get to the seafront, anvil clouds skulk on the horizon, but today the sun has beaten them to the punch, and is peeking victoriously around the peninsula.  It's mornings like this that make you thankful for getting your arse in gear.

If Torquay has a beach, there's no evidence of it this morning, as the waves lap against the steps of the promenade. I set off south along the seafront, and before long the road peels away and turns uphill.  Hills are a new phenomenon in my running, but the chance to overtake a couple of fellow plodders impels me upwards.  Over the top I pass the sign welcoming me to neighbouring Paignton, and before long I'm back on the seafront, strewn with shingle and sand after the battering of recent days.  I stop to take a photo and report it back to basecamp (who helpfully points out that I appear to have stopped), before turning around and heading back along the same route.

The running is fairly free and easy, although an encounter with a local running club reminds me that I'm anything but fast.  Near the 4 mile mark and the end of the run, I have enough energy to put on a burst of speed, and cover the last 300 metres at around 7.30/mi pace, although I'm knackered and wheezing by the end of it.  It's my longest run yet, at a relatively slow pace, 9:24/mi.

Forgetful

Training is getting a bit harder now.  Not physically, but largely just remembering to do it.  With various things happening, not to mention the diabolical weather, it's difficult from one week to the next to have a predictable slot for training, and therefore it becomes simple to forget about it, at least until the point when it then feels like a bit of a chore because you've just settled down with your cuppa to watch the luge doubles and a bit of curling.

Still, highlights of the week:

• Thursday's 3 mile run.  On Saturday I'll likely take a first stab at the Parkrun
• Three laps on the bike around the Iford and Tuckton bridges on Sunday.  A decent stint - roughly 12 miles, about 45 minutes, average 16.6mph (thanks Strava for losing my data) - but the headwind at Iford was horrible.  
• Swim night moved from Monday to Tuesday this week.  Still crap.  On the plus side, I was vaguely successful at learning to breathe to the right as well as the left.  The asymmetry is extraordinary though.  Breathing to the left is perfectly smooth.  Breathing to the right feels like I'm throwing my whole body out the water like a begoggled Kraken, and still I take in a lungful of chlorine.  Will keep working on it.  There's no real benefit to it, other than a bit of variety, and every decent swimmer I see can do it, so I'm hoping there's some piece of magic there that will make me go faster.

False sense of security

The loop from the end of our road, via the south bank of the River Stour and the bridges at Tuckton and Iford, forms a route of exactly 3 miles, and I ran it with ease.  Even the puddle drenching from the white van man, who is legally required to be a cock, couldn't dampen my spirits.

Piper, you are a tiger. Grrr.

Let Down

I have let myself down. Today should have been a training day, and I did nothing.  I could offer excuses about the gale-force winds, or Em going out, or having the onset of a cold, or the terrifically interesting documentary about the deaths of 11 climbers on K2 that was on BBC4.  But really I was just a bit lazy and unprepared, and it's a little alarming how easy it was.

Tomorrow, a 5k run in the rain as penance (unless this cold takes a turn for the worse).

Fables of the Reconstruction

It's a joy to see the sun, timely.  It brings some semblance of normality, and the chance to clear out the shed takes the mind off other things.

In the afternoon, I ride the Avon Causeway loop. It's an ideal route - only about 9 miles, so short enough to give it some welly, and relatively flat with some small hills, similar terrain to the course that I'll face on race day.  As I head out of Christchurch, I'm flying along and feeling good.  I charge through Burton and Sopley.  After 5 miles, I get to the turn on to the causeway.  I suddenly realise why I was going so quickly early on, as a stiff breeze hits me square in the face.  My speed drops, and my jacket acts like a sail, pulling me backwards.  All I can do is tuck as low as I can while still keeping control of the bike. It's only a short ride to the shelter of the trees on the other side, but it's hard work, on what should be the easiest part of the ride.

I keep ploughing on, over roller coaster curves, and I'm sure I'm on course for a good time. I stay in gear for the short climb at Ramsdown.  All is going well, until a feel a stitch in my right side.  I suck through my teeth determined not to let it get in the way, but as I reach the crest it gets worse quickly, until it's like being stabbed with a dagger on every stroke.  I have no option but to coast to a stop at the traffic lights on the other side and climb off.  I stop the clock at that point.  An average speed of 17.6mph over the 7 miles I've completed is the fastest ride I've probably ever done over any reasonable distance, which was nice.  Next time, two laps I think.

Rest of the week in review:

Monday - Swimming.  Still my nemesis.

Wednesday - Run. 2.1mi @ 8:56/mi

Thursday - Cycle, to work. I set a personal best on The Hill, which pleases me no end until I realise that I'm still only ranked 608th of 738 for that segment on Strava.  The best I can do is accept that on race day I'm going to be slow up there, and concentrate on recovering once I'm up.

Saturday - Run.  Another 2 miles, at 8:44/mi, the fastest yet.  If I'm not careful, I might end up enjoying running.  I think some of the weight is starting to shift, and every pound less to lug round is a bonus.

Four weeks in now, I think I might just be able to do this thing.

Gone

(Edited 3/2/14 - I realised how much more belongs here)

The weather on Friday follows the theme of the previous 6 weeks.  It's chucking down with rain.  I work from home, and annoyingly don't take the opportunity of a relatively dry morning to get in a run.  By lunchtime the rain is well and truly in, and by the time Emma arrives home I'm contemplating having to run in a downpour.

At 6.15, Nanny returns with the children. All three come tumbling through the door excitedly, three separate streams of chatter shattering the peace which has gone before.  At the same time, Emma's phone rings, and she disappears into the kitchen to answer it.  Two minutes later, she comes barging through the noise, grabs the car keys and heads for the door.  "Scott's gone," she says.  "To the hospital?," I ask. "No. Gone."

I first met Scott when I first met Emma, both as new inductees into the graduate programme at JPMorgan.  Even in that short time they had known each other, they'd clearly formed a friendship, probably grounded in the fact that they'd both come to the graduate programme from other careers, and as such were both a little older than those fresh out of university.  Emma had a degree and career in nursing, having already completed a geography degree earlier. Scott, well read and fiercely intelligent, had studied Law at Cambridge before decided the legal profession wasn't for him. That was Scott all over, he didn't do anything he didn't want to.  Sometimes it could be construed as stubborn or curmudgeonly, but it was never anything less than 100% honest.  He had no time for liars and bullshitters.  Working at a place like JPM gave him ample fodder for vitriol.

From the point that we all met, our lives were inextricably linked.  Scott and Emma worked on the same team, I was responsible for testing the systems they built.  They bought flats next to each other.  Emma and I got together, and I moved in; Scott met his future wife and she moved in with him.  We got married; they got married. We moved out to a bigger home; a year later they did the same.  We had children, a girl and a boy; they had children, a boy and a girl.

Our friendship wasn't a selfies-at-3am-on-the-beach-in-Magaluf friendship.   It was that standoffish respect that blokes have, the recognition of someone with shared values and similar tastes. It was barbecues on warm summer evenings, the occasional pub quiz or 5-a-side, the trips to the cinema or theatre, walks with our families.  It was a shamelessly working middle class relationship that involved stiff handshakes and tutting about chavs; laughing about Parks and Recreation, and reminiscing about the music of our university days.

Scott's sense of humour was one that defied the intellectual in him.  No witty wordplay or scathing satire. He enjoyed getting a laugh by simply tilting his glasses to one side, Eric Morecambe style.  I knew him for 6 years before I got a photo of him without either a silly gurn or a thumbs up.  The last evening out we had with him was to a comedy gig - our biggest laugh was reserved for his dramatic recreation, in a crowded restaurant, of his son going for a poo.

It was last March that we went to see Marcus Brigstocke at Wimborne Tivoli.  Scott apologised for coughing throughout the performance.  It was a cough that stayed with him for the next couple of months, and he went back and forth to the doctor looking for a cure.  In June we walked at Hengistbury Head, and he quietly mused about the possibility that it wasn't just a cough.  We all rolled our eyes and assured him that it was just a cough.  After all, people like us don't get cancer.

Two weeks later, I received a solemn phone call from Emma. "It's in his lungs, his liver, and his bones," she said, "it's not if but when."

There's a large part of the grief that isn't for Scott, or even his family, it's for the part of Scott that was me.  The man hitting his middle age with a young family, a good job and a mortgage.  The spectre of cancer isn't new to me - I lost my dad and my granddad to it.  But they were at least at an age where death is not surprising, if still disappointingly keen.  But the idea that someone just like me can go from having a cough to being dead in 10 months is almost incomprehensible.  We all know we have to go someday, but at any given point in time we're immortal, in our own heads.  We at least take it for granted that we'll see our kids grow up.  Have that chat with them about the birds and the bees.  Take them to their first day at university.  Embarrass them at their wedding.

Turns out that's not the case.  I want a refund.

Scott died peacefully at home with his family.  He is loved, and missed.