Jairvan

"We choose to go the moon, and do these things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard"

 - John F. Kennedy

The French département of Corsica floats in the Mediterranean, an overnight ferry from Nice, but just a stone's throw north of its Italian neighbour Sardinia. With its own language, and unmistakable flag, It maintains a culture that makes it very distinct from its motherland, enough that separatist terrorism has been a shadow on Corsican life for many years (some of the first freedom fighters were the parents of a certain Napolean Bonaparte, born in Corsica the year that the proto-Italian Republic of Genoa decided they didn't want it any more and turned it over to the French). I first visited Corsica in 2006, and was smitten by its granite mountains looking out to sea over scrubby maquis. Idly reading the literature, sat on a balcony looking out over the sparkling ocean, I found out that there was a walk...

(I also saw a small stray dog with the largest penis I've ever seen on a canine, but that's another story)

The GR20 (French for "GR20") is labelled as "Europe's Toughest Trek". The Grand-Randonée snakes its way over the granite Corsican mountains for 112 miles and 13,000 metres of ascent, taking its willing victims from Calenzana in the north east to Conca in the south west, over the course of 16 stages connecting mountain refuges. Most of the time is spent above 2000m, which makes the trail impassable to anyone but hardened mountaineers for 8 months of the year. In early June you should expect to still find snow in your way, and by the end of September you'll probably be needing your woolies once again. In the summer months though, the trail teems with walkers from all corners of the world, keen to take on one of the world's great hiking challenges.

Most walkers complete the walk in around 2 weeks, if they complete it at all, which is actually a rarer occurrence than those giving up sore and exhausted after just a handful of days on the trail. The very first stage requires you to ascend nearly a mile in altitude, usually in searing Mediterranean summer heat, before afternoon thunderstorms drench you and crisp mountain nights freeze you. Experienced walkers can double up on stages to get it done in 10 days or so. In 2019, François D'Haene polished off his cornflakes in Calenzana on Friday and popped up in Conca in time for Football Focus the next day. You can't blame him for not stopping. The refuges have a reputation as cramped, noisy, smelly, bed-bug-ridden hell holes, enough that most walkers prefer to sleep on the hard, rocky ground outside with a thin sliver of tent material between them and the roaming wild boars.

The Jairvan is a route, but definitely not a path. For the most part, the trail is a never ending scramble over rocks, hauling up narrow gullies, and across scree fields, following red and white markers daubed on boulders. This is a walk for which upper body strength is a distinct advantage, and where the descents are considered the tough parts. The two ends of stage 3, the refuge at Carozzu and the Ascu Stagnu ski station, are a mere 6km apart, which would be an hour's stroll around the park at home, but is an energy-sapping, knee-breaking 6 hour slog on the GR20. For the most part, you are miles from civilization, food or drink, devoid of shade or shelter, and unlikely to find any ground that would satisfy a spirit level.

It is not without its share of very real danger. The Cirque de la Solitude was considered the highlight of the jairvan, requiring "walkers" to lower themselves on chains and ladders down a steep cliff face into a chasm, traverse a boulder field, and then drag themselves back up a similarly precipitous wall on the other side. In 2015, a mountain storm washed tons of mud and rock into the Cirque, sweeping 7 hikers to their deaths.  The Cirque was closed, the fixtures removed and the GR20 rerouted. Even without the obvious threat of falling off a mountain, all it takes is a momentary lapse of concentration to take a misstep and do yourself a mischief that would need an ambulance, if there was any hope of getting one within a few miles of you. If you're lucky, they'll get a helicopter close enough that you'll only be writhing in pain for an hour or two before a paramedic can hike to you. 

Around the halfway point, the sleepy hamlet of Vizzavona is the most bustling metropolis that walkers will encounter in the whole 2 weeks. With a tiny railway station served by ancient rattling trains that connect the east and west coasts of Corsica, it makes a handy stopping point for those who only have the time or the legs for half the journey, like me. Flights are booked for September, and with only 2 weeks until the return flight, fitting the whole trek in would be extremely ambitious for a novice hiker, allowing time for transfers and contingency for bad weather. So it's just the northern half for me, which is half of the total distance but probably 75% of the total effort, and let's face it that's probably enough.

I don't quite know what siren call I'm answering with this, perhaps it's a mid-life crisis. For starters, I keep forgetting that 2 weeks after I return from this Quite Difficult Thing I'm still supposed to be running the London Marathon, assuming it happens. By the end of it all I'll either be very fit or very broken, or maybe just lying on the sofa wondering where it all went wrong.

Different Times

Not a single blog post in the whole of 2020.  Must have been a pretty dull year, don't think much happened....?

Actually, there was this.

You will no doubt recall where this blog left off in 2019, but let me refresh your memory and set the scene. It's mid December, I have a place in the London Marathon in April 2020, but training has given me a stress fracture in my foot, and by all popular advice I need to stop training for 6 to 8 weeks.

Fast forward to early Feb.  The fracture has healed, I really need to get going on picking up my plans again, but to no-one's surprise, least of all mine, I completely fail to inject any urgency whatsoever into my training. Actually, that's overstating it somewhat - I completely fail to train. Days and weeks roll by, and I keep a laser focus on the day that I'm going to start my training, that day being "tomorrow".  

Eventually, March arrives, and I'm forced to admit to myself that I'm in no fit state to run a marathon, or any other distance for that matter. I submit my withdrawal, and instantly the shame and regret rise inside of me. Shame that yet again I've been my own worst enemy, regret that I won't be there at one of the world's most recognisable sporting events, at least for another year anyway.

In the background, there's this little thing going on called COVID-19.  Maybe you've heard of it? Some guy has a little entanglement with a bat in some way and all hell breaks loose. Suddenly, jamming 40,000 people together on the streets of London isn't a good idea, so the mara is postponed until October. Suddenly, all bets are back on, withdrawals are withdrawn, and my destiny is in my own hands again. I mean, that's perfect, right?! Six months over the summer to train while we sort out this blasted virus and then we'll all have a jolly old time to celebrate the end of it while we skip around London. Lesson learned, never again will I let myself feel that shame and regret!

Pretty sure I don't need to tell you how that panned out on all fronts, but for the avoidance of doubt, COVID-19 forced the October event to also be abandoned. There was a "virtual marathon" to participate in so all that training didn't go to waste, but in any case I had done precisely sod all anyway so spent that day sat on my arse. What the f*** is wrong with me?

So here we are, January 1st, 2021. As always, this is not a resolution, things are already in motion anyway, but this just happened to be a time to consider what lies ahead, and just maybe writing some of it down will be a good idea.

What lies ahead?

Well there's that little rescheduled marathon, now October 2021, COVID-19 notwithstanding. However, before I get to that - inadvisedly, insensibly, comically almost, only just before, but you know, YOLO - there's the no-small-matter of walking half of the GR20, "Europe's Toughest Hike"(tm) through the beautiful Mediterranean island of Corsica. And before I get to that, I really need to shift some of the pounds that have re-accumulated in the intervening months and years.

Stay tuned.

Stress

As you might imagine, the last few weeks are nothing particularly to write about.  I squeeze in the Dark Valley Half Marathon, which is great fun, not least for the beer and sausage roll aid station, and with a time of 2:20 I'm fairly happy, given that it's off-road in the dark with a couple of steep slopes thrown in.

I keep up a reasonable but unremarkable schedule, doing a couple of runs in the week and a 9 or 10 mile long run on the weekend.  The aches and pains come and go, but generally things are good, even getting in my fastest 5k of the year.

The top of my left foot hurts.  With a ski holiday planned, I slightly dread the ski lessons at the local dry slope, jamming my foot into a stiff ski-boot.  But it just seems like an inconvenience more than anything.

Awaiting dinner with the extended family, having done a 5 mile run, I notice that not only is the top of my foot hurting, but seems to be creaking when I flex it. This is an interesting development.  

"Does it hurt after exercise?" says the sister-in-law, a nurse.

"Yep"

"And does it hurt when you tie your laces?"

 

"Yep"

"Classic stress fracture"

Right.  This isn't what I hoped for. 

"What can I do about it?"

"Nothing, just rest it and then start again slowly"

"How long for?"

"A few weeks"

Part of me is secretly delighted that I have an excuse to not run for a few weeks.  The rest of me is gutted, having gained a confidence that I'm on the right track. 

Plan B under consideration.

A Life Aquatic

Over dinner on Saturday, Steve offers his advice on marathon training. Steve is a man with a 2:50 mara under his belt, and a knee surgeon on speed dial.

"It's all about the long runs, time on your feet," he says. "Just do three runs a week. Tuesday, Thursday and a long run on the weekend - you'll be fine."

Sunday rolls around, and I wake to the sound of howling wind and pouring rain.  Conditions are definitely not conducive to a long run, but I know that if I can't get out and do it now, I really ought to be ashamed of myself.  Luckily a glance at the forecast shows the sun coming out later in the afternoon, so I postpone until then and enjoy a lazy morning.  And of course, if the weather doesn't improve, that's clearly the forecaster's fault, not mine.  What you going to do?

Sadly, right on cue, the sun makes an appearance, the wind drops, and I no longer have an excuse. I use the time to take the new electric car for its first visit to a charging point, just to get an idea and set things up. With the car (eventually) successfully sucking down power in the hospital car park, I head out for a route along the River Stour, a nice way to quickly get out of the town and into countryside.

The conditions are actually very pleasant considering the state of things earlier in the day, bright sunshine in a clear blue sky. I follow the country lanes out through Holdenhurst and Throop, before the road gives way to a gravel footpath that runs right alongside the river.  The river is high, and it's not too long before I reach a point where river and path become one.  It's fortunate that another path exists just to the left, a couple of feet higher, that allows me to continue on, albeit that it's along the grass bank and therefore is pretty muddy.  I'm worried for the state of my relatively new trainers, that to this point haven't seen any winter action.

Having pranced my way around the mud and puddles, I eventually arrive at a full-on flood.  I only have two options - to turn back, or plough through the water regardless.  It doesn't look that deep, and it's only water, and I hate turning back, so in I go.  It's up to my ankles, so the trainers are thoroughly soaked, but it's a fairly short stretch and I'm quickly through it and on my way.  Until the next one.  Which looks deeper, and disappears around a corner, so I have no idea how far it goes. In for a penny, in for a pound though.

It goes a long way.  I wade ever deeper, still unsure whether I'd be going for another 2 minutes or 20 minutes.  The water is pretty cold, and by the time I emerge from the depths after 5 minutes my toes have gone a bit numb.  But this proves the last obstacle along the way, so a few minutes of getting back to running warms them up again.

The route back gets off the river and on to the roads, and I take particular pleasure in finding a lane I've never been down before, particularly pleasing because it gives a view, with scrubland bordered by a line of pine trees atop a low ridge, that looks like nothing else in the area.

Eventually I'm back at the car, just shy of 10 miles and with still soggy trainers.  It's been a relatively easy run, although to be honest I wouldn't have wanted to have gone much further, but it's a little boost of confidence that I'm not going to entirely hate the Dark Half in just 3 weeks time.

Countdown

One hundred and ninety six days is a long time, if you were waiting for, say, your cat to come home, or a man to fix your boiler, or an especially exciting holiday to come around.  It's not a long time if an email has landed in your inbox telling you that you've earned a place in the London Marathon. Only one of these events is likely to have me writing this blog again, so I'll give you a moment to decide which one it is.

Picked one?

Great. 

It comes as a bit of a surprise, having entirely forgotten that I'd made my sixth attempt in the ballot, and it's a simple ping that brings the news to my inbox. As I read it my heartbeat quickens, and I'm simultaneously delighted and horrified - delighted that I'm in, horrified that just as the days start to darken and the heating comes on that I should have committed myself to 6 months of long runs. 

State of the nation: not entirely terrible, but not great.  The Bournemouth Bay Half in April was slow going, a career worst 2:20-ish, thanks largely to wearing really bad socks that chewed up my feet.  A 25 minute Parkrun, once a sign of a bad day, is a bit of a dream right now.  On the plus side, I've not given up running, albeit I'm a little irregular, but occasionally an 8 or 9 miler happens.

To try and keep motivation up, I've entered the Dark Half, a half marathon in the dark, naturally.  Unfortunately, the usual happened - instead of motivation its become a reason to rebel, and so I find myself 3 weeks away having done very little to actually prep myself for anything even approaching 2 hours. The little email finding it's way to me refocuses the mind, and suddenly the Dark Half, rapidly heading towards a no-show, becomes a must-do. 

So, Garmin out, trainers on, this could be interesting. As soon as the rain stops.

This Time

This time, 

More than any other time, this time

We're gonna find a way,

Find a way to get away, this time

Getting it all together

We'll get it right

                                       - England World Cup Squad 1982

Promises, promises.  So, perhaps the scales weren't quite the motivation I needed to actually get back to peak fitness, or to continue blogging such feats. But the evenings start getting lighter, the weather warmer, and a conversation with a work colleague clues me into the Osprey Sprint Triathlon in Weymouth, three weeks hence.  Three weeks doesn't seem like a long time to get my act together, but I figure that I could either continue making excuses, or crack on with it and use it as a marker for future events.

Mercifully, the swim is only 300m, and in a pool - a pool! the luxury! - so I assume that I can pretty much rock up without needing to spend too much time on swim training.  But a rainy Sunday presents an opportunity to at least dip a toe in the pool, so I take it, and very soon I'm painfully aware that even 12 lengths is going to be hard work.  Thinking back, I realise that the last time I swam was way back in August, in the oily murk of the Victoria Dock.  Even 50 metres is a struggle, and when I eventually work up the energy to do a full 300m without stopping, it's well over 9 minutes, a good way out from the 8 minutes prediction I'd put on my entry form. Luckily, practice makes, if not perfect, at least better.  A few more swim sessions later, I have my 300m time down to around 7:40.

Sunday 23rd April - The alarm is set for 5.15am, but as I open my eyes, I can see daylight through a gap in the curtains.  Startled that the alarm hasn't gone off, I quickly grab the phone to check the time, only to find that my brain has somehow pulled off that strange and remarkable feat of waking itself up at just the right time, 5.08am to be exact. Who knew it got light so early? I turn off the alarms - a second one just in case I should relapse from the first - so that I don't wake Emma, but I immediately flop back into the pillow and close my eyes, before realising that I am in grave danger and forcing myself out from under the duvet.

By the time I reach Weymouth at 6.30am, it's turning into a lovely sunny morning.  It's not quite so lovely to get out the car and feel the bitter northerly wind blowing across Portland Harbour.   Bizarrely, the large car park next to the leisure centre is barricaded off by a flimsy wooden fence, except for a car's width gap, through which everyone squeezes.  It is still not clear to me why.  The car park sits in the shadow of the steep precipice that forms the main part of the Portland peninsula, and up which the bike route immediately proceeds.  Having driven up it for the first time just a month before - and it's not particularly easy going in a car, let alone on a bike - it's this hill that's been at the forefront of my mind in the lead up.  My commutes to work on the bike have been via the biggest and steepest hills I can find en route, but even they seems like mere molehills compared to this one.

Having registered, I drop all my stuff in transition, and begin to remember how the hardest part of triathlon is not the athletic effort, it's the mental effort of making sure you've remembered everything and have it laid out in a reasonable order.  To add to the mix here, the pool swim means that everyone starts in waves, ordered from slowest to fast swimmers, of which I am in the second one, and not scheduled to start until 8.25am.  There is absolutely no way I'm going to stand around in a thin tri-suit in this cold for any longer than I need to, so I try to figure out exactly when and where I should be getting changed.  I opt to go inside, make extravagant use of the porcelain facilities, and get a coffee from the leisure centre cafe, restraining myself from adding a bacon roll to the order.

Work colleague, and triathlon newcomer, Stuart arrives with his other half.  Stuart, in jeans and puffy jacket, is dressed like he's going for a pint rather than racing, but insists he has his tri-suit on underneath (not only is that true, but he's also opted for the same second-least-expensive Zone 3 tri-suit as me).  Built like a whippet, I suspect that newcomer or not I'll be left in his wake.  I also recount to him how I had suddenly remembered, the previous day, that I've got an automatic entry to the Pier to Pier swim again this year. Bugger.

8:15am: I am poolside, stood in a long queue - all donning matching orange swim caps - awaiting my turn to go.  It's certainly a lot more civilised than the open water swims that I'm used to.  At the front, a lady greets the next swimmer with a smile and smalltalk, before passing them along to get in the pool.  There are all sorts here, young and old, new and experienced.  Swimming styles are definitely varied - the splashers, the gliders, the breaststrokers, the drowners; the two-stroke breathers, the bilateral breathers, the quad breathers, the don't-put-your-face-in-the-water breathers. As the first, somewhat nervous looking, swimmer gets to the exit, a loud round of applause echoes around the pool as he disappears out the fire escape and down the steps to transition.  It's nice to have a bit of an atmosphere. Finally, 15 minutes later than advertised, I'm in the pool and away.  I start out at a reasonable pace, but within three lengths I've been caught by the guy behind, but also pleasingly have caught the girl in front, who lets both of us pass at the end of the length.  From there, it's as boring as swimming gets - not too slow, not too fast, and even though it's only 300 metres, I'm pleased to get to the steps.

The cold air bites on the way out the doors.  It's definitely too chilly to go cycling in just a wet tri-suit, so I've folded a lightweight running jacket around the handlebars.  I unfold it, and try to put my arm in.  The strong breeze makes it flap around, and at least three times I put my hand out through breathable slit at the back of the jacket instead of down the sleeve.  Fourth attempt gets it right, and then I fart around trying to do up the zip as I'm running out, until I accept that it will be a lot quicker to stop and do it properly.  Less haste, more speed.

Talking of which, as I hop on the bike, I accidentally press the Lap button on the Garmin twice, which immediately makes it think I'm now back in transition, so I spend the first minute of the bike fiddling with the Garmin to get it back on track.  The road starts upwards, so I put it in a low gear and spin, wanting to save legs for later.  The hill is actually not too bad for the first couple of minutes, and I pass a variety of people on the way, some of whom have already stopped on the roadside, and they're not even at the steepest bit yet.  A sharp bend in the road signifies the start of the hard bit, a consistent 8-10% grade slope with an annoyingly rough road surface, for the first part at least.  Riders are bunched together, some walking, some swerving, all breathing hard, me included.  I manage to stay in the saddle all the way to the hairpin at the top, on the treeless plateau, which makes it feel positively Alpine.  Near the top, I overtake another competitor, and in what I hope is a spirit of comradeship, say "Fun, isn't it?". Again.  And once again, as he looks at me blankly, I immediately realise what a stupid thing that is to say.  I am a tit. A socially awkward tit.

With the wind at my back, and the road all downhill all the way to Portland Bill, it's easy going, mostly huddled over the tri bars, overtaking a learner driver nervously navigating their way down the country lanes.  The road ends at a turning circle in the shadow of the lighthouse, and it's like cycling into a wall.  Suddenly it's into the wind, and all uphill for the 4 miles back to the Portland Heights Hotel.  All I can do is put my head down and keep going, at what now feels like a snails pace.  Every undulation in the road feels bigger than the hill I ploughed up at the start.  I'm more than grateful to get to the roundabout and start the steep, and mildly petrifying, descent back to the leisure centre and T2.

"Helmet off!" shouts the marshal, "helmet off!".  A schoolboy error, running out of T2 with my helmet still on.  I dither slightly, trying to figure out whether I should just throw it down or return back to my spot in transition, before taking the middle ground and placing it neatly tucked under a barrier at the side of the course.  The run heads out around the marina, before diverting off the tarmac onto a rough track along the causeway that joins Portland (don't mention the rabbits) to the mainland.  The surface makes it tough enough, especially with my calf feeling very tight and a sore back, but the wind makes it horrible, howling past my ears and drowning out the shouts of the marshals advising which way to go. A flag marks half way, at which point I turn, and with the wind behind gives me a new burst of energy all the way to the finish.

Final result: a 7:23 swim (ok), a 41:54 bike (not great), and a 27:05 run (slow), total 1:19.43.  91st of 201 finishers, so can't complain, but can't help but feel I could have put a bit more effort in. I am positively shamed by Stuart, who finishes 28th in his first tri. Still, I treat myself to one of those bacon sandwiches anyway.

Oh

Oh.

The scales do not lie.  Since October, I've packed a whole stone back on.  A stone of booze, crisps, chocolate, mince pies, and many other sins. I have, I suppose, some detail to fill in.

You will recall that the London Triathlon was a success.  At a smidge under 13 stone, I was the lightest weight I can ever remember, by some distance, and I felt good for it.  Sights were set on tackling the Bournemouth Half Marathon once again, and bettering the 1:56 from last year.  Long runs became a feature of the weekend, and gradually I got back to 7, 8, 9 mile runs, albeit with some post-run soreness, particularly in my right knee, but it wasn't bothersome after a day or so.  Two weeks before, I set out for an 11 mile trot, circling around the back of St Catherine's Hill, to the river at Hurn, and circling back via Throop and Charminster.  The previous day, I had set a new Parkrun PB of 21:59 - an average pace of 7:12/mi - so I was feeling rather pleased with myself, and with a target half mara pace of around 8:30/mi (a 1:51 finish), went off at a fair canter.

Around 1.5 miles, at the top of Marsh Lane, I missed the turning that would take the track to Avon Causeway, and instead continued merrily along Dudmoor Farm Road, until I reached a point where it became obvious that I wasn't heading in the right direction.  I turned and headed back, feeling that soreness in my knee starting to gnaw away.  By the time I got to the turning I'd intended to take in the first place, I had no choice but to stop and stretch against the gate. After a couple of minutes rest, two other runners came past, and I set out behind them, but it only took a few seconds before the pain rose again and I was forced to stop.  I tried a couple more times, but it was clear that this wasn't a passing twinge. Cursing, I made the decision to abandon the run, and started the walk back home, heading over the top of St Catherine's Hill.  From time to time, I tried to break into a jog, but nothing more than walking pace was comfortable.

I rested the knee for a few days, and decided that a 10k run the following Sunday would be the decider - if I could comfortably complete 10k, I would go for the half, otherwise I'd call it off.  Safe to say, the run was another disaster, barely making it to 5k before a repeat of the previous week and a long, lonely, grumpy walk home.

So started the decline - feeling sorry for myself, and with the darker nights setting in, it was easy to forgo exercise, and without an event to aim for, to allow the odd glass of wine here and occasional chocolate bar there.  The odd glass became a regular bottle, and the occasional bar became a regular couple of bars.  Then you're into Christmas and the house is full of food, and you've already given up any willpower you had so what's another few calories on top?  Although that suggests it was a slip of discipline, when in actual fact it occasionally swung into positive malice, a teenage rebellion sticking two fingers up to diet and exercise.

Not surprising, then, to find myself in this predicament.  But standing on the scales brings an epiphany, and I make a pact with myself to get back on it.  I start with a couple of runs and a gym session, and start to remember the endorphin rush that comes from finishing a good run.

Finding some events would be useful, more on that soon...