Ultra trail du mont blanc
There are worse New Year’s resolutions to make than deciding to take up running. It was in January 1999 and my very first run, if you discount ten minutes, pounding a treadmill in an air conditioned gym, was in London. I drove to a park with a friend who was an experienced runner and kindly [...]
The volunteer was insistent. “Hurry, hurry! NO! Don’t sit down! You can’t stop! Keep moving!” I was at the penultimate checkpoint on the UTMB – some 43 hours into the one of the world’s ultimate ultra-marathons and the biggest challenge of my running life. Here I was at La Tete aux Vents, high up in [...]
I don’t think of myself as an especially emotional person. I love a show tune, and Barry Manilow gets me every time. You’ll find me screaming at the TV when Manchester City are playing. But generally I’m on an even keel.
Another weekend, another two-day blast as my training intensifies for the UTMB – now only four-and-a-half months away. This time I headed west for XNRG’s brilliantly organised Cotsworld Way Ultra-marathon. It took in 60 miles of the 102-mile national trail which runs from Chipping Campden in the north to Bath in the south.
Lunchtime running. Work takes up so much time that it can be difficult to fit in the training. One way round this that I’ve found is to run in my lunch break. If there’s time to go to the pub, there’s definitely time for a run.
Running events take you all over the country and perhaps to somewhere you wouldn’t usually choose to visit for a weekend – this time it was Hastings for the annual half marathon.
After completing the Marathon des Sables in May 2012, I thought I’d earned the next 10 years off running. The MdS is a multi-stage ultra-marathon across the Sahara. Along with 900 others, I had to cover 150 miles in five days on brutal terrain in blistering heat. I loved it but even so enough is enough. Or so I thought.
There’s nothing so frustrating as illness or injury when you’ve got a big goal in your sights and a training schedule to stick to. And this past week a whole load of frustration has come my way.
Without wishing to come across as a weirdo stalker, if I could dedicate one room in my house to sporting heroes, I would plaster the walls with posters of John McEnroe, Rafa Nadal, Chrissie Wellington, Marion Jones, Lance Armstrong and Haile Gebrselassie, to name but a few. I have watched them, cried over them, cheered them, and to varying degrees, felt let down by them.
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