The last long run...

Ten slices of pizza the night before as well as the 130km on the bike the yesterday, have me feeling a little heavy and very much over my perceived ideal race weight.  Lead for legs, but at least no beer in the belly this once.  I tried really hard to avoid the alcoholic inducements last night but coca cola instead is a poor substitute – I realised I made a school boy error at 2am when I couldn't sleep for the sugar and caffeine.  It would have been better if I had fallen to sleep in a drunken stupor; at least the alarm in four hours time wouldn’t be so daunting.  While folk in the UK worry about the snow, my problem is the exact opposite: summer is here in the sandpit and I think it wise to finish before it reaches 30^oC.

As I start along the Corniche at Ras Salmiya, I realise it is likely to be my last long run in Kuwait.  There will be plenty of time to reflect on all the runs I’ve had, and all whom I’ve run with over the years (and some editing at a later date will put the names in), but for now I have to concentrate to avoid the stray cats jumping out from the rocks that line the path that follows the coastline of the bay of Kuwait.  Feeding off the scraps from the fisherman and picnicking families provide these cats with a comfy, easy life.  And it is the easy life I am looking to move from; to really live a life, away from the easy petro-dollar I ponder as I settle into an easy pace.  4min15 per km. Easy pace now but I know it will not be so easy in an hour or two’s time.

I decide that I will run the 42.2km this morning with the intention of a negative spilt.  I’ll do some more speed work later in the week to get the legs turning at the 4min per km race pace, but not today, not after last night.  I’ll just run; run past the now familiar Hard Rock cafe, the ubiquitous Starbucks next to Costa next to Coffee Bean next to Starbucks, again, next to Coffee Republic next to another and another around Marina Crescent, remembering how these were not here ten years ago, when bad man Saddam was still resident not too far away.

5km and the first water-stop.  I’ll state one positive of running in Kuwait: the frequent water fountains that provide welcome, cool water at regular intervals.  I tell this to the Bangladeshi scrubbing the nearby yacht moored at the marina – he doesn’t seem to appreciate my observation, but I guess my hydration needs are the least of his concerns.

I continue on with the sun beginning to be felt on my back and a shadow cast in front of me.  I should have bought my hat for the return direction.  I doubt I’ll need it in Paris and the potential cold weather reminds me to get hold of some old tracksuit bottoms and jumper that I can wear at the start line and then discard into the gutter – certainly better than the black bin liner approach.  I slow a little to 4min20-25 but am happy just moving, glancing at my Garmin for feedback every now and then, not really concerned at the pace, just moving, running.  Past McDonalds, then KFC, TGI Friday’s, Appleby’s – there are all here as the oil state continues its love affair with all things American.  I see more Union flags on the clothes being worn though and surely a Land Rover is so much more classy than a GMC...

On the grass that banks the side of the corniche running along the roadside are the remnants of the picnics and bbq’s from the night before.  Rubbish everywhere: disgusting!  An army of yellow-boiler suited cleaners approach like ants picking up the debris mechanically.  By the time I come back the grass would have been cleared and by the time everyone else is walking, running, cycling, driving by, the rubbish would have been removed and no-one would be any the wiser.  But I wonder if it was left a day, a week, would the picnicking families still bbq amongst their own mess, oblivious to the squalor they are responsible for; the lack of civic pride here tells me they would not even be aware of the plastic bags accumulating at their feet.

10km and another water fountain.  Then onwards towards the Towers, then Souk Sharq – now in the city – past the fisherman unloading the dhows; a drink at their fountain.  Getting hotter now: mid to high 20’s.  Plenty more space on the thermometer for a considerable increase.  With the gradual rise in temperature as summer approaches I know I can run at 40^oC but for now I’m beginning to feel the heat.  I look at the distance: 20km.  I’ll do one more km before I turn round: past the Grand Mosque and the Emir’s Palace and then opposite the National Assembly building there is a small pavilion like structure on the corniche.  Perfect positioning.  I run round it – you always need something to run around as the goal – as the watch says 21km.  Half marathon at 1h36.  Easy and steady out and the negative split for the way back?  I now decide not.  Just run; I don’t have the motivation to push myself hard, to dig in and hurt.  I’ll just daydream on the way back; thinking about everything and nothing at the same time.  I compromise and say to myself I’ll push the last 10km...

Coming back the same way makes me realise I have come some distance.  Looking along the coast I can only just see the Scientific Centre as my landmark, a long, long way to go.  I lose concentration at notice my pace has dropped right down to 4min45.  Focus.  Get back into the rhythm.  But I’m tired now.  The ride yesterday is being felt.  Energy levels are running low.  The last 10km and I try and hold it at 4min30 – way slower than my target pace but I’m not that concerned as I know the Paris marathon will have more regular aid stations that will help, rather than relying on the irregular water fountains, as well as plenty of other runners to keep the momentum.  But will it be enough?

Re-approaching marina crescent I scan the restaurants for a familiar face or two; maybe to stop for a granola smoothy before the last 5km!  No luck.  I’ll push on for the last twist and turns towards the end.  The last 3km I run a little harder but without exerting myself too much.  If the race clock is too close to call, it really will be the last 3km that the last minute can be saved – any later there just won’t be the time to make the time.  Come race day I know there will be a certain point where there is no return, and that point is to be reached.  But not today, Kafka.

42.2km says the watch: 3 hours 16 minutes; 3h12min moving time.  Well, I won’t be stopping for drinks in Paris so that saves me a kilometre.  Overall, I’m happy with the run as I reflect with my legs up in the air against a nearby wall.  One last week of hard running, some speed after work, but now I really fancy a packet of salt and vinegar crisps.