10km, and the legs are still heavy

A lovely summer day at 27^oC with clear blue sky gave promise of a good evening run as I walked home from work, eager to get straight back out.  But then the familiar feeling of fatigue overcame me as I walked in the door.  It is as if the adrenaline of a busy day suddenly subsides and cup of tea and a little rest is all that is desired.  Before I know it, an hour has passed as I wake from a far too relaxing yoga nidra meditation.  A little hungry, I have a bowl of cereal and a quick espresso before a stretch and then I’m out the door without considering the run I plan to do.  I’ll decide on the way as I run on the streets towards the walking track around Mishref.  A car pulls up with a shout of “go you machine” – Colin is off to Cape Town for a serious run at the weekend and he tells of his concern still of a weak Achilles tendon that has been hindering him for some time.  Runners: always carrying an injury and I’m now getting a little concerned about my calf and medial tibia that has been niggling away for some weeks now.  Once at Mishref I decide on a race pace 10km...

I’ve since revised my target time to 2 hours 45 minutes which needs a steady km pace of 3min55sec.  I aim to run 10km at that pace but after 3km I call it a day and realise that the fatigue is still in my legs, but also in my mind.  Mishref again.  I wonder how many kilometres I have run around this path – a thousand plus surely.  I had some good, fast tempo runs here last week but today I decide to see out the remaining 10km with an easy, steady pace.  And it is about now that a little doubt starts creeping in.  Have I done enough?  What can I still do that will make a difference?  I felt this before the Dubai marathon when I had serious reservations about how I might perform but come the finish line it all ended up better than feared.  I resolve to get lots of rest in and get on top of the early nights.  Some chance!  Work: keep off my feet and not become drained and exhausted so that I can get out without needing the sleep beforehand.  Eat less too; I didn’t need that bowl of cereal and I would still like to be a little lighter to get to my ideal race weight.

45 minutes and I’m back home feeling my calf.  A very localised pain close to the medial tibia, almost underneath it.  I can feel it when I run but it isn’t hindering me.  I’ll give it one more run before I consider the physio.  I’m holding out because of the cost possibly, but that is stupid when I consider how much I invest in the sport overall.  I’d spend more the pair of trainers, but am somewhat reluctant to pay for the physio.  I’ll give it another day...

A brief run, a brief post...

I used my rest day, Sunday, to write up my long run from the day before.  And so today is my next run and its accompanying entry.  Like my run though, the post will be brief.  My legs felt fine before I went out; the test of up and down the stairs at work suggested that I had recovered from the marathon distance training run after one rest day.  But five minutes in and my ambitious 20km with some speed intervals quickly came to an end.  My legs were still too tired to get any running of value or quality done.  I could have laboured on, and I was tempted, but I realised there was no point.  I could have gone out on my bike instead for an easy spin but I didn’t think of it as I was too keen to get some more running miles in.  So, a pleasant walk back along Messila beach and I’ll be back out tomorrow instead...

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.

Two weeks to the Paris marathon

Two weeks to the Paris marathon.  The build-up over the last few months has not been documented for various reasons but the clichéd last long run before the marathon has me thinking: keep the updates simple and daily; get thinking, reflecting, use my words, get writing.  Again, I go back to my motivation for writing up my thoughts of Bo in the desert.  I’ll keep these to myself, for now, but I know at least one person will read my rambles...

So, the last long run before a marathon.  Where did that concept come from?  Tim Noakes? Arthur Lydard? Runner’s World February edition?  I know there is physiological adaptation to the stress-loads that need time to come into effect but what is the time frame?  When should my, and that is me, not anyone else, when should my last effective training load be done for maximum benefit?  Two weeks before, ten days, a week – long enough to recover but not too long before it is lost.  What other runs should I do beforehand?  I don’t know – but as I get ready to go out, I decide that I will write about it and decide afterwards if it was the right thing to do.  Sounds completely the wrong way round but hey ho, off on a run I go.

Dubai Marathon 25th January 2013 - Race Day

No appetite in the morning as others around me have their porridge and oats.  Two cups of tea and a shortbread biscuit for me is sufficient.  I’ve never needed, or felt like, eating before running.  In fact, I’m not a fan of dinner the night before either.  None of the pasta-carboloading hype for me.  It is the previous week of nutrition which is stored in the cells of the body that accumulates to make the difference.  Eat well as a routine, not just the 24 hours before an event.  And not eating dinner the night before reduces the risk of getting the stomach cramps and GI problems on the run I’ve decided.
But boy – I’m thirsty! ‘J’ai la guelle de bois’ I once learnt from a Frenchman.  Little bit of a headache too.  At least that’ll take my thoughts of discomfort away from my legs...

Rushed taxi to the start line.  Meet others at the bag drop-off.  Bad nights’ sleep due to nerves they say.  Four pints and a bottle of Rioja I say.  You look shit they say.  See you at the finish I say.  Ten minutes to the start.  No time for stretching; I’ll do the warm-up in the first three km’s!  Toilet first.  Past the portaloos and endless queues.  Not for me.  There is always a fancy hotel or restaurant open nearby... Get to the back of the start line behind two thousand other runners as the start gun goes off with barely enough time to touch my toes.  Here it goes: 42.195km.  It is not going to be pretty...

No sight of the Ethiopians and Kenyans for me this year at the rear but it really is a great thing about marathon running that you can line up on the start line with the world’s best and compete in the same event as them. You couldn’t turn up to Wembley for a kick-about with your mates...  I move up past the back markers.  Thankfully no pantomime horses obstructing the way.  Settle into a steady pace as I continue to move up the field.  No sign of the others.  Should I have left the hotel five minutes earlier to avoid this congestion?  Not to worry.  The runners thin out soon enough.  It won’t make much of a difference to my time, certainly no more than the bottle of Rioja.

No looking at the Dubai skyscape for distraction.  A thick fog hangs in the air hiding the top of the Burj Khalifa.  Eyes ahead instead.  I feel a little disorientated as we come out of the Business Bay and the Dubai Mall until we pass the Trade Centre, the original ‘tall’ building of Dubai completed at the start of Dubai’s building frenzy and modern day invention but now dwarfed by all those all around it.

Towards the sea and the flag at Customs House.  The fog opens temporarily 5km in and I quickly grab water at the first aid station.  A runner besides me says, unknowingly, that it is a little early for being so dehydrated already.  He has no idea...

I see Matt and Steve on the other side after the U turn behind me, followed by others: Toby in his build-up to Ironman South Africa; James, Tom; the trio of Danny, Richard and Craig together; then I pass Colin at around 8km.  He says I’m looking good and strong which is encouraging.  I think how I need to get in touch with Colin when we are back in our sandpit for some runs together... And by now I’m beginning to feel strong.  I settle into a steady rhythm. 4min15 per km pace as I go through the 10km after 45 minutes.  Maybe this won’t be as bad after all.

Along the Jumeriah beach road the fog thickens again.  It keeps the temperature down.  No wind either.  Near perfect conditions.  Visibility ahead is about 75 metres.  The fog and poor visibility has another benefit.  I can only see a couple of runners ahead, and certainly no sight of the Burj Al Arab at the turnaround point some way still to go up ahead.  I remember the previous marathons here that the out and back route is psychologically difficult with the Burj Al Arab or huge flag at the other end never appearing to come any closer despite the accumulating fatigue.

But today the fog creates a quiet space for me to be in.  I run in a little zone, exclusive of others.  The hang-over came and went at the 15km mark and now I’m enjoying myself.  This is it: running free of constraints, expectations, pressure.  I’m running because I want to, because I enjoy the breathing, the rhythm, the feeling.

The East Africans fly past on the other side of the road; the half-marathon mark for me is still up ahead.  Only a half-marathon! Not the full thing some might scoff but it still is a long way nonetheless.  Maybe it needs another name to make it sound less like the inferior relative of the 42.195km but an achievement in its own right, as has the half-ironman become known as the 70.3 event has due to the all pervasive American marketing.  But that then annoys the purist in me when I hear 70.3 finishers say they are ironmen – no you are not!!  But those that scoff the achievements of half-marathoners, or even the 10km, won’t be runners themselves.  What do they know!

Half-marathon mark: 1h30min and a few seconds and I’m feeling good. My concerns begin to recede.  I’m actually feeling strong both mentally and physically and I begin to think about this as a race for the first time.  In an instant the race plan comes to me: to attack the last 10km with everything I have left in my legs.  Push myself to my limits, to find where those limits are today.  The whole build-up has not been about this marathon with the Paris goal still work in progress, and although I seriously thought I’d be happy with this as a training run and therefore a time of 3h15/3h30, I now decide with intent that the fiasco of this morning and the recklessness of last night should not get in the way of a sub three hour time.  The symbolic sub three is well worth the effort: it is too close an achievable target to pass up.  And even if I do blow-up, to hell with it – it will be fun trying!  It will be a valuable experience regardless of the outcome.

I start breaking down the segments: 10km to run before its 32km and then I’ll start to really push myself.  No.  Too big a chunk – something smaller.  3km to the 25km mark and I’ll take the isotonic drink – no idea which one it is – rather than water.  Then it is three more kilometres before the 2 hour mark. ²/₃’s done.  After that, it will be 15 minutes before I start pushing myself.  I remember Michael Atherton saying how he broke up the time at the crease into bite size chunks: in 15 minutes it will be 10 minutes before tea...

Currently running at 4min20 per km pace. I’ll aim to hit 4min pace – the target pace for Paris.  Too challenging.  No, not today; the last 10km in 40 minutes; too much to ask.  I work out that if I can manage 45 minutes for the last 10km I will have three minutes to spare.  It will be close but that strengthens my resolve. 

31km. Last of the ‘easy’ kilometres before the fun starts...

The Abu Dhabi triathlon last year was the first time that I really, really, pushed myself to my limits.  Competing with an injury could be considered unwise but I gained a far more valuable lesson and knowledge of myself compared with what I lost from a month of missed running training afterwards.  After the 100km bike I managed a 39 minute 10km and was absolutely spent at the end – totally and utterly, with nothing left having ran through pain to finish to collapse onto my knees.  But when considering the bigger picture, it gave me the confidence and knowledge that I can push myself to my limits if I desire it enough.  And today, although I did not earlier, I do now.  I flick the switch: let’s take this seriously.  10km to go.  Time to start running; no more pissing about; time to dig deep and to use my experience and confidence to do this.  I can achieve, but it will hurt and it won’t be easy.  The achievement will be greater as a consequence.  I try and recall a passage from a book I read recently: we decide for ourselves when it will hurt and it will not hurt unless I decide.  I reword it into my running mantra. 

I will decide when it hurts, and it will hurt when I decide.  Or is it better the other way round?  It will hurt when I decide, and I’ll decide when it hurts.  As I increase my pace the point is made: it is going to hurt, but not yet.  Stay focussed.

My breathing deepens but I remain relaxed.  First target is a runner about 100m ahead.  This is now the game – try and tick them off one by one.  I am the strong one toady, no fading for me.  I wonder how many are up ahead?  All those that had five minutes less in bed this morning and were in pole position on the start line.

35km mark.  Going well. No wall in sight to hit, but no heartbreak hill on the flat Dubai course either.  Garmin says 4.05 min pace.  I push myself to try and hold 4 minute km pace as I past the zoo.  The Lime Tree cafe isn’t too far.  The fog remains keeping it cool.  I pass on the water at the aid station but take a sponge to suck the moisture instead.  Less chance of getting a stitch from the sponge than guzzling from a bottle.  4 minute pace is too much; five seconds over a kilometre makes a difference.  I ease slightly.  It is beginning to hurt.  But not yet – I’ll decide when.  Push on.  Relax.  Remain steady; breathe steady; stay with the rhythm.

5km to go.  Still three minutes to spare but I’m aware they could evaporate quickly.  Then I remember the 195 metres to add to the 42km.  That will use up over a minute.  Now less than two minutes to spare.  It is going to be close.

Then I hear my name and a shout: “Go! Go, Go!!” That picks me up.  It is a long time waiting on the pavement as a spectator and it will be a long wait for the others from the sandpit to come past, but they are doing it and will appreciate the cheer and support as much as I do.

This really is going to be close.  My pace drops to 4min15.  There goes the two minutes if it stays like this.  I know I am going to be pissed off if the clock says 03.00 and then a handful of seconds.  There is no way I am wasting the effort of the last eight kilometres of hard running.  I will not betray that effort now.  I dig deep.

The twists and turns as I approach the Dubai Mall ruin my rhythm.  Relax.  Calm.  Clear my mind.  Keep the rhythm. Breathe steady.  I’m at my limit and wonder how much I have left for the last 2km as the sub three hour looms precariously close.  No need for water at the last aid station – dehydration won’t be a factor now, only my resolve.

I decide it can hurt now.

This is going to be very close.  Dig deep again, deeper.  3min50 pace.

Last kilometre.  Single-minded, focussed vision.  The fog has cleared but I am not looking up, not to the side, not acknowledging the claps and cheers from the spectators waiting for those behind; straight ahead only.  Fuck – this is going to be close.  I decide it can hurt a little more.

The last minute, the last bend; it straightens out and I see the finish.  Nearly there but still too close to call. 

Bollocks.  Fuck.  I’m shagged. 02.59.35.  I need a beer.  Then I start thinking if I can take another fifteen minutes off in Paris... That will surely hurt.

Dubai Marathon 25th January 2013 - The Day Before

As I open the first little green can from the Royal Danish Court I think ahead to 07.00 tomorrow.  Dubai is the setting again but rather than with my bike, tomorrow’s challenge will be 42.195km on foot.  And a challenge it will be.  Although my running goal this year is the Paris marathon in April, 11 weeks away, and tomorrow is as much a training running as a weekend away, I remain a little daunted.  There is no doubt the marathon deserves respect.  As I sip from the little green can, I wonder if Haille begins each marathon with trepidation.  I doubt he sips from little green cans the day before though...  But it is my way.
For reasons I can’t quite work out yet, I’m not confident about tomorrow.  I know I have the experience in my legs, if not the required base km’s at the moment, to get me through, but maybe that experience and knowledge tells me it won’t be pretty tomorrow.  Assuming that to be the case, I am expecting a big wake-up call and a clear idea of how far I am away from my Paris goal of 2hours 45 minutes.  This would be an hour quicker than my first marathon nine years ago, also in Dubai.  Boy!  How time has flown by here in the sand. But will I be flying tomorrow...?

So, what will need to be done to achieve the 2h45?  No more boozing.  Unlikely.  Compromise: no more hang-over’s – know when to stop, and then stop before that.  Possible.  In fact; achievable. It must be.  The desire for quality training is there.  Improved recovery time too.  That means strategies at work to reduce the workload and spend less time on my feet pacing around, as if my urgency is really required.

No sugar or the ever tempting biscuits.  Is it the sugar highs and lows that causes my mood to fluctuate so – the mildly bi-polar personality that means when I’m up I’m with the 10,000 men but when I’m not, self-doubt and the need for reassurance dominate?  The jaded morning after the night before contributes to the mood swings I’m sure.  While Dr. Steven Peters and the yoga gurus will have plenty to say about my state of mind, what I eat and drink, and to not be tired, are the easiest variables to control and get me on a consistent path.

What else for the sub 2h45?  Training.  The illusive, perfect training plan.  To include the swim and bike too: there is still Challenge Vichy in September and the ETU European championships and the sub 10 hour ‘ironman’ time to aim for and achieve...  How about some core and strength work?  More yoga?  Possibly, but the key sessions will always be in the water, on the bike, or out on a run.  But how to structure the three disciplines brings us back to the illusive perfect training plan.  Joe Friel and Gordo Byrn, Tim Noakes and every issue of Runner’s World or Tri247 have the plans, but do they work?  Would they work for me?  Consistency they all say is the key.  But I like the angle presented by Dr. Peters in his Chimp Paradox.  Enjoy the process.  No pressure.  Rather than “I must go for a long run”, instead “I might”; rather than “I should – I could”.  Don’t beat myself up about missed sessions: for fuck’s sake, it is hard enough training in the sandpit as it is with essentially only threes rides, and another three runs, to base my training around.

Ahh, the mind games to play on a long run.  Imagination is the best companion on the run down to Fintas.  Telling Mike Canning one day at work that I took the cliff top path at the weekend and saw that the dolphins had come close to shore, with him replying that he took the muddy track through the woods and ran amongst the wild flowers instead, puzzled the eavesdroppers, confused as to where we were talking about.  We left the incredulous enquires unanswered.  But we knew where we had been...

But back to marathon training.  Don’t complicate it: just run!  But what do I know about proper training?!! In preparation for the Abu Dhabi International triathlon I have vowed not to swim, having not been in the water since my last triathlon in August.  I somehow know Alistair Brownlee won’t approve but I am curious to see how my 1500m swim time will compare with the previous three Abu Dhabi events at all around 25 minutes.  Hours in pool hasn’t seen a great return for my swim split so let’s see if the opposite is true...

But again I digress.  The familiar descent over the man-made Palms and then past the Burj Khalifa brings me back down to the task in hand: the Dubai marathon tomorrow.  Only one thing for it: Dubai Duty Free and a dozen more little green cans from the Royal Danish Court and a couple of bottles of Rioja...

I better go to bed – it is 1am and the alarm is set for 05.00.  Good job I am not taking this seriously but do I drink the night before to provide a poor excuse for a poor performance.  Do I look to self-destruct?  What would Dr. Peters say to my night before preparation?  I say not to be so precious.  The preparation is very rarely perfect or ideal when you have to travel to events, as I do coming out of my sandpit, with things like flight delays and nutrition often compromised.  Pissing about the night before is relaxing for me in its own way.  You are unlikely to sleep well, tossing and turning in a new bed, paranoid that you may miss your alarm, having the A/C keep you awake – may as well have an alcohol induced slumber I say.  But why do I take the night before a big training run or ride more seriously than the event itself?  Maybe because race day is the cherry on the cake and is to be savoured as a result of accumulated previous sacrifices.  I feel the whole event is to be enjoyed: prior, during, and after the race.  And anyhow!  It has not done me harm in the past.  But the question is how much more could I achieve without being boozed up? 

I remember reading something about the boxer, Ricky Hatton.  He would always have a big fry-up breakfast the day of a fight to demonstrate to the assembled journalists that he was ready, at his peak, and that nothing at this late stage would make a difference to his performance.  A sign of confidence and intent.  I like his sentiments.  Enough of this though.  To bed at last.

The Dubai marathon is less than three weeks away

The next Coast to Coast is planned for the 15^th February...

But the question is how would the pros have ridden the Coast to Coast?  And how would I manage on their routes, their cols – that is what my season of cycling will all be about.

But first, time to get running.  The Dubai marathon is less than three weeks away.  Yalla, Bo!

Statistics for Coast to Coast

Final Distance 240.2km
Time 7:10:56
Elevation 1239m
Average speed 33.4km/h
Maximum speed 75.6km/h
Energy Output 5473kJ
Calories 6102

On Strava.com:  16/11/2012 Coast to Coast, Dubai, United Arab Emirates

Cold towels and a cheer, but it is a beer I’ll take for my reward

This is my fifth Coast to Coast ride and it is has been a great way to gauge my cycling progress.  The first time I rode the course I suffered the last 60km, constantly struggling to stay in the group.  There were no turns at the front from me as I tried desperately to conserve energy and in the last 10km I was dropped with the other stragglers one by one for a lonely ride to the finish.  Once you’ve blown, that is it – game over.  The second event and I was sitting a little more comfortably in the peloton; the third time I was putting in strong pulls at the front and by the fourth event I was definitely holding my own with the big boys.  While I still consider myself new cycling, certainly compared to many others out on the road, I take comfort in feeling how much I have progressed over the last five years.  So what for today – an epic solo breakaway?  Let’s see how the next thirty minutes evolve...

The leading group of 30 or so riders settles into a steady routine: two-by-two, do your turn, peel off; organised.  But then the side wind strengthens – no one wants to be in the right line, coast side, taking the wind. An echelon forms, riders looking for protection from the wind behind others, the left line is pushed out into the middle of the road – riding is now dangerous, the tension is palpable.  Cars overtake far too close, we are taking up too much of the road.  Curses are muttered; an accident is waiting to happen and we all know it but are somehow powerless to prevent it.  The peloton is tense, nervous.  Some riders need to move right and take the wind.  A road captain needs to take charge and sort this shit out – maybe now is the right time for that solo breakaway?  30 kilometres to go, too far.  And then, without a word, the peloton calms down.  Like a school of fish, the chaos settles and the peloton returns to a steady routine.  Tetchiness gone.

20 kilometres to go and a few last short hills for the tired legs.  On my first few Coast to Coast rides it is about now that I fell off – shattered – but today I’m feeling strong.  Let’s smash this group apart – “I’ll go” – did I really say that?  Next turn on the front I put the hammer down, if only for my own benefit.  Did it make a difference?  I doubt it.  Then I see Elton moves past with a knowing tap of Nick’s shoulder: could a small breakaway take everyone by surprise?  But then someone attacks off the front – less than 5km to go.  He won’t make it on his own.  He remains out in front by 30m or so.  No one wants to chase him down, expend the energy on behalf of the rest of us. He will tire on his own accord.  But he isn’t.  Then Richard gets to the front, adrenaline pumping after his chase back from his puncture, “no way I’m letting that bugger win – I saw him holding onto a car in the mountains!”  Ahh, doping in cycling exists, whatever the level...

Ten riders left for the final km – I’ll have a pop!  No – didn’t accelerate with enough.  Maybe the new bike really would make a difference, or should I have thrown my water bottle to lessen the load like the pros?  A sprint it is to the line but by now I’ll take finishing with the big boys knowing that I’ve finished stronger than before.  400, 300m to go – no chance.  I’ll take 6^th.  Was that Elton up ahead?  Nick is close behind.  At least we put the most kilometres in today... 

We arrive to a welcoming reception at the Le Meriden hotel in Fujairah – cold towels and a cheer, but it is a beer I’ll take for my reward.  I feel pleased with myself: 240km today, my furthest to date, and a strong finish.  Until I met Kath afterwards who ran the route!  Running the same Coast to Coast 220km route having set off the night before – chapeau and hats off indeed!  Amazing! Now ultra-running; that gets me thinking...

Pringles and Pepsi: salt and sugar. And an ice cream – I feel like I’m on holiday!

The second water stop stands out as a cyclists’ oasis; pitched up alongside the dry, arid road is a sponsored banner promoting Gu.  Amongst the grappling, snatching hands, I refill my water bottle.  A rep from Gu proceeds to tell me the advantages of the ultra-enduro gel that releases energy over prolonged periods, and how the quick boost gel will get me over the mountains, how I might like a caffeine x2 extra, how about the sold gums to chew on in the meantime: what would I like he asks? “Whatever is free” I reply, earnestly.  I take a handful of samples to tape to my top tube in my next triathlon to make it look like I know what I’m doing.  It is good of the guys to be standing out in the desert waiting for us to cycle past, for which many are hugely grateful, but I feel a little heretic amongst those sucking away so diligently.  Instead, I take a dried date and a couple of figs from my pocket and remount my bike and look up the road.  Here it is: the best bit next...

The Hajar Mountains.  Certainly nothing alpine but here in the desert, a challenge nonetheless.  Time to stop socialising and get to the front with the big boys.  A hush descends upon the peloton as the first incline strings everyone out immediately.  This is it – no more pissing about. Time to ride.  It is not a race but no one wants to get dropped; everyone wants to challenge themselves and I want to be in the first five at the tunnel at the top of the main climb.  A couple of warm-up climbs first; the lead group splits, reforms on the 70km/h descents; a definite sense of purpose now.  I sit in, then a quick turn at the front, move off; there are plenty of others to share the work – too early to see how strong I’m feeling.  We reach the main climb past Wadi Helo – there is a strava segment here but I’m not sure where it starts.  I’m ten riders back, 10m from the front.  The pace doesn’t quicken, it remains steady but I slowly move past those in front.  This is it: the rhythm, the feeling, the satisfaction.  I pass others but the front two remain 10m in front, not getting away, not dropping me.  Then I realise its Elton – I’m not letting that bugger get away!  But I’ve left it too late – I’ll take third as I look over my shoulder to see a line of lycra coming up behind.

The descent.  I’ve ridden it a few times now, getting to know the curves and the potential end-of-the-day spots.  92km/h is my maximum, with a favourable tailwind down the valley and super smooth road surface.  Once past 60km/h it is all fast.  The local riders have an advantage going down.  I make a concerted effort not to lose time on the descent as I know I am still to perfect the technique.  And descending is all about technique: a disengagement of the mind from the consequences too, but descending is a skill to be practised rather than the ascent which is a fitness to be gained.  On previous climbs it has annoyed when I’ve smashed myself to pieces to take a minute or two out of someone, only for them to fly down past me on the descent.  As it is, a couple do pass but that is fine – we will need a little group for the run down to the coast.

 

The third and final water stop at Kalba before the last 60 plus km along the coast.  Pringles and Pepsi: salt and sugar.  And an ice cream – I feel like I’m on holiday!  The last two hours is fast time.  After the mountains the first group of riders collecting at the water stop ride with intent now.  No more chat – do your time at the front, push hard, but not too hard.  Sure, there is the second group behind, but no one wants to get dropped.  It is not a race, but it is no longer the social ride it was earlier.