An award winning run

I'm in there. Somewhere.

I'd done a half marathon. I'd completed a couple of races in Dumfries. So surely a half marathon in Dumfries should be a doddle? Ah, if only life was so simple.

The race was at the end of September and had the added danger factor of any injuries picked up having a negative impact on my trip to Toronto a couple of weeks later. It also had the bonus of being within walking distance of my flat - although walking a couple of miles before and after you've run 13of them  is probably not a good idea. So I took the car, leaving ridiculously early to ensure I'd get myself a parking place.

Before that came the traditional attempt to freak myself out. Before the half marathon in Kirkcudbright I'd had a look for some details on Google and almost scared myself out of doing it. The obvious thing this time around was not to do that - so I did. I discovered it was a harder course than Kirkcudbright and the last few miles were pretty tough. Smashing. Oh, and I found the previous year's time of someone I knew and discovered they were much faster than I'd been at Kirkcudbright. Brilliant.

If only I could have been this calm...

What was the point in taking part? I was clearly going to make a fool of myself, struggle round the course and barely finished. The fact I regularly ran further than a half marathon distance at a good pace seemed irrelevant. This was a disaster waiting to happen. I went to bid the night before disheartened - and not just because St Mirren had lost. Again.

The weather wasn't great the following morning. Actually, that's not true. For running it was probably just about right - not too warm with the odd shower - however I could have done without the heavy rain ahead of the start which darkened my mood further. And, after arriving ridiculously early, I then freaked myself out further when I went to get changed and discovered I'd left my Lucozade and banana in the car. These were my comfort blanket. 10 minutes away from these was going to lead to disaster.

Where did it go?!?

Things brightened up when it seemed I was going to be able to listen to my headphones while I ran - podcasts with Chris Waddle and Dario Franchitti my preferred listening on this occasion. After the confidence-sapping exploits of the night before, my aim was just to get somewhere close to my Kirkcudbright time and under the two hour mark. Unlike the 10k earlier in the month, I'd at least eaten relatively properly the night before.

Off we went in the late September sunshine and I soon settled into a steady pace alongside a runner who, its fair to say, was a good bit older than me. We seemed to trade positions every half mile. When you're running in a race you soon think you must have missed a mile marker because there's no way it's this long since the last one. For once it was true as the six mile point had blown over in the wind.

Shame I couldn't run as fast as he drives.

Once we got some water just after half way I pulled away from my unplanned running mate - even though it was straight up a rather steep hill. Up to this point it had, literally, been all downhill and I assumed this was the extent of the uphill stuff concentrated into one go. For some reason I forgot that as the first few miles were downhill, and the last few miles were the same route in reverse, I still had some tough stuff to come.

Thankfully he wasn't singing Diamond Lights

Much to my surprise, I finished the Chris Waddle podcast around the 10 mile mark. I hadn't expected this. Given that it was only around 75 minutes, I was well on course to smash my Kirkcudbright time despite all my reservations. And the rain had cleared. This was going well.

Unfortunately, the penultimate mile was back uphill. Except it wasn't really a hill you could see, it was just an incline. Instead of thinking I was struggling with a hill, I thought my legs were getting rather tired (probably true). The 11th mile seemed to last forever and I was worried I was about to be passed. Eventually it ended and it was time to put the foot down. The end was in sight - metaphorically if not literally - and it was time to pick up the pace.

I almost, almost caught someone from the club but he pipped me by a few seconds. I didn't care though as I was still struggling to comprehend what was on the stopwatch. Going by the big clock I was somehow 10 minutes quicker than I'd been in Kirkcudbright. I couldn't believe it - and neither did many of the folk I talked to who knew what the courses were like. But it was true.

I was stunned. But I was also knackered. After showering and managing to get my car out of the car park (difficult considering I was trapped by the finish line) I went home and sat. And, for about an hour, did nothing. I was absolutely shattered. Eventually a big pizza and some cheesecake sorted that out.

Er, maybe not *that* big

It was my last race of the year. I'd smashed even the most optimistic targets I'd set for myself. Other stuff happened - track sessions, winter handicaps and the like - that aren't too exciting so I won't go into them. Instead, I'll round off this running journey with two more things.

First, the trip to Toronto. I had no injuries so all was fine. But more than that, it meant I could go running in a different country. Three mornings - including the first and last of my week long stay - I got up early (well, I was awake with jetlag) and ran a mile or so down to the edge of Lake Ontario and ran a few miles each way. It was tough - mainly because I kept stopping to take photos of my new surroundings. I covered about 1,000 miles in my first year of running but the 20 or so I did that week were my favourite. The sunrise on the final morning was amazing. And it made more space for breakfast.

The incredible sunrise in Toronto

Then came the embarrassing bit. The running club had an awards night and many of the prizes were voted for by members. The first I knew of it was when an e-mail arrived and, for a laugh, I wondered if I was on the shortlist - only to see I was nominated for two trophies. I could feel my face going red just reading it.

Not to worry, this surely wouldn't go any further. I didn't even mention it to anyone but my family. I went to the awards night fully expecting to have a good time - then was rather embarrassed to get the award for best male performance. Other people had taken part in proper, tough events and I was getting a prize because I'd knocked 10 minutes off my Kirkcudbright time in Dumfries. It didn't feel right - not that I turned down the trophy...

I feel like such a fraud!

So I'm still running (though a few niggling injuries have caught up with me just now). I got fancy new shoes for Christmas. I knocked another five minutes off my half marathon time in Stranraer in March. Going to jogscotland was one of the best things I did and I'd advise anyone to do the same. Happy running!

A runner runs on his stomach

Double fish and chips? What could go wrong?

There's a story about Jack Charlton's time in charge of the Irish football team. The night before a big game, he took the team to Harry Ramsden's, where they feasted on the sort of meal that would make the guy from Man Versus Food shudder. Then they went out and played the game. Unsurprisingly, they lost, much to the annoyance of the usually placid Roy Keane.

Despite the unsuccessful nature of this experiment, I decided it was worth further exploration. Not for me a nutritional meal involving pasta and protein the night before a race. Nope, the evening before the Doonhamer 10k in Dumfries I was out with a friend in a burger restaurant, stuffing my face with a three course meal. Plenty of carbs but not a lot else.

Can't see a problem with having this the night before a race

The 10k was my first race after my injury woes had wrecked my holiday plans. The running club had covered the course on the Monday night and it was relatively flat, apart from a challenging bit towards the end, but seemed to last forever. By this point I'd been back running for around a month so it shouldn't have been too much of a problem - until I decided to gorge on food the night before.

Unsurprisingly, I wasn't feeling my best as I got ready. I still felt pretty bloated and breakfast, water and Lucozade doing nothing to help the matter. All they did was ensure that I made many trips to the loo before the race itself. I'd been hoping, if I got a really good run, for 8 minute miles, which would see me home in around 48 minutes, but my physical state combined with how Monday's run had been did not leave me feeling too confident.

Another howitzer from Hitzelsperger

After the success of listening to a Graham Hunter Big Interview podcast during the Kirkcudbright race, this time I opted for another one with Thomas Hitzelsperger. Fortunately headphones were allowed and after several attempts to take a group photo of the club members (there were around 50 of us so it was quite difficult) it was time to get underway.

The route was along the River Nith in Dumfries, crossing over several times. At various points there was music which was nice, even if it did drown out what I was trying to listen to. Again I took things easy at the start - glad not to befall the fate of one club member whose shoelace came undone - and settled into a rhythm alongside someone who seemed to be going at a similar pace.

This river would be crossed many times

We hit a problem at one of the river crossings, which used a rather narrow footbridge. At this precise moment an old chap decided he was in desperate need to cross the bridge, which threatened to hold us up before we just managed to edge him out (thankfully without pushing him over the bridge, although it was considered).

At half-way it was time to take on some water and, with the previous night's burger working it's way through my system, time to pick up the pace. Gradually I began reeling in other folk from the club who I thought were much faster than me, yet I was able to pass them and pull away with ease. The hill towards the end wasn't really a problem, partly because it was quickly followed by a hill back down, and then it was on to the finish line at the park.

As I came on to the home straight I upped my pace again, determined not to let anyone pass. Despite not being very long it seemed to last forever, however as I came towards the line I was shocked to see the first part of the clock show the race time as 46 minutes. Surely that couldn't be right?

These things are fairly reliable, you know

Incredibly (although perhaps not surprisingly, it is a clock after all) it was indeed correct and I crossed the line in 46:30, well below what I'd optimistically aimed for. I was 59th, comfortably in the top third of a field of nearly 200, and finished ahead of lots of other folk from the club.

So there you had it. Burgers, chips, chocolate brownies and onion rings the night before a big race can work after all - but I had no intention of repeating that approach for Dumfries Half Marathon at the end of September a few weeks later...

A pain in the arse

Darren Anderton - a man not unfamiliar with the misery of injury

Six months in and this running thing had been going well. I'd exceeded all my expectations when it came to speed, distance, stamina and how I performed in races. I was enjoying iy more than I thought I would, I wasn't useless and I was going fine at the club.

With a fortnight off from work coming up in July I sorted out my plans. I contacted a running club in Paisley to ask if it was OK to come along when I was in the area, which it was. I was planning to spend a few days in Edinburgh so looked at possible running routes in the capital. Parkruns - organised three-mile runs every Saturday morning - weren't available in Dumfries for adults, but there was one in Linwood I'd be able to do. Everything seemed fine.

And then it was all ruined by a massive pain in the arse.

This may have indirectly caused my pain

The weekend before my last working week ahead of the holidays I went for a run, then watched Andy Murray win Wimbledon for a second time. The following day I felt a weird pain in my backside I hadn't felt before. It wasn't that sore, just there, niggling away. I put it down to the way I'd been sitting watching the TV, which isn't the most sensible position, and didn't let it affect my plans.

I'd decided that week to go to the Tuesday running club session, rather than the Monday. I can't remember why - maybe the forecast was better, maybe it was more challenging - but, aside from a run in Ae Forest a few weeks earlier, it was due to be my first time at the more advanced night. Unfortunately, amidst reassurances it would be on despite there being a race in Moffat the same night, only two other folk turned up. After waiting for 10 minutes we all agreed to go home.

I should have taken this as a sign that I wasn't meant to run that week and I should go home and rest. But I didn't. And so, as I sat chortling away at Celtic's inability to beat Lincoln Red Imps, I brought forward my plans to meet someone for a pre-morning run the following day rather than Thursday as originally planned.

Imagine losing to a motorbike display team

The first few miles weren't too bad, but as we continued I could feel the pain getting worse. And worse. And worse. I could barely walk, let alone run, the last mile or so back to my flat. Standing talking to my neighbour for 10 minutes before I could get in for a shower didn't really help.

Work was a nightmare. Every time I tried to walk around the office I was in agony. I'd had the problem with my knees a few months earlier, but this was a whole new ballgame. The following day - the last before my holiday - it seemed the pain was easing. Whatever the problem was, it seemed to be loosening. I wasn't going to be running any time soon, but I foolishly thought this was a problem that would clear up in a week or so.

Wrong. Instead of my holiday being parkruns and lovely jogs along Edinburgh's canals, I was reduced to limping around, wolfing down ibuprofen and sitting on hot water bottles and ice packs in a bid to cure the problem. At the end of each day the pain would almost have vanished but come the morning it quickly returned. I'd go for a walk and think it was getting better but five minutes later the pain would be as bad as ever. The first day wandering around Edinburgh left me feeling raw - although saying I had a raw backside might get me some different blog visitors than usual...

A haggis supper. Perfect nutritional intake if you're an injured sportsperson

One of the main benefits of running was it meant I could eat what I want and not have to worry too much about putting on weight. That became a problem when I was injured - especially when I was on holiday and had more opportunities to eat than normal. The Edinburgh weekend was the biggest problem. A Chinese was followed by a haggis supper which was followed by a massive pizza. All on different days, I'm not that bad! With me eating more than normal and doing sod all exercise, I could feel the pounds piling on by the hour.

By the end of my fortnight off I hadn't run a single mile, although I'd done a fair bit of walking (which was probably why my injury wasn't healing). I was also getting pains elsewhere, leading my brother to compare me to injury-prone footballer Darren Anderton, who has the nickname Sicknote. I was dreading the return to work, not just for the usual reasons but because the first week in August always involves covering a farming show. For some reason, it's probably the job I hate most all year.

In the build-up to it, I'd felt my injury getting better - to the extent I almost thought about going back to running club before getting roped into a pub quiz team. In a bid to get to farmers and their animals, the show can involve a bit of running and climbing over the odd fence. The first time I did that I felt the pain in my backside come flooding back, and not because I'd been attacked by a cow.

Fortunately this did not happen to me

I was devastated. That evening, as I tried to sleep, I was close to tears as I came to the realisation I was possibly back to square one. I'd hoped to ease myself back running again that weekend with a parkrun but there was no chance now. I decided to seek professional help, something some people would say was long overdue.

I looked into going to a physio, then discovered it cost a small fortune. So I came up with a plan, which was either incredibly smart or incredibly stupid. I would go to running club, do the warm-up and if I felt bad I'd stop and arrange an appointment. If it felt OK I'd continue. If I was going to have to pay for treatment, I was going to get value for money by properly wrecking whatever muscle was causing me problems. Somewhere in my tiny brain, this made sense.

How my brain works

The time came. The warm-up arrived. I felt the pain get slightly worse, but decided I'd give it a go anyway and went for the four mile group to, ahem, ease myself back in. The pain didn't get too bad - always present but never unpleasantly so - and the physio could wait.

Over the week I tried to go back to my old routes and distances, gradually building it up rather than flying back in with long runs. Was the injury gone? No. Was it bearable? Yes. If I wasn't stupid, I could go running and I could manage the pain without any problems. To be honest, nearly six months on, the pain still isn't completely away - it just comes and goes and as long as I'm not stupid I can get away with it. I probably do still need to get some help but I'll wait until I properly wreck it again.

I was annoyed I'd had to sit out a month without running, especially as it was the summer and the weather was (in theory) better than in winter, when I'd started. However, there was no point looking back, it was time to look forward, to get back to proper running, to shift some of the weight I'd put on with all that haggis and ice cream and start targeting some races.