"Top results are reached only through pain. But eventually you like this pain. You'll find the more difficulties you have on the way, the more you will enjoy your success."
Juha "the Cruel" Väätäinen
I wanted to share my experience of a winter run, which I undertook in the middle of a very heavy downpour of snow on a Saturday during December. You can view the route here. It was slow going, and exhausting. Towards the end it was the biggest test of resolve I have experienced so far. I hope it gives an idea of the ups and downs I'm experiencing, and what it feels like on those long, lonely runs:
I'm about to run 13.5 miles through a blizzard. Leaving the house, I'm feeling taut with excitement and apprehension for the journey ahead. My legs seem to have electrified currents of nervy adrenaline shooting up and down them.
The thoughts which go through my head are: do I really want to do this? It's freezing. I can do this. I hope I don't get injured. Eventually, I abandon myself to just do it, let go of those worries and excuses (aka stop whining), and set off.
I warm gently into the run, pass crawling cars and dash into free, open fields. My legs move methodically and cautiously. The whole country has been wrapped up for Christmas in a thick white coat, and it's not coming off any time soon. One minute I'm running on good, solid ground, the next I've clumsily dunked my foot in a hidden puddle of ice. The snow has blanched the bare ground, disorienting and overwhelming my senses. Swarms of snowflakes fly to the back of my throat, choking each breath and stinging my lungs.
I waver: this is worse than I expected - is it sensible? Possibly not, but 26.2 miles in April require a steely resolve, so no more questions. I've climbed a steep hill already, and drift into deep, white woods. The empty peal of silence rings in my ears, broken only by the crisp pat of feet landing gently below.
Legs take the strain of a long climb. I've found rhythm and cadence now, which carries me up and on. The cluttered thoughts of daily life are slowly settling down. Shelter and warmth are long gone. Fortunately, I'm well warmed in my winter kit, keenly steaming along. Snow hangs on branches like an invading flock of plump white caterpillars. Trees and bushes are smothered in the pasty parasite.
6 miles in, another section of road punctuates the route. I plod, head bent in gritty determination, unable to look up for fear of icy eyelashes. Even cars are humbled by the conditions - hushed engines carrying them chastely along. I can feel the surprised stares from passing passengers. A window opens, and the driver breaks the silence with an encouraging shout of: "Go, Rocky, Go!". I laugh to myself and then oblige with a series of quick jabs and uppercuts to show my appreciation. I'm buoyed by the hilarity, and run chuckling on. Naturally, my pace quickens as soon as other people are in sight... the fast-fading speed of the showoff! A few miles later, I'm glad I didn't fall over. That would have made his day.
8 miles in, I've reached the Thames now; cold grey water oozing through the snowy ground. Bumps and divots are hidden in the snow, and my ankles take the strain as I stumble blindly through a field. One slip and I'll be hobbling home for hours. I've made it safely to the bridge: about halfway. I cram several bright red and orange jelly beans down my gullet, little sugar bombs, and chew them greedily. I half-gasp, half-eat, desperately and dizzily meandering along.
My route map has become a sopping, sludgy flannel, and is now useless. Everywhere is uniform white. By miraculous fortune, I find the path I need. Realisation of how far I've travelled helps me pick each step up and bounce merrily on. The sugar helps, too.
The relentless weight of effort is taking it's toll. Clothes are soaked and heavy - patches cling uncomfortably and chill the skin. Knees are rusty hinges, creaking and fused. Each step registers aching fatigue. This is hard - it would be so much easier it is to stop moving. Anything to distract the mind is welcome now - anything which passes painful time and brings me closer to home. The thought of giving in and walking hovers enticingly, a half-formed idea which I can't afford to acknowledge.
3 miles left, I check the time - I'm late. I'm cold. My legs appear to be made of concrete. The next 5 minutes are an age of tiresome, persistent effort, one foot placed weakly in front of the next. I clamber my way up grudgingly, and reach the final hill. At last! My breathing is easy, since my body's too tired to exert itself. A last downhill, trotting cautiously down. I'm too tired to whoop, but with warmth, comfort and hot chocolate minutes away, a weary smile returns.
Run done. I know I'll remember this. All the worry and hesitation is gone, replaced by happy achievement.
Hot chocolate, boiling bath and a cosy fire will have me thawed out in minutes! Bliss!
