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The Running Master

Stazza

I’ve decided to have another crack at keeping a log. As I’ve publicly announced that I’m going after the Irish M45 5k record of 15:22, I thought it only fair that I document my training and hold myself to account – publicly; at my age I should know better, especially given the current state of my fitness. Oh well.

So, I was out for about 4 weeks during December – small problem with my achilles, peroneals, soleus, and a bit of P.F. to boot. Although it’s all pretty much sorted, there is some residual discomfort. So I need to be careful.

Rather than just log the boring running stuff, I’m hoping to drop in a few accounts of some of my interesting life experiences. I’ve worked in the UK and Kenya as a physical therapist/business owner looking after many household names. I’ve also worked as a journalist, sub editor and editor on a national tabloid in Southern Africa – some great stuff from those days; I spent a day with Nelson Mandela. I went on to own a rather unsuccessful national tabloid in Cyprus – some great stories from my time there, especially concerning The Cypriot Mafia.

To keep things from getting stale, I’ll drop in some anecdotes. Starting next week with, Linford Christie, Doping, The Banana, and Me - Nuff Respect!

The running this week:
Sunday – 8 miles; last 3 miles picked up the pace.
Monday – 6 miles easy with 8x100m pick-ups
Tuesday – 6 miles easy
Wednesday - a.m. 6 miles easy p.m. 6 miles, incl 4 @ LT
Thursday – 6 miles easy with Paddy the Kenyan – PtK’s training for the Tralee Marathon;)
Friday – a.m. 6 miles easy + p.m. 6 miles moderate progression – picked it up from 2.5 miles to 5 miles. Felt laboured.

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pistol_75

Stazza wrote: »

There's a whole lot of loving going on here... nice to see.

a.m. 7 miles ez.
p.m. 6 miles steady.
AIS before and after

Breaking news... Boys and girls, it's time to change the face of middle and long distance running...get ready to rumble...The Stazza System and so much more, starts tonight; no dictionaries required - just a positive attitude...

Look forward to it

Stazza

There's a whole lot of loving going on here... nice to see.

a.m. 7 miles ez.
p.m. 6 miles steady.
AIS before and after

Breaking news... Boys and girls, it's time to change the face of middle and long distance running...get ready to rumble...The Stazza System and so much more, starts tonight; no dictionaries required - just a positive attitude...

Runchick

Great log Stazza, long may it continue - reading this when I should be studying is proving a nice distraction

(not really sure what its about mind you :P)

Gavlor

conavitzky wrote: »

Stazza, do you have the wife posting on here now? The plot thickens:eek:

The Real Reason behind this will shock you

conavitzky

newbygirl wrote: »

In a 5k, as in love, one and one are one.

Stazza, do you have the wife posting on here now? The plot thickens:eek:

newbygirl

KielyUnusual wrote: »

.....and what was your first ever 5k time?;)

In a 5k, as in love, one and one are one.

KielyUnusual

newbygirl wrote: »

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring...... How deep is your life Stazza? How deep is your love?

.....and what was your first ever 5k time?;)

newbygirl

The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring...... How deep is your life Stazza? How deep is your love?

Stazza

Good Christie Hunting - Part 4

The hustle and bustle of hundreds of the world’s brightest young minds taking their seats in anticipation of Linford’s appearance struck me as odd: why did they want to see Linford and hear him talk? He was hardly England’s answer to Cormac McCarthy. What did Christie have to offer this pack of prodigies? In fact, as I watched from the balcony as the students took their seats, I almost left. But something rooted me to the spot.

Five minutes earlier, I was so close to weighing-in Linford the Legend. Fair shout, I’d had a few swifties and maybe that heightened my bravado. And now, as I sit here recalling the night, I think in all honesty, he might have given it a good go. What was it all about? Linford’s infamous Lunch Box, his banana, and the doping ‘allegations’.

In fairness, I have to say, up until this point I was pleasantly surprised by Linford’s charm, manner, and humbleness. Yes, humbleness. I’d expected a braggart and a poseur. I thought he’d be giving it the big I am, without the irony. But no, he was charming and softly spoken. Dapper and at ease in his suit, he asked about our business ventures and clients. Bernard had him well briefed. He tuned in to S’s sharp wit and laughed at my shenanigans and ridiculous questions about fights to the death between him and Carl Lewis and arm wrestles with John Regis – the usual jesting that goes on between great men and makes this little rock spin. He took the japery with good humour. It was clear to see why Bernard and Linford were friends: mutual respect founded on success and talent in their respective fields as well as a genuine bond that was hard to pinpoint.

It was only when we were having drinks in the bar minutes before he was due to speak that the atmosphere soured. And if it weren’t for my wife’s calming influence, I’d have dropped him. And as for S. (who is the closest living thing I’ve met to the lead character in Good Will Hunting, save for Paddy the Kenyan) he’d of been straight in there too. But my wife saved a scene.

Linford was talking with my wife, he was chatting with the garrulousness of a cokey on pure Columbian Top Shelf. M. gave me a look that suggested, I’m not a celebrity, get me out of here. I noticed blebs of sweat glistening on Linford's forehead. His manner had changed from dude to some sort of numpty in a Shake-and-Vac ad. I moved over to M. to make sure all was cool. I gave S. the eyes to let him know it might go off. As usual, S. was a week ahead of me.

‘…are always talking about my lunchbox, look,’ he said to M, clutching his groin. ‘And then they say I’m taking steroids. Don’t they know that if you take steroids you wouldn’t have a lunchbox like this.’

M. smiled and rolled her eyes, as if to say, what a pr1ck.

His hands were in and out of his pockets like a lad who’s just worked out what it’s all about. He swayed and puffed out his chest and rolled his head. Tysonesque. The little voice in my head started saying, ’here we go, it’s going off.

That’s all for now folks…

Stazza

menoscemo wrote: »

A story doesn't have to be fictional, the word comes from the latin meaning 'history' as I am sure you are aware in most latin languages 'history' and 'story' are the same word......

Good spot - my bad:o

menoscemo

Stazza wrote: »

@Menoscemo - It was a flashback, but pay attention. The whole Christie thing is a small piece of a large puzzle... But remember one thing, it's not a story. I'm crafting the outline like a story because of space and time on the log but it's true; well, it's as accurate as my memory allows.

A story doesn't have to be fictional, the word comes from the latin meaning 'history' as I am sure you are aware in most latin languages 'history' and 'story' are the same word......

Stazza

drquirky wrote: »

Stazza- You're not a Dr. HST fan by any chance, are you?

Haha - I hadn't thought of that. The idea is more as a warm-up/outline for some scrappy stuff I write later.

@Menoscemo - It was a flashback, but pay attention. The whole Christie thing is a small piece of a large puzzle... But remember one thing, it's not a story. I'm crafting the outline like a story because of space and time on the log but it's true; well, it's as accurate as my memory allows.

@conavitzky - you did better than me at English - that's true too. I saw your thing about doubles and I'll cover that in the training stuff soon enough. But I'm more in favour of shorter doubles than long singles - this goes against the grain, but I'm 100% right - the rest of the world is wrong:D

Anyway, I must to Christie go...

drquirky

Stazza- You're not a Dr. HST fan by any chance, are you?

menoscemo

Stazza wrote: »

Does that mean I've got to bang out part 4 tonight? Ok, later I'll have a crack at it - I'll try and keep it simple for the simpletons:D

Ah no, I enjoyed the flashback part and how you wove it into the interaction with Bernard but we are expecting you to get back to the Christie story tonight

conavitzky

Stazza wrote: »

Does that mean I've got to bang out part 4 tonight? Ok, later I'll have a crack at it - I'll try and keep it simple for the simpletons

Thank god for that. With a B in pass English I have really been struggling on here.!

Stazza

menoscemo wrote: »

Oh great!! It's Thursday

Does that mean I've got to bang out part 4 tonight? Ok, later I'll have a crack at it - I'll try and keep it simple for the simpletons:D

menoscemo

Oh great!! It's Thursday

Stazza

Thursday 23rd January

a.m. 7 miles ez with Paddy the Kenyan. PtK looked a bit better today (not in a sexy way or anything like that, although he is looking rather chiseled and gristly). Great chat. He taught me all about puppets, trolls, and other nasty things that naughty people do. Anyway, I’m writing my real life vignettes for my thousands of readers – the ones that don’t post on the boards, the ones waiting for all the exciting training stuff (I will get round to it very soon). Felt good and was looking forward to getting out this afternoon.

p.m. 6 miles progression. During the old A.I.S. I could tell the legs wanted to take me for a spin and I let them… Started out nice and slow 9min(ish) pace and gradually worked through the gears as and when I felt like picking it up. Spent from 3-4 in the High End Aerobic Zone (HEAZ) and mile 4-5 was around Lactate Threshold (LT). Legs felt great – the injury has healed. Aerobically, felt ok but could tell I’m carrying a good few pounds – they’ll come off in the next couple of weeks. And then, I’ll knuckle down to all the exciting training I have planned.

A.I.S. before and after both runs

Pacing Mule

TRR wrote: »

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Krusty_Clown

Not sure where it's all going, but enjoying the story!

Stazza

TRR wrote: »

Maybe if you weren't Ososlo, you'd get it;)

TRR

Stazza

Part 3 Good Christie Hunting

Because it happened so long ago, it’s difficult to recall with accuracy the exact details, words, and thoughts. But in my mind’s eye when I freeze frame the scene and step out of myself, here’s what I see and, as much as possible, remember:

Darkness. The sweet and overwhelming scent of midnight jasmine. The clank and whirr of a ceiling fan. The door slamming behind us as we stumble into the hall. The click of a switch followed by an explosion of light:

‘American f*ckers.’

We all turn towards the door and there he is - the intruder with the John Wayne. He’s tall. Maasai tall, only he’s not wearing the tribal robe and carrying a spear; he’s wearing white Nike trainers, jeans, and a white T-shirt. Sweating like a priest in a crèche.

This is real, I think I thought. This guy’s here to end us. No messing. I catch A. and he’s right on it. In a split second he too has sobered up and understands that somebody or everybody is going to die in the next few minutes. D. and N. are slowly beginning to comprehend that this little venture into the Kenyan tourism market has soured.

The guy with the John Wayne waves it to usher us away from the hall and on into the living room. The lads walk and I wait. Your man points the John Wayne straight at my face and grunts something in Swahili. I take it to mean follow the others.

I drop my right shoulder to suggest I’m going to turn and follow the others. His eyes come off me. I suspect he needs to watch the others as they move away from him. And then snap. I grab his wrist and pull him towards me and in less than half a second, I’ve nutted him and we’re both on the deck. The John Wayne slides across the floor towards the door. Me and Maasai are now clenched in a fight to the death. Arms wrestling for control.

He’s too strong for me and I can feel him overpowering me. But he stops and rolls off me. A. reacted quickly and picked up the John Wayne. My forehead aches from the head-butt. A. starts shouting in Swahili. He waves the gun around like a looper might. I get up.

‘Easy A.,’ I say. ‘Easy lad.’

I take the John Wayne off him and point it at the Maasai lad. I whisk it, suggesting he stands. Up he comes. The Johno’s cocked. It’s heavier than I thought it would be – like a small dumbbell.

‘Do you understand English?’ My voice sounds clear and in control and remarkably I feel relaxed. There’s no panic.

‘Yes,’ he says. Blood’s trickling from his nose and his teeth are stained with smudges of blood. His top teeth are broken, probably from the head-butt. He’s shaking.

‘You need to see a dentist,’ I say.

‘What?’ The tip of his tongue races across his top teeth and he winces.

‘A dentist.’

‘Funny. You’re very funny,’ he says.

I cock my head to the right and say ‘Toodle-pip.’

‘What?’ he asks.

And before he has a chance to understand the magnitude of the moment, I squeeze the trigger and watch the magic of death. He shoots back across the room and slides down the wall leaving a trail of skull and brain and tissue and shards of what appear to be teeth, to trace the beginning of his journey into the nothingness.

‘Kill the dentist, kidda; make it a gravedigger.’

All hullabaloo breaks out and after a few seconds I wave the Johno. Everybody shuts up. And right there, in that moment, seconds after one of the most amazing things that a man can do, I realise just how insignificant and meaningless we all are. God is dead.

‘Why did you shoot him?’ D. asks.

‘He called us Americans.’

Silence.

‘A.,' I say, handing him the Johno. ‘You and the lads take the Maasai fella and get rid of him. Take him a good way out along the Lamu road and throw him in the ocean.’

To this day, it surprises me that the lads did exactly what I asked. No questions. No nonsense.

When they left, I sat out on the balcony and chewed some miraa. Miraa is great for helping you to put things in perspective. When I ran out of miraa I just sat there thinking about everything. And then in the sobering quarter light of morning, it dawned on me that I’d killed a man. I hadn’t even bothered to check his pockets to see what his name was. Did he have a family? Maybe he had children. A tear rolled down my cheek and plopped on my hand.

‘There’s no need to cry.’ Bernard’s voice invaded my thoughts.

‘What?’ I said, wiping my eye. ‘Oh, I’m not crying, I’ve got oil in my eye.’

‘I thought you were crying,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you’ll get a chance to tell Linford exactly what you think.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘He’s addressing the Student Union next week. I’ve told him you and S. will meet him with me at the cocktail party before he addresses The Union.’ Bernard’s face lit up. ‘I’ve told him all about you. Best behaviour. Don’t let me down.’

To be continued…

Stazza

Wednesday 22nd January

7 miles ez with Paddy the Kenyan. Great to be back out after a day off – felt good and fully recovered. The Stazza machine is ready to go again. Could go out again tonight but I’ll wait until tomorrow before re-introducing the doubles. What, with chasing national records and all that, it’s going to be a tough and long year. For the tick-tock boffins – not sure about the pace, probably high 7’s. My normal ez pace is around 7:30 pace. I don’t wear a watch/Garmin unless it’s to measure a run or record a session. There’s plenty of time for the associated pressures that the watch brings into play…

For the afflicted – try leaving your watch/hrm at home and just go out and enjoy the run. You’ll know what effort to run at and you’ll find it liberating. Then, when you’ve got a session to do, use the watch. Just by putting on the watch, it’ll give you that little bit more of a buzz and add that little bit of something special to your workout. Go on, try it, I dare you…

Usual AIS stuff before and after.

theboyblunder

This log should be called 'when lactate met LSD'

I have the nagging feeling that posters are unwittingly taking part in some elaborate Turing test, and that stazza is really a room-sized teraflop computer (run by google types in glasses and 'mathematicians do it correctly' t-shirts) lashing disparate pieces of text together trying to convince us that its human.

I still havent hit 'unfollow' yet though...:)

(PS put some paces in there please

)

PaulieC

savant or loolaa, I can't decide, but it's mighty esoteric which is a fine thing to have in a running log...

Stazza

Good Christie Hunting cont...

…When my sphincter ceased gnawing itself, I thought, there you go again, when will you ever learn to think before you, and then, like a bullet in the head it came to me: I’d been in worse situations than this - there was the time when I was boxing in the Abingdon Town Hall and I dropped under a left jab and delivered the sweetest uppercut I’d ever thrown and the fella merely stepped away, nodded, and then set about destroying me.

But that didn’t compare to the incident that occurred in the mansion near the golf course on the Kenyan coastal town of Malindi.

In the morning,we’d been to meet a traditional doctor, a man that A. referred to as The Teacher – a man with incredible powers. The purpose of the meeting was to get The Teacher to persuade the Two Fat Arabs to sell us their dhow.

I carried the four quarters of the chicken’s heart, wrapped in a sheet of newspaper, in the pocket of my shorts. Gazungo, our houseboy, had slaughtered the chicken minutes before we set off to meet The Teacher. I could almost feel the chambers of the heart beating against my thigh.

The Teacher wore a sarong and a blue Lacoste T-shirt. Mouth full of crumbling teeth. Breath like a camel’s fart. We dropped out the perfunctory Jambos and habari ganis and all the usual palaver. A. and The Teacher chatted away in Swahili while D. and N. and I stood waiting for the magic to begin.

Soon enough, we were sitting in the blistering heat outside The Teacher’s shack. Kids running through open sewers. The sweet smell of bananas baking on an open fire. A cocktail of banana, wood-smoke, and sewage. When I handed The Teacher the parcel containing the chicken’s heart, he beamed like a druggeh who was about to get his first fizz of the day. He unwrapped the parcel, and without any fuss, he took two quarters of the heart and placed them under his tongue. He stared at me hard - like he wanted to see the stains on my soul - and then he uttered some mumbo-jumbo in Swahili.

We all looked at each other and wondered if the rock was going stop spinning. The Teacher handed me the parcel with the two quarters of chicken’s heart and said something in Swahili and acted out a little routine that suggested I put the quarters of heart under a front door mat.

A. told me to pay The Teacher. I handed over some US and gave it the old, ‘Asante sana.’ When he smiled at my fluency in the old tongues, I tried my luck with some big city Nairobi vernacular, ‘Sour sour rafiki, ki-box,’ which translated means, ‘all right, my man.’

The Teacher and A. laughed hard at my Swahili patois.

A. told me that he’d hit the Fat Arabs’ yard and drop the two quarters of heart under the front door mat. The idea was that this would make them agree to our request to buy their dhow, at a steal – and a few days later we did. It worked.

After A. headed off to do the chicken business, N. went to meet a local brass he’d fallen in love with and D and I headed to the bockety pier that jutted out from the beach into the Indian Ocean. We sat there all day chewing miraa and hardly said a word. Just chewed miraa and Big G Bubble Gum, and enjoyed the magic as the rock did its thing. Sweet and sour.

As the sun set on the Indian Ocean and the fishermen cut across the horizon in their dhows, searching for the perfect spot to cast their nets, D. and I rose from our perch on the pier and made our way to one of the local bars. We linked with A. and N. and started on the Tusker. A. was a good few sheets to the wind. I’d dropped him a few shill’s and he’d spent the day on the tembo. His breath stank of baby sick.

At some point before the bar shut, we headed back to the run-down mansion, which we had ‘occupied’ soon after we arrived in Malindi. It belonged to some big-wig politician who spent his days up in Nairobi. A. sorted it for us.

The moment we stumbled through door, I spotted a man waving a John Wayne. I knew immediately that this wasn’t a game and if I didn’t want to leave Kenya in a casket, I’d need to sober up and do something. I knew the John Wayne was full of caps and that somebody was going to die…

See ya Thursday folks…

TRR

Stazza wrote: »

No questions are stupid, least of all your question about PtK. PtK is merely a sobriquet for a shy and humble man of great intellect and talent. He's new(ish) to running and is hoping to run well in the Tralee Marathon.

Ah right so, I had visions of some poor Kenyan freezing his arse off in Kerry training for the Tralee marathon!

Stazza

TRR wrote: »

OK, this might be a stupid question, but is Paddy the Kenyan a bona fide Kenyan or a skinny Kerry farmer who is as fast as a Kenyan?

No questions are stupid, least of all your question about PtK. PtK is merely a sobriquet for a shy and humble man of great intellect and talent. He's new(ish) to running and is hoping to run well in the Tralee Marathon.

It would be unfair of me to publicly state what I think he'll run etc. But, all things being equal etc, he should have a substantial PB at the end of it that most on here would be proud of...

No pressure PtK - you're as famous as I'm infamous. :mad:

TRR

OK, this might be a stupid question, but is Paddy the Kenyan a bona fide Kenyan or a skinny Kerry farmer who is as fast as a Kenyan?