The training schedule

The training schedule

Pssst. . . 

Would you like to see my training schedule?

You can catch a glimpse if you scroll to the bottom of the page. But not before you’re done reading this blog post. Lol.

(And I can’t let you see the whole thing because it’s been custom made and paid for)

There’s a bit of a story behind my training schedule. I came by it after becoming so bamboozled by the squillions of running schedules available on line that I decided to buy one from a nice young lady called Lydia who looked like she knew what she was doing. If you google her (Lydia O’Donnell) you will be suitably impressed. She looks exactly like a Greek goddess but with abs. And it says on her website that she can run a marathon in 2:39:01. OMG! That is totally beyond comprehension! 

But the best thing is that Lydia also looks like a really nice person who might even be interested in ‘old ladies running’. 

On her website I selected ‘running programmes’ and set about answering a set of questions regarding things like general fitness, what sort of ‘lifestyle’ I had and how I liked to fill in my days.  I guess she wanted some clues as to how serious I was. Full of optimism, I answered the questions carefully, pressed ‘send’ and waited.

I don’t know what I was expecting. A magic bullet? 

Something that said ‘Hey, Sandy. So nice to hear from you. I am pleased to be able to tell you that if you run along at a completely leisurely pace for no more than a couple of times a week and make sure you eat a lovely high fat desert every night - then, in no time at all ,you will be perfectly prepared to run 42 kms.”

Or, even better, ‘Take this magic pill twice a day and carry on as normal. See you at the finish line.”

Of course that was never going to be the case.

And I should have been way better prepared. 

Because when my schedule arrived I did a bit of a freak out and a wee bit of an about turn and had to be jolted back to reality by a very strong flat white (or three). 

Straight away I knew I was out of my depth. The training schedule had words I had never heard of in it. Like ‘race pace’ and ‘tempo’ and ‘aerobic’ and ‘anaerobic’. I was going to have to do a ‘lactate threshold run’ and some ‘step-outs’ and ‘strides’. All perfect reasonable vocabulary to a sports person, maybe. But to me it was double Dutch. Or triple Dutch. I had no concept of what she was talking about.

There was a thing called ‘Fartlak’? The only thing I knew that had anything to do with ‘fart’ was definitely not running related (apart from the fact that I have been known to indulge in the activity now and then while out jogging -  only when I think no one is looking, or listening!)

And there was also talk of 80% marathon pace? I don’t have a ‘marathon pace’. 

Truth be known. . . I don’t actually have any ’pace’. All I have is a long slow plod. Or long slower plod. . . or maybe a ‘trudge’.

For two days, after receiving my instructions,  I buried my head in the sand (actually, under the pillow). And gave myself a good talking to.

“What were you thinking? “

“You’re not a runner. (Not a proper one!)”

“You’re not even a fast walker. “

“And you are way too old to be doing any ‘fartlaking’.” 

Feeling a tad deflated I put the schedule in the drawer and tried to think of comforting things. Like a nice chilled glass of Stoneleigh and ‘Grace and Frankie’ on the tele. I got out my crochet and made a hat.

The next morning my pulse rate had (almost) returned to normal (68 and pounding) I felt slightly calmer. Calm enough to take matters in hand and send an email back to Lydia.

‘Dear Lydia,

Thank you very much for your time but I think I’ll give the marathon idea a miss for now.” 

Her reply came straight back. 

Dear Lydia, bless her cotton socks, wasn’t haven't a bar of my ‘quit before I start’ attitude.

“I am sorry if the plan looks intimidating”, she said. “I didn't mean to freak you out,” she said.”

“It will be okay,” she said.

“I know you can do it,” she said. 

Really?

She had faith in me, she said. 

Amazing!  But why?

She didn’t know me from a bar of soap but she knew I could do it.

I took ten deep breaths and steeled myself.

I had no choice. I couldn't let this lovely Lydia down., could I. . .  I couldn’t let myself down.  This was something I’d always wanted to do, for whatever reason. 

It was now or never.

“But what about the fartlak?” I said.

“Just ignore the fartlak,” Lydia said.

I could even stick to slow plodding if I liked.

It started to seem possible again. I began to feel slightly better. . . Are you sure?

Absolutely.

If there was any doubt. . . And then, to top it all off -  she included a link.

I followed the link.

There she was -  a 95 year old. Out in her tracksuit, crossing the line.

I had no excuses now. . . 

P.S.

On reflection and after some intense googling I was pleased to see that Fartlak sounded slightly less horrible than I’d first thought. It actually just means run along at your normal pace and have a wee sprint when you feel like it.