A week since my return to competitive action, and it is all about to go very wrong indeed. After putting in a decent amount of training, eating reasonably well and even having a fortnight off the booze, and subsequently surprising myself with the results, I am off to Glastonbury Festival this week. It is fairly inevitable that almost my every move will be counter-productive to good running when I get back…
Lots and lots of cider. Well, I’ll be in Somerset after all. We all know how that turned out last time though. A shame.
Not as much of a problem as it would be at Reading or Download admittedly, but there is still a significant chance that I will eat at least one portion of terrible food per day. I will always have at least one “Pauline Fowler” Growler over the course of the festival, a horrific concoction involving several slices of bacon in a baguette, covered in chips, cheese and tomato sauce. Why I always come back for more I do now know. File also under this section: any of the burger stalls (yes, even the “gourmet” ones), the Welsh Oggy (an enormous Welsh take on the Cornish Pasty) or Glastonbury’s attempt at a doner kebab. So, so wrong.
Every festival I have been to so far has had at least one short period of illness, usually a brief oral “release” the day after a heavy night, and almost definitely, in no way whatsoever, brought on by any of the two points above. None whatsoever. No sir.
After last year’s dust-fest, it is looking like a muddy one this year so I suppose I could always fall over and get injured. I have had some epic tumbles on the plains of Pilton in years gone by, the best probably the triple somersault with pike (degree of difficulty: 3.0) after seeing Bruce Springsteen 2009. I know at least two people that have injured themselves in mud at Glastonbury, one of them a festival-ending injury resulting in a night in Bath hospital on morphine. (Disclaimer: it was actually the same person twice, but it still shows it is possible).
Obvious really. I will be drunk in the mud watching bands.
On the plus side, carrying all my stuff three miles to the campsite should provide a bit of exercise. Some of the food is quite good really. There are apples in cider. There are pears in Country Manor.
I’m clutching at straws aren’t I? I suppose I have to. This is where it is all supposed to begin. My training plan is due to start tomorrow, the build up to the biggest and most daunting challenge in my 30 years on this earth. I have a training plan courtesy of some bloke I’ve never met called Jeff Gaudette. He has got it in his head that I will be doing five miles tomorrow. Instead, I will be doing a 180 mile drive to Somerset. Thursday, Jeff’s got me down for five miles plus of interval training, whereas I have myself down for standing in the mud near the Brothers Bar rambling to all and sundry how this is the best place to be in the world. And you know what Jeff? I wouldn’t swap it for anything.
See you next week.