I didn’t track it on my Garmin, so it didn’t happen

Torture with a view - the field where track training happens.

Torture with a view – the field where track training happens.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

Training for Rome Marathon (for real this time)

Week 2 of 10: Day 8

60 days to go

After last night’s curry and wine, I decided it was best for training to happen in the evening. The down side of training in the evening, of course, is that the whole day is governed by the fact that you have an hour’s workout still to do, so you have to watch what you eat and drink and make sure that you get home on time to get into your gear so that you can be at the track at 6:00 pm.

Also, it gets hotter and hotter. Logic says that it should get cooler, as the sun is setting, not rising. But by six o’clock in Camps Bay in January, the sun can sit pretty high and be pretty mean. It was about 28 degrees Celsius by the time we started training.

The day started on the back foot because of my somewhat student-like behaviour of the day before: I had run out of petrol. Who runs out of petrol?!

We were all heading out to curry after we had gone for our runs, and I was sitting in the car waiting for the bunch to finally make their way out of the house. Just as it seemed as if we were all ready to go, someone would need to go back into the house to fetch something. With a lot of sighing and eye-rolling and ‘Why can we never just leave the house?!’ I pulled the car up onto the pavement to wait for them to get done faffing. And, as I was about to turn the ignition off, the engine cut out. Thinking that I had done something stupid to cause it to cut out, I tried to start the car again and instantly remembered what I had forgotten to do after my trip to Hout Bay: fill up with petrol. I had driven there on empty, returned on fumes and just forgot to stop at the petrol station.

Luckily the car was out of the way of the traffic and only a few metres from the house, so we could all bundle out (while going on about how this is so typical of Mom) and get into Ashleigh’s car. It did mean, though, that I would have to walk to the petrol station in the morning to get a can of petrol, walk back, put the petrol in the car and then go back to the petrol station to fill the tank before I could actually get the day going.

And so that’s how the day started: with a stroll to Laughton’s to buy a plastic container of sorts to put the petrol in. Things sure have changed at Laughton’s since it became a Mica store. The women who are usually very accommodating and helpful were in a bit of a mood, to say the least, and my wanting a container was rather an inconvenience to them. They quickly grew bored of me and one went off to serve another customer while the other turned away from me – I was mid-sentence – to go and study her clipboard in some other corner of the shop. Somewhere where she could stand with her back firmly towards me to make it quite clear that I should not bother her with my nonsense again.

So I walked to the Caltex across the road and asked the petrol attendant if he could help. He was a friendly fellow who immediately went into the workshop and came out with a red oilcan, which he filled with five litres of petrol. And off I strolled along Sea Point Main Road, brandishing my smelly can and clocking steps on my Walkmate.

Getting the petrol into the tank worked as it always does: the cut-off two-litre bottle that served as a funnel didn’t quite manage to get all the petrol into the tank. Some of it got onto my hands and a good splash fell on my leg and onto my foot, soaking my pants and shoe with the rather pungent fragrance of eau de gasoline.

Then it was off to the High School to face the crush of moms and teenagers needing to buy books (me shrouded in a mist of petrol fumes), then back home to drop the kid off and try to rinse some petrol off me before meeting a colleague for lunch to discuss an idea that she has for a project that we can work on together. I had an hour to spare, which meant I had enough time to get washed and changed and make it to her in time.

But life doesn’t work that way. Older daughter had left her lunch at home, and I needed to make a detour to drop it off. This meant being slowed down by the crush of Somerset Road traffic, and getting stuck in an extra section of Buitengracht Street traffic. Soooo … I was late for lunch and didn’t smell very much better than I did before I set off.

Then it was back home to fetch the kid and take her to the stationery shop to buy her stationery. Have car washed at the same time, since it looked like a Jackson Pollock masterpiece from being parked under the poop tree for a few weeks. Then back home to do some work and then try to sneak in a ten-minute lie on the bed before my sergeant major comes home to tell me to get ready to go to training.

And that is how the Garmin got left behind.

And that means that tonight’s track session wasn’t recorded. And that means it never happened!

Six laps around the cricket pitch to warm up.

Then an eternity doing plyometrics up and down the field.

And then, the purpose of track: sprints. Ten one-minute sprints around the field, followed by 90-second cool-down.

All this nicely rounded off by another three laps around the field to warm down.

Tuesday’s training done and dusted, and another day closer to Rome. I didn’t cry. I didn’t vomit. I didn’t give up.

And, because I didn’t have my Garmin, it never happened.



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