Unable to run, deflated by injury, I go to buy shoes. A pair of running shoes is generally said to be good for 500 miles, so it follows I will need two, possibly three pairs in the year building up to my half-marathon. Five hundred miles sounds like a long way when you string it out (the length of a Proclaimers song, which is a daunting thought), but once you start piling on the miles and running 40, perhaps 50 in a week, you soon eat into that total.
Anyway, I like going into running shops. I've bought from chain stores in the past and been let down in more ways than one. For a start, just pulling a box off a shelf and handing it over to a counter is about as inspiring as a late-night kebab. A shoe shop, like a hairdresser, is a place where you should expect to be pampered a bit. I secretly long for the assistant to say something like: "so what kind of time do you run?" and then stand about reminiscing over great races of the past. But of course, they don't: they have jobs to do, same as me, and they restrict themselves to sage advice about over-pronation and wearing in the shoes.
There's something faintly sensual about trying on running shoes. The few plodding steps you take across the acrylic carpet tell you very little about how well the shoes will protect your joints on the open road, yet it's still a joy to roll the feet around luxuriantly inside the shoe, feeling for weak spots and savouring the snugness of a really well-fitting shoe. Bright new running shoes exude promise: the promise of the miles not yet covered, of the times not yet run, of the moments when I reach the top of a hill, take a few deep breaths and hurtle down the opposite side. Shoes bought in autumn will - should - see me through until roughly the onset of summer, which in a country like Scotland is a thought to cherish.
I usually learn something, too, from a visit to the shoe shop. Last time I had my running style filmed from behind, which taught me too things: that running in a suit and trainers looks ridiculous, and that I had an odd tendency to run on the tips of my toes, which might explain my tender achilles tendons. I adjusted my running style in the wake of that analysis and enjoyed an injury-free summer. This time I discovered that I've been wearing my shoes too big. Sounds obvious, but when you've been buying size 11 shoes for more than a decade, it becomes such an ingrained habit that it never occurs to you to question it. My specific problem is that my right foot is half a size larger, so I'm forever caught between sizes. This time the assistant recommended I came down half a size, so I did. The shoes gripped my feet more firmly, there was none of the usual chafing at the back, and I felt like I'd taken a small step forward. But of course, the real test will come on that cherished day when I can run again.
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Week 4
Sooner or later as a runner, unless you're exceptionally lucky and have perfect leg alignment, you come up against the old demon of injury. Injury is your body's way of telling you to slow down, or stop running like a demented chicken, or that it's just fed up of taking the shock of whacking 11 stone of skin and bones down onto the pavement for weeks on end. Through a combination of fate and prudent self-management, my injuries have been mostly minor. They've affected most parts of my legs at various stages, so that they've almost become a measure of my development.
My natural running style is an invite to severe injury. I have the kind of bow legs that when pressed together look like a giant wishbone. When I put them together my knees almost head-butt each other. In my early running days, as I got tired I'd kick my legs out to the side so that they twirled like cheerleaders' ribbons. Inevitably that took its toll on my knees, which throbbed after every outing. Though even this was a step forward from my very first runs, which left me with such severe blisters that I could barely make it up the street to the pub the next day for a consoling pint.
Because of this vulnerability I've made a point of dedicating every autumn, when I'm furthest away from the racing calendar and can afford to slack off the pace, to concentrating on my running style and making every stride more efficient. Gradually I learned to rein in this tendency to swing my legs outwards, mostly by pumping my arms more vigorously, which naturally drives the knees upwards and means the legs go out in front rather than dangling behind you. It's also more efficient in general. Needless to say, in the early stages I exaggerated the pumping arms and was rewarded with some copycat disco-dance moves by the satirical geniuses who frequent Queen's Park in Glasgow (and while we're on this point, can the people who heckle runners from their backfiring cars please learn some new songs? Keep On Running is older than most of you are, you imagination-starved losers).
Instead I developed a new problem: I tend to run on my toes. I discovered this when buying shoes one time, when I was introduced to that fear-inducing, but invaluable tool, the video treadmill. By viewing my running action from behind, I realised that my heels barely hit the ground, possibly a legacy of my school days as an 800m runner (albeit a woefully bad one). This was putting unnatural strains on my calves, and sure enough they were rebelling at the prospect. Three years ago I suffered my first serious injury, a calf twinge that seemed mild, but would flare up almost exactly 40 minutes into every run. I nursed it gingerly, went swimming for a few weeks, reduced it to a nagging pain and decided to do the thing that every coach tells you not to do - chance my arm (or rather leg) in a race situation.
It seemed fine. The Glasgow 10K has never been one of my favourite races, but it seemed to be going smoothly enough. It felt like someone was plucking a string in my leg every time my left foot hit the pavement, but it wasn't hampering me unduly. I was making steady progress to the finish - no danger to my PB, but no disgrace either - until I got to 100 metres from the finish on the shoulder of another runner. I pulled off to the right, pushed the accelerator, and suddenly that plucking string went with an almost audible twang. I covered the last few seconds of the race like a shot soldier bolting for the safety of his trench, somehow speeding up even as I lurched to the finish line on one and a half legs. I hobbled to the physio tent, got some relief for my tender calf and didn't lace up my trainers for another six weeks.
Luckily that injury subsided altogether. More recently I've been plagued by something that strikes fear into runners - tendinitis. It started last year, frustratingly just at a time when I was making real inroads into my PB. Again I laid off, went swimming, came back a few weeks later and realised, with a sinking feeling, that I hadn't entirely shrugged it off. The problem this time was that I had a charity race lined up. Somehow I made it through three weeks of preparation, ran the race within an ace of my personal best, and went on to run another 10K the following week. But I couldn't disguise the pain that my achilles tendons announced every time I set out for a run. The ruinous thing about tendinitis is that it goes away after a couple of miles, so that you can easily fool yourself it's no big deal, only to revisit you with a vengeance when you wake up the next morning, like a vicious hangover. And it is, left ignored, one of the most malignant injuries known to runners. And it's the same sensation that has been screaming up at me from the legs for the last few weeks since I started running again in earnest. On Tuesday I realised I could no longer ignore it. I hobbled around my four-mile route, having upped the weekly mileage the week before, came inside, limped off to work and decided, with an air of resignation, that rest was the only solution.
So there you have it. The ravages of the body have taken their toll. A rest of at least three weeks, and possibly longer. And if it gets really serious, I'll have to consider going swimming again. But only if it's really, really serious, because I really, really hate swimming.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles
Week's mileage: 4.2
Total mileage: 50.6
Shoe mileage: Saucony 42.2
Fitness level: 60%
My natural running style is an invite to severe injury. I have the kind of bow legs that when pressed together look like a giant wishbone. When I put them together my knees almost head-butt each other. In my early running days, as I got tired I'd kick my legs out to the side so that they twirled like cheerleaders' ribbons. Inevitably that took its toll on my knees, which throbbed after every outing. Though even this was a step forward from my very first runs, which left me with such severe blisters that I could barely make it up the street to the pub the next day for a consoling pint.
Because of this vulnerability I've made a point of dedicating every autumn, when I'm furthest away from the racing calendar and can afford to slack off the pace, to concentrating on my running style and making every stride more efficient. Gradually I learned to rein in this tendency to swing my legs outwards, mostly by pumping my arms more vigorously, which naturally drives the knees upwards and means the legs go out in front rather than dangling behind you. It's also more efficient in general. Needless to say, in the early stages I exaggerated the pumping arms and was rewarded with some copycat disco-dance moves by the satirical geniuses who frequent Queen's Park in Glasgow (and while we're on this point, can the people who heckle runners from their backfiring cars please learn some new songs? Keep On Running is older than most of you are, you imagination-starved losers).
Instead I developed a new problem: I tend to run on my toes. I discovered this when buying shoes one time, when I was introduced to that fear-inducing, but invaluable tool, the video treadmill. By viewing my running action from behind, I realised that my heels barely hit the ground, possibly a legacy of my school days as an 800m runner (albeit a woefully bad one). This was putting unnatural strains on my calves, and sure enough they were rebelling at the prospect. Three years ago I suffered my first serious injury, a calf twinge that seemed mild, but would flare up almost exactly 40 minutes into every run. I nursed it gingerly, went swimming for a few weeks, reduced it to a nagging pain and decided to do the thing that every coach tells you not to do - chance my arm (or rather leg) in a race situation.
It seemed fine. The Glasgow 10K has never been one of my favourite races, but it seemed to be going smoothly enough. It felt like someone was plucking a string in my leg every time my left foot hit the pavement, but it wasn't hampering me unduly. I was making steady progress to the finish - no danger to my PB, but no disgrace either - until I got to 100 metres from the finish on the shoulder of another runner. I pulled off to the right, pushed the accelerator, and suddenly that plucking string went with an almost audible twang. I covered the last few seconds of the race like a shot soldier bolting for the safety of his trench, somehow speeding up even as I lurched to the finish line on one and a half legs. I hobbled to the physio tent, got some relief for my tender calf and didn't lace up my trainers for another six weeks.
Luckily that injury subsided altogether. More recently I've been plagued by something that strikes fear into runners - tendinitis. It started last year, frustratingly just at a time when I was making real inroads into my PB. Again I laid off, went swimming, came back a few weeks later and realised, with a sinking feeling, that I hadn't entirely shrugged it off. The problem this time was that I had a charity race lined up. Somehow I made it through three weeks of preparation, ran the race within an ace of my personal best, and went on to run another 10K the following week. But I couldn't disguise the pain that my achilles tendons announced every time I set out for a run. The ruinous thing about tendinitis is that it goes away after a couple of miles, so that you can easily fool yourself it's no big deal, only to revisit you with a vengeance when you wake up the next morning, like a vicious hangover. And it is, left ignored, one of the most malignant injuries known to runners. And it's the same sensation that has been screaming up at me from the legs for the last few weeks since I started running again in earnest. On Tuesday I realised I could no longer ignore it. I hobbled around my four-mile route, having upped the weekly mileage the week before, came inside, limped off to work and decided, with an air of resignation, that rest was the only solution.
So there you have it. The ravages of the body have taken their toll. A rest of at least three weeks, and possibly longer. And if it gets really serious, I'll have to consider going swimming again. But only if it's really, really serious, because I really, really hate swimming.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles
Week's mileage: 4.2
Total mileage: 50.6
Shoe mileage: Saucony 42.2
Fitness level: 60%
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Week 3
One thing you learn to appreciate as a runner is the importance of style. Running efficiently helps you feel more comfortable on the road, reduces the risk of injury and, of course, allows you to run faster without expending extra effort. It also has the benefit of making you look and feel like less of a twit. You actually have the sense, when things really 'click', of speeding along the pavement, nimbly ducking such obstacles as puddles, potholes and oncoming buses.
Conversely, when I start out on a training cycle I'm hideously aware of the ugliness of my running. It goes through a series of stages. The first I call bum-shuffling. Mercifully, I don't really do this any more, but it's that foot-dragging, hip-swivelling, torturous method of progress that is common in middle-aged women who take up the sport.
As things develop, I reach the stage known as bus-stop running. This is the marginally more coherent, arm-flailing, buckle-legged form of motion that's distinguished (if that's the word) by heavy breathing. It means the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. This is the really painful stage, when a two-mile run up and down a gentle incline can have me wheezing like a 40-a-day smoker.
After a few weeks things start to settle in to some kind of rhythm. The pace is still slow, the feet feel like bricks every time they touch the ground, and even slight hills feel vertiginous, but I've subdued the gasping rebellion of my lungs and am fit enough to run at an even tempo for an hour or so. This is more or less the stage I feel I've reached at the moment. The next stage is the "comfort zone", when I'm running close to my optimum pace, gliding across pavements, flagging slightly in the later stages but still feeling fresh at the end. And finally - very rare this - comes something approaching mastery of my own limbs. I remember fondly a training session when I decided to run fast but steady for the first three miles, before stepping up a gear for the last four. The result: I kept pace with my personal best through the first section, then gritted my teeth and annihilated it in the second phase. Moments like this are what I do all the hard, unforgiving miles for.
Sometimes the switch can come unexpectedly, even in the middle of a run. It happened this week, towards the end of a sluggish four-miler. I had to dash across the traffic lights about three-quarters of a mile from home, and once I got to the other side I just kept going. It was as if something had pushed me in the back. My step fell lighter, my knees kicked higher and I felt the exhilarating sense of all cylinders firing in synch for the first time in months. I picked up 20 seconds in that part of the run alone (which offset a shortfall on the rest of the run).
Runs completed: 4.2 miles; 6.1 miles; 7.1 miles miles
Week's mileage: 17.4
Total mileage: 46.4
Shoe mileage: Saucony 38
Fitness level: 70%
Conversely, when I start out on a training cycle I'm hideously aware of the ugliness of my running. It goes through a series of stages. The first I call bum-shuffling. Mercifully, I don't really do this any more, but it's that foot-dragging, hip-swivelling, torturous method of progress that is common in middle-aged women who take up the sport.
As things develop, I reach the stage known as bus-stop running. This is the marginally more coherent, arm-flailing, buckle-legged form of motion that's distinguished (if that's the word) by heavy breathing. It means the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. This is the really painful stage, when a two-mile run up and down a gentle incline can have me wheezing like a 40-a-day smoker.
After a few weeks things start to settle in to some kind of rhythm. The pace is still slow, the feet feel like bricks every time they touch the ground, and even slight hills feel vertiginous, but I've subdued the gasping rebellion of my lungs and am fit enough to run at an even tempo for an hour or so. This is more or less the stage I feel I've reached at the moment. The next stage is the "comfort zone", when I'm running close to my optimum pace, gliding across pavements, flagging slightly in the later stages but still feeling fresh at the end. And finally - very rare this - comes something approaching mastery of my own limbs. I remember fondly a training session when I decided to run fast but steady for the first three miles, before stepping up a gear for the last four. The result: I kept pace with my personal best through the first section, then gritted my teeth and annihilated it in the second phase. Moments like this are what I do all the hard, unforgiving miles for.
Sometimes the switch can come unexpectedly, even in the middle of a run. It happened this week, towards the end of a sluggish four-miler. I had to dash across the traffic lights about three-quarters of a mile from home, and once I got to the other side I just kept going. It was as if something had pushed me in the back. My step fell lighter, my knees kicked higher and I felt the exhilarating sense of all cylinders firing in synch for the first time in months. I picked up 20 seconds in that part of the run alone (which offset a shortfall on the rest of the run).
Runs completed: 4.2 miles; 6.1 miles; 7.1 miles miles
Week's mileage: 17.4
Total mileage: 46.4
Shoe mileage: Saucony 38
Fitness level: 70%
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
Week 2
I remember vividly the moment I decided I should start running seriously. Like lots of people in their twenties who are in generally good health, I'd taken my fitness for granted, reasoning that as long as I wasn't visibly gaining weight I didn't need to think about it. Then one day I had to run for a train. The way to the station involved a short flight of steps, then a gentle slope up to reach the bridge that crossed our street. And halfway up the slope I had to stop and gasp for air, wheezing like a set of old bellows, my legs struck dumb with oxygen deficiency. And my sister-in-law, who was with us at the time, turned round and said something reproachful about my fitness level. And in that moment, as I hurtled the last few strides up the slope and fell into the train carriage, I vowed to do something about my fitness.
I ran my first 10K race later that year. There is a high-profile race in Edinburgh called the Capital City Challenge, now run in the spring but back then in September. I signed up for it, wrapping it into a weekend away with my wife. But first, as a warm-up, I entered the race at the Bute Highland Games in Rothesay.
I had no idea what to expect. The race was on a Saturday afternoon when my wife was working, so I had the day to myself. I parked the car at Wemyss Bay station, caught the ferry across to Rothesay and walked up the shallow hill to the public stadium (a few hours later I would learn one of the secret rules of distance running: hills become steeper when you run up them). I paid my £3 entry fee and received my race number and a bunch of safety pins. Just before we lined up to race, a man came up to me and asked what time I expected to run. Not really knowing, I plumped for 45 minutes. “I'll stick with you, then; I usually run them in about 45 minutes,” he said cheerfully.
I walked up to the start line, a chalk line halfway down a grass athletics track. It was like a scene from Chariots of Fire. The gun went; the runners set off; my new friend blasted away towards the front. I tried to keep with him but gave up after about 20 strides. Surely we weren't going to keep this pace up for six and a bit miles?
Out of the stadium, around the corner, the course headed down towards the shore and I saw my race partner again, his legs floundering, being dragged backwards through the field. He had gone out far too quickly and so, I realised, had I. Another runner warned: “it's a long way to go, young man” as he plodded past me. By the 1km mark I was utterly spent. A short, wizened man with a head of white hair like a sand dune scuttled past me, followed by an even shorter woman whose protruding elbows made her look like a flapping moth. 45 minutes seemed like a laughable boast.
We ran out by the shore, towards Port Bannatyne, around a short loop and back again. At about the 7km point a taller woman limbered giraffe-like past me. By now I gauged I'd struggle to make the hour. I felt foolish for even thinking of running so far. Only a vague anxiety about wounded pride detered me from stopping altogether. The final hill up to the stadium was a gruelling relief. I fell across the line, pulled on my tracksuit and stood around waiting for the results.
Within an hour or so they were posted. Out of the 57 runners, I finished 38th. But astonishingly, I'd managed a time of 45 minutes and 4 seconds. I boarded the last ferry home, feeling calm and contented, the pain of those miles already a fading memory, and anticipating my run in the Capital City Challenge the next month.
I went to Edinburgh determined to break the 45 minute barrier. In the event, I ran 45 minutes flat. Technically, then, I failed. But it only made me determined to try again. I had the running bug.
This week I went out with the watch twice. Running three times a week for the first time had an immediate impact: I was a minute faster over four miles. Slightly disappointed not to make further inroads on the second run, but the legs felt much lighter than last week.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles (32:34); 4.2 miles (32:29); 6.1 miles
Week's mileage: 14.5
Total mileage: 29.0
Shoe mileage: Saucony 20.6
Fitness level: 65%
I ran my first 10K race later that year. There is a high-profile race in Edinburgh called the Capital City Challenge, now run in the spring but back then in September. I signed up for it, wrapping it into a weekend away with my wife. But first, as a warm-up, I entered the race at the Bute Highland Games in Rothesay.
I had no idea what to expect. The race was on a Saturday afternoon when my wife was working, so I had the day to myself. I parked the car at Wemyss Bay station, caught the ferry across to Rothesay and walked up the shallow hill to the public stadium (a few hours later I would learn one of the secret rules of distance running: hills become steeper when you run up them). I paid my £3 entry fee and received my race number and a bunch of safety pins. Just before we lined up to race, a man came up to me and asked what time I expected to run. Not really knowing, I plumped for 45 minutes. “I'll stick with you, then; I usually run them in about 45 minutes,” he said cheerfully.
I walked up to the start line, a chalk line halfway down a grass athletics track. It was like a scene from Chariots of Fire. The gun went; the runners set off; my new friend blasted away towards the front. I tried to keep with him but gave up after about 20 strides. Surely we weren't going to keep this pace up for six and a bit miles?
Out of the stadium, around the corner, the course headed down towards the shore and I saw my race partner again, his legs floundering, being dragged backwards through the field. He had gone out far too quickly and so, I realised, had I. Another runner warned: “it's a long way to go, young man” as he plodded past me. By the 1km mark I was utterly spent. A short, wizened man with a head of white hair like a sand dune scuttled past me, followed by an even shorter woman whose protruding elbows made her look like a flapping moth. 45 minutes seemed like a laughable boast.
We ran out by the shore, towards Port Bannatyne, around a short loop and back again. At about the 7km point a taller woman limbered giraffe-like past me. By now I gauged I'd struggle to make the hour. I felt foolish for even thinking of running so far. Only a vague anxiety about wounded pride detered me from stopping altogether. The final hill up to the stadium was a gruelling relief. I fell across the line, pulled on my tracksuit and stood around waiting for the results.
Within an hour or so they were posted. Out of the 57 runners, I finished 38th. But astonishingly, I'd managed a time of 45 minutes and 4 seconds. I boarded the last ferry home, feeling calm and contented, the pain of those miles already a fading memory, and anticipating my run in the Capital City Challenge the next month.
I went to Edinburgh determined to break the 45 minute barrier. In the event, I ran 45 minutes flat. Technically, then, I failed. But it only made me determined to try again. I had the running bug.
This week I went out with the watch twice. Running three times a week for the first time had an immediate impact: I was a minute faster over four miles. Slightly disappointed not to make further inroads on the second run, but the legs felt much lighter than last week.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles (32:34); 4.2 miles (32:29); 6.1 miles
Week's mileage: 14.5
Total mileage: 29.0
Shoe mileage: Saucony 20.6
Fitness level: 65%
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Week 1
In days gone by, legends of yore and suchlike, the journey was a stock source of storytelling. It was usually a fraught experience, full of danger, shaded paths, mysterious creatures, uncharted territories whence no man had ever returned alive. Today, in these more sanitised times when every inch of the planet has been mapped, claimed and parcelled up, and it's possible to zoom in on your house on Google Earth to check if you're in, we have to seek our adventures in other ways. We have to set boundaries for ourselves and seek the unknown amid the known.
One reason why journeys have always been so appealing to writers is that they are a natural form of narrative. A journey has a beginning, a middle and an end all of its own; there's no need for artifice or device. You just have to chronicle what happens, as it happens. And yet even the most predictable journey contains plenty of opportunity for suspense: often you literally don't know what's around the corner. This is the first entry in a blog that aims to chart just such a journey. One that will cover increasingly familiar terrain, but whose final outcome will be in the balance right up until the last strides.
I have been running 10 kilometre races and half marathons for nearly eight years now. When I was 27 I set myself a goal of completing 40 10K runs before I reached the age of 40. Four years later I entered a half marathon and ran it in 1 hour 32 minutes. I ran the same race two years ago and improved my time by seven minutes. It set me wondering: what is the ultimate time I might be able to achieve? Now, at the age of nearly 35, I intend to find out. Time is bearing down on me: I know that in a few years' time, I will begin the inevitable, inexorable process of decline. And so, next year, I plan to run the half marathon distance again. This blog will chart my progress between now and then, chart my training, map my reaction and reflect more generally on what motivates people to push themselves physically when it's so much less taxing just to jump in the car, or slump in front of the TV.
It's been nearly a year since I last ran a 10K (the hilly Barrhead route, in a fraction over 40 minutes). I've not been idle since then, but nor have I been particularly organised. Most weeks I've only been out once or twice, for a maximum of 45 minutes. This week I managed three runs, only one of which I timed. It was one of my regular routes, a 4.2-miler through Queen's Park, and I covered it in a sluggish 33 minutes 45 seconds (at my best I've run it in less than half an hour). Still, I've set down a marker, and can hopefully look forward to weeks of improvement.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles; 4.2 miles (33:45); 6.1 miles
Week's mileage: 14.5
Total mileage: 14.5
Shoe mileage: Saucony 6.1
Fitness level: 60%
One reason why journeys have always been so appealing to writers is that they are a natural form of narrative. A journey has a beginning, a middle and an end all of its own; there's no need for artifice or device. You just have to chronicle what happens, as it happens. And yet even the most predictable journey contains plenty of opportunity for suspense: often you literally don't know what's around the corner. This is the first entry in a blog that aims to chart just such a journey. One that will cover increasingly familiar terrain, but whose final outcome will be in the balance right up until the last strides.
I have been running 10 kilometre races and half marathons for nearly eight years now. When I was 27 I set myself a goal of completing 40 10K runs before I reached the age of 40. Four years later I entered a half marathon and ran it in 1 hour 32 minutes. I ran the same race two years ago and improved my time by seven minutes. It set me wondering: what is the ultimate time I might be able to achieve? Now, at the age of nearly 35, I intend to find out. Time is bearing down on me: I know that in a few years' time, I will begin the inevitable, inexorable process of decline. And so, next year, I plan to run the half marathon distance again. This blog will chart my progress between now and then, chart my training, map my reaction and reflect more generally on what motivates people to push themselves physically when it's so much less taxing just to jump in the car, or slump in front of the TV.
It's been nearly a year since I last ran a 10K (the hilly Barrhead route, in a fraction over 40 minutes). I've not been idle since then, but nor have I been particularly organised. Most weeks I've only been out once or twice, for a maximum of 45 minutes. This week I managed three runs, only one of which I timed. It was one of my regular routes, a 4.2-miler through Queen's Park, and I covered it in a sluggish 33 minutes 45 seconds (at my best I've run it in less than half an hour). Still, I've set down a marker, and can hopefully look forward to weeks of improvement.
Runs completed: 4.2 miles; 4.2 miles (33:45); 6.1 miles
Week's mileage: 14.5
Total mileage: 14.5
Shoe mileage: Saucony 6.1
Fitness level: 60%
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