I put the minor disappointments of the Welsh Masters performances behind me and knuckled down to some actual training, you know the stuff where you actually plan the sessions, rather than just making it up as you go along. Now this is usually fatal for me, not just because I get carried away with the sessions and wind nearly killing myself, but because I usually end up injured and wasting all that carefully planned progression. So this was serious then, better sit down and do it carefully, that means plenty of contemplation and a smattering of single malt - inevitable really.
Being a lucky individual and feeling confident (It was probably wind really), I set about some sprint sessions with gusto. So you can imagine my disappointment at going down with darn head cold after just one training day, it only lasted a week, and yes, it was treated with a combination of Glenfiddich Special Reserve, Edradour 10 year old, and Tescos Ardnave. Having recently totally spoilt my taste buds on Islay, I had hoped that the Ardnave, named after a hamlet on the north of Islay, would be tasteful, but I found it a little harsh with a rather short finish despite the peatiness. The Glenfiddich fared little better, too lemony and youthful but the smoke was a welcome change from the strong Islay flavours, that left the Edradour. A highlander and of tiny barely legal stills, it has a beautiful caramel taste, and a soft finish not out of place on Speyside. Sadly the Ardnave and the Edradour ran out and I had to resort to Sudafed and Olbas to finish the job.
Unbelievably I then went down with Sinusitis, so I opened the Nikka cask strength (51.4% ABV)!! Smacks of desperation - or alcoholism. Sneezing felt like letting off a hand grenade between my ears followed by the insertion of six inch (150mm for the metric crowd) nails through my eyes, and coughing was little better, just spared the nails. Either way the sprint work was dreadful, it felt like running with a bucket of water on my head with a loose 6Kg shot rolling around inside, so after 4x60m and 4x100 I nearly passed out in the stand, not entirely sure that driving home was such a clever idea afterwards. A couple of days later I had a crack at 4x30 and 3x150m, slightly easier, but it all ended rather familiarly with a reunion between me and my dear old friend the bear with his fridge leaping gleefully on my back some 50m short on the last rep - one of those American types that dispenses beer and ice cubes. I resorted to pain killers and fell asleep in the car.
So the vault was finally creeping up, I can now achieve an opening height above the that of the M90 high jump event, so fingers crossed. Sadly the sprinting seems stuck, despite super human efforts (well that's what it felt like to me), the times of the reps remain below that of a three legged dog chasing his tail through treacle whilst wearing a diving suit. I decided to step things up, 6x150m should help. This had the rather predictable result in causing a right lower leg strain followed by a similar strain in the hamstring - such joy! Where's the ice and a glass of Oban?
I turned my attention to the vault, I hadn't done this for so long my club had repossessed the poles, leaving me with just one, which had been given to me by a friend - thank you Bonny. My initial session resulted in lots of aching muscles, some of which had convinced themselves I'd given up on all this Tom foolery, but at least I had got over a rubber bar set at 2.80m, mostly by closing my eyes and shouting "Banzai!". My second session only served to prove that I'm going senile and am suffering with Dispraxia AND Dyscalculia. For the first half hour I was all over the place spending more time up the pole praying I could land on something soft other than my butt, than actually clearing anything. Then, I finally realised that my 21.90m run up had been set to 20.90m, and that 21.90m was actually shot anyway. This weekend saw the run up extend to 23m, so how I expect to vault cleanly when I don't even know what foot to start on.
And, having flipped a coin (scientifically of course!) as to what foot the long jump and pole vault run ups would start on, I headed for Lee Valley and the BMAF indoor championships. I'd entered the 60m and the long jump on Saturday and the vault on day two, with targets of top10 in the sprint, 4.60m in the long (probably 5th) and 2.80m in the vault, which might take a medal depending upon Alan Leiper and his tendency to clear his opening height on the 3rd attempt (he only no-heights when I'm not there).
I arrived early, which was just as well as I couldn't find registration because the powers that be had hidden it in a cupboard behind the Bourne Sports stand. Anyway I eventually signed in and wandered off to warm up for the 60m, pondering the need to run sub 8.3 to make the final and hoping I could improve the crap 8.57 from January.
Anyone want to guess what happened then?
No, the start was good, only John Statham got out quicker, pickup to 30m was sluggish and I discovered I'd somehow mislaid top gear and failed to make proper use of the pair of legs I was currently lumbered with, especially the toes. The line approached, and I had to perform my customary dip to ensure 4th place, far enough back to witness the winners hitting the air bags. Oh yes, the air bags, I hit it and pulled my right calf didn't I - badly. Say goodbye to the long jump Keith, where 4.60m would have been 3rd (Mr Trevor Wade you can do better!) and also the vault where 2.80m was indeed 3rd.
A depressing weekend made worse by injury, a second clocking of 8.57 to boot and a stone through the windscreen passing Swindon. Well not quite through, but £100 for a new one after limping the rest of the way home. Oh yes, the Rugby went t*ts up too.
I toasted Kevin Burgess (60m), John Barratt (LJ) and Alan Leiper (PV) with copious amounts of Oban whilst icing my leg.
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