Genetic Rivalry - an anecdotal study

This story goes back a couple of years: I was having a really bad run, getting more and more worked up until I decided that none of it was fair.....I was training to try and compete at a higher level, but ability is limited in large by genetics. 

Genetics play such a pivotal role in running. There's only so much training that one can do before biomechanical and biological factors reduce further improvement to incremental. And this is without considering sociological impacts. 

I finally stopped and kicked a tree stump in frustration.  It wasn’t fair.  Genetic advantage is as unfair as PEDs I decided. It is not a level playing field. I could never hope to run a sub-30 for example. 

But as I would be miserable if I compared every run to Mo Farah, I judge performances and improvements to people at my level, and what I've achieved previously.

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My recent musings which established the unusuality of closeness of competition and ability between replacement chief rival Dan Robinson and I made me reflect: It is rare to find another 'random' runner with whom you are so closely matched over an extended period of training and competition, and with whom progression runs paralleled.

It was much to my surprise when attending a family funeral 18 months ago that I met so many paternal family members who I had no idea existed. And many seemed to run distance, now or at some point past. I then learnt of a personal trainer in London called Sam - who wasn't present, but I deduced him as my second cousin. His parents claimed him to be good. Naturally my curiosity was ignited. Sam would be genetically the closest comparison I would find in running terms (although I am aware that as a second cousin in all likelihood I would share as much genetic profile as a complete stranger (average of 3.125% shared genes)). I not so discretely gathered information and then excused myself to the bathroom to visit thepowerof10, as you do. 

The stalkerish results were just what I hoped for: on that day, if we ignore his rather impressive sub-two minute 800 as a 16 year old, my second cousin who is exactly 18 months younger and raced less than me boasted a 33:00 10k to my 33:36 and a marathon PB over 6 minutes faster than my own 2h50 clocking (at that time). 

The other week I had the presence of mind to check this again to see how my cousin, who I have still not met was going.

Tim                                   Sam

1mi        4:34    (2013)       4:34  (2014)

5000m  15:37   (2014)     15:34  (2014)

10k       32:59   (2014)     32:44  (2014)

HM        71:53   (2013)    72:06  (2013)

Mar        2h34    (2014)     2h44  (2012)

And in our only head-to-head race, the English National Cross County this year, I beat Sam, finishing 193rd to his 314th (84 seconds). But based on the closeness of the above it seems unfair to weight this too much. 

I have resisted the urge to create infographics, but even without them it is curiously close. I find myself wondering just which 3% of genes I may share with him and if perhaps other factors such as height and weight are reasonable similar. 

Unfortunately, any (one sided) family rivalry between us is ultimately futile: Christmas 2012 was ruined by a ground-shaking revelation from my step-grandma Margaret. She kindly asked about my running and then mentioned that her great-niece was a good runner. 'You may have heard of her'. 'Oh perhaps,' I humoured her, deeming it unlikely. 'Whats her name?'

'Gemma Steel'. 

By a Hair

Despite Gillette’s current marketing campaign, ‘by a hair’ is a not a well known saying.  But it aptly describes the fallout of a speculative conversation on Tuesday night’s fun-down.

Training partner and replacement great rival Dan Robinson and I are so evenly matched in performance that our head-to-head looks staged. Dan arguably puts in more miles, additional static bike training and deploys aerodynamic enhancing full body grooming to compensate for his advancing years. I on the other hand prefer to rely on the gung-ho of youth, luck and the unteachable art of deploying two extra gears with the finish line in sight. 

Through this we mused what the difference between our cumulative PBs might be if totted up.  I didn’t have to wait long.  On opening my email on Wednesday morning, the result was waiting for me:

                        Tim                 Dan

800m                2:12                 2:12;

1500m              4:23                 4:23;

Mile                  4:34                 4:40;

3,000m             9:05                 9:07;

5,000m            15:37               15:30;

10,000m          32:59               32:50;

HM                   71:53               72:18;

Marathon        2:34:47            2:34:31.

Total                 4:55:30            4:55:31.           (+1)

1 second.  The difference of a dip for a line here or a widely-taken corner there.  Neither of us had expected it to be so entertainingly close.

Of course when I arrived home, quivering with excitement and unraveled the contents of that email to my girlfriend Ellie, she looked at me partly in sympathy, and mostly with the sort of distain she normally reserves for my half-hearted washing up. 

Clearly lost on her was the poetic beauty of two rivals, who after 53 miles of individual racing were separated by a finer margin than the result of the 1989 Tour de France.

Or perhaps I need some side-hobbies. 

NB: The blog was purposefully published on Saturday 27^th September 2014: If Dan improves his PB at tomorrow’s Nottingham HM, and I fail to beat him by the 25 seconds I was able to gain in the final mile of last year’s event, the pendulum will swing once again.

The 111 day struggle

On 13th April 2014 I crossed the finish line on the Mall marking one of my biggest athletic achievements: I had conquered London Marathon, elated after 154 minutes and 47 seconds of self inflicted torture.

I knew it would take some time to recovery and to be able to do another decent race, but the journey that followed was far more difficult than I imagined.

20 days later, after much rest and easy running, I ran a 5000m for the BRAT club. The result shocked me: 16:25 with absolutely nothing to give. Meanwhile my training partner Dan who had finished a mere 16 seconds ahead of me in London clocked a PB of 15:30 on that same day, almost lapping me. I was distraught. I was rubbish. But little did I know that things were actually going to get worse!

On 27 days I ran a track 10k, and albeit in torrential wind and rain could only clock 34:26. Logic says that an easy to write off, but Mark was the better part of a minute ahead, which was enough to play on my mind. On Day 41 I backed this up with an 18:04 parkrun, but on a new, tougher course in Worcester it was difficult to judge. Had I comeback too soon? Had I rushed it? I desperately want to pick up where I left off last summer, where PBs had been free flowing. I was impatient.

Come Day 63, a month later, when I was confident I was now surely returning to some fitness with training going well, I entered a fast 10k. But I followed up a 16:37 opening half with an embarrassing 18:10. That was slower than most of my 5k splits in the capital. In hindsight it was a hot day and I realised later I was still carrying a bug. But it didn't matter. I now questioned everything I was doing, which was another mistake.

I didn't race or a while. Just trained. Day 83 presented an 800 / 5000m double at another BRAT fixture. Nothing spectacular: I got the required result but the 5k was only 16:21. A paltry four second seasons best.

Then it just clicked, out of nowhere. 97 days after London I did Worcester parkrun, my second attempt. On a morning where I nearly didn't bother due to torrential rain, I don't know whether it was finishing first, or whipping 40 seconds from my time 9 weeks prior, but something had now changed. On Day 102 I entered Worcester AC Open and paced by Dan I won the 3000m in a semi-respectable 9:20. My confidence was restored.

111 days after London I finally made the breakthrough. At BRATs final track and field fixture I broke my 3000m PB which had stood since 2012. The time of 9:11 was hardly earth shattering, but it was something that id been unable to do in 5 attempts the previous year, even at a time when I was breaking almost every other PB out there. I was back.

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I learnt a lot from this period. And I know there are other runners out there who've also struggled, especially post-marathon. It's important to remember that everyone seems to recover differently....While Dan and Mark who both PBed at London were breaking their own records within weeks, it took me almost four months. What did I learn from all of this?

- Be patient. Everyone recovers differently. If rested and healthy there's no reason why it won't come good again.

- Whatever you do, don't put pressure on yourself to be ready for a particular event or that you need a good performance now. Just play it by ear, and race when you feel ready.

- Don't rush increasing the mileage or intensity. Luckily I didn't do this one (I still wasn't doing more than 50 mpw 2 months later) but then also remember than if you're doing less miles than when you were going well, it's going to be difficult to reach those dizzy heights just yet.

- If possible, don't change multiple things in your life at once; I moved cities; moved in with my girlfriend; I had a longer commute to work and wasn't sleeping as much; our interval sessions moved to grass; I had a marathon in me....I just couldn't judge how anything was going. There were no 'control' elements.

- Be confident in your ability and training.

- Don't be afraid of what will go on powerof10. Nobody cares that much, it just adds pressure.

- Don't be afraid of trying another distance...something you won't be hard on yourself about and doesn't matter, but that you might draw confidence from. (My 800m at rugby lifted by spirits a lot because I realised that I wasn't too far off even if it hadn't come together yet.)

The final 4.3 miles.

There weren’t going to be any more miles starting with a ‘5’ now.  This was a survival exercise.  I emerged from the long underpass in the 24^th mile a different runner from the one that entered.  Going in, I was hurting, each step more painful than the last, but maintaining a respectable pace.  Now, I had slowed significantly.

I glanced at my watch.  Under 6:30/mile pace, but only just.  There was just too long to go.  My left calf - the one that I didn’t injure back in December and had been subject to less TLC over the last few months - cramped, before easing off, a pattern it enjoyed repeating.

I knew why all this was happening. It was my own fault.  I had broken just about every major marathon rule in my own way today, just like a rookie.  Don’t try anything in new in the days leading up to the race they say: but I had panicked when someone suggested eating more on the race morning, when after a huge bowl of pasta the night before I didn’t need to.  I knew in mile 1 that all of my food hadn’t digested, and the faint stitch stayed with me for the best part of 10k.  Don’t start too fast: well I didn’t. 18:04 at 5k, then 36:14 at 10k were within my goal, but when I stopped feeling like I had had an all-you-can-eat breakfast on the start line, I inadvertently sped up, led astray by runners around me.  The next two blocks of 5k were both sub-18 minutes, and lead me to a novice halfway split of 76:01.  I knew at that moment I had been an idiot.  I knew that despite immediately backing off and settling down, I was in for a long second half.

But it disintegrated much quicker than I expected, and by 15 miles I was worried.  At 16 I knew something was wrong.  My legs were heavy. So heavy.  I’d not experienced this before.  Was it the taper?  Was it the stupid early pace? It didn’t matter.  I had learnt at Ashby 20 that just because I feel bad one minute, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s permanent.  But by 18 miles I was desperately searching for a familiar face in the crowd, anxious for a cheap psychological lift.  25-30k was low 18 minutes again, as was 30-35k; miraculous since I was now running effectively on my own, into a headwind and with legs which felt like they had barely a mile left in them.  I wasn’t out of breath and seemed in no danger of bonking, which was my primary concern before the race, but these were mere consolations.  I was genuinely worried that I was going to struggle to finish.

So here I was at 22 miles. There were runners running the other way at around 14 miles into their experience.  I envied them.  I was hurting, and knew that anyone who looked at my face would know my game was up.  I stuffed my last gel down, threw away the packet and dug in.  I knew that Ellie and my sister would be just after mile 23, on the right hand side of the road.  That was what I needed right now.  It was survival: one mile at a time.  I added five minutes fifty to my 22-mile time, anxious to not drop pace too soon, and looked towards the next mile clock.

There it was.  As the road bent around, the sanctity of the mile 23 banner approached.   The clock came into focus and I starred at it unable for the life of me to remember the number I had calculated less than six minutes before.  Sod it.  It didn’t matter, there was still 20 minutes left, more if let it slip.  I locked my eyes on the roadside, and scanned the crowd for the faces of my loved ones, one by one. 

Mile 23 has a slight downhill, which maintained the illusion of keeping pace, although n reality I lost a minute over this next 5k alone.  But in reflection I know that I could easily have handed back chunks more, had I not been so mentally strong and convinced of my physical strength through months of hard training.  The truth is, a marathon hurts just the same whether you do it in 3:07 or in 2:37, it’s just over quicker. 

The wall of noise was phenomenal along the Embankment.  You could pick out all the voices encouraging you.  And at this pace and point of the race, there is no one else around: they are all cheering for you.    But what I wouldn’t have given for my friend and training partner Dan’s companionship right now.  I hadn’t seen him since mile 14 as he sped off, clearly having a blinder.  I thought about all the mental techniques I knew for getting through.  Paula Radcliffe’s ‘count to 100 steps’ came to mind.  So I started: ‘One…two….three…ah sod it that’s too much effort.’

Two miles to go.  My calf cramped again. Then again. Then spasmed.  ‘Shit,’ I thought.  ‘I need my leg to finish.’  I didn’t know what to do.  As I threw my left leg forward I tried to stretch my foot up.  Stretching on the move: it doesn’t work, ever.  My gait was all over the place.  ‘Keep going.’  It was agony.  Why was I doing this?  ‘You can do it,’ came one voice from the crowd. ‘I don’t wanna!’ I still don’t know if I screamed this out loud, or just in my head.  Possibly the former.  This was agony.

As I came into mile 25 I heard a familiar voice from the crowd on the left.  I wasn’t expecting anyone, but my uni friend and fellow athlete Nick ‘Nandos’ Howard was there with his camera.  For some reason it seemed absolutely essential to convey to him just how I was feeling.  I pulled my best grimace and shook my head.  I was embarrassed to be running at 6:27 a mile right now knowing that it was my pace just before halfway that had caused this. 

What seemed like only seconds later, a marshal calmly told me it was only 1k to go.  ‘Really?’ I thought. I know looking back that Nick and his girlfriend Nic had saved me.  They had distracted me long enough to get the final chunk of nasty distance done.  1k to go meant one thing: roughly 4 minutes left.  I looked at my watch and tried to add these numbers together.  I couldn’t work it out accurately enough.  At 800m I knew the maths would be simpler, and very exact.  I calculated it with surprising ease: there was 2:31:49 on the clock.  I needed to run 3:10, and glancing at my pace I knew I wasn’t currently fast enough.  I would fail.

I rallied, motivation renewed.  I still wasn’t out of breath, just running with dead legs.  Completely dead.  No lactate, just leaden.  600m. 400m.  I turned into the final straight passing a runner who had passed me not too long before.  He was barely moving, but I was.  200 metres to go.  According to the official stats, from 35k to the finish I passed 13 runners.  I don’t remember a single other one of them apart from the guy who I piped on the line to get the last available double digit finishing place.  I covered the last 800m in 2:57. 

The challenge of the marathon was over for today.  Dan and I had both achieved what we set out to do months ago, despite almost being derailed by a troublesome Achilles tendon before it had even started.  I ran sub 2:35 and finished in the top 100 at the greatest marathon in the world.  The dream day I was secretly hoping for may not have not materialised, but I am so proud of myself for the way I dug in, not just in the last 4.3 miles but in the last 8.3 when the day could have turned horrifically bad.  In the end Dan only finished 16 seconds ahead of me, despite being 45 seconds clear at one point.  My other training partner and friend Mark ran 2:43, a big PB, after an interrupted build up.

The challenge of the marathon was over for today, but I was about to embark on a new challenge.  I tried to stay upright and keep the contents of my stomach in.  I looked over at Dan being supported and walked by two marshals.  Then I glanced up the monstrous walk to the friends and family collection zone, lined with endless baggage lorries.  Another marathon was about to begin…

Sunday 13^th April 2014 wouldn’t have happened without many people.  Everyone single person who gave me a shout out on that course, many of whom I didn’t see but did hear their voices which made so much difference.  My gorgeous girlfriend Ellie who has put up with my anti-social running, injury worries, came down to support me, and found time to make Dan and I an amazing banner, despite a week of horrific on-call shifts.  My sister for putting me up, my housemates Rebecca, Sarah and Cat who came to London especially to support and made me feel like a celebrity.

I want to thank Bud Baldaro for his training over the last year, which has redefined me as a runner and helped me achieve the things I always set out to do and more.  And my training partners, who have made those horrible runs so much more fun. 

Dan gets his own special mention, for his endless motivation which came in so many forms. 

Finally I thank an old Yorkshire rival, Ben Beattie who I ran much of the second half with, before he pulled away from me and went onto clock an amazing PB for himself.

This has been such an experience, such an amazing experience.  And I’ve received such support and congratulations from so many people.  Thank you so much everyone. 

Stats:

2:34:47.

99^th overall.  (81^st in club and open race (excluding elites).)

5:54/mile average.

16 minute PB.

Mile 25, by Nick 'Nandos' Howard.

Sister Jo and Ellie, holding up her amazing banner.

Myself and beautiful Ellie, after I finally made it to the
friends and family 'claim your corpse area'.

Mark Ince, Ed Barlow, myself and Dan Robinson.
PBs all around.

News was clearly a little slow on
Monday morning.

Official result, excluding elites.