Karl Goes To Coimbra

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Blog Nr. 12: Tempo Runs Through the Red Light District

One of the “rules” about being a runner is  to not bore the socks off non-runners by talking about it incessantly. We runners, regardless of our speed, ability or age, just love to talk about our hobby. It seems to get worse the more races we run in and the more focused our training gets. We get even more boring when we keep track of splits and heart rate with our hi-tech GPS sportswatches, iPhone route-planning apps and Runners World training guides. Worse still if we get into the nitty-gritty of tempo intervals, hill training and post-run stride sessions whether non-runners want to hear it or not. And they definitely don’t want to hear your excuses for wearing compression tights. Mine are thermal, by the way. And yes, i know that no man looks right in them.

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The general rule would be that if a non-runner politely asks how the running’s going, you should simply mention the charity 10km you recently did or that you’ve a marathon coming up soon, leave it at that and not to bore them with your split times and heart rate data (Mine averaged 152bpm on my last run, by the way). Maybe just mention if you happened to do particularly well and if you managed to hit your fund-raising target or not for that local childrens hospital. After that you should pretty much shut the hell up and get back to the standard civilised conversation topics of how screwed the economy is and how you live under a black cloud of doom. Or talk about the weather; possibly also a black cloud of doom. The only time you should ever say anything more to a non-runner is if you’re participating in a pan-continental run to raise money for orphaned kittens with leukaemia from Kazakrobistan that don’t have enough wheelchairs or fluffy pillows available. Usually the reply will be along the lines of “Wow, that’s crazy!” while their eyes pop out in disbelief that the fat slob they used to go drinking with back in their early twenties would have changed his lifestyle enough to take on such a challenge. More often than not they’ll be so impressed – or feeling a slight twinge of guilt that they’re still the fat, hard drinking slob of ten years ago – that they’ll make a contribution to the collection box. (Warning: I plan on a similar run at some stage in the future when I’ve less blubber weighing me down and got more kilometres logged in my racing flats.)

You’ve now got the notion that this is one of those posts about running, so apologies if you’re one of those non-runners I speak of. Or if you’re somebody hoping I write a post vaguely entertaining about living as an Irishman in Portugal, I truly am sorry. Perhaps you came here hoping to at least learn something educational about Coimbra’s long and varied history. I’m sure you will learn something about some thing here, but it most likely won’t be that Coimbra University is one of the world’s oldest universities in continuous use, going back over 800 years. At the very worst, all reading this will do is to just take a few minutes of your life that you’re never going to get back. Ever.

I’ve recently stepped up my training for the Douro Meia Maratona (half-marathon). When I say “stepped up” I mean “started”. After making good progress with my running in 2011, including my first charity 10k in Dublin, it’s been all but back to scratch following a month or so out of action due to a chest infection and all the joyous breathing difficulties, spluttering, coughing up chunks of lord-knows-what oozy stuff and all the recovery time that accompanies this sort of illness. There was a stage two weeks ago where the walk to the cafe 10 minutes away from home would have me completely winded. Left for dead, I’d lie motionless on the ground hoping for a good samaritan to stop by with an oxygen mask or that the mountain rescue services (well, we do live up a hill) would dispatch a Saint Bernard complete with the traditional keg of brandy around his neck and maybe a bacon sandwich. That would have been nice.

For once I’m following an actual training programme rather than random shifts between 5km, 10km and 15km runs and distances inbetween, whichever suits my fancy on a given day. To run where the mood and the streets take you has its own merits, but this is training for an actual half-marathon and I’m already 5 weeks behind schedule. We’re talking about twenty-one kilometres in the heat this coming May. Keep in mind I’m Irish and therefore at a findamental genetic level I shouldn’t even dare to venture outdoors when the temperature is above eighteen degrees celsius, let alone run in such an environment. There’ll be other runners there too. Big ones, small ones. Lean and fat. That fear every novice runner has is of being the person to come last. Well, I don’t think that’s me, but I still want to do it in around an hour and fifty minutes so I need to get my skates on and get my fitness levels back up. Suddenly all these running terms I’ve read the theory on such at “tempo run”, “strides” and “hill runs” have an agonisingly painful and exhausting place in my daily life. There’s a guy that sits outside a cafe on Rua da Saragoça most evenings who must be getting paranoid about me on some level. He sees me approach from up the street doing an easy jog and just as I approach, I burst past him with moobs and belly swinging about the place like a sort of fat, caucasian Usain Bolt only to then suddenly slow down when I’m safely 400 metres past him and his nightly Sagres.

Two of my runs each week include these tempo intervals of 400 metres. For the uninitiated, I’ll explain. A tempo is where, following a nice easy jog or easy-paced run, you pretty much run like you’re being chased by a pack of hungry rabid dogs who’ve caught the scent of fear and raw veal off you. Also, these dogs have been cross-bred with cheetahs so they’re super fast, so you’d really want to get your ass in gear quickly. The theory is, besides helping to build up your speed it helps your body to get used to dealing with the lactic acid that builds up in the muscles during exercise. So far, it mostly makes me feel like somebody’s put lead weights into my socks and running shoes.

It’s exhausting running from these ravenous cheetah-dogs so usually by the time I’ve finished the fourth and supposedly final tempo interval I’m truly ready for the knackers yard. My tempos usually go something like this:

Tempo 1 – 400m / 1 minute, 28 seconds
“This feels good. I can easily outrun those hungry, rabid cheetah-dogs.”

Tempo 2 – 400m / 1 minute, 56 seconds
“That first one really took it out of me more than I realised, but you know what? I’m up for this!” (Cue: heroic music such as “Gonna Fly Now“, aka the Rocky theme music, playing inside my head)

Tempo 3 – 350m / 2 minute, 20 seconds
“Actually, this one really hurts. I’ll cut it short just this once.”

Tempo 4 – 250m / 1 minute 35 seconds
“Jesus Christ, why am I doing this? I can barely walk. I wonder if there are any taxis about.”

You get the idea. It’s mostly about self-abuse.

By this stage I’ll normally find myself moving from a nice neighbourhood into what can only be described as the dodgy part of town. It’s where the bus depot is. Let’s face it, bus depots are never in the nice part of town with its beautiful, cared-for period buildings and high rents. After the first four shops with chicken wire in front of the windows and the unsettling money-broker shop with the flashing LED sign promising “security for your investments”, no matter what big city or small town you grew up in, no matter what your level of streetsmarts, the alarm bells start to ring. Sometimes they’re in your head. Sometimes they’re from the jewellers shop with the guys climbing in the front window they’ve just thrown a brick through.

OK, the bus depot end of Avenida Fernão Magalhães isn’t quite that bad. I’ve never seen any shops broken into there at least, but it’s still quiet and dark enough, with enough groups of young men in hoodies strutting around with an attitude I hadn’t seen since I lived on Pearse Street to provoke an unplanned tempo run for the next half kilometre. This is usually my fastest “tempo” since the first one, nearly four kilometres back.

And so we come to Coimbra’s Red Light District. In fairness – and I could be wrong about this – it’s not so much a district as a bench on a small square next to a dark laneway (Rua da Sota, in case any of you need to know where not to go.) The best thing about the bench the prostitutes stand around is that it’s just a few metres away from the Centre for Spiritual Aid. I guess if one things doesn’t work for you, maybe the other will. When the girls are there, this tends to spur me on to another unplanned tempo, albeit only for a hundred meters or so. In truth, it feels like a tempo but the last one’s wiped me out so badly that I think I’d probably be faster to just walk by.

Today I’m sitting in the sun, mango juice on this cafe table, feeling both healthy and sore. Under my civvies I’m wearing compression socks to help my burning calves to heal more quickly and retired running shoes are my choice of footwear today. Non-runners comment on what cool looking trainers I’m wearing, while those in the know give that nod of appreciation we give. A sort of mark of approval.

The girls weren’t hanging out by the bench last night. I guess they were otherwise occupied. Maybe that’s why I missed out on a new personal best for 10km by three seconds. (Told you we runners are boring) I won’t complain though, as last night after improving my tempo times for the four I’d actually planned to do, my legs were like jelly by the time I passed the bench, my gut hurt and I could do with the rest. All I wanted was to hop on a bus back home, have a warm bowl of my wife’s delicious homemade soup and try not to bore her with talk about the night’s run.