One Month Out: A Training Update That's Less "Rocky" and More "Bloke Who Occasionally Runs"

The Fife Pilgrim Way Ultra is in approximately one month. Fifty-six miles from North Queensferry to St Andrews. Fifteen-hour cutoff time. And I am, to use the technical term, a bit behind schedule.

Not catastrophically behind. Not "I should probably just cancel my entry and take up knitting instead" behind. Just the sort of behind where I know I can finish, but the margin for error is approximately the width of a particularly thin piece of paper.

The Recce That Revealed Some Truths

I recently completed my longest training run to date: recceing the route from Markinch to St Andrews. This was meant to be a confidence-building exercise. A chance to see the second half of the course, sort out my pacing, nail down my nutrition strategy, and generally feel like someone who knows what they're doing.

It was not that.

Don't get me wrong, I finished it. But "finished it" is doing some heavy lifting in that sentence. What I actually did was stumble through it while learning several important lessons about hills, pacing, and my complete inability to judge either.

The hills were steeper than I thought. This is objectively my fault. The route profile was available. I could have looked at it. I chose not to, operating under the philosophy that ignorance is bliss right up until you're halfway up a hill that your legs weren't expecting.

My pacing was all over the place. Too fast on the flats, too slow on the climbs, generally inconsistent in a way that suggests I haven't quite grasped the concept of "sustainable effort over distance." For someone writing love letters to mediocrity and aiming to finish fifteen minutes before the cutoff, you'd think I'd be better at going slowly. Apparently not.

The nutrition thing also needs work. I know I need to eat and drink regularly. I even brought food and water. What I didn't do terribly well was remember to actually consume them at appropriate intervals. This is the sort of mistake you only make once, assuming you learn from it, which I'm optimistically assuming I will.

The Plan (Such As It Is)

So here's what I'm thinking: I need another crack at a super long training run. Specifically, the first half of the route from North Queensferry to Markinch, 52 kilometres, which would then be my longest training run to date.

The goal isn't to set any speed records. The goal is to sort out my pacing properly this time. Slower. More consistent. The kind of pace where I'm not having to have stern conversations with my cardiovascular system about whether we're friends or enemies.

I also need to practice the boring but essential bits: eating at regular intervals even when I don't feel like it, drinking before I'm actually thirsty, not charging up hills like I'm trying to prove something to them.

Basically, I need to run like someone who wants to still be running in twelve hours, not someone who's trying to win the first fifty metres.

The Short Runs Are Fine (Which Is Something)

The good news, and there is some good news, is that my shorter runs are going well. My one-hour-or-less runs are consistent. I'm hitting my pace. I'm not dying. These are all positive signs that my base fitness is fine.

The problem is that the race isn't one hour long. It's fifteen hours long, assuming I make the cutoff, which is starting to feel like an assumption that needs some supporting evidence.

Falling Off the Wagon (But Not Very Far)

I'll be honest: I've been falling off the training wagon lately. Not dramatically. Not in a "I haven't run in three weeks" way. More in a "I've been finding creative reasons why tonight isn't the best night for that long run" way.

This is the danger of being deliberately mediocre about something. There's no external pressure. No one's expecting me to set any records. The only person I'm letting down is myself, and I'm quite good at forgiving myself for things.

But a month out from a 56-mile race is probably not the time to be too forgiving. Hence the plan to get back on the wagon with a 52-kilometre training run that will either build my confidence or destroy it completely. No middle ground.

Even Last Place Is a Place

Here's the thing I keep reminding myself: even if I'm dead last, even if I finish fifteen minutes before they close the course, even if I spend the final ten kilometres being quietly overtaken by power walkers, I will have still run 56 miles.

Most people don't run 56 miles. Most people who run don't run 56 miles. Most people who run ultramarathons don't make it to the finish line. Just crossing it, at any speed, is an achievement.

This is what I tell myself when I'm lying in bed debating whether to get up for that long training run or sleep in for another hour.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. But with a month to go, it had better start working more often than not.