Week 12 – A lesson learned and a turn taken

Week twelve was never going to be one of those triumphant entries where everything clicks and I write confidently about momentum building at the perfect time. Nationals came and went, and if I’m being honest, it was a stinker.

I went into the race trying to be sensible. I started at a pace that matched the fitness I had four weeks ago, before the calf trouble interrupted things. At the time, it felt controlled. Mature, even. But races don’t reward who you were a month ago; they expose who you are on the day. Around 8km in, it unravelled. I lost my head a bit. The rhythm went, the confidence followed, and I found myself back-pedalling, just trying to get round.

My calf began to ache on the second lap, particularly grinding up the hills, a sharp reminder that soleus weakness doesn’t magically resolve because you’ve convinced yourself you’re ready. Then, with about a kilometre to go, my last teammate came past me. I was now last scorer. I couldn’t let him have it. Shallow? Probably. Petty? Slightly. But in that moment, pride outweighed perspective. I stretched for it and fought to the line. I’m not entirely proud of the reasoning, but I also know that competitiveness is rarely neat and polished. Sometimes it’s scrappy.

Nationals itself was an experience. The senior men’s start is, quite frankly, chaos. It was my first time in that field and I was completely overstimulated. Swearing, elbows, surges, fighting, it felt like anything but distance running for the first few minutes. Lesson learnt: don’t pace off old fitness, expect the start to be an absolute storm, and hold your nerve when it gets messy. Next year it’s a Southern Nationals? I think (hope), which likely means even more chaos. I look forward to being steam-rolled in the name of filling London’s potholes, if it’s held there.

After the race, despite the disappointment, we did what running clubs do best. We went for a proper club curry and a night out in the Toon. It’s hard to stay too self-absorbed about a bad race when you’re surrounded by teammates who’ve all had their own battles that day. Perspective returns quickly when you zoom out.

Mileage for the week came in at 44km. The calves were cooked by Sunday. And I won’t pretend there wasn’t a touch of post-race blues. There’s something about building towards a race, placing expectation on it, and then not delivering that leaves a strange emptiness for a few days. But instead of sulking for too long, I channelled that frustration into something more constructive, an elaborate rehabilitation plan that, if I’m honest, is nudging me towards triathlete territory.

A stationary turbo trainer has been acquired (TikTok has the evidence), and I’m currently debating whether swimming deserves an introduction into my life. Jury’s still out. What is decided, though, is that strength and conditioning is no longer optional. I’ve built myself a structured S&C schedule alongside the turbo sessions and my standard running programme. If the calf weakness was exposed, then it gets addressed. Simple.

So week twelve reads like this: 44km, a disappointing Nationals, a bruised ego, and a recalibration. Not every chapter in this build will be impressive. Some will be uncomfortable. But if the aim is Liverpool 2026, then adaptation is part of the process. Track season is approaching, the demands will shift, and I’m curious to see how this slightly more hybrid approach shapes things.

It wasn’t a good race. But it might turn out to be a useful one.

Breathe Better. Run better.