Leading the blind

I invited Summer to contribute her perspective to leading me in the blind run. Here's what she wrote.

It was about a year ago that Emma told me that she would like to run the Great Eastern blindfolded. Now I’m pretty used to Emma declaring that she wants to do something mad … like imagine someone that’s never done a triathlon before telling you that they are now going to do a half iron man. And I’m also used to Emma actually then going ahead and doing the mad things that she sets out to do. She also told me that she would like me to be her guide. At the time, I didn’t think too hard about what she was asking. I just thought ‘can I run 13 miles? … yes I can’ and I imagine I would have given her a happy shrug and said “Sure, sounds fun”.

It came up occasionally in conversation every now and again, and we even did a very brief practice run of a few seconds where Emma closed her eyes and held my arm … and confirmed that it was a very weird feeling indeed. But apart from that, it didn’t come up very often and in truth I didn’t really think about it again until late August, when Emma started mentioning it with increasing regularity. It wasn’t till early September when I realised … that we were actually doing this …

I still don’t think I fully took on board what Emma had asked me to do until we had our first proper training run. In true ‘Summer and Emma’ style, we started training properly for this about 4 weeks before the Great Eastern itself. It was on that first training run, when Emma donned that blindfold, put her hand on mine and her faith in me, that I realised quite what I’d volunteered to do and the responsibility I had taken on. I could see how frightened and disorientated Emma was, and the importance of my role in, not only being her eyes and keeping her clear from hazards, but also keeping her calm and reassured. Our practice run started slowly, but she built confidence and we did a nice half hour canter up and down the rowing lake. A few strange looks from passers by, and one particularly lovely woman (also running) who I will never forget who gave me the biggest thumbs up and shouted ‘Woooo! Go ladies!!!’… I love her and all runners like her.

Now, I am known amongst my friends as a bit more clumsy than your normal person. One friend calls me ‘the breaker’, and gets out the big chunky unbreakable drinking vessels whenever I come over. One of my ongoing complaints with Emma is that the only time she ever tells me she loves me is when I fall over or walk into a stationary object … I’ll be walking happily down the road with my good friend Emma, I will trip over someone and then I’ll hear a chuckle behind me and the words “Oh I love you”. My problem being I find it very hard to concentrate on one thing for very long, which makes me a bit unobservant of my surroundings. So I figured she must have known who she was asking when she asked me to do this, we know each other very well after all. But I felt genuine anxiety after our short training run. What we’d just done took A LOT of concentration on my part. Could I do that for the best part of three hours, as my legs were getting tired and my mind constantly trying to wander?

I love long distance running because I feel a sort of meditation in it, I surrender my mind to wherever it wants to go. Often it’s that weird place between sleeping and waking, where one thought randomly connects to another and before you know it you’ve gone from trying to figure out a particularly tricky work issue to wondering why everyone doesn’t generally accept that Michael Keaton’s batman was by far the most superior, and you will have reached that through a segway via the Great British Bake Off and that weird way that Mary bites into biscuits … using the side of her mouth, I mean what’s that about?!

In this new version of long distance running I had to do the following:

1.     Be aware of the ground ahead of us and quickly find the words to describe it before we reached it (which was why I ended describing paving as parkour … and it kind of stuck)

2.     Be aware of everyone around us and weave around obstacles in the gentlest way possible … changing direction with a blind person attached to you is like turning and ocean liner, you have to set the course well in advance, give it a wide berth and hope that the little tugs around you realise what you’re doing

3.     Keep saying reassuring things and letting them know what’s going on around them

4.     Know where you are … know where she is

5.     Talk loudly as people approach to let them know in the politest way possible that they need to get out of your way ‘oh here are some nice people who are kindly getting out of our way’

6.     Manage quick evasive manoeuvres (see ocean liner analogy in item 2 above) when they don’t get out of your way, or don’t realise that whilst their dog may not bite, it is NOT harmless if it’s wandering into the legs of a blind running woman.

So I was terrified that I actually wasn’t going to be able to do this. I never told Emma this, and I thought the worse that could happen is that we start the run and can’t complete it … it’s too late for her to find someone else … and it’s not like anyone would be heartless enough to withdraw their sponsorship right?

With a few more training runs under our belts, including a long one, which I used to test my mental capacity to concentrate for a whole hour. I felt marginally more confident. Well I felt confident that I wasn’t going to kill Emma within the first hour anyway.

There were lots of times when we made each other laugh, and found out that the moment I was distracted by something funny, or a cute child … immediately after that moment, something very dangerous would almost happen to Emma. On one particular training run (the one where we tested curbs … which we then decided we would just avoid like the plague) there were three times where I shouted ‘STOP!!’, they were respectively, a brick wall, a fence and a lamppost. To this day Emma only knows about the lamppost … well till now I guess. The thing I loved about Emma doing this challenge was she had a smile on her face the entire time she was running, and when I suddenly had to avert her from a hazard, she kept smiling and she never once asked what it was. She just allowed me to gently reverse her, change her course and continue running.

On our last training run I asked Emma if I could run blindfolded. It was utterly terrifying, I didn’t like it and I only did it for about 100 metres before whipping the blindfold off and saying that I’d done enough to get an idea of it thankyouverymuch. I was in awe of Emma after that. I realised how frightened she must have been when we did park run and there were runners all around us, I remember squeezing her hand gently on that park run as she started faltering, and telling her that she was okay … but not really understanding why she was halting so much. Now I understood. I also understood quite what a huge compliment it was that Emma had asked me to do this … me! My heart swelled with pride and I knew I couldn’t let my beautiful and crazy friend down if she had this much faith in me. Emma is incredible, and if she thinks that I can do something like this then I must be incredible too.

I was going to write some stuff about the run, about how I decided (after our friend Carolyn’s inspiration) to describe all sorts of landscapes to Emma as we ran through our home town. But Emma has written an incredibly beautiful blog about that, which you should read if you haven’t already. What I will say about the run is that it was a lot of fun and I managed to concentrate beyond the first hour … possibly even for most of the 2hrs and 44 minutes we were running.

We both learnt a lot about what it must be like to be blind or partially sighted, Emma more than me of course. But I definitely have an insight now, which means I think a little deeper when I come across someone who is visually impaired. I think about the simplest things I do, get out of bed, eat my porridge … and I wonder what systems and processes they must have incorporated into their lives to make those simple things possible.

I also learnt about friendship. If I’m thinking something it will usually come out of Emma’s mouth and in conversations we all too often come out with the same words at the same time. This is a sign of the fact that Emma and I spend A LOT of time together. Yes I am sure we were drawn to each other because we are quite similar to start with. But in reality, in a friendship that has lasted 8 years (according to facebook), we have spent so much time together I’m sure we’ve also shaped each other to become even more like one another, more able to predict what the other is thinking and how the other is feeling. By sharing our secrets we’ve learnt we can trust each other, and by asking each other for help we learnt that we’re always there for each other. So finally, it does make sense to me why Emma asked me to do this, despite my propensity for clumsiness … I understand and I’m grateful and incredibly proud.

Blind Luck

It seems appropriate to move (title-wise) from Blind Faith to Blind Luck, because for a lot of today, it felt like disaster could strike at any minute, and it didn't.  Summer and I researched titular "blind" phrases for some time on Google, by which I mean at least 5 minutes, and came up with several close contenders, including "The blind leading the blind", "Blind date" (certainly not what anyone would expect on a blind date though), "blind spot", and "sight unseen". "Effing and blinding" was quite a favourite, which I quite liked because it reflected how I felt, Summer's last few miles, and a sort of anathema for Chris.

I slept fitfully the night before, having bad dreams and frequently waking up, worrying mainly about the tie. I wasn't contemplating wearing a tie, you understand, it was the tie between Summer and myself. I basically hadn't sorted anything out at all during the week, but I found a piece of material that I thought would do the trick, just before I went to bed, and which I had laid out but hadn't cut it to size (possibly hoping for some Elves and Shoemaker scenario). I woke up so many times that at 3a.m. I crept downstairs and cut a suitably sized strip off it, taking on the Elf role myself.  At 7:30, the sound of rain on the window was the first thing to coax me into consciousness. I suggested, through the medium of Facebook, that the weather should "do one".

I have to say, the weather could not have been more obliging, although it was still trying to rain when I met up with Summer and Chris at the start line, by the time we had lined up at the start, the sun had emerged. I mean, obviously, I didn't see it again after that, although I was aware of it: the light and shade was something I could still detect.

One of the things I'd found disturbing at Park Run had been the noise of people around me, and of course, at the start of a race, that can go on for some time, so I'd been a little worried about it. Especially that I'd collide into other runners, or worse that someone might try, impatiently, to barge between us. I mean, that was sort of the point of paying for bibs to be made up, but it's remarkable how seldom people notice what is going on right around them at times. However, my fears and my panic were both overstated, and knowing at the start that Chris was between me and the barriers (which had protruding stands) was reassuring. Almost immediately that we'd started, however, I heard Summer saying "we're just going over here", and turning me around, as she explained "the photographer from the ET just wants a picture" - which was great, as the journo had already suggested we do a follow-up piece. I mean, it wasn't like we were in a hurry. (Also, as far as I could tell, we hadn't got over the start line at that point).

And we were OFF! It felt exciting, not incredibly slow, and not too scary. I could hear a lot of people around me, but no one felt that close. I high-fived a blue dragon right at the start - I had emphasised to Summer that I was quite keen to high-five some kids, because it's a fun thing that I like to do on the course. She deemed the furry outstretched mitt a suitable target for us to practice on, and it was surprisingly difficult. Capturing snippets of conversations going on around us was oddly familiar to other races, it's something I quite like doing, but at the same time, entirely alien, because I couldn't see any of them. I could hear Chris shaking his bucket as a sort of constant, albeit changing in rhythm and distance away from me; and someone nearby us sounding a klaxon, which almost made me die. As it turned out, we ran for almost the entire race around a lively group who had two of these wretched horns, and they let them off with startling (and I mean, literally, startling) frequency.

Not long after that, we had our first mishap - my foot struck the sticking-out post of one of the barriers. Nothing serious, and we soon had ourselves back on track. Summer had been trying to think of the best place to get me to come down a cambered curb, and hadn't seen my proximity to the barrier. She was full of apology, but really it underlined to me that the reality of concentrating on someone else's movements over a prolonged period of time was going to be really difficult. Although what I was doing was definitely scary, she had the hardest job, with greatest responsibility, and I started worrying prematurely over what would happen towards the end of the race, as we both got more tired.

What happened next was that we started on a journey through some alternative scenary. Our very good friend Kitty had pointed out this possibility in her comment on our sponsorship page (to which there is a link at the top right of this page, where is says SPONSOR ME). She wrote " Tomorrow you can be running through jungles, volcanoes, rainbows and cloud forests as part of an army of fierce, beautiful warriors, conservationists wielding the cure for ash die-back....". This caught Summer's imagination, and by association (of the fact that I was tied to her) mine also.

Our trip through the Amazon jungle didn't last very long, which was a shame, as I miss it immensely, but after the first few mosquitoes started buzzing around us, and the humidity got up, it started petering out, and we were startled by a man in a striped shirt with a baguette under one arm, who rode past on a bicycle. It appeared we'd stumbled across the buzzing metropolis of Paris, where Parisiennes were sitting outside in cafes lining the street, but were too sophisticated to whoop and holler at us. I speculated that they were murmuring "Ils sont fous, les Anglaises!" - or possibly, "Elles sont folles", if they were just looking at Summer and me.  We'd barely got past the Champs Elysee when we transitioned across to Nepal, close to arriving at the Everest base camp. Chris and Summer had a brief conversation about Yetis, which Summer thought they shouldn't let on about incase I got frightened, and Chris said he thought they were cute. "Even that one baring its teeth?" queried Summer. "It's smiling!" exclaimed Chris, triumphantly. "And that" said Summer, stoically, "outlines the difference between Chris and me".

Around this juncture, Summer interjected that there was a sign saying "Blind people". "Hooray" I shouted excitedly, then pausing momentarily added "Where?" This, it turns out, is because Summer and I had crossed wires, as I had understood there to be a person holding a sign, and I thought it was someone offering some support for (all the) blind runners out today; whereas in actual fact, it was an  street sign, cautioning that blind people might be crossing. Our confusion, and especially my response of "where?" had both of us in stitches, as I couldn't have seen the answer anyway - but it wasn't just us. A nearby runner snorted and said "That'll keep me going for the rest of the race". I love it when a camaraderie develops between runners.

We later traversed the Great Wall of China,  took in a sea-world aquarium that went under the Great Barrier Reef (Summer commenting that they had a MASSIVE budget for the course this year) and some pampas grass in Argentina. I believe there was also some African savanna, where we were passed by a herd of gazelles, who were disinterested in us because they were being chased by lions. So all in all, it was an eventful day, and quite the most interesting and diverse scenery I've ever witnessed on any race.

In between times, our jovial, klaxon-sounding troup seemed to flow backward and forward over us, in a way that completely confused me: it emerged that there were two klaxons, and we spent a fair amount of time betwixt them. One friendly chap greeted us by name (they were on our bibs) as he passed us, and said how well we were doing. After a moment or two, by which time I assume he was out of earshot, Summer explained that he was wearing a purple wig and very short tutu, and appeared to have no pants at all on underneath. A nearby teammate (we assume), female, assured us that he was, in fact, wearing some form of decency, but clearly in Summer's opinion, not enough. As he was apparently intent on keeping his team together, he paused a number of times, and we passed him, then he would pass us, and so on (contributing to my confusion), although it was reasonably easy to locate him, because it caused Summer to mutter, with increasing despair, "Bottom" on each occasion.

The real part of the story, the "how hard was it, technically" is probably what you'd rather know about, than the infinite distractions. Although for me, I'd say, the distractions were an important part of not giving into my fears, and that's why I've highlighted them. There was one sense in which it was incredibly easy. That sounds stupid, because I've highlighted in previous posts the total disorientation (and even Summer turning me to the photographer was crazy); but when the course was straight, and when all was right in my head and around me, putting one step in front of the other was fine. It really was. Summer and I had the tie down perfectly (except for when it came undone) and moving freely on it was good - for both of us, I think, although I found it very nerve-racking, it felt almost like I was running alone; when she needed me to, she'd say "hold me" and I would put my hand out - I only completely missed her once so that she had to find my hand. Steering was generally successful, but now and again, I would really feel lost. I'd lose balance, and somehow not be able to regain it. Sometimes I panicked, especially if there were lots of noises, and Summer would let me know that it was all fine. I jostled into Summer often, although I tried not to, and she said each time that it was OK, and that she didn't mind. I hit Chris a staggering number of times as well, given that he wasn't tied to me, and sort of knew where I was (he had warned me that he bumped into things a lot). Running through dappled shade I think was the hardest thing, and constantly made me feel like something was going to hit me in the face. Where the route changed this way then that way, was also especially hard to regain my composure. In the second half of the race, I seemed to be veering to the left a lot more, which meant jostling Summer. Again and again, she'd take my arm or ask me to move further to the middle or over to the right. I wondered whether it was because I was getting tired, or because I could hear Chris' bucket to my right. I don't know. Pretty soon, both Chris and Summer were comparing my tendency to move left with my political leanings "Look at her - she won't stay in the middle ground. She's definitely only interested in the far left" they chuckled.

We stopped for drinking stations, Summer always telling me what was going on around me. "Someone will put some water into your hand" she said - and there it was! - "and we're just going to move over here out of the way". She later told me that she was partly telling the three water-station people that that's what they should do, as much as me, as they were all standing with water offered, but of course, I couldn't see where they were. When we'd finished drinking at our third water station, and had all agreed to go on, Summer suddenly said "Where are you going?!!!" - I could feel water bottles around my feet as she said it... apparently I wasn't headed back to the course. "I don't know!" I laughed, "that way seemed a good bet". She said there was a spectator looking rather nervously at my lurching towards him. I said 'he was probably thinking "Can you control your... thing"' which made us both laugh.

The crowds were amazing, as they always are on this course, and cheered us on without fail. If I sensed people around, I'd try to give them a thumbs-up or a wave, or raise my hand in the air, which unfailingly got them to cheer and clap. There were a reasonable number of double-takes as people realised I was running blindfolded, the funniest being a crowd of girls who were in the middle of hollering words of encouragement when they realised I had a blindfold on, and redoubled their cries, after a brief "what the...." moment. Summer said the girl's face was a picture. There seemed to be a lot of respect, although we had a conversation early on with a fellow-runner about the fine line between bravery and stupidity - but she exhorted me to sit firmly on that line, in order to get the best fun out of life. Personally, I was of the opinion that, especially today, I was no where near that line.

As we got back into town, we saw more people who we knew, (I think) which was fun, and Chris had an increasing number of comments about how heavy his bucket must be (he had already stopped once to decant some of the weight into a back pack). I started to take umbridge at this and mentioned to one commentator (who I think was also a runner) "You know, I'm not one to make a fuss or anything, but THIS is QUITE HARD as well"; he quickly amended his compliments to say how well I was doing, only to be stopped by a loud "AHEM" from my other side! "You're ALL doing amazingly!" he said, and made good his escape.

At around this point, I thought I ought to outline the finishing strategy to Chris: "By the way, Chris, we're doing a sprint finish. I just thought you ought to know what the plan was. But feel free to chase any money with your bucket". Chris thought about this for a moment or two. "You might have to be careful about the Sprint Finish in case there are lots of people" he said wisely. Summer and I said simultaneously "Of course, when WE say 'Sprint Finish' we might not mean the same as when you think Sprint Finish..."

We finally made it round the last few streets, using up Summer's final remnants of energy, and could hear the crowds ahead of us. We managed to pick up our pace satisfactorily and did ourselves proud over the finish line, although it wasn't quite the same as our sailing over the finish line at Park Run, because the tarmac meant that we had more freedom. Here, there was uneven grass under foot, and that meant we couldn't pick up the same rhythm. Also, we were very tired.

But proud.

And it was so very good to be able to take off the blindfold; although the bright light was disorientating, and my eyes took a while to readjust. I was very grateful that I could do so.

I found the day to be full of overwhelming support; my immense gratitude to Summer for her absolute first class efforts in guiding me I find actually quite humbling. The more we practiced, the more I realised how much I'd asked of her. I knew from the outset that she was the only person I could have trusted so entirely, but it was a hard task for her. All the people who we interacted with on the way, and all our wonderful friends who sponsored us. And I do feel proud: I genuinely wanted to stop people all the way home and tell them "I've just run a half marathon blindfolded: no, really, I did!" (although I didn't actually accost anyone, as it sounds a bit odd even to me). It's a long time since I've felt I've achieved something, and I'm still not entirely sure what that achievement might be.  But I hope that the efforts and generous contributions of many people will help people in this community who have to put up with their lack of vision on a more permanent basis. 

Home is where the heart is.

I'm still a bit perplexed that I have to explain to people why I'm doing this. I sort of feel that saying "I'm running a half-marathon blindfolded" should be self-explanatory - and I don't mean that it's obvious what I'm doing. I mean, yes, that bit IS self-explanatory.

But then people say "Why?"

I mean, even if I hadn't been inspired to commit to this by meeting people who were tackling their adversity by meeting it head-on in a swimming pool, I think the idea of not being able to see is pretty scary. For one thing, people who are lucky enough to be able to see, or who have been able to see, know how very beautiful our planet is, and how many wondrous things there are to experience; and yes, you can get a lot out of other senses, but, but, but... and for another, and this is the sting, it's really, really scary not being able to see. Quite aside from being absolutely full of danger and hazards, it's disorientating, confusing, and frightening... not knowing what is coming next. Blind man's buff might be a fun game in a safe, known environment, but outside of that, it isn't. So these people get to miss out on the good stuff, and have a lot of danger thrown at them as well. And they learn to live with those things, and get on with their lives, and live, and laugh and love, and I think that's incredible. And yes, I could just do something that'd be hard, and ask people to chuck a load of money their way, but somehow it feels right to experience, for a short time, the sightlessness, myself. (Sort of like the ice-bucket challenge, and how that was supposed to feel a bit like what it's like to suffer from Amyotrophic Lateral Schlerosis. What, you didn't know that? Yeah, that was my ENTIRE problem with the ice bucket challenge, right there, but I understand that Macmillan AND WaterAid both did very well out of it, so good for them. WaterAid certainly did well out of me - I chose them as my charity for my next run, which ironically turned out to be the hottest that I'd ever run, and I had to sit in an ice bath afterwards. Oh well). 

So, on Wednesday, I went to meet up with the Chairman of Peterborough Association for the Blind. I wanted to borrow a bucket from them,  so that Moustachioed Chris would have something to shake, and she very kindly offered to meet me outside Boots in town during my lunch break. Now, when you're meeting someone, it's customary to give some sort of indication of what you might look like, and neither of us had bothered to do that, something which only occurred to me on my way there. But I reckoned that someone carrying a collecting bucket should be reasonably easy to spot. I was unusually early, and saw her arrive. She was definitely the only person carrying a bucket AND A WHITE STICK. I suppose I shouldn't have been overly surprised, I mean, you couldn't accuse their Chairman of not knowing what she was talking about. I came over and said "Is it Sylvie?" and she said "Yes dear, shall we sit down?" I thought we were going to get a coffee together, but I politely perched myself on the bench, and almost laughed when she said "I'm supposed to be meeting someone here actually - it's not you, by any chance is it?"

We went out for coffee (and by "coffee", I mean hot beverage - which was OK because Sylvie delegated that task to me, so she has no idea I was drinking tea). Sylvie was giving out clues that she was not, in fact, blind, but partially sighted, (she was by herself, and didn't have a guide dog, and she was wearing a pair of spectacles that could double as magnifying glasses), and I asked her how bad her vision was. She said that she could see there was someone sitting in front of her, but she couldn't describe my face. I was just over a foot away from her - I'd already noticed that she'd had trouble identifying a free table in the cafe. She said that her husband frequently accompanies her, but when she's out by herself, and meets people in town that she knows, they sometimes say "Oh, are you out by yourself, Sylvie?" and she replies with asperity, "I'm not a prisoner, you know! I can Manage".  She chuckled ruefully and admitted "I expect I'm my own worst enemy: but I do like my independence". I know for a fact that I'd be exactly the same; my heart went out to her.

She told me that the blind swimming sessions have massively taken off in popularity from the three ladies I'd met; but problematically, now there are 7-8 who come, they swim at different speeds which is clearly frustrating (the mind boggles at how they might deal with this). The answer seemed pretty obvious to me: "surely you need another lane?" Yes, but this is not, apparently, forthcoming. So they are working on possibly coming on two different days.

She asked how I was doing with my training, and I outlined the problems I was having: how hard it was to find an easy place to run, because pavements were such a nightmare, with lumps and bumps all over the place, how hard it was to judge the curb edge. I told her about the dogs, and the lack of owner's attentiveness in calling them to heel. And low branches. These were clear, familiar issues to her, she was nodding and smiling. This is how it is, her face said: now you know. She came up with one that hasn't affected me. "All the new paving they're putting in the centre of town with flat pavement edges are a nightmare for us" she expanded, puzzling me - my initial thought was that this would be so much easier for a blind person. "Guide dogs are trained to stop at pavement edges. But they have to know where they are." So simple. "We could have helped in advance if we'd known".

We talked about me raising money for a local charity, and why it had seemed important to the ladies I'd met that I should chose these charities. She explained that the Peterborough Association for the Blind had two members of staff, and all the others were volunteers, as she had been herself for many years before she stood as Chair. "I'm good at talking, and I like people" she said, simply. Again, we chimed. I explained that the Guide Dogs had promised to keep the money I raised for the local branch, which pleased her. I realised that there was a certain happy symmetry about my doing the Peterborough Half Marathon and raising money for local causes: after all, when I first started running, I thought I hated running, and I thought I hated Peterborough: but it was running through my home-ground that first made me realise what a part of Peterborough I am. And how badly wrong on both counts I was.

And now I am able to give something directly back. I hope it helps.

Blind Faith

I've now run five times with a blind fold on. I think it would be a while before I felt comfortable doing it, but there is a part of me that wants to keep it that way. This is a challenge. I don't want to rehearse to a point that I know it's achievable.

The first time, I met Summer at the rowing lake. We'd both been thinking of what sort of things she needed to tell me about. The rises and bumps in the path, rough ground, any actual obstacles, what was happening around. I wasn't prepared for how disorientating I would find it. Within 20 paces, I said "I don't think I can do this". I was serious. I was running (barely running) along the edge of the rowing lake, with Summer on the lake-side. It is dead straight for about 1000m. I felt as if I were arcing drunkenly in circles. There was no semblance of going in a straight line. Things were possibly flying at me, and I wanted to put my arms in front of my face to protect myself. Summer remained calm. "You're doing fine. Just keep going" she said. I tried to explain why that wasn't possible. "You're going straight" she told me, and my brain processed this information. It certainly didn't seem true, but on the other hand, there was definitely tarmac under my feet, and that did indicate some veracity in what she'd told me.

There were people, she informed me, and they all seemed content to move out of our way. I gathered confidence, and by the time we went down the other side of the lake, I felt like we had picked up some pace, and perhaps the walkers would stop overtaking us. I heard my name being called out, and found out that it was Justin out with Henry (and possibly some small people). I was a bit embarrassed by the number of people, especially when we went up past the Boat House pub, but grateful that they all seemed friendly and helpful. We went twice around the lake, and called it a successful day.

Trip 2 was around Granville Street. I'd given it some thought, and felt certain that we could conquer curbs, if only we planned for it. We went up, and circled Central Park. We crossed roads, and practiced stepping on and off curbs on a count of three. Sometimes we got them spot on. Other times, we didn't, and I had to be careful how I landed my feet, so as not to twist an ankle. Neither of us wanted that, but me especially. The pavements were incredibly cumbersome, with driveways going up and down, and tree roots cracking through them. Sometimes when Summer said "Stop", I'd stop after a step or two, and other times, more directly. On one occasion, admittedly, she did repeat the instruction twice in quick succession, I stopped sharpish, and put my hand out to find a lamp post was about 2 cm away from my nose. Summer seemed oddly relieved.

Trip 3 was out to Park Run. This was pretty important to me - it was the only time we'd have the feel for lots of other runners around us. It had the advantage that I'm very familiar with the course. Our tabards hadn't arrived, but with some foresight into this, I printed off some A4 paper ones, and we put them into plastic folders and pinned them to our tops. The Park Run race director announced our presence, along with an actual blind runner, who was running with a guide. We went to speak to them, and discovered it was her first Park Run, so we were able to wish her well. Her guide offered the useful advice of not letting me fall into the lake. Hmmm.

The number of footsteps at the beginning was completely terrifying. I have never run into another runner, personally, but I couldn't rule it out as being a strong possibility today, although I could barely convince my feet to move forward so in all honesty, it didn't seem very likely. I was, however, convinced that people were going to run into me. Again, it's very possible to avoid people, especially if you can see, and I don't know why this conviction took hold of me so strongly. Summer was amazingly reassuring, and told me exactly what was going on around me. On our final lap, some runners gave us a huge cheer, and I could hear them for some time, singing our praises, how well we were doing. We finished on a sprint finish, which was the joy-ride, Alton-Towers pleasure run of blind running - I gave myself to it, knowing that Summer wouldn't have suggested it unless it was safe. We flew along with reckless abandon, and it felt like magic. I have no idea how fast it might have been... probably nearly 11 minute miles! We spoke to the ecstatic supporters later, and they were full of admiration, both for our challenge, for me experiencing what it would actually be like, for myself, and for the trust we had in each other. Finally, someone seemed to get it.

Trip 4 was our longest planned run, we aimed to go out for an hour. We ran around Ferry Meadows and down to the rowing lake, and it ended up being well over an hour, and nearly 7 miles. I met Summer out, so she already had a few miles under her belt, but for the first time her early concerns seemed more realistic: what if I did run faster than her? She was at pains to point out that she hasn't been training for speed. By her 8th mile, she was getting tired. One thing I love about Summer is her huffing and puffing when she's near the end of a race. This, it turns out, is lucky, because I may get to experience a lot of it! I pointed out that we can always take a breather. She said that she can huff and puff and still keep going for a fair old way, as long as I didn't mind. I didn't. What I did mind was the number of dogs we passed where we had to slow right down and hear "it's OK, he's very friendly"... yes, but I can't see!! People seemed incapable of actually controlling their own dogs. It's something I've already obvserved, but never so frustratingly. We practised counting and jumping puddles, which was what I can best describe as a "hit and miss" exercise, and resulted in some quite wet feet, and a jovial admonishment from a passer-by to Summer that she'd have to guide better than that! After that, another less than idea situation, when I hit or was hit by a cyclist. Now again, this strikes me as odd, as a cyclist myself. I didn't see the girl in question (obviously) and I don't know what she was doing, but where she hit me was on a fairly long, straight path, and we were right at the head of it, so she had a fair amount of lead-in time. We may have lost concentration while landing in a puddle, but nonetheless: if you don't think you can pass someone, you slow down. Don't you?  It wasn't a bad hit, I just caught my knuckle on her handle bar. She was contrite enough to stop and check I was OK. Summer was much more contrite and full of apology that our hilarity over actually landing me in the middle of a puddle had caused her to not draw me in away from the oncoming hazard, and how terrifying it must be to hit something when you can't see it. Funnily enough, it genuinely wasn't. I had an image that i had hit a sign or something; and then a moment after the incident where I realised it hurt more than I thought it had on first impression. It was just one of those smarts that you have to hold between your legs and let it subside, which I did. I surreptitiously wiggled my fingers to check they weren't broken while I did so. They seemed OK, and we went on. I was able to reassure Summer, quite honestly, that I've fallen over at least twice by myself running, and both times had hurt more than that. The rest of the run was incident free, although we did manage to develop a loud-explanation of my surroundings which acted as an early warning to help people get out of the way.

Our fifth and final trip was for me to test out something that the blind girl on park run was doing, and what I'd seen people attempting charity runs do, which was tying yourselves together, rather than just linking my hand over Summer's arm, as we'd done thus far. My main reason for wanting to try it was that after Park Run, I'd gotten quite a stiff shoulder, and I was afraid that it was from keeping my arm in one position all the way around. Although it didn't get worse after the long run, I felt we should give it a go. It was initially like going right back to the beginning, in terror-terms. I felt like I was practically flying solo, and it was very scary. Summer seemed to quite relish it, and was able to guide me back to her by a gentle pressure on the chord. And once we'd gone up and back round the rowing lake, which seemed a good circuit, I felt sure it was the right thing to do.

Summer also had a little go herself of running blindfolded, which she thought would help her get an idea of what I needed to know. She screamed slightly going over the sleeping policeman, and rapidly yanked the blindfold off and said she'd got the idea, and now she had no idea how I managed it, and she wished I might have a little less faith in her than I seemed to.

It seems like we're ready...

 

Seeing the wood for the trees

So... this is the prep for my current sponsorship challenge. I've updated the SPONSOR ME link. Feel free to use it.

I've skipped my last event... the Swedish Icebug Adventure. I'll come back to it, promise. I need to capture this one, it's exciting. A brand new, happening challenge.

You'll remember, if you cast your mind back, that I'd been thinking of this around about last September. I have an allusion previous to that that I'd already spoken to Summer about it, because on my next blog, "with my eyes closed", which was when I went running and got caught out in the dark, I mentioned a part of the track that I'd already practiced, by holding onto Summer and closing my eyes. Much like when you run and just close your eyes for a few seconds, it was hard to keep them closed, and I recall distinctly that I kept veering off, although it didn't feel like it. But last September, I think I mentally committed to the idea, even if it wasn't when I first had it.

So, the idea was, I'd run a half-marathon blindfolded. People have reacted in quite different ways to this. A fair number of people seemed to dismiss it, with a "You're mad". Now, I think they believed I was going to do it, but they didn't think it extraordinary because they had dismissed it as the sort of lunacy that you could come to expect from me. Like, running 40 miles, or something. But as I actually approached this October, I had to make a call on whether or not to do it. I knew that if I didn't do it this year, I probably wouldn't ever commit to it. It may seem like a long gestation period, but the iron was still hot, as far as I was concerned, and it was time to strike. So I started making plans, and as I did so, and they moved into fruition, people started taking me more seriously.

First up was to confirm my guide runner, Summer. I can't really emphasise this enough: it may seem like a stupid notion, and if you are going to do something stupid, surely it doesn't matter who you do it with? But to me, it was always Summer. She's tentatvely agreed way back when I first rolled the idea around, although she had always expressed reservations at the difference in our running speed. "But I'll be blindfolded. I can't run fast if I can't see" I reiterated. She seemed to accept this, but would come back to it from time to time. The thing is, I trust her. I never imagined asking anyone else. It made it seem possible. And she said yes.

Then, there was contacting the charities. The ladies at the regional had given me some contact details, and I rang the Guide Dogs Association. They were pretty upbeat about the idea, and supportive. I thought they might think I was insane, but after we had a chat, and they could tell I'd thought through various issues, they didn't say anything more. They promised to call nearer the time. I ended up emailing the Peterborough Association for the Blind, and I wasn't feeling my most eloquent, but I put in a link to my web page. They seemed happy I'd chosen them, and neither one seemed too miffed that I was splitting my loyalties two ways. I got around to setting up a donations page (just in case you can't find the link at the top of the blog), and found that Virgin Money was the one to go for: for one thing, the Peterborough Association for the Blind weren't linked to Just Giving, and for another, it was much much easier to set up a page donating to two charities (up to five, if you're interested). So I did that.

Finally, I went online, and ordered some printed tabards, for me and Summer, and then, as he'd offered, another one for moustachioed Chris, who said he would run with us and a collecting bucket.

Then, just one more thing left to do... have a practice.

Half-Ironman Virgin

I mean some things happened before I did it, like I did try to do some training, but to be honest, it was pretty pitiful. I don't count a half marathon as a race I have to train for, which is ludicrous. I've got to grow up and start doing things properly again.

First off, the organisation! It's a big deal! I had to get there the day before, to set up my bike in a secure place, and register, and listen to a fairly tedious prep talk which I don't remember any of, which is the triathlon equivalent of the safety talk on an aeroplane. Probably important to listen to, but could do with being a lot punchier. Everyone was very friendly, the security on the bike stand was a bit heavy, but you sort of felt glad about that when you were LEAVING your bike there. It was bang outside the front of Holkham Hall, and very grand it looked too. The lake (according to the safety talk) had exceptionally high standards of cleanliness, which I was relieved to hear, because my main issue with lakes in front of estate houses is that they are full of duck shit - which is fine if you aren't intending on swimming in them. It didn't totally allay my fears because it's all very well to test water, but you should really test it under the conditions on the day, such as 2000 swimmers kicking mud off the bottom.

Anyway, needless to say, was a bit nervous, but happy to have Jon along supporting me, and meeting Facebook Lee for the first time, and his lovely lady Lisa. (You may recall that it was the same Lee that gave me all the hype about the Lanzarote Ironman). I had booked into an AirBnB in the nearby vicinity, and they shook their heads sadly that such a seemingly bright girl would do something so stupid, but it was a lovely place, and I left looking a bit like this at 5:30 in the morning. It was a bit frustrating that all participants had to be in the cage by 6, because my "wave" of swimmers (the pink hats, or All the Lovely Ladies) wasn't setting off till 7:30, but as the course went around the edge of the bike area, it was hard to envisage anything else. Needless to say, despite being there on time, I was almost late for the swim, as another girl and I were watching the first rounds come out, and suddenly realised we had to leg it for our start. But all went well, and I got into the not-too-freezing-for-that-hour-of-the-morning water, had to endure other people saying "Oooh the mud's all squishy on the bottom" [well take your frigging feet off it then, mud-stirring moron], and finally... we were off.

Now, I don't want to sing my own praises too highly here, but I did save someone's life after 10 minutes. There was a lot of guff in the safety talk that if you were in distress, you should lie on your back and put your arm in the air, so that the people in boats could see you. I don't want to try and sound all knowledgeable over people who clearly organise races extremely well, but there is no way that a panicking swimmer is calmly going to roll onto their back and put a hand in the air. Maybe a synchronised swimmer... not a panicked one.

Anyway, recall, if you will, that my method of swimming when I can't see anything in the water is to do - when I'm pushed - about 6 strokes of front crawl, panic a bit, come up for air, recall the wonders of breaststroke, and take some calming strokes, enjoying the ambience of this beautiful sunny morning (coated, as I am, in waterproof suncream, on which more later). Well, I was enjoying - no I was, because coming last was really the least of my concerns - my breaststroke, when gazing to my left, I caught in the corner of my eye another pink-hatted lady also doing breaststroke. I turned to give her a reassuring - "me and you, eh?" smile, but she didn't return it. Her eyes were glazed and her breaststroke had turned into poorly-formed doggy paddle. She wasn't swimming so much as grasping. Her head went under. I took her elbow, because people in wetsuits are incredibly buoyant, in fact, and spoke to her. "Look at me. Breathe" I said, helpfully. She didn't. I tried again. "Look at me. Look at me. You're OK. I've got you. We're fine. We're just going to do a bit of breast stroke together. OK?" She looked at me. I was getting somewhere. "You're alright." I told her. She grasped at her neck and tried to pull the wetsuit away from her throat. Now, I knew exactly what she was feeling because I had the same thing on the first couple of times I was in the water. I thought at the time that the wetsuit was too tight, and wondered if there were better fits, and i should have done more research, but I now suspect that the cold water and the unusual feel was making me a tiny bit panicked, and my throat constricted. This is the same when you panic on stage, incidentally, and is why people's voices go high when they are nervous. It's their throat constricting. A singularly stupid bodily response for someone with not enough air, but there you go.

She started to talk - or gasp - "I can't breath" she was saying "You can breath." I told her, confidently. "Your wetsuit's fine. You can breath, you're just having a panic attack. But I've got you, and you're fine. I need you to just take some deep breaths". Despite my internally kicking myself for saying the word "panic", she actually did exactly what I told her. I let go of her arm, and she did a couple of strokes of breaststroke. Then she turned to me, and said , "Thanks" before taking off, full speed, front crawl. Confident as you like. So I dragged her back foot and held onto it for a bit. No, of course I didn't. But about 10 minutes later, while taking another (well-earned) breaststroke break, I was watching another swimmer, and I thought, I really must get an idea for how people do this sighting lark, so I watched as she approached a low-hanging branch, and then realised she just wasn't going to see it. So as she took a breath, I shouted "Watch out!" and she did, and pulled away. So actually, that's two. Although I expect she'd have just lost an eye or something. Anyway, here is me exiting the water. This is the smile of someone who has just successfully not got kicked in the face. A lifelong ambition.

And this is the start of the bike ride. I must say, I don't have a lot to say about the bike ride, it was pretty long, took me a good four hours. I guess the biggest thing was the saddle. I was sporting a manta saddle that I'd made mum get for me, after seeing one at Waitrose and talking to the bloke who owned it. I was enraptured (not by the bloke) because I don't like cycling because of the sore bum thing, and this looked like a way out of that. It moves, flexes, with your back side. It's genius. You need a vid, really. It got a lot of interest from participants - and the organisers, who took me to one side to explain how close I'd been to getting DQ'd. Disqualified. Yeah, I know. THAT would have made me laugh. But they eventually decided that it wasn't a health and safety breach (I should think not!) which was the main grounds of concern (apparently) and even though she somewhat snottily (in my opinion) said "I can't see WHY you'd want to use it, but we've decided to allow it". Cheers, big ears.

Anyway, I was a bit apprehensive because I hadn't quite got the balance right on it, it does tend to tip me forward, and I'd tried putting the seat forward and tilting it, but hadn't got it quite there, plus I seemed to be putting pressure on my wrists and shoulders, and actually almost everything except my bum. My quads were burning more as well. I wondered whether it was because I wasn't sitting on my arse. Anyway, I kind of got to a point where it was OK, but a major problem was how much it squeaked! It put me in mind of a Pete Seeger song that my mum likes, which goes

I get up each morning, dust off my wits
Pick up the paper and read the "obits"
If I'm not there, I know I'm not dead
So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed.

It seemed appropriate, because I felt like the noise of the squeaking seat was reminding me that I wasn't dead. I wish I'd remembered the rest of the song, which I tried to do, because it was also very appropriate - it's basically tenet is "my get up and go has got up and went". Wished I knew where mine had gone. I can report that I splashed out and got a little front pouch which I put some food in - cheese biscuits and jelly babies, and twix bars. I'm also glad i did this, as they were just about reachable, and i don't think I'd have bothered to eat anything had it been harder to get hold of. I'm pretty sure not eating wouldn't work for me.

I also had a minor difficulty with the idea of grabbing a drink and cycling off with it, so I resolved to simply stop, have a drink and a banana, and then get off again. Partly this was because I didn't have a spare drinks slot, and partly because I'm still nervous about the lightness (and my wobblyness) on the racing bike. Anyway, the saddle had become a legend in its own time, and the people at the drinks station immediately said "Oh look! You're the one with the saddle". Another bit of fame.

I thought the course was pretty OK, and had an internal debate on whether it was "rolling" or "undulating", which had me grinning away to myself for a while. Many years ago, I went on a cycle holiday in Tuscany, and our Swiss guide, Rudi, would give us the plan for the day each morning. As most Tuscan villages are set on the top of hills, they were pretty much always the same, and would go something like this. "First, we set off and go DOWN the hill. Then we will pass through a village and the road will be 'rolling' [makes shallow waves with his hands]. Then we stop for coffee [always] then the road will be 'undulating' [makes steeper waves with his hands]. Then we stop for lunch. Then it will be up up up, then we arrive." It was in vain for me to explain to Rudi that "rolling' and 'undulating' are synonyms. "No, undulating is harder" he would insist. "Undulating is harder to spell" I'd tell him, "they mean the same".  "No, undulating is harder". Anyway, on balance, i thought, mainly "rolling"; only "undulating" now and again.

Overall, tiltiness and squeakiness notwithstanding, the saddle did what I wanted it for, and I'm grateful. I did get in touch with the manufacturer, who recommended that it might have been a new batch, and not sprayed with lube, he said E45 mixed with water would soon sort out the squeak. I've recommended it to other folk who have had the same tilting issue as me, regretfully as they were as enthusiastic as I was about the comfort. There must be an answer. I think it may be patience, and trial and error.

Finally, there was the half marathon. I wobbled back into the bike rack, put the bike back, and pretended, as I do backstage with quick changes, that I had all the time in the world. I sat down, changed my socks and shoes, and tried to think what else I might possibly need. I had a quick squirt of suncream for good measure, although I'd been assured it was waterproof all day, got back on my feet, and set off. This, incidentally, seemed to work, because my times in prep were AWESOME. They were both like, 2.5 minutes. Anyway. The course was three times round the estate, and I'd already passed what looked like most of the racers running as I came in on my bike. Or, more accurately, they'd already passed me. You had to get a coloured wrist band each time you "passed go" and you could only go to the finish once you'd gotten a full set. I spent my first two circuits trying to convince people to give me their bands. They mainly took in in the spirit with which it was intended, namely, a distraction. Towards the end of my second circuit was the most disheartening - most people were finishing their third, so supporters were shouting "You're nearly there! You can do it!" and it made me want to cry, because I wanted so much for that to be true.

But round again I went. The worst thing was, there was a fucker of a hill right at the beginning of the lap, and I ran up it the first time, knowing I was going to have to get up it, somehow, twice more. That was part of the incentive for buying staps off other runners! I stopped for a wee at a refreshment/portaloo place, and one of the guys told me I was 63rd from the end! Given that there were two waves of swimmers set off after me, I can confidently say I was probably further back than that! As I neared the "real" finish, I passed some people with kids, one of whom looked philosophically at his father and said "have we seen her before?" which made me chuckle, and as a kindly lady shouted words of encouragement, her two kids looked up with wide eyes and said "Who's that mummy? Yes, who's that? How do you know her?"

And finally, it WAS my turn. And if you've arrived after a break from a few people, they let you run through the finish line and put up a new ribbon for you to break past. Which is ridiculous, but sweet.I managed a grin for Jon as I ran past him, but to be honest, I dissolved into tears across the finish line. I think there's an enormous amount of mental as well as physical energy in running a long distance triathlon. Perhaps I should have started smaller, but I didn't. And I did it. I bloody did it.

My Kind of Crazy

There's a thing about triathlons, they involve some swimming. Now hitherto, I've been of the opinion that I'm a pretty strong swimmer. In fairness, there's very little recent evidence for this, but it's grounded in my swimming history. Basically when I was a kid, I was really skinny, and used to get so cold during swimming lessons, that I'd turn blue. Eventually mum decided that enough was enough. When I'd got my 50m swimming badge, she stopped my lessons. So while my brother and sisters went on with swimming lessons, I watched with mum. She was happy that I could get myself out of trouble, and that was the main thing. When I got older, I was a bit less of a waif, and one day mum suggested that I take up swimming again, so I joined an "adults swimming class" which was great; and the teachers quickly realised that as I was about 15 and had some actual chance of learning something, they made sure I learned. There were two teachers, and about 18 people in the class. They divided the teachers so that I got one, and the other 17 got the other. I've always been in favour of equal division of wealth. I got taught racing breast stroke, and crawl, properly, and eventually they asked me if I was interested in joining the life saving class that was an hour later. So I did that too. So basically, by the time I left school, I was pretty cocky about my swimming ability.

Well, I realise that was a while ago, true enough. I've always enjoyed it though, and have kept up pretty regular swimming into adulthood. It's funny how it goes if you don't go for 6 months or so, and you have to build it up again. Still, I've tried to keep it up because it's useful cross-training for the old running in any case. So, as I say, pretty confident.

Anyway, first off, I signed up with PacTrack for a mini-series triathlon. That's 8 lengths of a 50m pool, 400m swim, then a 10km cycle ride and then a 3 mile run. I mean, I should be able to do that, right? I told the organiser guy, confidently, that I was an average swimmer, and got put in the middle lane. I swear, I was the last out, by a good 3 minutes, and furthermore, I have reason to believe, based on my style and time the following week, that I might have actually panicked, lost count and got out of the water on 6 lengths. Don't tell anyone though. That basically means that the fastest swimmer there was probably at least 3 times faster than me.

Then someone says "Have you done much open water swimming then?". I don't remember who it was.

I thought the Lido would be good enough, but I realised I was going to need to get the gear. I needed a trisuit, and I needed a wet suit. I have a wet suit already, but it's for diving, and it's 7mm. Plus a 7mm shortie. But there's rules. There's always rules. A wet suit for a tri is only allowed to be 5mm. In any case, there's no way I could swim in the diving suit, it's too thick to allow real shoulder movement.

I did some extensive wetsuit research, picked a winner, I thought, in the Sailfish, and emailed the company to ask for a discount. I figured there's often a discount, and I'd just ask. My old man once had a colleague who told me that he never went into a shop without asking for at least a 5% discount, and he usually got it. It's lessons like this in life that you should never forget, and i never did, although I don't always follow suite, this seemed to be a good time to try. It worked - they offered me 5% off, which I accepted.

Anyway, I found out that there was an open water swim, going about 2km each Thursday night down the Nene, and I decided to give it a go, as various friends rave about the gorgeousness of the river. First off, I beg to differ. The water stinks, and on my inaugural swim, visibility was pretty close to zero. The swimmers, who were mainly from Pactrak, were... fast. That's it really, they were fast. I found that I was terrified and disgusted in equal measure. The very notion of putting my face in that water was very difficult indeed, but seeing the speed with which my fellow swimmers took off, I realised there was nothing for it. But then I was hit with another issue. With my face in the water, the goggles weren't very useful - there was nothing to see. It was like being blind. I rapidly found the edge, but not because I was trying to get out... I just swam into it. My companions gave me some pointers on lifting my head out of the water every 3 or so stroke, to sight forward. This was something I still haven't got, despite repeated practice. I find a combination of terror, inability to see where I'm going, and perhaps the wetsuit, mean that I rapidly give up the crawl, and disintegrate into breast stroke. And the way that breaks your stride (as it were) immensely slows you down. Effectively, I'm almost coming to a complete stop every three strokes. It doesn't help with speed.

I also found out that there's an open water swim session on Sundays at Rutland Water, which I found a bit easier because the visibility was much better, although it was colder, and a lot darker (and deeper), so the visibility effectively didn't help much. I realised exactly how much I rely on the lines along the bottom of the pool, but I had other issues with this swim. I got whacked on the back of a head by a swimmer who actually swam over me (boys!). It really hurt. I had another moment where I realised that cartoons aren't entirely fictional when they draw stars around the head of the character that's been clonked.  

My new friends were very helpful, and on week two, still bringing up the rear, I confessed that I was 3 weeks away from a half iron man, and that was essentially my second time in open water. They looked at each other, and said "She's our kind of crazy".