Cycling...

I had good intentions of running... Dave told me that Fridays generally were good for him, so I brought my running stuff in on Friday, but he forgot. Then the girls decided to go out for lunch, so I thought since Dave wasn't going, I could do that. Then it became apparent that shopping was going to be more productive (food shopping, don't get excited. I didn't pass the shoe shop), so I did that instead. I wondered about maybe doing a run on Saturday morning, before business kicked off, but frankly, I needed a moment of calm, and didn't feel that running was really going to cut it.

On Saturday, I had to make my way down to Sussex for a work meeting. In the past, I've taken the bike down, because it is about 8 miles from Horsham station, and is generally a nice little stretch on a bike. I tentatively suggested this to Chris, who was coming with me, and at first we both dismissed it because of the poor weather forecast, but for some reason, she suddenly changed her mind on Friday afternoon. This was mildly inconvenient - she has a fold-up bicycle, but I need a bike reservation on the East Coast, without which they will not let you travel. I tried to get our work ticket system to acquire me a reservation, but they claimed it wasn't possible, despite having done so in the past. This meant a sudden last minute dash to Peterborough train station on Friday night, which was more than a little inconvenient, as I had folk coming to dinner. However.

While I was waiting on the platform on Saturday, I noticed that my back tire was completely flat. Somewhat to my consternation, I realised that the rubber was cracked all the way around as well. It was also bald. There was no two ways about it: I needed a new tire. Hopeful, as ever, though, I thought a pump-up might suffice for the journey at hand. I mentioned it to Chris, who asked if I had any puncture repair kit with me. I didn't. I'm not sure if it was something she'd thought about on the journey, or if itwas just when she clapped eyes on my bike (AKA "Deadly Peddley"), but she suggested that I might take it to a bike shop and get a new tire right away. "It'll delay us quite a bit" I said. "I'm sure it'll be OK". As I tightened the valve, though, I had grave doubts: somehow, I'd managed to bend it, and it no longer tightened properly. I used iPhone magic and ascertained that there was a store nearby actually called "Cycle Surgery". We thought we'd look in, and find out how busy they were. By the time I'd cycled the 300 yards up the road, my tire was flat again. It was the answer I was looking for. They were not only not busy, they were extremely helpful, and changed my tire in considerably shorter time than I could have dreamed of doing it, and had a weekend discount going on.

They did, however, tell me that my rear wheel needed realigning, and pointed out what they meant. The wheel was practically touching the frame, the mudguard, and the break block, on one side. They said it was damaging the frame. I can only point to one occasion when the rear wheel has been removed... Ian may have saved my life by replacing the broken spindle, but it looks like he may be damaging my frame. Tuh. Some good deeds... This did in fact prove to be slightly problematic, as I could hear a light hum all the way, over and above my broken front mudguard, which clatters continually. Possibly it might be a good idea to have a proper "service" on poor old Deadly.

So, a few weeks ago, I joined Chris on a cycle across London, and I blamed her speed on the fact that I was on a Boris Bike, which is very heavy and has three gears, and I couldn't get any speed up. I realised on Saturday that actually it was more like Chris was on the other bike and is considerably fitter than I am. Let's face it, she is on a Brompton, with 6 gears and tiny wheels. Whatever wonders of modern technology that bike has (and the chain design is very complicated with additional cogs and stuff - so I think that must help), I had a Claud Butler, with 21 gears (admittedly, 14 of them don't actually work) and proper wheels. So I should have had a massive advantage. But she just flew off up those hills...

So we whizzed across London - always fun - and missed the train, owing to time lost on the wheel repair. Our later train meant that we arrived in Horsham at about 5pm. It was pretty dark by then. Also, I last did the cycle ride a year ago, and never at night. "You do know the way, right?" Chris wanted to know. "Yes! Probably..." wasn't the answer she wanted to hear. Horsham itself was OK, because despite the traffic, it was well-lit, but as we progressed outwards, it became rather darker. Chris seemed a bit nervous of the unlit roads, as well she might... with wheels that small, you don't want to hit a pothole. Anyway, there was almost a moon, behind the cloud, and you could kind of see the white line down the middle of the road.

So we got there, and Chris was very impressed overall, but really wanted to see the route on the way back, so on Sunday, we set off with good time to catch the 4:42 train. At least, I thought we did. It seemed that actually maybe we didn't. And Chris was encouraging me by cycling into the distance with her little flashing helmet light (newly acquired at the cycle shop) disappearing gradually. We somehow did make the train, and we somehow did get back across London with enough time to catch the train I was booked on.

That's where it all started to unravel. We actually had time enough to get ourselves a sandwich and a cup of tea, but once I dropped my cup of tea, I knew things were doomed. The train didn't get in until 9 minutes to 7 (due out at 7) and I stood by the guards van, waiting for someone to open the doors. No one came. I sortied up the train, but couldn't find any staff who weren't outright rude. Then a lady came down to close the doors, while the train announcement noted that anyone not wishing to travel should get off the train. I asked her to open the guards van, and she told me it was at the front end of the train. She advised me to cycle up to the front end, to put my bike on. "I'm hardly going to make it, though, if you've closed all the other doors?" I queried, but she just said "You can only try". So I did, but I only got halfway when I met the train guard, a short, young Asian guy who looked as if he'd undergone too many training courses, but not enough on customer services. "You can't put that bike on the train" he snapped. "I have a reservation to put this bike on this train" I told him, helpfully waving it. "You can't put that bike on this train" he said, with some lack of imagination. "I can, if you open the guard's van door" I told him. "If you try to put that bike on this train, I will call the transport police, and have them throw it off". My thought process was not fast enough. My gut feeling was if he had time to do that, surely he had time to open the door? What I didn't think was, "he'd have to do it at the first stop... in Peterborough", so I should have just got on the train behind him, and obstructed the carriage, instead of behaving like a good citizen, and taking it. I estimated I had about 30 seconds to get up to carriage C and let Chris know I wouldn't be joining her (it was the older train, that had pull-down windows). Then a lady blocked my way, took my arm, and more or less shrieked at me "You are not allowed to board this train!" My goodness, they are people of one idea! "I KNOW!" I shrieked back, "THAT'S WHY I'M NOT BOARDING IT! NOW KINDLY GET OUT OF MY WAY". I cycled up to the top end of the train, and banged on Chris's window. I think they had just locked the door by the time I got there, because I'm pretty sure Chris would have dragged me onto the train if they hadn't. She's more confrontational than me.

On the way back down the platform, I took the name of the officious lady who **assaulted me**. I learned this later: it's illegal to put your hands on a member of the public. I will mention that I won't be pressing charges in my complaints letter. Frankly, I'm more affronted that I was threatened with the police, but I guess that the guard knew he couldn't actually stop me getting on the train, unlike her. He didn't realise he was addressing someone who is such a rule-keeper that there is no way I would have taken my cycle into the carriage of the train, because it is against the rules. **Sigh** it's hard being me. Anyway, I was able to persuade the guards on the Newcastle train to let me on, which I did largely by dissolving into tears when they asked if I had missed the train I was booked onto.

Overall, I suppose there was no real harm done, apart from distressing several of my friends by posting on facebook that I was in tears at Kings Cross station. And the cycle ride certainly counted as an adventure, even if not a full exercise programme....

Keeping it up

Hello again people. I know, I know, there was all that stuff about whether I should carry on the blog or not, and I was overwhelmed with the number of people who thought that I should keep blogging. In all honesty, the blogging does take a lot longer than the training ever took, but now that I'm no longer training per se, I may limit the blogging as well, and try to find some happy balance. So, you've basically all been thinking that I've been a quitter, haven't you? It's a fair point. I haven't been running since the half marathon on 9th October. Until yesterday.

There were reasons why it took so long, however, which were beyond sheer laziness. Remember the whole "being ill" thing I had going on around the race? Amazingly, the running with a virus neither killed me, nor made me feel any worse than I expected to feel at that point of an illness. In all honesty, if anything, I felt better. Notwithstanding this, however, I did progress on, as one does so often, into a chesty cough. And frankly, I felt that an athlete deserves a break after a race, so the two things coincided nicely.
Yes, folks, yesterday I got the trainers on again. I primed Running Dave the day before, knowing that I'm a good runner but pretty useless in terms of going by myself. Interestingly, I gave the garmin back, so I was technology-free. This was disconcerting, so I had to get updates from Dave on our speed. We ran around the rowing lake, which is 5.5 miles, and ran a good speed of 9:30 minute-miles. This is actually faster than I ran my 10k race, and almost the same distance. No wonder my lungs were hurting. Dave is back in training (although in fairness, he wasn't really "in" training for the half marathon) for the Hereward Relay Race, which goes from Peterborough to Ely. He's got to run a leg of 7 miles, so he's keen to keep up a good speed. They also have Tim who is a very fast runner, Sal, and moustachioed Chris.

My running gear caused something of a frisson among the running community in the office. "Oh, are you keeping it up?" people generally wanted to know. The non-runners (well, Richard) asked if I usually wore those clothes in the office, an equally rhetorical question, I presumed. I explained that I was waiting for the shower to be free. Sal wanted to know if I was going in for the London Marathon, so I filled her in on the thinking around this to date. Oh go on then, as long as you're here.

I emailed Arthritis Research UK to ask if they had a charity place, so I could run for my mum, who has Polymyalgia Rheumatica, and who gave me such a fearsome glare when I told her I was running the half for someone else's mother. They ask you to raise £1800 to take part. Then I found out while on a Finance for Charities course that technically speaking, if a charity says you can't compete unless you raise the money they have asked for, that it ceases to be a donation and you can only claim gift-aid on donations. They were pretty blase about it, and said that the Inland Revenue are aware of this, and frankly have better things to do, but I'm kind of anal in a law-abiding way, and don't want the IR to have anything to stick on me. This put me off the whole idea of running in a charity place. If you get a place yourself, you can obviously still donate to charity, and then you don't have an additional stress of trying to raise a set target. There are other marathons... Brighton, Edinburgh...

I also had the ridiculous notion placed before me to run the Norway Half Marathon, which excited me because it is so insane, and also because you might get to see the Northern Lights, which would be magic. I'd think of it less as a race and more as a survival exercise to brag to other runners about. I certainly wouldn't be overly concerned about my time, for example. It was Summer who suggested this lunacy, but then backed out and said that unfortunately she had reckoned without her family's travel plans. She is still hopeful for another year though. Incidentally, if you don't know where Tromso is, it is here.

Paul overheard my discussions with Sal, and and immediately suggested three races (only one of which Sal had already got in) which were a 15km, a 20km and a possible 20 miles, depending on which marathon I plumbed for. There seems to be a general acceptance of the fact that as I like racing, clearly entering races is the way to keep me motivated. Dave suggested that I talk Sal out of her place in the relay. I hadn't intended on doign this, as it seems to me that fair's fair - she got in first. However, it came up in conversation anyway. "Why aren't you doing the Hereward Relay?" Sal demanded. "Um. Well, there's four places..." I said. "Have mine! You should run it. Go on. Just do it" She said. I panicked a bit: "But that's only three weeks away". We've kind of left it hanging...

A joke's never as funny....

...the second time around.

Well, that's what they say. Thing is, I'm already missing the blogging (the training... not so much). The facebook fans have been kind enough to support my continuing to blog, and I thought you might be wondering how the aftermath is hitting me.

I guess you've seen the pictures taken around the race. Frankly, I'm amazed, I can only concur with what people are saying: I DO look happy and relaxed. Even in Julian's photo when I know how much I was suffering, I had a smile for the camera. The only one I look remotely worried in is one he took very early on (it was up on the blog, because I thought it was the 11 mile shot, but when I realised it wasn't I switched them. Oh go on then, this one. Interestingly, although I appear to be looking straight at him, I don't remember seeing him). I probably was really worrying at that point that I'd keel over within the first mile or so. Once I realised I wasn't going to, I relaxed into the whole thing. I'm in trouble, by the way, over the twist-and-turn one. Not because I'm such a drama-queen that I had to get my photo in rather than focus on the race. It is the angle my foot is hitting the floor at. It looks wrong even to me: I'm a suprinator. I don't know if it follows that I'm suprinating, but probably. Check it out, it's only the previous blog. It basically means that I (if this is usual with me) have a tendency to land on the outer edge of my foot. It has pluses and minuses: on the plus side, you run faster. On the minus side, that is because your foot is not evenly distributing the weight of your body landing, and you can seriously damage your calves, shin splints and the like.

Anyway, at the end of the race, I was just so happy. I think you can also observe my grinning ear-to-ear in the smurf picture. It wasn't just the smurf, I was grinning anyway. Heather was telling me how moved she was and how she wished Iris had been there, and I was still grinning. OK, I looked a bit serious. For a moment. I didn't really notice any pain. I did some stretches, and when I showered, I carefully dowsed my legs in freezing water for a few minutes. And I didn't think too much of it. I was expecting the stairs to be hard, and they were - I'd had the same thing from that fast run I did a week last Wednesday. But the next day - WOW. I'm not the most organised person, but the 3rd time I realised I'd left something else in my bedroom, I was just - oh, right, well how much do I really need that? I texted Sal to ask if I should ice or anything, and she replied that I needed to go for a half-hour walk.

I did this towards the end of the day, I walked into town to pick up some shopping. Rather gallingly, I forgot to buy actual food, but I did spend my usual obscene amount of money buying cards (I like to stockpile them), and a replacement ink cartridge for the printer. And I bought a hat that I'll probably never wear, but might if I have to go somewhere classy in Scotland when it is cold. (You have to think of these eventualities). Half way home, I'd got to beyond the half-hour, and beyond a joke. Cambers on the pavement were causing me to whimper out loud. Although I was nearly home, I stopped at Keely's house and begged for tea. I was entertained by a sign on the door that said "No thanks to salesmen; religions; junk mail", and was trying to formulate a sentence around trying to sell them some religious junk mail, but I was more interested in the tea, preferably accompanied by a seat, so I let it go.

At this point, it is only fair to share with you an idea that has been growing in my troubled mind. I'm not sure if I said at the time, but I may have mentioned it in passing: when I told my mother about the race, and raising money for Iris, I got quite a frosty reception. She came round in the end, and supported me like a good 'un, but to be honest, no one does scowls like my mother. (Well, actually, yes they do. Wow, I wonder what would happen if mum and Jeanette met, and annoyed each other? Fortunately I doubt that would happen, although it's possible that my dad might annoy both of them). The point was, you see, that I was running the race for someone else's mum. "What about me?" she wanted to know. "Well, you don't have cancer, do you?" [wrong response]. "No, but I have Polymyalgia rheumatica," she said. This is true. Well, obviously: she's not prone to lying. "It's not killing you, though, is it?" [wrong response]. I shan't tell you what she said, because I hope she didn't mean it. But it's nasty, and very painful. It's treated using a very strong steroid that has uncomfortable side effects itself, and is highly addictive, so doses are started high, and then reduced as rapidly as possible, and hopefully to the point of coming off it altogether. But flare-ups can occur, and then treatment has to begin again. Now, mum has been suffering for over 2 years, and I distinctly recall at its worst (at least, I hope it was) she had just completed writing her first ever book, but hadn't had it published, and she took my hand and said "if I don't make it, will you see that my book is published?". Now, she's not prone to histrionics as a general rule, this is just how awful she felt. I'm happy to say that the book is published, and we're all immensely proud of her. In fact, if you're interested, you can buy it on Amazon. It is about my great, great Grandfather, Edward Capern, who was a postman in Bideford, and used to write poems on the backs of envelopes he delivered. Since then she has had periods where she's felt better, but then also, periods where she's declined again. The pattern of almost "getting there" and then worsening depresses her deeply.

So amid my euphoria for having completed my challenge - which I regard as being pretty massive, but in the grand scale of things, obviously it isn't, there was a little nag of guilt. Your mother's suffering: it said, and you haven't tried to do anything to support her. Now here's another thing. My mum loved running as a child, and has harboured a desire to run the London marathon herself, which she had as a pipe dream, through my childhood, I think. She recently expanded it to "any marathon - in fact, I'd settle for just being able to run 26 miles". I think you can probably tell the general direction my thoughts are going in. 5 months ago, I considered it a physical impossibility for me to run 13.1 miles. I worked, I trained (and you know I did) and I did it. Seemingly pretty effortlessly, even with a virus. So, 26.2 miles also seems an impossibility. Especially as I've now established that I am, in fact, deeply competitive, and will need to do it in a "good time". I texted Sal, and she said, with her usual lack of hesitation "have to be a charity place now". This means that although the open ballot for places on the London marathon has closed, you can run for a charity, because they have places that they can give you. I looked up on the internet, and the charity that supports Polymyalgia research is Arthritis Research UK, and they have charity places. I'd have to raise £1800. This is almost as big a challenge (but not really) as undertaking the race. Of course, there are other marathons - the Edinburgh one, for example, which is a month later on (and hence potentially warmer).

I ran the whole thing past Luke and Keely. "Wow, a marathon" said Luke, trying not to laugh at the fact I was seriously discussing this at his table basically because I was too crippled to walk home. "Twice as far: I imagine that the pain afterwards wouldn't be twice as bad as a half marathon..." I don't know why I thought that was the end of his sentence: "no, I'd say it would be much worse. It's bound to be an exponential scale, isn't it?"

So a joke's never as funny the second time you hear it.... But then, running jokes are supposed to get funnier through repetition, right?

Watch this space.

Living on a Prayer

I slept badly, but that's OK, because Sal said everyone sleeps badly. She told me this when I asked her why on earth she recommended vanilla icecream and expresso before the aborted Grunty Fen half marathon. Turns out she was recommending it on its culinary qualities, rather than specifically pre-race food. I gave it a miss, but to no avail - I still didn't sleep well. I got up at midnight for a hot milky drink, but that didn't seem to help, especially after I managed to make it curdle (that was the apricot brandy). I woke up at 7:30, desperate to just stay where I was, but I had chickens to let out and cats to feed. I went round to Maggie's in my nightie, and was rather surprised to find her builder there at 8 am on a Sunday. We both pretended I wasn't wearing a nightie (fortunately I had an oversized jumper over the top of it). Then I ate breakfast... it was porridge, with yoghurt and apricot jam, and was completely vile. I managed about half a bowl, and rather like my childhood of eating the sugar out of the ready brek, then announcing I'd finished, I quit when the jam had gone. Frank finished the yoghurt, but turned his nose up at the porridge. The chickens LOVED it - which was as well because I also had half a saucepan left.

I started getting paranoid about missing the start of the race, and even though Nic's advice was I really only needed to get there half an hour before I started, I was scared in case the road was blocked or something, and set off at half nine, dosed up with paracetamol (as recommended by the GP) with an ibuprofen in my pocket for later. I don't tend to take analgesics that much, so I hadn't overloaded my liver too much over the previous days. I saw lots of runners and pedestrians on the way down, and everyone was very friendly and wishing each other luck, and made it to Cathedral Square, where I ran into Trudie who was doing the fun run with her boys. She was glad to see my up on my feet, after the last few days. The square was deafening, and it seemed unlikely that I was going to run into Heather and Nic accidentally. I sought refuge in the Cathedral - I thought, a quiet word can't hurt at this point. (It was also where I was the day I was interviewed for my job with English Nature). I sat at the back, relieved they hadn't started the service, and had a quiet moment, then saw Pete and Jenny, who I hadn't seen since they arrived back from honeymoon, so that was good. They promised they'd look out for me on the course.

Out in the square again, I randomly bumped into a guy I was at uni with, Michael, which was fun. I run into him about every 3 years, and think the last time I saw him was in almost exactly the same spot - he was also running, but i didn't see him again. I finally found Heather and Nic, who had brought Gavin with them, and was able to offload my bag and coat with them successfully. I lined up between 2 hours and 2:15, at the starter post, and spotted Rich, with his running protege, Tara. He said that a lot of folk from JNCC had said they would run, but had all dropped out (shame). He frowned at my ipod and said he thought it might be against the law, but I certainly wasn't alone, so I laughed at him. Also, lawbreaking is easy when you don't know the rules (right, Stephen?). However, he fully condoned my use of drugs, and said when he ran the Sahara, the squaddies were popping paracetamol and ibuprofen all the way round. I also ran into Will and Tony, but not Summer, who they said had stayed back a bit. They were hoping for sub 2 hours, so I made a mental note not to run with them. No sign of running Dave, though I scoured the crowds, I didn't see him, so that was one worry taken care of (I'd been going to run with him, and Sal said not to, so I was wondering about whether I dared raise her wrath or not).

We started out, and the first bit was a walk, but that was OK, because we hadn't got to the starting post yet. I fired the garmin up, ignoring Sal's instructions to not wear it - I was kind of interested in my heart rate today, what with being sick and all. Once we went past the post, just like Belvoir, away they went. You have to struggle not to peg off after them. I was all set to do my 11 minute/mile, and that went right out the window. I felt like I was running backwards doing a 10 minute mile, but I courageously let people past me. At the traffic lights, I passed Nic, Heather and Gav, and put in a wave; then at Central Park, I clocked Pete and Jenny again, with Stewart and Fiona (I didn't see Megan, but don't know if she was there or not; and didn't see little Caitlin either).  Around Newark Avenue, I saw Tony, who waved and said "Nearly there" because he's a bit of a joker, but he did get a good "fresh" photo.

 I kept my eye on the garmin, because let me tell you, my body wasn't telling me anything. Every time I looked at the garmin I was surprised. At how fast I was going. I tried to slow down a bit, because I wanted to get in the negative split, and I knew the second half would punish me if I didn't slow down, but it just didn't seem to be happening and my heart rate was in the comfortable high 160s, and I felt OK, so I kept going. Nigel told me about the kids all holding their hands up so you can high-five them as you go by, and it is really cool. They get all happy, and it gives you a buzz. So I did this for a lot of the first half. I had a chat with someone, mainly because I saw a bloke (walking) in full bomb-disposal outfit, and muttered an expletive, but forgot I had headphones in, so it might have come out louder than I meant. The bloke next to me told me it was bomb-disposal outfit (I wouldn't have known) so we gave him a cheer. I had a chat to the bloke, as I had un-headphoned, and thought i might as well check I was in chat-speed. He did the Grunty Fen, which was his first race, and said it was really cold and windy, so I felt quite smug I'd missed it.

I went passed Anita and her grandkids, high-fiving, and a little while later saw Chris, who had to run along side to get me to notice him. I'd just passed Rachel in Werrington who called out that she didn't know I was running it (note: touch her for sponsorship later), when Living on a Prayer came on the ipod. I looked at the distance, and I was at 7.12 miles - glory be, the boys came in bang on half way! WOAH-WE'RE HALF WAY THERE! - I would have sung, if I could - OOH-OH LIVIN' ON A PRAYER TAKE MY HAND AND WE'LL MAKE IT I SWEAR! WOAH-OH! LIVIN' ON A PRAYER. Just thinking of Fraser's face when he sings the bass made me grin from ear to ear. No idea what the bystanders made of it, but I was looking a lot happier than anyone else round me.

Anyway, time to speed up for the negative split! Didn't feel so comfortable about the idea, when I saw the smurf. The smurf was engaged in telling some female runners in front of me that he was a figment of their imagination "I'm the 9 mile smurf!" he said. The smurf was good to hang around with. Few of you could forget that I myself found Smurf fame at Scone: Rewind - well, a lot of people at that Festival greeted us collectively by screaming "LOOK, IT'S THE SMURFS". This meant that everytime the crowd cheered on the Peterborough Smurf, I just thought they were talking to me. I explained this to him, and he said "That's brilliant - you think they're cheering you, and you didn't even have to dress up!"

Around this point, I saw Julian (who for sake of clarity later, I shall dub Economics Julian), and shortly thereafter, Angela, Natalie, Margaret, and Peter and Mary, at which point I really started to feel like I was part of a community or something. Running around my town, and spotting friends all around the course. It was a good feeling. However, I can't deny I was also feeling knackered. Sal had said that 8-10 were hard. She said I had to be an actor, playing a Shiz hot runner. (Mum, if you're reading this, I don't know). I decided to do that; I thought that what was motivating her was recognition and adulation. Every time I saw a group of spectators, I gestured at them by raising my arms, and without fail I got an enthusiastic round of applause, at which point, I put my arms over my head as if I'd just won. It was good, actually. It was a bit tiring, but worth it, I thought. The crowd loved it, I was working them.

At some point around 11 miles, my next task was to pick people off ahead of me, and overtake them. I was tired, really tired, I don't mind telling you (now). I didn't feel like overtaking people. I felt like lying down. But quite a few seemed to be flagging, it was surely worth taking a few of them. I passed Jen (in the spectators) who gave an ecstatic yell, and further round the park, Pilates Julian, who compromised my time by shouting that he had missed me (brandishing his camera), and could he take another photo. At that point, I'd have done anything to slow down - every time I looked at the garmin now, it just said "warning: heartrate too high" which it defines as being 182 bpm - I don't have any arguments here. The ipod was playing Suzanne Vega, I'd abolished most of her songs from the set list yesterday for being too slow, but this one had something of a beat, so it stayed on. The lyrics went "If you were to kill me now, right here, I would still look you in the eye" - which frankly made two things occur to me - (1) it wouldn't be very difficult. You could probably do it by pushing me over. and (2) I probably would look you in the eye - I think my eyes got welded open several miles ago.

It ended, and Aqua's "Roses are Red" came on. I only added this yesterday, and I was really pleased I remembered about it. It's nuts, but it's very pop-y, and my pace picked right up, despite my state. I was now mile-watching on the garmin. I wanted this thing to be over, I really did. We got onto Padam Road East, which is part of the route that I know, because I run that way sometimes, but the familiarity didn't help, I was knackered. I wanted to stop. I saw Peter and Mary again (where did they spring from?) and they shouted out "Looking Good, Emma" - which perversely, did help, but not for long. I was just thinking that I was going to die for sure, when the Smurf caught up with me. "SMURF" I shouted (or croaked). He recognised me, which was nice, and said something like "Come on, you can do it!" in a way, not unlike Dave. I CAN do it, I thought. I thought of Louise writing on my sponsorship "Go Blue, fellow Smurf!", and I thought, this is it. I fell into pace with the Smurf, who was picking up, not slowing down. We bombed along, until that narrow path, where we had to negotiate our overtaking - including passing Rich and Tara. As the path widened out again, Aqua came on a second time! What a plan, to have it on twice! I decided to forgive the Smurf if he left me behind, but the final part of the plan came into action: I WAS Usain Bolt! (Don't tell Sal, I had to Google him when I read her plan. Sorry Usain). I sprinted around a group of people, conscious that Smurf was sprinting neck and neck with me on the other side of the people, but not getting away, and also that my name was being hollered in my right ear. We pounded past a few more people, and I was just wondering if I could keep it up, glanced at the garmin, which informed me that I was dead (heart rate 197 bpm) but recalled that Sal said she didn't care what my heart rate was at that point - and then it was all over.

Nigel was there, and gave me my t shirt; and I staggered out, and somehow Nic and Heather and Gav managed to find me.  Turns out I beat Dave - he came in about 6 minutes behind me. Although by his own admission, his training was somewhat lacking. And the stats said that I came in 2095th, with 66% people ahead of me, but 499th woman, with 43% women ahead of me. I was the same ratio in my age group, with 43% women my age ahead of me. But best of all, in the second half, I overtook 378 people, and was only overtaken by one! And I got the negative split in, too. Even the garmin thought so... boy did my heart know about it when I started the second half.

And you know what? I quite enjoyed it! But the best thing was stopping.

Thank you, everyone.

I just want to say a massive thank you to every person who sponsored me to do this race - so, many, many thanks to Rebecca, Simon, Nigel, Britta, Kate, David, Linda, Simon, Anne, Babs, Anon, Huw, Judy, Terry, Debbie, Stella, Mina, Keith, Jim, Brenda, Mike, Richard, Rob and Dawn, Justin, Simon, Chris, Colin, Ilfra, Sue, Gavin, Trudy, Margaret, Isabel and Jorg, David, Jessa, Cat, Heather, Louise, Fiona, Matt, Jeanette, Charlotte, Evelyn, Stephen, Sophie & Robbie, Jennifer, Anna, Susan, Ian, Catherine, Gavan, Nic, Jen, Marilyn, Helen, Daniel, Andrew, Carolyn, Dave, Geoff and Donna, Emma, Mike, Jasper & Dorrie, Joe, Stewart, Richard, Dave, Megan, Suzanne, Alistair, Tim, Tim, Mark, Trevor, Tim, Paul, Sue, Paddy, Paddy's guests (including Dougie) and Iain.

Thanks (and good luck) to everyone who joined in the sweepstake: Ian, Justin, Naomi, Chris, Tim, Anna, Sue, Paul, Nic, Brigid, Dave, Keith, Richard, Judy, Nigel, Alistair, Mina, Megan, Hannah, Heather, Suzanne, Stewart, Anita, Tim, & Tim.

Thanks to everyone who went running with me, including Nigel, Chris, Tom, Dave, moustachioed Chris, Paul, Summer and Tony. Thanks to Summer for agreeing to join my team, and help raise sponsorship money for Sue Ryder, as well as your donations to Macmillan. And especially, thanks to Sal for all your help and top tips with the training.

Thanks not just for your sponsorship, but also for all your words of encouragement, for following this blog, and generally keeping me at it!

You went nuts - the total I raised (so far) through this race for Macmillan is £1162.10, plus loads of gift-aided money (£239.53 online, plus more offline). Heather says it really meant a lot to Iris that I decided to do this. I'm sure it means a lot to Heather and her family too. And Macmillan is really grateful - they keep emailing me to tell me!

THANK YOU EVERYONE! 

and I'll let you know tomorrow how I get on...

The Stupidity Gene

OK, here's the situation. My cough started up again (perhaps from embers of the last cold I had three weeks ago) at the weekend. Not badly. I didn't think too much about it. On Wednesday, when I was back at work, I started feeling really ropey. Sore throat, very light headed, shaky and extremely nauseous. I came home at the end of the day and went to bed. I did well with the sleeping (it's a specialty of mine) and felt a lot better in the morning. The cough was certainly easing off. I got up, showered, and looked at the time. Plenty of time to walk or cycle to the station for my train. I sat down, tea in hand. I couldn't do it. I just couldn't get there. I picked up the phone to call a taxi. I considered as I did so, the 15 minute walk at Kings Cross, and almost started crying. I had a quiet word with myself. It went "Look, Goldberg, if you can't face walking for ten minutes, you're not fit to be going to meetings. And if you're not fit, go to bed." In doing so, I was sacrificing my social calendar. One doesn't take the day off work and then go out for the evening, not even for Summer's birthday meal. I called the meeting and gave my apologies. The relief I felt was palpable. I did a lot of resting, and tried not to be asleep for too much of it - it messes up your circadian rhythm, which I was keen not to do. Frank was ecstatic. He lay on me purring for most of the day (try not to think about him extending his claws right there). I decided to catch up on Doc Martin, which I love, and had so far missed the entire series, which was enjoyable. I love how rude he is, although it's phenomenal how many rare conditions there are in such a tiny village. Some people might think that general practice would be more dull in such a small town.

I posted a facebook message that read like this:

And I had a myriad of responses, which included a link to the Muppet Babies Get Well Soon Song from Britta, and a query from Susie about whether it was a delayed hangover. However, more alarming was the ones following that...

In accordance with this instruction,  I also decided to take the Friday off work. Actually, I would have done even if I hadn't been trying to get better in order to kill myself for a race. Although I felt better than Thursday, I still felt as if I'd been run over by a truck. I phoned my line manager and explained what was at stake. She was very understanding. There is some rule that says if you take a day's leave and you're sick, you can switch it for sick leave. I told her that although this would probably be the case, I had no intention of doing so, as it was largely going to be my choice.

I've just realised that by including this image, I've blown the secret covers of several of my friends. Damn, I'll just have to hope that they aren't litigious. Or try not to say anything libelous about them from now on, I've only got 2 days to go. Also, I could put here, any similarity in names is entirely coincidental.

Anyway, this morning, I got MORE messages on this thread. They were kind of backing up Sal.

I liked the stupidity gene comment. It's quite possible that the whole "running" thing may trigger this otherwise inactive gene, and turns it on. It definitely has with me. I'm going to have to look out for Nick on the way round as well, in case he tries hunting me down. As if I didn't have enough to worry about.

There's nothing for it, I thought, I'll have to ask a GP, that way it'll be their fault if I die. I booked an appointment for the afternoon, and Frank got onto my lap, purring very contentedly because I finally seemed to have learned my lesson. "Woman, know your place" was his general message. (It's on the sofa - not in the kitchen - and definitely not in Scotland). When my alarm went off at 3, we were snuggled in bed together, and I did wonder if it would do me more good to just stay where I was, but I got dressed and staggered off. The surgery is at the end of my street, so it wasn't far to stagger.

"If you just had a bunged nose, I'd tell you to take some hankies round with you" the GP said, "but for more systemic symptoms" (apparently this is medical for feeling like you've been run over by a truck) "I'd really suggest you didn't run it." I gave her the fish-eye. "It's important to me. I've raised over £800. I want to run it" I told her. "What'll happen if I run it anyway?" She listened to my chest and established I didn't have any bronchial infection, and took my temperature. She said if I'm feeling light-headed now, I might expect to feel more so; that I might be breathless; and that it'd probably take me another week to get rid of the virus. She said if I were a professional sportsperson, obviously it would be out of the question, but if I wanted to... I could. "I think you're mad though" she added helpfully. Then added: "But I think you're mad for running it at all". I almost explained the whole sponsorship deal, and how much I hate running, but I didn't think I'd squeeze her for sponsorship. It's probably unprofessional. She'd told me all I needed to know. I thanked her and left.

Ian came over after work to get a sleeping bag off me for his trip to Kenya, and delivered my sponsorship and sweepstake form. I asked him to check the post for my Macmillan t shirt, but it never arrived, so looks like I'll be running in my red shirt (don't forget to look out for me!). After he'd gone, I totted up my offline earnings, not forgetting to add the £37 from the wedding, and also to deduct £10 off the sweepstake earnings (although hopeful that the winner may add them to the mix. I found I'd had some more online donations too.

I've/You've/We've raised a staggering £997.10! 

This is amazing! Although for some reason, JustGiving thinks that this is 100% of my total. I'd love the extra £2:90 if anyone feels so inclined. Macmillan would love it if you blew my total right away.

I may not make the time, but I'm going to do my best to make the distance. It's all in the breakfast now!

Ready or not.

I had some training planned for this week... it went, Wednesday, 45 minutes, "at that slightly uncomfortable pace", then Friday, 20 minutes jog. I could barely stand upright in the office today. And it wasn't just because of the racking cough - that calf muscle started giving me gyp again. Furthermore, I felt nauseous all day. I don't know if it was the whole tight throat coupled with phlegm (mmm!) or nerves, or gastric troubles, but it was rubbish. I didn't eat breakfast, and then felt more sick. All in all, I felt like a crumbling wreck all day. Various sympathetic friends (Sue) suggested I should add some more times to the sweepstake.

I saw Sal at coffee time, who came to check how the weekend training had gone. I looked so doleful, she knew something was wrong. "Did you not do it?" she asked. "Oh no, the run at the weekend was fine" I said "it's just I'm still falling apart". She looked disbelieving in a way that suggested not that she didn't believe me, but more that she couldn't believe anyone could possibly be as sick as me. It's a fair point. I did say quite early on that if I didn't train every time I got sick, I was in for a fairly chequered training routine.

Anyway, it's not all bad news. She says that this week's training isn't necessary. She says I've done all the work to get the time I want, and this week is more psychological. She said the fast run today was just to "remind my legs they can run fast". If I'm honest, I think they remember. She said I could go swimming instead but then added "but I wouldn't, not with a chest like that". So that's the alternative out the window. Feeling absolutely sure it would, I told people "I'm going to do it if it kills me", and was horrified to learn that in fact, two people died doing the Great Eastern Run last year. I couldn't find anything that said why they died, though.

I did manage to do pilates at lunchtime, although I was hoping to lie on my mat at the back of the class and have a snooze, Anita made me come to the front, on the seemingly frivolous grounds that the sun coming in from the window would warm me up. Then she complained when I coughed over her. Some people! She also said she could tell something was wrong because I was being so quiet. She said it unnerved her. Anyway, I was quite pleased I'd made an effort because she noticed that I wasn't being very flexible and put in some extra exercises for me. By the end of the class, I was warmed up enough to do them. I might try doing some pilates on Sunday morning.

This is it, everyone. I'll give you an update on Friday to tell you if I go for that 20 minute jog, but I'm nearly there. Ready or not, it's race time. So there's just time to say: if you haven't sponsored me yet, and you're still reading this, then please consider doing so. If I don't know you, and you've enjoyed the blog, just write "love the blog"! - there is a link at the top right of the screen. And if I do know you, please remember that your support means everything to me. Oh, and if you live abroad... I checked, and Just Giving can accept your donation!

THANKS xx

Down hill and against the wind.

When I left the wedding weekend, I was on my way to cheer up Alastair. Everyone has times when they need cheering up, and that's when you're glad that you made friends with a bloody lunatic who is quite prepared to bomb up and down the country if you need her to. It made a change to be approaching his house from the north, though, I didn't see that coming. We had a very relaxing quiet time, although I did go for my run on Monday, which was a 40 minute jog. I managed quite well, even though the wind was blowing so hard I could hardly hear my iphone. It managed something quite unusual, which was to defy the first law of cycling ("it's always up hill and against the wind") by being downhill and against the wind. This is quite a common Scottish phenomenon, however, which I remember fondly from my student days. It's disheartening when you are looking forward to a bit of easy downhill on a bike, but funnily, less annoying when you're running. You just feel like you are getting in some extra exercise, like a canoeist going up the current. This is probably why it's the first law of cycling, not running.

The rest of my time with Al was mainly spent lying underneath Sam. I was reflecting on the number of dogs that have fallen head over tail in love with me. Sam is one such. Aside from him was my own dog, but that probably doesn't count. I did often find it uncanny how quickly he knew which human was his, though, especially given that, as I was a small girl, mum did a lot of stuff for him. But he knew. Then there was Kodi, who was a Siberian Husky I met in New Mexico when I was 17. He loved me so much, he wouldn't get up to say hello to his owner, who said he had never known him to not come and say hello. And then there was Penny. Lovely Penny. She loved everyone, but I did feel she had a special love for me. When I asked Billy why she was called Penny, he said it was because he felt like he'd lost a pound and found a penny... When I left the farm, she got into the footwell of my car, and wouldn't get out.

Hopefully it was as relaxing for Al as it was for me. Unfortunately, it seemed like the recharge time wasn't enough to kick the cough I'd been developing. I brought it right back to Peterborough with me...

Finding sponsors in unlikely places

Let me tell you, they don't just give a warm welcome in Cullen, they know how to throw a good party too. We headed over to the Crannoch for lunch, before the wedding, and consequently hadn't togged up. It seemed the way to it - the bride seemed casually attired for a wedding, in jeans and a t-shirt that read "Keep Calm and Swally On" - I heard her translate it for a child (thankfully) as "keep drinking". And once again, Brenda set us up with a fine meal. Cullen Skink was on the menu (it's soup), although I have to confess to going for deep-fried Camembert, followed by a roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. I felt it was wise to accompany this with soda water, for self-preservation. In all honesty, having this lunch might be the only reason why I'm alive.

Back home, we set to getting the glad-rags on, and I finished the morning's blog, and suitably adorned, we set out, umbrella-clad, into what was now a convincing rain, and made it back to the Crannoch, which I was starting to pick up was a bit of a focal point. Heather was interested to know if there would be any kilts there, which made me laugh, as it was about the only thing I had as a fixed guarantee in my head (long years of knowing Susie has taught me to "expect the unexpected" which was why I didn't make a single comment about the jeans and t shirt). I wasn't mistaken either, there was a fine set of kilts available - and furthermore, they came in all sizes! The first thing that happened was that Jimmy offered me, with a haunted look on his face, a whisky. "Yes please, Jimmy!" I said, but knew that this burnt bridge was going to be a tough one to rebuild. In fact, I almost nulled the whole wedding on account of it, because not long after this, we made our way through to the room where the wedding was taking place, and I'd got right past the usher, who was also my host, Steven, clutching my whisky. He spotted me, however, and confiscated it, explaining that it was against the law to serve alcohol in that room for 24 hours prior to the wedding. So technically, we can have the wedding nulled, although I didn't drink any. I asked Steve to put it somewhere safe for me, which he did.

The wedding was just simply lovely, especially the vows that Susie and Bruce read out, which had all the girls in tears, including one of the bridesmaids. Little Robbie demanded loudly "Why's she greetin', mam?" although his mother wasn't able to answer so I chipped in "Robbie, it's for the same reason you're mam's crying, and I'm crying, and Sarah's crying... we're girls. You'll never understand. It's an important lesson in life". There was something of a lull in the crying when Susie whipped a hanky out of her cleavage for Lauren, which made everyone laugh. After the wedding, amid the photographer trying to capture her subjects (inbetween rain showers and umbrellas) there were a few toasts to be had, cake to be cut, and a little more whisky to be drunk. The smaller Robbie had nicked off with his parents' camera at this point, and was surprising people in thrusting it into their faces at unsuspecting moments and snapping, then laughing at the result. I have to say, though, he got a pretty good one of me.

It was just after Iain showed up and had secured a double whisky for me, that Susie popped into the bar. "Right, the piper's here to pipe us up the road to the reception" she said. "Drink up". "Now?" I queried, looking at the golden amber in my glass, which seemed rather full. "What's the problem? Down it". she told me. I asked the bar staff if I could return their glass later, and they seemed uncertain. I teetered on a timeline between now and student days: I felt Jimmy's pain - and drank it back.

I have a few, hazy images of the rest of the night. Joan, for example, had cooked tablet (which is Scottish for fudge) for 150 people. I danced the Gay Gordon's with Iain, and stood on Jimmy's feet (I subsequently blamed my dance partner), and Strip the Willow (my favourite). There was a lovely spread of food, and more drinking, and more dancing. And some dressing up from people in the most unlikely attire. I think we had the Beetles AND the Pink Ladies from Grease, but I could be mistaken. And at some point I agreed to/demanded to go for a walk up the beach. On the way home from that, we passed Jimmy and Paddy's, who were still entertaining, and Jimmy asked us in for whisky. It should be clear that at this point there was only once answer, as I couldn't disappoint Jimmy. Paddy asked if she could give me a tenner towards my sponsorship, and at some undefined time later, I left (after two drams) with what turned out to be £37 that I'd fleeced from their various guests. When I looked in to say cheerio the next day, they were still reeling from my having persuaded one Dougie to give me £7. Apparently it had been a hard sell.

All I can say is that when Alastair came to fetch me on Sunday morning, he took one look at me, and said "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

Trains aren't water.

Having two days off was good, because my thighs really hurt after that run on Wednesday. Also, I got into a fair amount of trouble from Sal. I'd written on my shared spreadsheet, "I don't mind telling you, I'm rather pleased with myself." I got a paragraph back, swiftly, which started off "I'm sure you are, but". The gist of it was WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO RUN SO FAST? It was not dissimilar from when I suggested that I ran on sand this weekend and she said immediately ARE YOU MAD? You'll notice the capital letters. If you can picture Sal's lovely long blond hair, you should imagine it putting itself into a bun, so she can get more severe. I've said it before, and I'll say it again, there is a certain similarity between Sal and Susan Death. If I had monsters under my bed, I think Sal would probably tackle them herself with a poker as well.

Anyway, I explained (on the shared document - not to her face or anything) that largely she had possessed me to run that fast - it was the conversation about not relying on the garmin so much, which had made me use it less, and find my own pace. She wasn't too displeased though - she herself said "after that minor bollocking - I can now revise your final time down to 2:08" which was good news for everyone apart from Hannah, who deliberately picked 2:15 on the sweepstake on the grounds that I'd do what Sal told me. Judy is now in with a sporting chance at the sweepstake.

On Friday, I had to travel all day to get to the wedding (and the sand) that is the big event of this weekend. Ideally I would have packed on Thursday night, but I've never been one for turning down opportunities, (or "saying No"), so when Pete asked me if I'd like a spare ticket to see John Cooper Clarke, I of course accepted. I forgot at the time that I had already agreed to give some feedback on a workshop I attended about directing, which was technically at the same time. However, I found out that there was a warm-up act on before JCC was on, and I figured out, that as they are friends of mine whose work I've often supported, I'd probably heard the majority of it before, and I could skip from one to the other, arriving at the interval. This is just what happened. He was very funny, although part of what was engaging about him was that he was completely off his face, and a lot more tired jokes were delivered than actual poetry. From a lot of people, this would have been irritating, but, well, he was very likeable. We forgave him. And laughed. Then there was an option to go to the pub with theatre Dave and Jonni, and I thought, packing, it's pretty easy. I can do that later. So I went, and of course that was good fun, and I got some feedback on the Crucible. It's funny when you realise that people have no idea how much preparation you've put into something. Anyway, it's probably my fault for making light of it in fora like... this one. So, I got home at 1am, and realised that if I didn't catch up on the drama series I'd been following on iplayer, I'd have missed it by the time I got back from Scotland, so I sat down and watched and hour of French police drama. Because that was smart. I set the alarm clock for the remaining 5 hours of night time.

In the morning, I packed, apparently most of my earthly goods, and was just about to set out to the station at a startlingly early 9 am (for the 9:45 train) when I realised I hadn't packed my bolero cardigan, which had vanished. The time spend tidying was wasted, as a tornado swept through my bedroom and uncovered it just as I was about to give up, in the first pile of cloths I'd looked through 4 times already. Damn poltergeist. 9:15 and just time to get a taxi. Just as well, considering I now had a handbag, a plastic bag with wedding gift and fascinator, a backpack and a huge suitcase. It really doesn't matter how long I go away for, a couple of days or a month, I take the same amount of stuff. In this case I think there were mitigating circumstances: going to the North coast of Scotland during an Indian Summer that is bound to end at any moment, you have to pack for all eventualities.

The journey was startlingly uneventful (I ended up telling a German lady about this blog, which she described as being quite a story, but I don't remember why. Excitingly, she had also been locked on a train, and hers, if you can imagine, was worse than mine. She'd got her 3 children, two toddlers and a baby, off the train, and had got back on for her luggage when the doors locked. Can you imagine?). The timing for my recommended route was rather tight, in my opinion, with 10 minutes at Edinburgh and only 6 in Inverness, which I thought showed a startling optimism from the train companies. Considering that we left Newcastle running ten minutes late, for example. Many people would have spent a lot of time stressing about this, but I was resigned to my fate. I once spent 2 hours stressing because my train was 30 minutes late and I was going to miss my onward connection in Crewe: but when I reached Crewe, the connecting train was 30 minutes late too, and I felt I'd wasted all that stress. So i resolved to not stress about things I could do nothing about. In keeping with this, I was glad not have bothered stressing, because the train made up all ten minutes by the time we reached Edinburgh, and the connection was flawless. It wasn't the same platform I'd got locked on the train previously, so not too many flashbacks.

When I arrived at Keith, Sophie launched herself out of the car in paroxysms of excitement. She may easily be top of my fan list (my fans tend to be mainly in the under-15 category. I try not to think about the male over-50 category, they border between fans and stalkers). I was staying with Susie's friend Evelyn and family (including Sophie), who I'd been reacquainted with at the hen party, and it was great to have such an offer. When you don't know many folk at a wedding, it's so nice to feel a welcome, and let me tell you, no one gives a welcome like a Cullen welcome. As soon as I'd arrived and settled in, we were off down the road for our tea, where Susie was also with the family, and friends soon congregated around. Brenda was doing stirling work and gave us a fantastic dinner as well as taking drinks orders with startling efficiency - and frequency. I was semi-comatose before I had the glass of wine, and that certainly didn't help. The Scottish accent was doing that thing to my brain, and the lack of concentration really didn't help. Susie's dad Jimmie, and Evelyn's dad Alec were my two biggest challenges. They seemed so friendly, and I swear, I never understood one word of what they'd said. Alec was in the back room when I arrived, which was as well because as I was explaining I'd never met him, Jimmie said "Aye, ken ye ha'." "Sorry?" I said. "Aye, d'ye no' recall at Susie's movin' in t'the flat? Alec n Joan were theer then?" "Sorry?" I said. "Ye'll know im when ye set eyes on him" he assured me, "once seen, niver forgotten". Once I'd grasped the gist of this, about ten minutes later, I was able to place the pieces together. "No, I don't remember Alec, Jimmie, in fact I only remember one thing about that night: the measure of whisky you poured out for me. After that, I don't remember anything." His face cracked into a grin. "Aye, that were a good night" he said.

I was very good, and resisted any further alcohol that night, for the simple reason that I'd told Sal I could train on Saturday morning and not on Sunday, when I was planning on having something of a hangover (I hadn't spelled that out). So I didn't want to stuff that up by having a hangover on Saturday as well. And everyone was brilliant, helping me find a route. "You want to go across the viaduct, across to Portknockie" they told me, "that's about 4 miles". I later found out that it was 4 or 5 miles round trip, which wasn't quite long enough, but Bruce, (Sarah's Bruce, or the other Bruce, as I think of him) told me that I could pick up the old rail track the other side and keep going. Everyone was very kind, but I recognised the look on their faces - because it's been on my face enough times. "Whatever you're doing that for" is the subtext. I could tell they didn't quite get it by the numbers of cups of tea and breakfast I was offered "while I was over". At about 11pm, when I was getting the shutty-eye-lid thing going on, Susie made a move to leave. If she's going, I reasoned, I can go too. Unfortunately, the whole party simply moved to Jimmie's house. I felt it would have been rude to go to Jimmie's without having some whisky, so I made it very clear that I only wanted a tiny nightcap. "Aye, alright" he said. He came back with half a tumbler full. "Jimmie, I said small!" Everyone else in the room agreed that as Jimmie-measures went, that WAS small. I didn't finish it, and the pain in Jimmie's eyes was palpable. "Yer not the same lassie I remember. She wouldna' ha' left whisky in the glass" he said, sadly. He was right. It's also amazing the way I could understand him, after even a small measure. "I learned a lot at university" I told him.

The sunshine had gone by the morning, replaced by something between a heavy sea mist and rain. It wasn't cold though, and I set out along my recommended route, mentally noting which of my songs made me run slowly and which pepped me up. The viaduct was easy to find, and looked like a good route. I had in my head an image of the aqueduct run in North Wales, and thought of entitling my blog "Scotland... flatter than Peterborough" as a homage to "North Wales... flatter than Peterborough". However, I swiftly realised my mistake. Water needs to be flat. Trains don't. As a matter of fact, Scottish trains appear to be made of pretty stern stuff, which I doubted I shared.

The aim of the run was 75 minutes, negative split, (or, running the second half faster than the first half). What I found out was that the route was quite hilly, so I had some built-in fartleks in addition. It seemed to me, perversely, that I was going to have a fair bit of hill on the way back as well, which was quite bad news, given I'd be running it faster. I set out at a comfortable 10:30 to 11 minute mile. And it was nice, actually, although distressingly nothing like the google maps satellite image. I'm not sure what time of year you have to come to see sea that colour.

Anyway, that's the distance I ran - from Cullen to Findochty (that's the web link incase you want to zoom in), which turned out to be 4 miles. And there was a handy sign when I got to Findochty (which incidentally, as if having unpronounceable names wasn't bad enough, is actually pronounced "Fin-ECHT-y" which gives you an idea of what I'm up against here) which looked like this:
and that was how I knew it was time to go back.

Sure enough, the way back was more up hill, and I made a special effort to run faster on the uphill bits because I was afraid of losing speed on them, and think I had something of the reverse going on. I noticed that there was a beautiful very slight downward gradient as I approached the viaduct from the other side, which helped enormously. Peterborough should be more like that. Sadly, my sprint-finish was uphill again. It had to be good training, we don't get built-in fartleks around the Peterborough circuit like that.

Then, once I'd got my breath back, it was time to get ready for the wedding lunch. I guess it's a Scottish thing to have a wedding lunch before the wedding breakfast, but I'd promised Jimmy I'd be back on form tonight, and it made sense to have a big lunch to set myself up for the day...

Next episode: get ready for those kilts...

Running Late

OK, today got off to a bad start, but it was nonetheless a great day. I decided I'd had enough of being rubbish about trains, so I got up extra early, I went to feed next door's animals - found that the chicken door was partly open, confirming my belief that someone is nicking Maggie's eggs. Probably the same someone who broke into Clara's house 3 weeks ago, to be honest. Anyway, I made sure of where my keys were, and set of with good time, so was horrified to see a train pull into the station as I did. I checked, and there was a train to Norwich leaving! I ran across to the platform, and realised that it wasn't my train - that was in fact, departing when I thought it was. Which was quite a relief, and I got a cup of tea and a croissant for breakfast in celebration. Here is what morning looked like - I run along by those trees sometimes.

Well, it cooked up a scorcher. It was like summer. Well, to be honest, it WASN'T like summer, it was what summer should be like. Our meeting was at a place that had both a cafe and a wood, making it ideal to have a cuppa and a chat, and then head into the wood, then have lunch. Some people think of everything. I actually last met Steve when he was interviewing me, which is always unsettling. I hate it when people have seen my CV. I just feel they know too much. Then I got really excited about my pot of tea (it was very splendid - I wish I'd taken a photo now), so I broke the tension by pointing out that Steve hadn't known how obsessed with tea I was when he interviewed me. It made him laugh, anyway. Also, Harry was at the meeting, who doesn't know that he is one of my favourite people. (In a work way). He's just very very sensible, and he really cares, and he knows loads. So it was warming up to be a good meeting already. I had quite a lot to say, which I was pleased about, because really, the meeting had nothing to do with me, I crashed it, so I was pleased to have something to contribute. I also mastered the knack of asking totally obvious questions as if they were quite important, which I've been practicing (and failing at) for years.

Anyway, we went into the wood, and I have to say, even though it was a mind-blowingly gorgeous day, I was apprehensive. Woods around Suffolk have a way of completely depressing me. They tend to have really high grazing pressure, and look a bit rubbish. We didn't go all around this wood, but it was bloody gorgeous. It's the sort of wood that really makes me really want to own my own woodland. Anyway, it had shrub layer! It had ash saplings! It had rides with proper shrubby edges. I cannot tell you how happy I was. We then saw a slightly worse area, where the coppice had failed, but actually it was still trying, it hadn't died completely. And there was ground flora that wasn't just grass. See, one of the things I love about Harry is that he was equally excited, we were like two kids on Christmas morning.

Well, back home, I got the togs on for running. I had a bit of a hectic plan of going for my ten miles "all steady/easy" then going out to Speakeasy at the Brewery Tap, which meant I had to get my run in a two hour slot. I was pretty sure going up the river and then on round the lakes at Ferry Meadows was about ten miles, so I set out. I decided, after yesterday's run, that I wasn't going to look at the Garmin, and let my pace sort itself out. I also took gel packs, and water, so I was well-provisioned. It was a lovely warm evening, cool enough after the heat of the day. I was feeling buoyed up by having had such a good day. I wasn't making the mistake of going too fast though.

Even though I wasn't looking at the garmin, I did, of course. MUCH less than yesterday, but I knew my pace was around 9:30 to 10 minute miles. Which was fast. I cheated today, I played music. Dunno, I felt like it. It helps keep pace when no one else is there. I really struggled around 4 miles for some reason, but the pace wasn't being important, and I slowed a bit. Then Cool for Cats came on, and I just kept going. Reaching the lakes was like being in a race, there were so many people. I'd done about 6 miles, and felt good. I saw other runners, and thought I was better than (lots of) them. I probably am. I overtook some. And others over took me (it's the way of things). My thighs started hurting at 8 miles. I slowed a bit, but they were more aching than hurting, so I thought it was probably OK. I was on my way back, but was alarmed to find that I hadn't even reached the rowing lake yet, and only had a mile and a half to go. I decided to end my proper run with a sprint down the rowing lake, which took me, as I feared, to 10.22 miles, and then jog home, which I estimated to be about 2.5 miles. Then I also noticed I was late - Heather was coming to pick me up in half an hour. I texted (tip: don't text and run) to say I was "running" late (geddit?), and carried on plodding. All of a sudden, this car slowed down, and a guy shouted out of the window "Come on, speed up!" I was momentarily terrified, until I realised it was Dave! He almost sped off, but I did speed up. "DAVE!" I hollered. He pulled over. "Can I have a lift home?" He looked baffled, but it wasn't a good place to stop. "Really?" "Yes!" I said, "I've finished my run already!" "Hop in then!" he said. Just time for stretches, shower, and (taking heed of Dave) cold water on the thighs. And ready for Speakeasy.

Perfect! It may happen more than I'd like, but I hate being late.

Puff the Magic Emma

OK, so the sweepstake is going well. I saw Puff looking at it this morning (remember him? right at the beginning of the blog) and when he saw me, he said "5 hours isn't on there" and walked off! Cheek! To make matters worse, with no prior consultation, Ian actually added five hours at the bottom of the page, and put a note at the side "Emma gets confused and thinks it's a pub crawl". I went over and charged him £2 for the entrant, which, in fairness, he happily paid. I added a message at the bottom of the sheet advising "smart arse comments - £2", in case he set off a dangerous precedent. He then asked for special permission to put on another comment, so I advised him of the additional charge, and he added 0:59 as a new time at the top of the page, and wrote "Emma gets some magic shoes" next to it. That's my carte blanche to spend the next 2 week shoe shopping sorted out, then!

Training today involved 5 miles, "uncomfortable". She wrote "Just run this slightly faster than you want to, it's not like threshold pace but it's just pushing a little harder than normal. Maybe get Dave to set the pace and keep it there for the duration. This could be about 9:20 mins per mile but actually heart rate is better so go for your 75% HR." This is good - it shows Sal recognises the importance of having running Dave around. Although tragically, I don't - as running partners go, we've been less well co-ordinated in the last week or so - what with colds and work meetings. So, without Dave, I knew it was going to be a challenge, right away.

I had reckoned without my own incompetence though. I realised at about 12:15 that I hadn't recharged the garmin. So I set that up, and waited till about 1 and then found that I hadn't packed the heart rate monitor. I thought about going without it - I'd just have my pace that way - but decided I'd go on the bike and fetch it. I set off, and realised I didn't have any pockets in either my tracksuit bums or my running vest. And I had keys. Luckily, I ran into Alan just before I set off, and beseached him to take my keys back into the office, which he very kindly did. Also, I left my water on the desk. Talk about poor planning.

I don't know if it was because I'd just got off the bicycle that running seemed slow by comparison, but I  set out at better than eight minute miles. That was ridiculous, so I tried to relax into it, and ended up at about 8:40. It just seemed OK, even though I distinctly recall admonishing Dave and Nigel for setting out at that pace a few months ago, because I knew I couldn't do it. Who knows, I said to myself, maybe I can now. That would be a turn-up for the books, wouldn't it? Yes, although in the event, it turns out it wasn't. I kept at - certainly faster than 9 minute miles, across the bridge at Asda's and for a fair way up the footpath along the railway. But I was feeling it now. I was puffing, kind of like Tom, but maybe more so. Pedestrians were turning around, long in advance of my panting out "excuse me". I made myself a deal. I wouldn't slacken from 9 minute miles, but I'd walk across the railway crossing.

First massive error. I kept up that pace, a deal's a deal, but when I walked across that railway, I was panting, and not running was so good. And the other side was shady - it was really sunny in Petrograd today, and I was missing that water. I bent over, for no particular reason, but stood up because I heard a lady coming, and I didn't want to look too ill. Then I realised that I'd gone quite red-faced bending over, so I probably looked even worse than I felt. I'm not sure, but I think she said "It's hotter than it looks, isn't it?" - and I was too exhausted to do more than nod. She  might have said "it's harder than it looks" but she didn't really seem the running type (although who knows?). The shame was too much, so I set off again. I made another bargain: the next railway crossing.  I had to run over the bridge the other side but I was allowed to go slowly. The hill down the other side would be the time to pick up.

A cyclist cut infront of me on the railway, and I was fearful that he might hold the gate open for me, but he rudely let it slam just as I got there, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to have to keep running for it. I picked up speed again the other side, and then - here's a weird thing - I took the wrong path. No idea. Anyway, I took a grass track that went along the river, instead of the path along the rowing lake. I initially thought the grass would be OK, and it was bound to come out somewhere - but it was dreadful in the sun, and for all I knew it wouldn't come out anywhere sensible. I decided to cut across through the weeds and trees to the path I was meant to be on. And of course, I had to walk... I couldn't see where I was putting my feet, and didn't want to trip. So that was stop 3. I reluctantly set off up the rowing lake, realising I was becoming hopelessly addicted to the garmin, I thought maybe I should stop looking at it. Even though my pace was clearly slowing, Sal had said that she wanted my heartrate at 175, and it was easily above that, even when I slowed (although not when I walked). So I could slow down, right? I should just stop looking, and do what felt comfortable. I tried to make a deal not to look until the end of the rowing lake, but there was nothing in it for me: I cracked long before I got there, and realised I'd slowed down to a ten minute mile. "It doesn't matter" I thought as I puffed, "as long as I keep going". The other side of the Boathouse (where I couldn't pretend I was on a pubcrawl, and stop for a quick half, because the lack of pockets meant I didn't have any cash) I passed an elderly couple. "Excuse me" said the gent. (Who stops a runner to ask for directions? Perhaps a samaritan...) "Do you know how to get to Orton Mere?" "Yes" I panted, and contemplated leaving it at that, but I'd already come to a stand still. I didn't know a shorter way than the way I'd just come, so I told them that way. "You've got your breath back now" he smiled, delightedly. Bastard. "Thanks" I told him.

I contemplated that my pace being all over the shop, that a nine minute mile was not possible for me over the course of the race, if I couldn't sustain it for five miles. So it looked like beating Chris's time (1:57) was not, in fact, going to be possible. My own goal time was still a significant challenge. But I thought, if I DIDN'T start at 8:40 min/miles, I might not die so rapidly. Which wasn't really reassuring. I decided that the place to get those magic shoes Ian dreamed up was probably not a shop, but a fairy godmother. I hope mine came good.

Sally has written a race plan which is brilliant, and I am in the process of committing it to memory. I won't tell you what it says, because I don't want my competitors getting an advantage, but it has the sage advice, when getting into the hard miles, to act that I'm just leaving my house for a five mile run. (see how Sal learned that I don't like short runs, so she picked the right one to tell me). I complemented her on the tactic of focusing on acting, and she admitted to trying to think of a handle I could grasp. Anyway, there's nothing like rehearsals for a good play, so as I was close to death, I thought I'd give it a go. And, it worked! I got my breathing slowed down, and immediately felt comfortable with the pace again, which I picked up. It didn't last for very long... but I'm still, you know, getting into character. (And ideally, I need to know what motivates the character in the play to go running in the first place... until I really get that, it's going to be hard to be convincing).

Not long afterwards, as I was seriously contemplating throwing myself into the river, which looked cool, surprisingly clear, and inviting, especially the little fishes, I saw Richard running the other way. I really hope I don't see him on the race. Although I may do, because he said he'd be at the back as he is helping a new runner. I bet they beat me. He was pelting along. (This is a man who ran the Sahara, though. I'm not really in his league). He said "OK?" and I gave him a thumbs up as I said, "No, not really" but I don't think he heard, because he had earphone on. Shortly after that, at the ascent behind Asda's, I gave up. I walked. Then I looked, and I hadn't even done 5 miles yet. (I thought it was 5.5 total, but it's actually a bit less). I thought I'd go on at whatever pace I could muster, so I made myself go again. I got as far as the other side of the underpass, and walked as far as the pedestrian crossing, then I ran the rest of the way back to the office. I even sprinted the end.

I couldn't really feel pleased about it though. I mean, the plus side was I didn't hurt myself, but I hadn't excelled. In fact, I'd done everything wrong: I started too fast, and I let myself stop when I knew I should have slowed down. I felt the people who'd put their names down after my target time of 2h10 on the sweepstake were probably the realistic ones. (Also, I realise I should have asked the running people for their first half marathon time, not their personal bests. This might be much more realistic for me personally). There's another plus though: I did it wrong today, not on the race day. I could do better than this... Dave'll help... he'd never let me stop, but he will make me slow down if I tell him I'm in trouble.

Back in the office, although Sal was in, I had a long email chat with her. She is SO much less frightening over email. "I'm bad" I told her. She said, yes, but normally so. I berated myself; she placated me. "Those heartrates, and times, they show you really tried hard" she told me. Discussing this with Heather later, as I told her how ridiculously nice, and sensible Sal is, Heather pointed out to me that I was much harder on myself than Sal was. "You project onto her" she told me, psychoanalytically. "I do what?" I queried. Anyway, turns out, I'm the hard task master, but as I'm in denial about that, I blame Sal. Or something. I still think that Sal, who is an outstanding trainer, has got into my psyche (possibly by reading this) and is happy to see that I'm passionate about getting a good time, and at the current point in my training, appreciates that no amount of berrating me is actually going to help at this point. I can't do any more than what is in my plan. I know this, because I keep asking. "So, is it alright if I run on the beach on Saturday?" I asked today. I thought it would be a good idea - Dave seemed to think it was a good exercise. (Fortunately I didn't tell Sal this.) "Are you MAD" she wanted to know, "you can't run on sand that close to a race!" So, lucky I checked, really!

It was also at this point that she said I should stop looking at the garmin. "I often tell people to not use it, or cover the face on race day" she said. I admitted to seeing the point of this, but I am now hopelessly addicted. I need it to see whether I'm dying. She might have to forcibly remove it from me if she doesn't want me to use it on raceday. But hoepfully I'll use Dave more, so it'll be OK.

Right, how does one go about finding a Fairy Godmother?

Turning the corner.

So I had that run, all 10.75 miles of it, and let me tell you, it made all the difference. I knew, regardless of the state of my cough, that I needed to do that run. And I did it! I had nothing to do on Sunday, in training terms or otherwise, so I theraputically set to tidying my house, which has been slightly neglected of late. You may have noticed I've had the odd engagement here and there. Also, Frank has fleas, which I am doing my best to combat, but once they're in the carpet, the only thing to do is start the war, which goes, hoover, whack heating up (hatches the eggs), and flea bomb. And clean out hoover. (Didn't think of that did you?). Unfortunately, the first element of that necessitates all the floor being visible, so I had some work to do. Then there was the minor detail that I dropped the hoover down the stairs in August and broke the handle. What? I've hardly been in the house, OK. (Honestly, the man who sold me that vacuum cleaner told me that his mother vacuum-cleans her house three times a day. I'm still in shock.). So, the flea bombing (and hoovering) hasn't happened yet, but the house is much tidier. I'm still going nuts every time a hair (cat hair, normally) lands on my arm or leg.

Today, my routine was to run for half an hour (I still can't quite call it a "recovery run"... it sounds so wrong). I was unable to do it in my lunchtime, for being at a meeting in London all day. In fact, the whole day, which started off reasonably well-organised, as I had a relaxing wander down to let Maggie's chickens out and feed her cats (no, not chicken), and a leisurely breakfast, descended rapidly into panic because I then lost my keys, and was late leaving, so I made the train with a full minute and a half to go. I will still swear that I never put the keys where I found them. Weird.

The meeting was a bit of an adventure, because my colleaugue Chris persuaded me to hire a Boris bike (she had a foldy-uppy one, which technical people call a Brampton. They are almost as ungainly as a Boris bike to be honest). Annoyingly, there wasn't one at either of the two bike parks outside Kings Cross, so we legged it to Euston, and there also wasn't one there. I had to get the underground, and realised as the machine swallowed my ticket at the end, that I didn't have a receipt for my claim. Oops.  The way home, however, was more satisfactory, and I found a lovely rack of bikes, and selected one. They are a bit rubbish, but for the convenience of being able to grab a bike, and ride it round all day for a pound, I think they are a bloody bargain. It's a heavy bike, and the gears are very low, so it is hard to keep a speed up, but not a thing to sniff at. Chris is an unnerving person to follow on a bike, because she spent more time looking backwards at me than she did at the road, which would be OK if we weren't cycling in London. Also, she stopped at virtually every red light, which made me almost career into the back of her several times, as I thought she'd jump them. Then she didn't when I thought she would. She also overtook a guy on a bicycle, who spat over his shoulder after she'd passed him, leaving me wondering if it was like one of those computer games where you have to carefully time when you pass the spitting man... I was successful.

When I got home, and had done the important things like give Frank a stroke and his dinner, I put the chickens to bed, and went for my half hour run. It was a good run, I ran up passed Tony and Jan's house, in a little circuit. I think I was going between 10 and 10.5 minute miles. I thought about talking running with Chris - she's seemed to think I should abandon my idea of starting at 11 minute miles. She said I'd never get Dave to run that slowly anyway. I wonder if you can warm up before a race starts, and how long the effects take to wear off if you are hanging around. I could run the almost mile from my house to the startline as a warm up. But I wouldn't want to expend energy too soon, on the other hand.

Strategies! Who knew running would be this hard! Another strategy has to be how to get my computer back... this was from this morning. There's quite a definite glare going on there. I can't figure out if he's jealous of the time I'm spending with it, or if it is just because it is warm... But at the weekend he was sitting on the router.