Behind the times

I apologise that once again, I'm playing catch-up with events. Be not afeared, I haven't quit yet. I blame it on, you know, this blog being quite light-hearted in tone, and yet my sentiments not being that light-hearted as I'm carrying the sorrow of my friend dying, and all that surrounds that. Or, I'm just lazy. Either way.

So the pinnacle of Week 2 was undoubtedly the Sunday, which was running 19 miles. Let me tell you, nineteen miles is a long way. I speak from personal experience. I was a bit afraid, when I saw my splits (wanna see my splits? Go ahead. you can... Garmin link) that Sal would think I had been trying to be clever, and doing a negative split. This is where you deliberately try to run the first half of the run slower than the second half (or to put that another way, speed up during the second half). If you can achieve this, it basically shows that you balanced out your energy well during the race, and didn't tire yourself out too hard in the first half. For a fine example of this, just see my Great Eastern Run 2011 time, which was text book (tip - the splits are right at the end). Anyway, the point was that looking at my splits on the garmin, it appeared to me that I'd been going slower initially than later. This was entirely spurious. The fact of the matter was, I'd been listening to the Archers for the first hour and some. (Note to self: do not listen to the Archers when they are talking about Down's Syndrome babies: OK, I was listening to the Archers and crying). After it finished, I switched to music, and sped up.

Oh, and this guy on a bike high-fived me! That was probably the highlight of the run, actually. It was funny, one of those moments of understanding that he wanted to high-five me (why??) and the thud of his hand against mine (harder than I thought it would be), and then... just disappearing. That, and seeing running Dave going the other way when I was half way round Ferry Meadows. I shouted "At 14 miles", and he shouted back that he was also doing 14 miles. This prompted me to shout "No, I've DONE 14 miles", and I think he shouted, "Looking good" but it was hard to know for sure.

Week 2

Well, week 2 was scary, but not too bad. I think I found the sudden intensity of Sal-training quite a shock. I mean, yes, I have been running more than ever before (bar the pre-half marathon, when, er, Sal was training me) - but only in a leisurely way. I embraced the different exercises as a challenge, first up was some interval work, the instruction was "warm up ten mins easy then run 6 x 4 at TH with 2-3 mins recovs. Jog to finish." "TH" is Threshold. Threshold isn't flat-out, but it's faster than "steady". The instructions said, if I tried to speak, I'd only be able to say a few words. Now, all I can say is, thank the lord Moustachioed Chris was around this week. What I have discovered about myself, and part of the reason that I wanted Sal's help, is that I'm basically pretty lazy. I'd first of all have to overcome the "I don't really want to leave the sofa", and secondly overcome my brain, which basically looked at that instruction and laughed. The thing is, I knew I could do it, because I'd already done a similar thing with Dave and Jon. Would I have done it on my own? I'd have tried, sure, because otherwise I'd have had to tell Sal I hadn't. But having Chris there was genius. He is really, so encouraging. Who would have known that Sal could project herself on to a funny guy with a curly mustache? He really tried hard to distract me from my pain, when - brokenly - (I was only following instructions) I'd pant out something that sounded, indistinctly like "Got to - stop - the - pain... how much.... longer??" and Chris would chirp, "Oh, we're over half-way" (-my brain saying, "of the first one") as he'd continue "and isn't it a lovely day? I must say, we are lucky with this weather. Really beautiful..." which indicated to me that he was in no way running anywhere near HIS threshold pace.

Anyway, we finished my exercise, with my final interval Chris saying "come on, there's some weird old bloke with a mustache running along next to you - better speed up!" - and I was immensely proud of myself.

On Thursday we had an hour's jog, which Chris also accompanied me for, as handily, we were both going to see John Heggly that night at the Key, so it made a good filler in between work and the show. We saw a young woman jogging ahead of us, and I rashly said "That looks like Summer, but it can't be, she's running too fast", only to meet up with Summer later and have her airily say "I went for a jog around the rowing lake earlier...." Oops.

Also, among Chris's other idiosyncrasies, I happen to know that he plays a ukelele. So when John Heggley joked "some of you may be wondering what this instrument is called... well, it's called Steve", I felt that Chris would be in his element, but when I mentioned it the next day, I discovered new things about musical instruments that I didn't know (although in fairness, what I don't know about musical instruments is a fairly wide arena) - apparently John H wasn't playing a uke, it was a mandolin. I do a good line in not looking too surprised (I've found it covers up how incredibly ignorant I am) but Chris was good enough to expand on his subject without encouragement. "Ukeleles don't have that many strings" he explained, "so although it is an unusual shape for a mandolin, that's what it was". So. There you have it.

On Friday, I had some more track work, although as Sal had warned last time I opted to run round the rowing lake, she would be giving me different distances to run. This time i had to face my demons, and go to the track. I'll give it this... it's pretty boring. I was a little concerned about being thrown off, but the two blokes walking round with some surveying equipment didn't seem to mind. I saw a very heavily myxied rabbit on the track, who I was able to overtake successfully (several times). I didn't have any means of dispatching it, so I had to let it be. I wasn't sure about the exercise and whether I was doing it properly; and didn't have time to do the swim afterwards. I asked Sal if I should do it the next day, but she said no, it was better to have the rest day resting. Which made sense.

I don't mind admitting that my legs were starting to ache a little bit. I was hoping that at some point, they'd get used to, and accept, the fact that they had a fair way to go yet.

The day I broke Sal

I'd been planning on running with Sally at the weekend, but I'd been in touch with her about stuff. My world turning upside down, a bit unexpectedly. She had a good expression... she said, "Sorry. are you feeling a bit iffy?". Yep, that says it.

I wasn't sure if some people would want to get together in the afternoon, so I pushed Sal into an earlier run. Unfortunately, what with my not being that good at getting up (well, in my defence, we'd only got back from the Shakespeare-athon at 1:45 in the morning, so I did want a bit of a lie-in), and forgetting that it does take me more than half an hour to cycle to Stilton,  I didn't get to Sal's till after midday. We were planning on 12 miles, and it was pretty hot, especially for September. It sort of felt like summer had arrived actually. Only mad dogs and Emmas run out in the midday sun. Scout definitely qualifies as a mad dog, so he came. It turns out that Sals don't run that well in midday suns.

It was a lovely run. I picked up pretty early that Sal was struggling, because she paused half way up a hill, apologetically. It was a lovely day though, and we certainly picked up. One thing I learned is that Sal has a built-in garmin. I mean, I guessed she had a built-in GPS (although it did have to do some recalculations of the route a couple of times) because she's a cartographer, so when she said, what have we done, just over 4 miles? and I looked at the Garmin, and it said we'd done 4.1 miles, I wasn't too surprised. Also, I mean, she probably knows the routes, right? I can tell you how long each of my regular routes are. So, you know, not TOO impressive. But a couple of times she said, how fast are we running now, 10 minute miles? (only she varied it, depending, you know, on how fast we were going), and she was spot on, now, THAT was impressive. I often think I'm going really fast, and I'm not, or vice versa (ok, less often on that one). So that got me.

We were nearing 9 miles, and running through some fields, when she said she was seriously thinking of setting me on my way. I managed to totally embarrass her by reminding her of her own words of wisdom about not walking, but over-riding your brain's control-centre, and keep going (in fairness, this advice was for during a race), which made her cry out "Oh, I'm such a bad example!". Still, we got back into Stilton, and I thought she'd make it, although we did pause at one of her friend's houses and refill our empty water-bottles, which was a blessing, because I was really thirsty. However, we were only at 10 miles. We got onto the main road, at which point Sal said "run that way. For about a mile. Then come back". So off I went. I kind of thought she'd go home, but when I got back, she was waiting for me. In a manner of speaking. I'm sure she won't mind me using this picture, she did, after all, post it on Facebook herself.

The news was around the office before I got in on Monday. Several people asked me what I had done to Sal. It was also recommended that I just hang my shoes up now...

Catharsis [this could be quite long]

I don't know how you react when you learn someone you care about has died. I was with a couple of friends in the pub, both of whom knew of Rich, but neither knew him well. I had a phone call, it was Jan, she told me what had happened. I don't think I really reacted. I said something like "Right, I see. Thank you for telling me". There didn't seem anything else left to say. The other two were chatting away, and my brain simply wasn't engaged anymore. They noticed my silence, and asked what was wrong. I told them. I don't do "breaking news" extremely well, although it gets better after a bit of practice. It always helps if I start out with people who didn't know the deceased very well though. "Rich is dead" I told them.

I had found out just days before that Rich had cancer, that it was through his liver; my brain had instantly told me that there wasn't much hope for him. But we'd all thought that he'd have months to go, that we'd go and see him, see how he was coping. Even so, it was a fore-warning that not everyone had. I rang Jan back, and told her I'd help ring around people. I went home, and rang as many people as I could think of, holding my emotions in check, by doing this thing that I felt needed to be done. I facebooked one person, and asked if he'd ring me. We hadn't spoken in maybe a couple of years, yet as I picked up my phone, he said "It's Rich, isn't it?". Who else would I have rang about?

Rich is just one of those amazing people. It has been an absolute pleasure to know him, and now I'm selfishly devastated that I didn't get longer with him to know him better.

I first met him after a friend persuaded me to audition for Much Ado About Nothing. I think there was some workshop about it (I didn't understand workshops much at the time) but I remember Rich coming over and asking what I'd done before. I now know that his love of theatre extended to his mannerisms around the thesps... he'd deliberately drawl, enjoying the sound of rounding vowels from his lips. "Sooo... have you done much acting before?" he asked. However, he also rounded on my boyfriend. "No. I'm not acting". Matt was very clear about this. I got cast in the play as good Ursula, one of Hero's maids. By the end of the play, Matt was a key comedy role, playing the "large" in a Little-and-Large duo with Terry, that Rich had somehow incorporated. I still don't know how Rich managed to get him involved, but he had a charm of his own.

Over the 6 years I've been acting with Mask, Rich has cast me in all his plays, and I've taken minor roles with as much stoicism as I can muster. I know very well that when it comes to Shakespeare, for the ladies, there are very few principal characters, and therefore, getting through the audition says two things: Rich likes my acting, and he can work with me. Two brilliant compliments to me, from Rich. Again and again, he'd tell me how important it is to have good actors playing minor characters, because it can make or break the fluidity of the play. But really, the joy of being around Rich was reward in itself. How you'd let him tell you stories you'd heard again and again, because you liked to hear him tell them; how he could make almost any Shakespearean line into some form of innuendo; how he flirted outrageously with his entire cast; how, even when he lost his temper, he did it with such style we almost felt honoured. But when he was in the pub and he'd get a roguish expression on his face, you'd cherish the moment of sharing an outrageous tale.

On Saturday, as if the heavens had foretold it, we, the Mask, had a theatre visit planned to The Globe. There were ten or so of us going, and everyone knew already. When I saw Theatre Dave, Tom and Jonni in the station, my heart tumbled in acute and vivid memory that these were the people who'd shared time with this brilliant man who I was so proud to call my friend. I hugged them, and, seeing my tears, they grinned at me and told me there was time enough for tears later.

We had a double-bill planned, a full day of Shakespeare, the Taming of the Shrew in the afternoon, and Richard III in the evening. Taming of the Shrew was a play that Mask ourselves did last year, so it was very familiar to us all. It was a brilliant and engaging production, and although we weren't able to get tickets next to each other, furtive glances across told me that my friends enjoyed it as much as I did. We found ourselves mouthing our lines, and I had a fair few moments where I thought, yeah, OK, Royal Shakespeare Company, you ARE good - but we did that scene better. Rich did that scene better. And then I'd find my cheeks were wet, during this comedy.

Another lovely thing about the Globe is just taking in the theatre itself. You get reminded of the seventeenth century not only by the lack of back to your bench-seat, but the wooden pillars and thatched roof make you suddenly catch yourself thinking, IS IT 2012, in the centre of London? Or have we somehow time-travelled several centuries. I was on such a tangential thought when I remembered the reference to the Globe in The Tempest, when Prospero is in his "insubstantial pageant" speech. That made me remember how The Tempest was Shakespeare's last play, and it hit me for the first time that it was now Rich's last play too. And then I remembered playing Ariel, and felt a great confusion of emotions that somehow I was extra-pleased to have had that chance to play my favourite role so far, one of the best parts in the play, because it was the only chance I was going to have to do so, which then made it a really upsetting thought that I was extra pleased about.

I wandered around during the interval, not really seeking anyone out, but just enjoying being alone in a crowd, a little anonymity. As I made my way back, there seemed to be a shared emotion running between us. No one said, Rich would have liked this, but just a look, an understanding smile, a touch on the arm, passing between us, meant that we knew what was in each person's thoughts and heart. No words needed to be spoken.

In between plays, we dissolved to find sustenance in London. Summer and I, with our fancy smartphone technology (it is abysmal that Prospero gets underlined in red, and smartphone doesn't) had checked Facebook, and I found out that Glen, who I'd been particularly worried about because we hadn't been able to phone, had posted on Facebook. When I saw Summer's face, I could see she'd read his beautiful tribute. Before the next play, reconvening with a drink, I mentioned to the others that Glen had posted a fitting tribute. "What does it say then?"said Jan. I handed her my phone. "I can't see that" she said, and passed it to Jill, who shook her head, "I can't read it either, not without my glasses. What does it say?" The bastards made me read it out. My voice cracked halfway through, but I kept going, till tears were pouring down my cheeks. This is what I read, standing outside the Globe Theatre, in the evening sunshine:

Oh Richmond! What an absolute joy it has been to know this great man. My tears are a combination of joy and sadness.

Joy? Well what can you say. A great friend and director. Always going the extra mile to ensure that everyone feels comfortable knowing what their character is. For me especially. He always invited me to his house to go through an entire play, discussing in great detail, how lines affected the character, the bloody blah, blah pentameter. His stories, oh his stories, his warmth, kindness and great knowledge of the plays he directed. A dear, dear man and great friend always having confidence in my abilities as an actor, even when I didn't....

Sadness? This goes without saying. For all who knew him, a great hole will be left by his passing. The fact that we'll never see him again, that smile, knowledge and great patience, encouragement and prescence both on and off stage. One of lifes gentlemen has left us. A sad, sad day. On the flip side we all have the most wonderful memories, something we will never forget and something only the people that knew him could possibly share. My heartfelt sympathies go out especially to Betty and the boys and anyone who had any connection with him.

God bless Rich, I'm sure you'll be watching over us all 

After this, I accepted a hug from Tom, and stumbled into Richard III, who was brilliantly played by Mark Rylance, whom Mask had enjoyed so much in "Jerusalem" on a previous outing. I was really interested, because Richard III was one of the first Shakespeare plays I ever saw, and I remember my dad whispering to me what was going on all the way through, although my memories didn't recall him (Richard, that is) being quite so bad-ass. Part of me wasn't quite with it, though. I don't think it was because of the play, but rather the effect of the whole day, spent with friends, and yet, conspicuously missing one - not one that we'd been expecting to be with us, but just with an absence weighing heavily on us.

It was a very emotional day, and the more important for spending it with friends who cared so much. We helped each other just by trying to understanding our loss together. But still, the enormity of it was barely sinking in. That was most poignantly reflected by Jonni, after his first trip to the Globe, stepping off the train home, and saying, "That was the best day ever - " and then faltering, stumbling over his retraction, realisation hitting again.

Training is hard.

So, Sally got right on the case, as soon as I took her on, she emailed me my spreadsheet. It call came flooding back. The schedule; the spreadsheet; the terror.

Week one started out quite well... Monday said "can swim 30 mins or just chill". Now that was an instruction I had no problem at all in following. I went for the latter. This training thing is a lark, I thought! Tuesday, similarly, left me wondering what I'd been apprehensive about - after all, I was well on the way to a marathon here! "Easy plod, 30 minutes". Well, if there is one thing I'm good at, it's an easy plod.

Wednesday, excellently, was pilates. Over the course of the first week, I enjoyed telling people my news. Jon just kept coming over and saying "17 miles?" and then walking off again. Other people were incredulous about the whole idea of a marathon in less than 2 months. But I had faith. I had a training program, and Sally. Pilates wasn't mentioned, to be honest, I just wanted to go. I thought I'd get my training in after work, but before 7:30. Surely that was going to be fine, right?

OK, remember we had a tacit agreement, Sal and I, that I was going to get round the Marathon course, but not in a specific time? Read this. Go on, just read it. "You won't actually have a specific race pace [correct] but I'd like you to run 9 min miles when I say pace anyway, so, 9 min miles all the way. 90 minutes pace".  What?? Bear in mind that I haven't run 9 minute miles since I ran the Peterborough half marathon. 90 minutes, now my maths isn't that good, but that's 10 miles. I definitely only ran half the race at that pace, because I did a negative split (and that was my fast half). Also, I finished work at 5:30, and had to be somewhere at 7:30. With getting changed and stuff, that didn't leave a lot of 90 minutes left. I ended up running 8.8 miles, around the Millennium bridge, but try as I might, i couldn't keep up 9 minute miles. I did it for one mile, at about mile 5. I thought I might do a negative split, and maintain that pace all the way home, but this is the bad bit about the mental fight - it gives up way too easily. I was pushing hard to keep that pace, glancing at my garmin, and pushing extra. When the mile jumped, so i started a new lap, I should have been at the fastest, as I hadn't started at 9 minute miles, and it was averaging my pace over the lap. So I felt it should have gone a bit lower. I looked at the garmin, while I was pushing to keep the same pace, and it read 9:35 minute miles. I was so disheartened, I thought, fuck it, and ran back as best as I could. Then I was late as well.

When I got home, I found a note on the shared spreadsheet under Tuesday. It said "Emma, did you do this?" If there isn't a shiver down your spine, you just don't understand anything. I hadn't updated Sally's spreadsheet. I quickly filled in what I had done, and how it had felt.

Thursday said "Cross training - swim, cycle, anything you want except running". I went swimming, and updated my spreadsheet thusly: "I did 46 lengths. I swam sets of 5, and did 4 front crawl and 1 breast stroke for each set, except sometimes I deteriorated and swam breast stroke. And sometimes it was hard to know what I was swimming, it was more like drowning with style." I was rewarded with a note that said "I love your updates".

Friday was going to be hard. I knew that from the start of the week. The instructions were for track 40 minutes, and said this

"Warm up with 2 easy laps then:

4 x 1600 at the fastest you can run a 1600 and maintain an even pace. It will be uncomfortable sustainable but not a sprint - obvs!

Please reduce it to three if you feel worn out!

1 lap cool down easy

Stretch"

I opted to do this around the rowing lake, I figured that 1600m is a mile, and I could just keep an eye on it from the garmin, keep going for that distance. I wanted to do it in 8 minute miles, but managed about 8:20, which I was happy with. I did reduce it to three, partly because I had to get back to the office to some work. It was grueling, but not as hard as I expected. But even though I had spent all week knowing that Friday was going to be hard, it wasn't the training that was hard, after all.

The hard part was finding out, later that night, that Rich Unwin had died.

The thing is...

Oh, I maybe should have mentioned that we also did our own "poetry gig" at the Edinburgh Fringe, which was pretty good as well. It was brilliant. Pint of Poetry and a Dram of Drama. We even got a write-up from someone,  I think. There, and all the stuff about flyering... well, there's a lot going on.

At the back end of August, things started to get busy, even for me. I realised I hadn't been running since Edinburgh, which was getting on for over a week previously, and thought I'd better get my act together or I wasn't going to do very well in the Peterborough Great Eastern Run, rapidly approaching in mid October.  I ran four miles in Maidstone, where I had a meeting to go to. It was pretty. They have a nice river that I ran along. The run felt good to do, but it kinda hurt. I mean, it was a nice morning, and I enjoyed it, but I was running really slowly. I've also developed a habit of having slightly less time than I'd like to have for a run, which is just annoying. I'm still not good at getting up...

I might have done another run when I got back from Kent, but I don't remember it. What I do remember was having about half a day to write a poster for a conference I was heading out to the next day, in Cork. While I was at work I had an email from a guy I was at uni with, who said he now lived in Cork, and was helping with the conference. So that was nice - I had something to look forward to.

I also had meeting up with Cat and Martin to look forward to. Cat's an awesome friend who used to work with me in Peterborough, but saw the light and moved back to Ireland with her husband. I met up with them for the weekend before the conference, which was the August bank holiday. I insisted on going for a run there, which was lovely, and had peat cutting going on (naughty) - I'm not sure I've ever seen it piled up like this, although I'd seen banks that have been cut before.

I had a rare set of treats - I also was taken to visit a cave called the Pigeon Hole, a lovely disused railway line, and on Sunday, a trip including the most amazing cakes (you're allowed cakes if you run), at a cafe that caused dispute among my hosts. Martin said it was Irish for The Hungry Man, and Cat said, no, it had a falta on the e which meant it translated as "The Hungry Grass". Clearly only one of these made sense, so obviously, Cat was the one who was proved correct. Then we went for a walk at the The Burren, which has what I described on Facebook as "some not too dis-interesting grassland". This was my way of trying to wind up Richard, who is a grassland ecologist.  Unfortunately, he was in The Pantanal at the time, so didn't rise to my bait, as he was being wowed by jaguars, caiman, capybaras, and a gazillion birds. So why would he care if I'd seen some Grass of Parnassus?

 Anyway, I took leave of The Burren and Galway, and headed down to a week-long conference in Cork, on Biodiversity in Forest Ecosystems and Landscapes. It was REALLY interesting. I obviously got academia-envy, and PhD envy in a big way, but this happens pretty much every time I go to a conference. Secretly, I just want to be called Dr.

Anyway, here's someone who is, and I knew him BACK WHEN HE WAS A NOBODY. Obviously, in the eyes of most of the world, someone with a PhD in ecology pretty much is a nobody, unless they are also a TV personality or something. 

I'm NOT jealous that Mark's got a PhD, but in the spirit of anonymity, if I have any Mark-confusion, like the Daves and the Chris's, he will be dubbed Dr Mark. Tragically, though, since he lives in Cork, I fear he probably isn't going to take a lead part in my blog. He's standing in a sitka spruce plantation, here, explaining what stages of plantations are useful for hen harriers. It looked pretty cool stuff.

So, while I was in Cork, I went running a couple of times, the first time, accidentally stumbling on a sort of gypsy camp. I made a rapid assessment of the situation, and decided to leave. A lovely Irish guy I'd met at the conference looked pretty shocked when I related this adventure, and remarked "Nice to see you, so!" in a voice that clearly indicated his surprise.

The second time I went out, not really because of the gypsy thing, but more because we were both trying to prove that we were really going to go running in the morning, I went running with Keith. Yes, the bearded one. This was funny, I've never been running with him before. Anyway, I was kind of worrying about Summer, because of how tired she looked when we went for a short run in Edinburgh, and the fact that she was trying to persuade me to run a marathon (a full one) with her at the end of October. "But if I can run it, you definitely can!" was her argument. I was less than sure that she could, though, and that's what started off the conversation with Keith. "How far would you have to be running in training for a marathon, if race day was at the end of October?" I asked him. "Why, are you running one?" he (not unreasonably) asked. "NO!" I told him, and then explained. "Oh, let's see, probably about 17 miles" he told me. I made a mental note of it for later arguments.

At the end of the conference, I got to go and stay with Mark and Anneli, which was slightly unplanned, and meant that in my hasty departure I left my phone charger at my B&B, but accidentally removed their hand-towel. I made Mark promise to return the hand-towel, and if he could, retrieve my charger, but I'm not sure how that went. He did give me a huge bottle of home-made elderflower champagne, which almost tipped my luggage over its weight limit, and threatened to give me some eggs from his rather fine chickens, although I wasn't entirely sorry that I didn't have to explain them to airport security.

And when I got back, I agreed to go running again with Summer, we planned to do a half-marathon together. It emerged that one of her running party had dropped out of the race, but they had found out that you could switch the place for 10 Euros. "I know you don't want to do it" Summer said, in her beseeching voice, "but if you know of anyone...". I don't know how it happened. I found myself striking a deal. "Look, at the end of this, if I can run another four miles, I'll have done 17, and if I can do that, and I feel OK, I'll speak to Sal about it."

Sal was delighted. She said if I could do 17 miles, with appropriate training, I could expect to get round the course, although we agreed not to set a time-target.

So that's it. I seem to have agreed to run my first marathon. And it's at the end of October.

Four Weeks in Ju...

HEY, IS ANYONE OUT THERE?

OK, so basically, I'm going to have to skip some news, or "olds" as it has now become. I'll stick to the key facts.

June ended. Well, I guess you noticed. I did do the 35K every week in June, but I wasn't terribly good at it, so what it boiled down to was me doing maybe a couple of short runs during the week, and then the weekend rolling around and me figuring out that I still had a long way to run. So it came to pass that I was running about 13 miles every weekend. Cool. I was just jogging along, but I wasn't coming in much over my Great Eastern Run time. And it didn't even hurt. I might have even enjoyed it.

Yes, I'm still enjoying running. This is all getting surreal now.

July started pretty well - I was playing Ariel in The Tempest, which was feckin' awesome. Unfortunately, I managed to get some sort of a stomach bug, so I didn't do a whole lot else that week, I'm pretty sure that involved not running, apart from obviously, to one particular room in the house quite a lot. The whole Ariel costume thing was a challenge, as it was essentially a silver cat suit, so the stomach upset was a bit nerve-inducing. Ah, there are a million stories about the Tempest! My funny internet-date incident, where I went for a drink with this chap, and one of the cast accidentally crashed my date... I had to drop him less-than-subtle hints. We had an awesome cast, and it was a lot of fun. And, as you cans see from the image on the left, I was pretty spirit-like in my acting.  After I finished acting, and got better, I had a week or so off running, to get better properly, and then started up again. I can't remember anything note-worthy, apart from the awesome Sunday night I went running during some sort of footballing event, (Euros? Germany? I dunno) and actually didn't see a single person, except a fisherman.  To be honest, this might have been in June. It's all a blur now. Like me.

August.... August I can remember some of. Not much. I must have been running, though, because we went up to the Edinburgh Festival just part midway, and I took my running stuff. I only did one run, around Arthur's Seat, with Summer. It reminded me how much training I'd been doing the year before, in my lead-up to The Half Marathon. The one that was going to be The One and Only... and now isn't. I wasn't up for so long this time, though. We went to see some brilliant shows, including Clockwork Orange, which was amazing, Harry Baker, an awesome young poet, who put together a very physical piece of poetry, and moved me so much I did give his free show a good tip, and some comedians - Mark Watson, very very funny, Richard Herring, and Jim Jeffries. I have NEVER seen anyone demolish a heckler quite so effectively in my life as Jim Jeffries. This in itself was worth seeing. His humour is not to everyone's taste, although I found it pretty funny, but OUCH. We also went to see the Magnets, of course, who put together a brand-new show called Home Grown, with the best of British as its theme.

I'm getting to current days now, I might start fresh. Thanks for keeping up with me. Things are getting interesting...

Four weeks in... June (part 1)

Let me tell you how it all went. As a recap, Heather challenged me to continue the 5K every day in May, which I refused, but I did agree to do 35km every week in June.

Week one I didn't do any running. Sal's rules clearly stipulated that walking or running was OK, and actually, I walked about 60km during the week, so I think although it was cheaty, it was also "fair". Excitingly, I did this walking with my Facebook Stalker! I like calling Britta my Facebook stalker, mainly just for the reaction. However, it was something of an adventure to go on holiday with someone you've only met twice for about half an hour each time. But I felt like I know her pretty well, and she definitely likes everything I do. Well, to rephrase that, she **likes** everything I post on Facebook. So what could go wrong?

Well, on that front, nothing, fortunately. Far from going wrong, Britta turned out to actually be a sort of Germanic version of me: by which I mean, ruthlessly efficient. I know, I know, some of you are struggling with how I could still be me if I were ruthlessly efficient. But really! What fun! Anyway, the first thing that did go wrong was that Lufthansa kindly didn't bother putting Britta's pack on the plane, so before I'd actually met her, she was texting me, asking if there was any chance I could speak English to the people in Birmingham airport. Obviously, the answer to this was, no, they're from Birmingham, but I did my best, and in a confused sort of way, it worked. Although when they finally located the bag, they promised it would be delivered the following day, the courier then rang us at 11:30pm that same night to say he was nearly there. We had to give him our current address (as we'd given him Day 2's) and tell him he had a bit further to go.

We were walking along the Llyn Peninsular coast path, and everything else was straight forward. Well, we didn't have a very up-to-date map, and I explained to Britta about Open Access, so we had to kind of make up a path a few times, but you know, nothing catastrophic. And it was really pretty! Lots of flowers and cliffs and sea and cows, and you know, stuff you expect in countryside. And clouds. Stuff you expect in North Wales.

And then came some wildlife, although I use the word "life" tenuously, that we weren't necessarily expecting. Yes, this is some roadkill, which appears for all the world that a grass-snake ate a frog. And then, you know, didn't. My money is on a dog having taken the snake by the tail and shaken it against the road until it died. Although it was very reminiscent of the Helen Bannerman book, Little Black Quibba, where a nasty python ate three frogs that were trying to warn Little Black Quibba of the danger he was in. However, it was all OK as they later were freed when the python was pulled into three pieces during a fight with an elephant. Look, it was good, OK? Let's leave it there.

In order to arrive at our hotel in daylight hours, we planned to get a bus from Rhiw, which all worked, and we also boarded the bus just as the rain started, luckily. Anyway, we stayed in luxury that night, having booked into Tremfan Hall, where we celebrated Britta's birthday with some rather lovely food at their restaurant.

The next day, it was really raining. It looked horrible. We were walking from luxury Tremfan to a B&B of dubious quality in Pwllheli (we had a fair idea of this because we'd checked it out before boarding the bus in Pwllheli). The idea of just staying by the fire at Tremfan, instead of trudging with packs on backs, was very, very tempting. Luckily Plan B came to play - my mate Jim said he'd come out for a walk with us, and we opted to jump in his car and see the north coast, so we drove to Whistling Sands or Porth Oer, (which tragically don't whistle when they are damp, but Jim assures me they do at other times), and walked up to the top of the headland and back. It was very damp, but extra fun, because we didn't have our packs on. And Jim tried to persuade Britta that "Cafe - Open" was Welsh for "Sewage Works", which made us all laugh.

Before we set out from Tremfan, we had fun with "The Book of Fate" which was an impressively large tome, which you can ask questions of. A Yes/No question reveals excellent results. "Shall we go swimming?" returned "This may bring astonishing results", and later, "No, but really, shall we go swimming?" we got "Only an idiot would pursue this course of action". (This is available as an App on i-Tunes).

The Pwllheli B&B was run by normal B&B people, by which I mean they were clinically insane. But you know, in a harmless way. It appeared to be run by at least 3 generations of women. I don't know how that is genetically possible, but it worked for them. Ish. I think perhaps care-in-the-community missed something when they didn't think to just set people up with B&Bs. We set out early for Criccieth, just about failing to get rained on, and found our B&B booked there was slightly more normal, with a talkative, but friendly couple. They gave us some great advice that instead of going to Criccieth Castle, you get the same view, but for free, from the hill just behind it.

We liked our last day's walk, and it was fortunate that it was the last day, because we spent some time on a pebbly beach, and it turned out that we both kinda like rocks. So it could have gotten heavy if we'd started out on that beach. Funnily enough neither of us were particularly looking forward to that day, but it turned out to be really lovely, with a little dip away from the coast, and some lovely scenary (by which I mean trees and woods).

We tried desperately to remember the name of the pub we'd been recommended by Britta's friend Carolyn but failed... although funnily enough, we accidentally picked it anyway, and had a great last evening with some live music from a very mottley crew. Meanwhile, Britain was going mad over the Jubilee, which I followed on Facebook, via "Gin O'Clock"'s updates, which made me giggle quite a lot. I know one thing though - Jubilee weekend or not, I wouldn't have traded places.

5K every day in... June?

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I clearly haven't been doing much jogging recently. But that's where you're wrong. I just haven't been doing much blogging... fortunately, I can clearly remember all the jogging I've done.

You see, I said I'd run 35km every week in June. It was Heather's fault, she dared me to keep up the every day in May thing, through June. I kind of ran out of time. But next week, I'll get on it. I'm proposing to update you a week at a time, you see. So bare with...

The last battle

On Saturday, I ran with Christine, along the river towards Ferry Meadows, which was lovely - it was hot, though, we left too late really. In the afternoon I went to the Willow Festival and sunned, as well as buying some sensational clothing at TK Maxx. On Sunday... oh yes, I ran in the evening, I went down along the Parkway and by the river, and passed the remnants of the festival on the Embankment. It was a bit slow and I had a major fail on the way back, where once I had done my 5K I didn't really bother to run the rest of the way. In my defense, however, I wasn't really feeling very right, and had been doing lots of garden fighting. Anyway, I did the distance. That's what counts.

Monday... on Monday, you'd have been proud. I set off, I think it was cooler, it had rained as I arrived home, I believe. I was sure it would set in for the evening, but it didn't, after a roll of thunder, and a heavy shower, it stopped. I set off at a fair crack, but feeling good, not struggling or fighting it. I managed to maintain it all the way round, and ran my fastest time, 29:14. When I got back, I found moustachioed Chris had run in 29:04 and said it felt slow, so I abused him on Facebook. He apologised (bless him) and said something about his legs had just felt heavy. Whatever.

Tuesday, I realised I was stuffed. I had a work meeting in London, and then on to Winchester and Reading for 2 days. There was only one thing for it: I was going to have to go in the morning. I successfully achieved this, and while I didn't get super-speedy for the early start (or anything crazy), I was happy that it was done. I then had a train to catch. Rang the taxi, because I started a bit later than I thought, and had the dodge about whether the taxi would arrive as soon as I called it, or in ten minutes. It came in 10 minutes. I missed the train - and had an advance ticket. I got on the next one. The god of Trains was on my side. The ticket inspector was one of those who race through the carriage and barely pause to see if you lift your head or not. The barrier at Kings Cross let me pass. Woo-hoo!

On Tuesday night I was staying at a colleague's house, and announced my intention to go running in the morning, once again, and they were able to point me in the direction of a good route. It was nice, it was all through green lanes which were tree-lined paths and had an ancient feel to them. I imagined I might have been a goose girl with my flock, driving them along. I got spat out onto a road, which I wasn't expecting, and thought I was lost, but I continued in what I hoped was the right direction, and arrived at the right place eventually. When I got there, it turned out I wasn't lost at all, I just hadn't understood that the last part was on roads.

The next night, I was staying at a hotel on the outskirts of Reading. Once more, I found that the best time to run was going to be in the morning, so I made sure I didn't stay at the bar all night, and in the morning, dragged myself up and put on the only slightly disgusting tracksuit from the previous day. I had looked on google maps for a route, and found one on the roads around where I was staying, with only a faint chance of mishap, as I hoped desperately that a footpath would link up a section which appeared to go through a wood. It did, which was great. The other side was a housing estate with roads made up of bird names, which was rather tragic, when one takes into consideration the adage about Suburbia (where they chop the trees down, and name the roads after them) - especially taking into consideration that I'd seen an area where they were trying to restore Partridge the day before, and we were quite close to some wetlands - when the roads were called Starling Way - leading to Goldcrest Avenue, Chaffinch Avenue, Partridge Way and, last but not least, Bittern Way. Sounds idyllic.

And I had just pegged it down a nice long hill, at a good pace which had taken me into the running for a fast time, when I realised that, owing to having Runkeeper open so I could keep an eye on the map, I'd managed to turn it off (or rather, Pause it) and I hadn't logged my whole distance. I was just shy of three miles anyway, so had to put an extra loop in, and then decided I wanted Runkeeper to say the right distance, so I reran part of the route to put an extra half mile on my distance. You can see this on my map, because I otherwise magically leap the distance.

And that was me, DONE. I finished running 5km every single day in May. I felt quite proud, and definitely that I deserved my breakfast of scrambled eggs on brown toast. So much so that I had a slice of bacon too.

I have to say that I have never washed my kit so much, nor felt it was really so necessary to have three different pairs of tracksuit bottoms and more tops.

And now, onward, with the challenge of how I am going to run 22 miles every week in June. Especially when I'm on holiday for most of the first week... follow this page.

It's a jungle out there

I had a bit of a jungly day today. For a start, I thought I might try getting up before work and getting the run in before the heat started. This, needless to say, didn't happen. The alarm clock went off: I didn't. I did get to work more or less on time; just in time for a killer meeting. It was supposed to be finished by 12:30. It actually finished just before 3. This screwed up my day. I didn't have time to go running, and I didn't have time to go to the bank. This latter was pretty urgent. I also didn't have time to do the several hundred things I was supposed to do, which was slightly annoying - I've got a busy week next week and then I'm ON HOLIDAY! Which means there are some things that need to be done first, excited though I am about this.

But sometimes, there are other things that need to be done. In this case, it was sorting out my bank, which bounced a cheque last week. I had spent 1.5 hours on online banking last night, at the cost of learning my lines, and accomplished nothing. So, i went into the branch feeling somewhat put out. Now, I love my branch. The staff there are always so helpful, I will divulge that, despite it's unpopularity nationally, that the Peterborough branch of RBS are extremely helpful and lovely people. So I was in a quandery, because I didn't want to be unpleasant at them. Sometimes, this works best though: I said as much to the nice young man who was allocated to see me (I've had meetings with him before: he said his wife would like my shoes, so I remember him particularly). I expressed my disgust with online banking, Santander, and various other things that were bothering me, and he absented himself from the room for a few moments. I have reason to believe that I was supposed to ring some cretinous number myself, but by the time he came back, it was all sorted. He won the RBS a stay of execution today.

The whole bank thing took longer than I thought though, and while I'd told the Friday night crew I'd be in the pub after work, by the time I got home and ready to go out, I realised it was going to be after 6 by the time I arrived. I had a plan to take some non-running clothes with me and do my 5k on the way to Charters, but just before I left the house, I texted Ian, and he said he'd be gone by the time I arrived. This made things simpler, as I left the bag of clothes at home. After the beautiful day, it was still hot at 5:30, and I managed to put some music onto my phone, so I set out at a good pace. I ran the route I did on Wednesday, and along the cycle path down to Fengate, I saw a young-ish man ahead of me, in a red sports top. He turned when I came along the route, but as I approached him, he distinctly put his hand down his trousers. I'm not one for staring, so I can't tell you whether he actually exposed himself, and while I was tempted to give him the once over and laugh, or say sarcastically, "that's how it starts you know", I did neither of these things. I increased my speed a bit. Honestly, it's the first time in Peterborough that I've seen what I'd class as a pervert, and he was younger than I'd expected. Apart from the tramp I see from time to time with his trousers half way down his backside. To be honest, he smells so bad, I wouldn't look there either. Ironically, the Magnets were playing "A little bit of something" as I passed him.

Anyway, what with the pervert, and the muzak playing, I kept the (pretty good) pace I'd started out at. I was quite pleased with myself, because I was at DAVE PACE. 9:48. I was so pleased about this, I made a concerted effort to keep it going. There was some difference between Runkeeper and the garmin, and I was suspicious because of the discrepancy the other day. Admittedly, Nic phoned just as I was approaching the pelican crossing and I paused the garmin, but not the runkeeper, so I'm sure that's the explanation.

When I got home, I decided, after a lengthy period of messing about on Facebook, to go and tackle the garden, which is the project for the weekend. It was insane. It wasn't actually waist-high, but it seriously wasn't far off in places. I mowed 1/3 of the grass, and filled the brown bin up. That should give you some idea. I saw my neighbour yesterday morning as I was leaving my house. She actually peered into my house (I'd dashed back in to collect something). She said she missed me, and her mother (who speaks no English whatsoever) also missed me. When I saw the garden tonight, I was seriously surprised that she hadn't reported me as missing, presumed dead, to the police. I posted some pictures on Facebook, and Britta posted a link to "It's a jungle out there".

She wasn't wrong. It certainly is. What with one thing, and another.

Henry V

Anyway, I realise I left you all in suspense. So sorry. You'll recall on Tuesday that Heather unnecessarily taunted me into a challenge about continuing the challenge all the way through June, and I said I'd tell you my decision. This is clearly ridiculous, and as I have been struggling immensely with the May challenge, it would belittle my effort if I suggested to my sponsors thus far that it would be an easy challenge to continue. I not only don't think it would be an easy challenge to continue, I also think it would be bad for me to continue it. I'm not saying anything against Sally for suggesting it... I'm just saying, my calves could do with a break, and I'm a little worried about my knees. Maybe less barefoot running. Well, I don't know. I still kind of like it. Slowly, slowly, I think. Maybe more walking in the barefoot shoes, I think that would be good. Anyway, the point it, what am I going to do about Heather's gauntlet? I always think, if someone drops a gauntlet, pick it up and give it back. No, really. So what I thought I'd do, never one to ignore a challenge, is this: I'll attempt to continue the challenge by agreeing to do 35km a week. That's the same, right, except I can do long runs and short ones, and miss out days here and there. Right?

OK, so go ahead. Show your support. In the time-honoured fashion. HERE. Heather.

Right, anyway, today. I had to go running in the sun, by myself. Dave had some ridiculous excuse about having done Boxercise the day before, and meetings. It sounded like an excuse to me. As usual, I attempted to go at Dave pace, and ended up at Emma pace. Although interestingly, the Garmin thought I was running 6 minute miles at the start. I can assure you, I wasn't. I'm beginning to think it isn't working terribly well.

And I'll tell you what was weighing on my mind. It's the same thing that you're thinking now. It was about that date. It wasn't that he was unpleasant, he was fine. He was just. Not really what I had in mind. And I haven't told him. And well, no one gets satisfaction out of delivering that blow. Well, no one nice, anyway. I mean, if he was horrible, it might be quite satisfying, but he wasn't horrible, and I am pretty sure he was quite nervous as well... but maybe Jonni was right. When I was telling people at rehearsal how it went, Jonni said, "What WAS that monologue you did at Drama on TAp? I could tell the date wasn't going very well - you were clearly trying to scare him!" OK, I might have gotten a bit shouty.

Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

Oscar Wilde

So, Heather, one of my favourite people,  said to me today, "Are you doing 5K a day or 5000 words a day?" (with her sharp Irish humour flowing through). "Too long" she said. It's what comes of knowing people with journalistic training. She said that the hardest assignment she had to do was to reduce a story to 300 words, but keep all the facts in. Someone quipped (I think it was Colin) that this must be why The Sun is such a good newspaper. She responded that the Sun journalists are some of the most talented, and it is pretty skillful. But back to me (MEEE) - I told her, misquoting Oscar, that I was too tired to write a shorter blog. I think he famously said "Sorry this is such a long letter, I didn't have time to write a shorter one". This is exactly how I feel. Heather will be horrified to hear that I do actually (usually) read the blog through, and often take out (even more) extraneous pieces of information. Although increasingly I'm just looking at readability.

Anyway, where was I, Wednesday. I'll tell you what happened on Wednesday, it was Pilates, which is brilliant, because my legs are so sore, they needed stretching; and also I told Anita that mum said I needed to lose another half stone for my Ariel costume, and Anita said "Where from?"!! Go Anita! This is the right response. I then went to meet Keith, who said mum was probably right. "Can I just remind you that this is my weight you are talking about?" I told him. "Yes, but I haven't seen you in the outfit, and your mum has, and she's usually right" he said coyly. He always agrees with mum.

I did the run after work, and picked a nice route, as I'm a bit bored with running up Newark Avenue, so I ran along the cycle way at the end of Padolme Road East, and through the new housing estate by the parkway, and down onto the river. It was REALLY warm. But I found Nic's ipod, so I had music again, which was nice, and I ran at almost Dave pace (not really) but nearly sub 30 mins. I still haven't beaten that time on my own. It's shocking really, I am never doing any extra distance on my own.

Then I got ready for my internet date. But anyway, short and sweet, that's what H said. I'd hate to disappoint...

Two for the price of one???

What a cracker of a day! What a lovely day to be in the office... but wait... there's lunchtime, there's running. There's Dave. We decided to go up to the Millenium Bridge. It's a longer run, but what a cracker of a day. Dave said, as usual, that he would go at my pace. For some reason, while my average pace along is about 11 min/mile (I'm working on it...), my average pace with Dave appears to be closer to 9:30. If I hadn't already known that I ran the first half of a half marathon at this pace, I'd have stopped already. I told Dave about Sally blushing because of my comment about our last run being fast and strong. Over half way, I was really tired, and Dave softened and let me slow down to 10 min/miles. After a while, I suggested that if he could carry me part of the way, we could go for "Soft, long and very, very strong" on my next facebook update, but he declined. He clearly hadn't gone soft in the head anyway.

I told him about my internet date, and he said in quite a stern voice that I should "be nice". I'm slightly offended by this. As if I wouldn't be! This was one up on my mother though, who told me not to talk too much. A word about familial support: she also told me that I might try losing half a stone before The Tempest. It was after she'd seen me in the silver catsuit, and not a lot of other people have, though, so perhaps I should listen to her. Well, I'm doing my best with the running. Perhaps not so well on the cake-scoffing though.

The millennium Bridge run is about 7.5 miles, ish. My Garmin said 7.7, Dave's Garmin said 7.5 and my Runkeeper (on the phone) said 7.37. This is nuts. For one thing, the Runkeeper usually over-estimates. For another, Dave and I set our Garmins at the same time, and ran the same distance, and they are the same model. I may never know how far it is. I can tell you it was at least 8 though. And by 5 and a half, I really wanted to stop. Dave was unsympathetic. "Your challenge is to not run any slower: you can't get any slower than this and still be running." This is not true. We were going at 10:30 minute/miles at this point, and that is faster than most of my runs.

"The problem with you is, you fuck with my controller" I told him, which is one form of chat-up line I've previously not tried. Sally told me about the controller. Your mind tells you to slow down when you don't need to. Well, specifically, mine does. Dave's apparently tells him to go faster. Anyway, what you need to do is to over-ride the voices in your head. I did this by trying to keep up with Dave. He agreed, and said I fuck with his controller too, so at least it's mutual. I'm glad that at very least our controllers are getting some action. He said I slow him down, which he views as good, because he can't maintain his usual pace over long distances. Everyone's a winner.

When we came back to the office, the worst possible thing happened. Heather completely undid me. She did this, and it might seriously have been a case of Sally actually taking over her body in a weird Sci-fi way, by challenging me to continue doing the 5K every day in May, into June. Seriously. I'd just said that Sal had said I'd miss running in June. Heather seriously said "Why not? You like a challenge. You could carry on." And the worst thing was, it was a total mindfuck. Sorry about the bad language today, but you know, I've started so I'll finish. Or something.

Get sponsoring, people, and I'll tell you what the deal is.

Cold Sunday and Organised Monday.

What Sunday was mainly notable for, was being cold. As luck would have it, our forthcoming production of The Tempest clashes with the week that the Royal Shakespeare Company are judging the Open Stages productions for their Amateur Dramatics jamboree. They said we could send them a DVD of our play, which for some reason we agreed to do. And who wouldn't think that 20 May would be a good time of year to perform outside. We didn't know it was going to be bitterly cold, did we? Before the filming, I went into town to pick up some hair extensions, and the girl in Claire's Accessories asked if I'd had a good day. I said "It's just about to get better. I'm going to put a silver cat suit on and prance around Central Park". She said "Oh, that'll be fun" without batting an eyelid.

The filming took much longer than anyone thought, we got there at 11, and by 3 we had two injured dancers, one of whom had to go to hospital. We didn't finish till half 6. I sort of felt that we ought to wait for everyone to have finished, although apparently no one else did, so it was just me, the remaining actors and the usual suspects among the Mask people who put away the props.

I felt it best to go home and properly warm up before running because surely, starting exercise while cold is stupid (witness 2 injured dancers). And since I skipped lunch (not deliberately) I also thought having a bowl of pasta would be a good idea. I cooked up a yummy pasta sauce, and deliberately waited a while for some digestion to happen. I was wondering about doing another back-to-back run at midnight, but then remembered a rather brilliant and yet unlikely plan I'd hatched for Monday. I said (I don't know why) that I'd get the car back at 8 am. The drop-off place was Shrewsbury Avenue, downtown, which has got to be about 3 miles away. So, how about that I drop off a bag of clothes at the office, drive the car downtown, already in my running things, and run back?

While I was digesting the pasta, I mapped out the route on Runkeeper. It was only just shy, so a quick detour up the embankment should take it up to 5k. And I fancied that this was more what Sal's website advice had been getting at when she said "try doing one run in the morning and the following one in the evening to space them out a bit" (not one at 11:30pm and one at 12am). Then I went for my Sunday run at about 10. The pasta hadn't digested, even though it seemed hours ago. I was running really slowly, and then my route disintegrated. For some reason, although I did the usual local route, it didn't seem to add up to the same distance. I had to add going around the park to it, although I felt like I'd spent enough time in the park already. I wrote on the Runkeeper comment "When will this month be over?" and, as it got posted onto Facebook, Sal replied "Soon - and then you'll miss it".

However, Monday morning, weirdly, seemed to work. I mean, I was late setting off, and didn't set out until about 8:15, but grumpy Alan on the front desk agreed to look after my bags for me, and even smiled and everything. I had a moment where I thought I'd left my phone at home, and realised I couldn't even go back and get it because I'd just left my housekeys in my bag at work. Then I found I'd already put my phone into my jacket pocket. The panic was because I'm logging the runs with Runkeeper on my phone (as well as the Garmin). Incidentally, it was pointed out to me today by Rich, who really needs a nickname as there are a couple of other possible Rich's about, so could be Poetry Rich, that my blog is sadly deficient in maps. So, if you ever need to follow my route, please be aware that I have added a link at the top right corner (right under the link that says SPONSOR ME) where you can find my route maps. From Runkeeper. You can thus also check that I have done a run every day in May.

The car drop off was a cinch, and as I left I realised that Chris lives near there, and also arrives at work at a similar sort of time to me (late). So I rang her, and she was just leaving her house. She joined my on her bike, and cycled a good part of the way with me, before she professed to being freezing. As I was suffering the reverse (even though I appreciated it was chilly, the run was warming me up nicely) I asked her to take my jacket into work, so that was an added bonus. She told me that she'd met up with Sal at the weekend, who misses us. I miss her too. So does Babs, I can tell.

Finishing the run before work was a novelty! It meant I had the rest of the day free, and got to have lunch with Heather, which was great because I hadn't seen her for so long. And then had a long, relaxing evening stretching to enjoy myself, catch up on some tellie on iplayer, and tidy up a bit. Unfortunately, what actually happened was that I fell asleep on the sofa for two and a half hours. This is what happens when you overdo it.

Home again

I was still busy on Saturday, out with dad to get a new padlock, when i got a text from mum saying she'd lost Frank. "Did he go outside?" I asked when I got back (in a fairly relaxed manner). "No, definitely not!" she told me. "Then you haven't lost him!" I said. She'd last seen him upstairs, so I went and looked in cupboards and under beds. I'd looked under a bed that had some drawers under it, and she assured me she'd checked there, but as I got up, I heard a tinkle of a cat bell. "He's under there" I said. "Frank, do you want to come out?" He emerged from under the bed, kind of saying, "OK, your go now", after a successful game of hide-and-seek.

He was reasonably content in the house and continued to explore other places to hide, which include the cupboard under the window seats, under the chest of drawers in mum and dad's room, and back in the drawer under the bed. However, he also rated "his" place on the sofa, which is where he was when I went for my run in the afternoon.

I did barefoot, and the same route as yesterday. I saw a lady with two kids on bikes going through that massive mud patch. I offered to give her a hand getting them over it, but she said she was trying to convince them of the wisdom of going back. "It gets better round the corner!" I said brightly, until I saw her shake her head, "I mean, not much. Still very muddy..."

I get a bit of a hill on this route. Not like, Hastings hills, but a little rise all the same. I've figured out that perhaps hills don't bother me as much as I thought. I think they are interesting and challenging, diversifying the route, and also are a lot of fun to go down. So it's another reason to be negative about Peterborough (and another reason to go out to Stilton for another run....).

At the top, I turned left, and passed a family out walking. They shouted a warning about it being very wet on the track, which I smiled at, and didn't really respond to; I already knew, because I'd run it yesterday, and it was drier today.

Later on my trip, I had just gone through a massive patch of Molinia grass (purple moor grass) which grows in quite wet areas - this was no exception. It was sinky-wet. Bizarrely, because I wasn't on a main track any more, I passed the same family going the other way (of all the routes they could have picked). "It's really wet back there!" I warned, feeling they deserved some retaliation warning. The ladies were at the back of the party, and one of them said "What interesting shoes!" (because Southerners are always rude in a very polite way). So I paused to tell her about barefoot running and Mexican tribes and lack of support for joints. She seemed most interested. It isn't necessarily what you expect to learn on a Saturday afternoon walk in the Forest.

When I got home, it was time to take Frank back up the road. He submitted to the car quite well, and didn't make a bid for freedom, and by the time we'd got to East Grinstead, which isn't far, he had stopped miaowing, and even voluntarily got into his cat box, which was strapped in to the front passenger seat; this is what I was hoping he'd do. I felt that zipping it up would ensure that he never got into it again; so later on, when he got disconcerted at the Dartford Tunnel, he found a much safer place. He was quite contented there for the rest of the journey. He almost purred.

It took him a few moments to adjust when we got to Peterborough, although he got straight out of the car, I felt he might have had motion-problems, because he looked almost wobbly: but then he saw an open front door that he recognised, and went straight in. It could be a case of absence makes the heart grow fonder, because he's looked quite happy ever since then.

Away from home

I rocked up at 1am to mum and dad's, who live on the edge of Ashdown Forest in Sussex. Right on the edge. They have a track down to the house which sets them well off the road. Now imagine if you are a right little townie, and had never seen proper dark. Frank wouldn't get out of the car. I think he might have been torn between the lesser evil of the car and the sound of nature at night. I carried him in. Dad had waited up for me and was disappointed when I chose tea over whisky, but I did have to get up in the morning. Frank paced around the house miaowing in a concerned way. I went to fetch some more bags and remembered I'd bought a new scratching post, as Frank's is torn to pieces, and I fancied dad would have something to say if Frank started scratching the upholstery. This one, however, required some construction. "What's that?" Dad asked. I told him, and he took it upon himself to construct it. He handed it to me, and said "Will it stop him from miaowing?" I love finding out what is motivating dad.

Anyway, the parents' house is almost entirely open-plan, which was clearly upsetting Frank, but there is an annex room, actually outside the house. I moved me, him, his litter tray, and his food and water into it. It seemed to work OK, he got happily enough onto the bed and settled down, but he didn't like country noises, and spent a lot of the night poking my face to check and see what I thought of it all. The next day, he came outside, he had never heard a dawn chorus like it - I might as well have dropped him in a Peruvian rainforest. He was doing OK, although still miaowing a fair amount, when 5 fallow deer ran through the garden. It was the end of the line. He ran back into the bedroom and hid under the covers for the rest of the day. This was not altogether inconvenient, as I had lots of stuff to do. I checked on him at tea time, and brought him into the house, where he seemed a lot calmer (oxygen deficiency, I'm thinking) and left him on the sofa while I went for my run.

The good thing (well, one of the many good things) about the parents' house is that it is right by Ashdown Forest, so it is ideal for a bit of bare-foot running. Although, you can take "soft underfoot" a bit too far. By the time I went running, there had been a slight rainfall for a couple of hours, and it was extra-soft. It looked like this: 


In truth, though, not for long. Just round the bend, it was much drier; then I had to decide whether Wealden clay was too hard, and find some grass. It was a good run, although I was still taking it reasonably slowly (not just for the mud, which I was taking very slowly indeed), I picked the pace up a little from last time I'd run barefoot, and I think it hurt less.

When I got back, my feet looked like this:

Nice! But they wash off ever so easily. Even the shoes hose down no problem. Dad was psychoanalysing Frank when I got in. He had been amazed at the way Frank responded to me talking to him, and mum told me that she had overheard dad saying "Now, I'm going to sit here, Frankie, is that OK?". She said, apparently it was, because Frank didn't reply. By the time I got home, Dad had pronounced that, Once a victim, always a victim, and furthermore, that he thought Frank had Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome.

Frank did a tour of the house with me, in daylight, and I thought his general expression was "Yes, I'll take it. As a second home, of course".

Roadies

Well, today's run was pretty splendid, quite frankly. I use the term "frankly" a lot, as it now bears a double meaning for me. Obviously, it indicates frankness in nature, but has also become a high accolade of indicating Frank-ness in nature, too. It's only appropriate that I over-use it. Anyhow, I agreed with running Dave that we'd go for a lunchtime run today, and we did. Dave said that his legs felt heavy, which I viewed as being a good thing (you can read that any way you choose, although for the record, I only viewed, I didn't also feel), as it must surely slow him down. He said he was going to let me pick the pace. He's said this before, and it never works, we still end up going much faster than I ever run alone. He said he's been running with a brand-new runner who makes me look quite fast, which was flattering in its own way, I guess. We did our usual trip around the rowing lake, which is WAY over 5km, but I'm not allowed credit. Our average was 9:53 min/mile, over 5.47 miles, and at some points we were going faster than that. Also, we had a great old chat, but I view it as being none of your business, so you'll have to imagine it. I think there were some blog-worthy moments in it, but actually, I've forgotten what they were. I can divulge that Dave works WAY too hard, and should really just refuse. I thought he was an upstanding union member, as well. When I got back from the run, I thought I had half an hour until my meeting, but found the person waiting for me, (I still think his meeting must have ended early) so having agreed that Dave could shower first, I had to renege and ask if I could go in before him. He didn't seem to be around when I got back, so I collared someone who sits near him and asked him to tell Dave that the shower was free, forgetting it was Pete, who will seize any opportunity for wind-up. "Oh, don't pretend that you haven't been showering together" he said. "If you don't have any gossip, make it up" I told him, "But go with that one".

When I posted on Facebook that today had been a Dave-run, long and fast, Sally commented "Crumbs, can you rephrase that please"... I've been thinking of how to do so ever since but words fail me... it was a perfect description. I could have said "Speedy and Far", if that would make her blush less?

In the evening, I had (obviously) a full-on, and carefully scheduled evening planned. It went like this: (1) take bus to Shrewsbury Ave, pick up hire car. (2) Drive back via Pets at Home, pick up anything Frank might need (3) Go home, pack, learn lines for tonight (we're "scripts down" now). (4) Go to rehearsal (5) Go home, pick FRANK up, drive to the parents (Sussex).

So, I couldn't see any minor flaw in that. I mean, Frank has been moaning at me for years now for going away, and never loses an opportunity to climb into my bags if he sees me packing. Just because he's never been in a car before, or in fact, ever been away from the house before, I couldn't see any problems in my plan whatsoever. I even bought him a cat basket on wheels, because I thought it might be easier. He could have liked it. If he'd thought it was my bag.

Anyway, it went surprisingly well. I mean, 4/5 isn't bad, is it? Actually, the drive was OK. Frank lay on the back against the rear windscreen howling, looking out behind as if to say "Let me STAY", and also every time other cars were nearby, "HELP", but that only lasted 40 minutes. I was just picking up signs for Stansted when it abated. He repositioned by putting his head forward between the front seats for a while, but he couldn't get onto the front passenger seat because someone had left a cat basket there (belted in), so he just lay on the handbrake. Then, realising the error of his ways, he lay on the back seat, and I threw his blanket onto it, which he seemed to appreciate. I spent a long time worrying that when I got to the Dartford Crossing, he'd leap out of the window at the toll, but when I got there, found out it is free after 10pm, which was fortuitous.

The purpose of the Thursday-night journey was to arrive in time to deal with some contractors who were arriving on Friday morning, and because they'd said 9am, and I wasn't sure at the time that the parents were going to be around to ferry me from the station, (and I had to be at rehearsal on Thursday night), I decided to drive. They later told me they wouldn't arrive till 11, which was irritating, as I certainly could have got there by train for that time, but it did allow me to hatch the plan to see how Frank dealt with travelling. Dad is always asking me to stay longer, and I'm always reluctant to push the good nature of my friend Maggie too far in the cat-sitting element, so I usually have to hurry back. If I could bring him down occasionally, it would be a possibility, but only if it didn't stress him out unduly. So, this was a first time experiment. But as we arrived just before 1am, how he got on in a new house is another story.

Double Bill

On Tuesday, I had a meeting in London during the day, so I wasn't able to get the running in then. Although I was back at about 5:30 and therefore, theoretically had plenty of time between then and 7:30 to go running, I was just kindof a bit knackered and in need of a sitdown. I was aware as I did this that it was a poor idea, because while being a bit knackered at 5:30 is not uncommon, I've never felt less knackered after a rehearsal, and thought, I know, I'm all widey-wakey now, I'll enjoy this run (although I have done the running nonetheless). But, it's not like I'm master of my own body or anything. Oh wait.

So, I thought, at very least, I can get myself ready for rehearsal, and ready for tomorrow. I scanned my lines, decided they'd pass, and then thought I'd better look out that ticket. See, a while back, I was at the Cambridge Theatre Festival, and met one of the actresses afterwards in the pub, and after a chat, established that she had two tickets for Henry V that she couldn't otherwise use. So I offered to buy them off her. I put the tickets out on offer, and accepted Tom's offer to take up a ticket, and take me in his car. The trusting lady had posted me the tickets, and I (eventually) posted her a cheque. The tickets weren't on the table where they should have been. I recalled that during the laryngitis incident, there had been a late night (and possibly somewhat drunken) game of Absolute Balderdash at my house, and we'd cleared the table, so I checked the piles of deposited papers, but to no avail. I had to leave around that juncture, not feeling very prepared, for rehearsal.

I learned while I was there that while Prospero claims the most lines in the play, this is seconded by Ariel, so it is not without some cause that I complain about the number of lines I have to learn, even though it pales into insignificance next to Peter's voluminous texts. He said with some asperity that it irritates him when people say "It's alright for you, you can learn lines easily", when actually, while he CAN learn lines, this is still not without a lot of hard work... I was pleased to hear that he had learned about the relative numbers of lines from some Wikipedia page, not from actually counting them.

While I was at rehearsal, I told Tom that I may have lost the tickets. He laughed as if to say "Oh Emma, you're such a wag" rather than "You stupid idiot, how could you be so careless", which I felt would be a fairer reaction. It wasn't until almost the end of the evening, while telling Peter that I couldn't go to the pub because I still had 5k to run, that I realised that there was no way I was going to be able to run the following day. I'd just arranged with Tom that in the unlikely event that I found the tickets, we'd leave at 5:30, so the obvious recourse would be to run during lunchtime, but rather cataclysmic-ally, Sally, as in Sal, AKA Miss P, is leaving work, for ever, well, our work, she is taking on Fit Naturally full time. And the long and the short of it is, it's her leaving do. While it would be most fitting for me to go running in honour of her leaving do, I sort of thought that I'd like to be there.

I started to panic. I couldn't really  afford the time to skip out for a leaving lunch and a run during work (I know I did last Wednesday, but in fairness, I was so upset that really, work owed me pilates and a run, and they wouldn't have gotten anything out of me that afternoon without it, so it was fair dos). The only way I could really do it, actually get the run in tomorrow, was by going in the morning. Then I had an idea. An awful idea. I had a wonderful, awful idea (to quote, or misquote, The Grinch). If I were to delay going for my run tonight, until half 11, I could run 10K, instead of 5. I'd get 5K in before midnight, and 5 in after midnight, i.e., tomorrow. Yes, I could do a morning run. Just not by getting up for it.

I resolved to find the tickets, and then go for the run. Did I do a full safety check? Well, yes. I thought about it. And my thinking was thus: 11:30 isn't that different from 10-10:30, and I often go out around then. I've never felt threatened or endangered. Most serious attacks, like, rapes, happen by someone you know, and I don't know anyone who hangs around late at night. I fail to see why they should happen at that time over any other time (especially in Peterborough). I like the roads at that time of night, I like the aloneness, darkness, it's fun, and makes me think of Guys and Dolls, which is sadly lacking from my music, although I doubt it really has the beat to make a running song. ("My time of day is the dark-time, a couple of hours before dawn/ when the street belongs to the cop, and the janitor with the mop, and the grocery clerks are all gone.... with the smell of the rain-washed pavement / comes a clean and fresh and cold / and the street-lamp lights fill the gutters with gold... that's my time of day" etc). Although I have to say, in Peterborough the street mainly belongs to the drunks staggering home, but they are usually pretty friendly.

I failed to find the tickets and also, while trying to delete a tune that has been irking me for some time from my phone, I inadvertently deleted the whole track of music from my computer. I thought I'd be able to re-sync it with my phone, but all I succeeded in doing was deleting it off there too. This was irritating, especially coupled with the failure of the theatre tickets, I was now going to have to deal with the night in silence. See if I still found it unscary. (Perhaps if I sang the Guys and Dolls track myself... or maybe that would be scary for anyone else out at that time).

I set off, slightly late at about 11:26, without having any clear idea of where I was running to. I eventually decided I didn't want to run "the loop" twice (although it might have been fun to test the relative distances recorded for both runs that way). I veered off to do a loop around Fengate and Padholme Road East. What? It was fine. I never saw a soul (reminding me of this line in a favourite story, where the retort was "they don't have any souls" - Cue for Treason). I was happily pottering up some road which was no longer Padholme, but vaguely nearby, when I glanced at the time. It was ten to twelve, and I'd only just cleared two miles. I had to get 1.13 miles into under ten minutes! I didn't think I could run that fast for that long, but I was going to have to die trying. I started running faster, keeping a balance between what was possible and what I (thought I) could maintain for a mile. I veered faster and slower as these conflicting aims crashed into each other. I tried to figure out what would happen if I only ran 4.8 km. I realised that no one would care, and most people wouldn't even know, but one person would. Me. I wanted to run 5k every day in May. Not 4.8 one day, because I was a bit disorganised. This thought was really all that kept me going. I made sure I slightly over-ran 5km, as I've noticed a discrepancy in what runkeeper says on the screen as you finish, and what it ultimately records, which I have to say, upsets me. I submitted, and restarted runkeeper, safe in the knowledge that my 16th May run was logged. This meant I could slow down terrifically, which I did. I didn't care how slowly I did this one, the main thing was that it got done. I saw some people loading a transit, and vaguely, once again, wondered if I were witness to a houseclear. I suspected the girl was doing it while her erstwhile boyfriend was on nightshift, for some reason. I get these thoughts, and like to follow through the story in my mind.

I also decided that while I was clear headed, as one is during a run, I should empty my mind of all other things, and find the theatre ticket. While it certainly should have been in the pile of stuff, I'd been through it twice, and I was pretty sure it wasn't there. I'd cursorily checked the rest of the house, and, as I have often thought while searching for things that don't want to be found, it isn't a big house. I put my mind to it, and decided that there were two possibilities: I had put it in my handbag (checked) but taken it out at work - that's where I was when I paid the cheque. It could be in the office. Failing this, and using the Holmsian theory that "when you have exhausted all other possibilities, the last one, however improbable, must be correct", I reasoned that the only other place it could be was in the recycling bin. I resolved to collapse into bed on arriving at home, but get up with enough time to rifle the bins, and then go to the office and check there.

I carried this plan out, and am relieved but also ashamed to report that the theatre tickets (all £30 of them) were in my recycling bin. By a stroke of luck, I hadn't put the bin out the previous Wednesday, judging it less than 1/3 full and therefore not worth it. We had a lovely send-off for Sally, where we heard some funny stories about her (especially her first interview with the organisation, with a genuine naivety that was purely charming, where she described how she'd shown up, as a proper Essex girl, in white stiletos and a short purple dress, i.e. totally inappropriate to "us lot", and seriously said "I can't think how I got the job" - with everyone else thinking "hmm, I can hypothesise on that one..." (she's so lovely). We then went to the Tap, where I introduced everyone to Jonni, and Sal tried to give him one of her FitNaturally business cards, which he refused because they were too stiff to use as a roach. I suggested to Sal that she might like to branch into DetoxNaturally, because Jonny wasn't going to be signing up for any exercise.

I managed to leave work ontime to get home for 5:30, and Tom and I sailed off to Cambridge, where we heartily enjoyed our show, although the seats were in the front row of the circle, they were very cramped for the knees. Tom is really quite tall, and my knees were suffering, so, having usurped the better seat (because of being short) I used the opportunity to talent-spot a couple of empty seats in the stalls. We made a switcheroo in the interval, where I got Tom to admit that he wouldn't have dreamt of upgrading his seats in such a fashion. The St Crispin's day speech was very well done, and actually, the whole play was brilliantly staged. We enjoyed the after-show talk with the cast, and wended our merry way home afterwards. I was relieved, although also somewhat exhausted, with my clever ruse for getting the run out of the way, because we didn't get home until after midnight. SUCCESS!