Right, I pulled out of the Grunty Fen race last Sunday. This is a grave disappointment to me, but not nearly as bit a one as it would be if I were to have injured myself, hurt for the next 3 weeks, and then not manage the Great Eastern Run.
What happened was this: as I was walking into work on Friday, there was a glimmer of a twinge of pain, right where the injury had been. It happened a couple more times during the day. Not all the time: but more than a tight muscle. I couldn't figure it out: it's not like I did a long, or even particularly "strong" run yesterday. And the swim should have helped. Shouldn't it? The illegal swim, that my coach didn't tell me to do.
But I had two days to recover, right? It'd be fine to run thirteen point one miles on it on Sunday. THIRTEENPOINTONEMILESOHMYGOD. I have so many things in my head to think about this week: there's been new advice on the type of glucose sachets I should use, diet before the race, diet after the race, what to do on the race, my head is swimming. But I've been trying to take it all on board: I ordered the high-five isogel packs on amazon, and got in some fresh pasta. Well, I'll do what I can: I didn't ask Pete and Jenny if they could serve pasta with plain tomato sauce at their wedding breakfast, even if they are vegetarians.
After lunch on Friday, I cracked, and emailed Sal about the twinge. My suggestion was that I monitored progress, and ran really really slowly, and didn't try anything clever like a negative split. She emailed me back. "I think you should drop it. And you weren't down to do a negative split anyway. What do you think?" I'm never sure with these questions if she means, "How does that sound to you?" or "What do you want to do?", because surely my previous email had told her the latter. I tried having a hissy-fit and throwing my toys out of the pram, but not very hard, because it's still Sal we're talking about here. "I'm all psyched-up to run it: I want to run it. I can't deny the irony of the situation - I want to do it." I told her. And it was true, actually. But I think it's the attraction of the beer. She held onto her line. She said, in the sort of reasonable way that my mum would use, "By all means do grunty if you feel you'll be ok, I just think the odds seem against it what with wedding, car and now calf. The only thing it has going for it is Dave...... What do you think?" (That's RSPB Dave, who I said I'd meet afterwards). There was a definite element of "Would you like to revise your last answer?" She was right. I didn't feel I'd be OK. In fact, the moment I emailed Sal in the first place, I'd basically admitted that I thought my leg should be amputated. Let's face it, I generally don't tell her when there is something that I think would stop me from doing exercise (like a stomach upset) if I actually believe I can do it. So I clearly didn't think it was a good idea.
Interestingly, I honestly thought that she'd written "the Gods seem against it" (hence my title) right up until I pasted the message in here. Which I thought was slightly out of character, but one that appealed to me. Just after I received that message, I was told there was a parcel for me. It turned out to be the glucose gel sacs I'd ordered. Now, usually I'd think that was a sign that things were running smoothly and I should do the race (this is how my mind works), but when I opened them, I found they'd sent me the wrong things. I specifically didn't want the caffeine ones, and that's what I had.
So, Sal was right: I was planning to do a race the day after a wedding reception, without a car, I was potentially going to injure my calf, and I'd got the wrong stuff. The Gods, or the odds, were not in my favour.
I then alerted Sal to the fact that I'd be in hilly Sheffield for three days, and could I capitalise on this at all. Her answer was swift: No. Hill training would be very bad for the damaged muscle. She said I could do 45 minute jog on Sunday, and basically see how it went, then a longer one, on the flat, when I got back to Peterborough on Wednesday. She said "Maybe I've been too hard on you..."
This is completely flying in the face of every preconceived notion I have about Sal. To have a short review, Sal has not been a slave-driver through this process (apart from suggesting hill training and farklets): she has consistently advised to slow down when I've been struggling, she's never once said "why didn't you do that?" (well, she didn't actually need to, I'd already written it here), and actually everything I've done that has pushed me too hard has been my fault: I tried to go faster than I was allowed on Tuesday, I did an extra swim on Thursday, and now I'm begging for hill training. We are potentially very well-matched, if you take on board the old joke "What's the definition of a sadist? - someone who likes to give a masochist a good time".
On further reflection, I'm working on the idea that she might be a misandrist - all these reports of fierce behaviour, they've all come from men... and even though Sal may have realised by now that she is attempting to train a little scientist, who wants to know a full explanation for everything, the comments I've passed back to her from other runners have been met with... contempt... but very much not aimed at me (I'm in the sisterhood). For example, Paul offered to buy my caffeinated glucose sachets off me, and said "They're not banned or anything, and they really do make a difference, but if that's what your coach says..." (he'd witnessed the trouble Nige had got into, you see).
This is what coach said: "Tell Paul if he has to rely on caffeine for a mere half marathon he hasn't trained properly :D No, there's nothing VERY wrong with it but people tend to know nothing about its proper use, period of effect or dosage and randomly take caffeine gels throughout their training and racing. Plus if one uses caffeine during training the body gets used to it and the desired effect on race day doesn't happen. Anyone worth their salt lays off caffeine altogether for a month before competition to feel the full effects of it on race day (which can include a nasty dose of diarrhoea and general lightheadedness!) So there Paul. BLOKES".
Anyway, I made my decision, and was relieved on Saturday because my wedding high heels were hurting my calf muscle already. In fact, someone suggested I dance the ceilidh wearing them, because that way he might not have to pay his sponsorship. I told him Just Giving already had it, which caused some debate on what would happen if I couldn't complete it. One of the more remarkable things about the wedding was that Pete proposed to Jenny in Japan, and she learned there that a Japanese custom is for the lady to make over 1000 origami cranes, while pondering the meaning of marriage. She did - around the 1500 mark, according to her bridesmaids. They were amazing, and I shall post pictures of them as soon as I am able.
On Sunday, I did go to Ely on the train, but not to Grunty Fen. I had a great lunch on the river side with Dave, where we watched rain chucking it down outside, and then braved the elements, which cheered up, and wandered around Ely for the afternoon. It was much more civilised than running 13.1 miles.
I think maybe the Gods were smiling just a little. They know how to show encouragement.
Showing posts with label excuses not to run. Show all posts
Showing posts with label excuses not to run. Show all posts
Tuesday, 13 September 2011
Saturday, 3 September 2011
That Friday feeling.
So let me tell you about Friday. I had instructions. I had a plan. The plan was better than the instructions. The plan was to get up in the morning (not something I do, but something I like the idea of more than people realise) and go for a run. Then, have a recovery swim at lunchtime. I thought that was a nice touch.
What actually happened was, I woke up in the morning feeling like I'd been run over by a tank and then rung through a mangle. Really. I felt flattened. Moving was tricky, let alone running. I decided sleep was of paramount importance (this often happens) and got straight on it. I did get up with enough time to try my new muesli recipe (that's Granola, if you're State-side). I was pretty pleased with it. I don't like muesli, it usually tastes a bit dusty, or just too much. But something had to be done about the breakfast thing, and I'd got bored of my old breakfast a couple of months ago, tasty though it is (oats soaked overnight in apple-juice, then add yoghurt and fresh smushed up fruit - raspberries or strawbs - best of all, if you don't feel like eating, you just add more apple juice and drink it like a smoothie). So the new muesli consisted of oats toasted with a little butter and honey, and almonds and walnuts, also toasted, added to the mix, then a bunch of sesame that was in the cupboard, and a handful of raisins. It was good, I had it with yoghurt.
I got on with work, which is just something that has to be done, you know, so they pay you and stuff (that's how it is at the moment, a bit. Usually it's a bit more than this. Then people you really like just go and leave, and makes you upset). At lunchtime, I went for the swim. It was good. I didn't do loads, because I ran out of time, but I did half an hour, and swam 40 lengths. I lacked the energy to do crawl all the time, so the best time, up in Edinburgh, for crawl, when I did like 75 lengths and 60 were crawl, remains unbeaten, but I could generally feel the swim doing me good.
So I knew I'd be OK for the race tomorrow. Also, Heather, who agreed to take me there, suggested we go out for dinner in Stamford, which was great. We went to The Barn or something - luckily it was nicer than a barn. Heather suggested I order the chicken and pasta, but it seemed a bit boring, so I ordered the beef wellington instead. I've always wondered why you'd wrap a piece of beef in rubber, but it was very tasty.
All set for tomorrow then.
What actually happened was, I woke up in the morning feeling like I'd been run over by a tank and then rung through a mangle. Really. I felt flattened. Moving was tricky, let alone running. I decided sleep was of paramount importance (this often happens) and got straight on it. I did get up with enough time to try my new muesli recipe (that's Granola, if you're State-side). I was pretty pleased with it. I don't like muesli, it usually tastes a bit dusty, or just too much. But something had to be done about the breakfast thing, and I'd got bored of my old breakfast a couple of months ago, tasty though it is (oats soaked overnight in apple-juice, then add yoghurt and fresh smushed up fruit - raspberries or strawbs - best of all, if you don't feel like eating, you just add more apple juice and drink it like a smoothie). So the new muesli consisted of oats toasted with a little butter and honey, and almonds and walnuts, also toasted, added to the mix, then a bunch of sesame that was in the cupboard, and a handful of raisins. It was good, I had it with yoghurt.
I got on with work, which is just something that has to be done, you know, so they pay you and stuff (that's how it is at the moment, a bit. Usually it's a bit more than this. Then people you really like just go and leave, and makes you upset). At lunchtime, I went for the swim. It was good. I didn't do loads, because I ran out of time, but I did half an hour, and swam 40 lengths. I lacked the energy to do crawl all the time, so the best time, up in Edinburgh, for crawl, when I did like 75 lengths and 60 were crawl, remains unbeaten, but I could generally feel the swim doing me good.
So I knew I'd be OK for the race tomorrow. Also, Heather, who agreed to take me there, suggested we go out for dinner in Stamford, which was great. We went to The Barn or something - luckily it was nicer than a barn. Heather suggested I order the chicken and pasta, but it seemed a bit boring, so I ordered the beef wellington instead. I've always wondered why you'd wrap a piece of beef in rubber, but it was very tasty.
All set for tomorrow then.
Friday, 2 September 2011
Think of a new pain
Tuesday slid past like a train-dream. We managed, beyond all odds, to get several bags, a huge pram (with a crying baby), a toddler, a bike (OK, a toddler's bike) and two adults into a taxi, and pile out at Waverly, totter to the platform and get onto the 2-coach direct train to Manchester. Yes, I know, it was slightly out of my way. But that's the kind of girl I am. (Confused). The compartment we had especially chosen for access to the toilet was foiled somewhat as the toilet was out of order, and our main dramatic event was changing carriages when another train joined ours, because we learned that the other available toilet had broken down since the start of the journey. That was another mad dash with too many things and not enough hands. It was very exciting for Jasper though, because we joined a carriage with two dogs in it, Cairn terriers, who turned out to be very friendly (Snowball and Toby). After arriving in Manchester, and getting the bus back home, I decided to make a dash for it, and get the next train home to Peterborough, but not before I was able to get some of the longest runner beans ever seen. I got home before 7, but not a running day.
Wednesday slid past in an annoying way, the sort that happens when one of your buddies, who's just always cheered you up and made the place a bit better, leaves. Yep, it was mainly Jim's last day on Wednesday. I took a half day, although in all honesty, the morning was primarily made up of wrapping up his leaving presents, so I time recorded it as Priority Species, as they were mainly frogs and lizards. Also, there was a special, surprise guest - Cat, who feels much the same way as I do about Jim, actually flew all the way from Ireland just for his lunch and leaving-do, and flew back the next morning. Which goes to show some people are actually more insane than me. Fortunately I'd been able to persuade him to go out for dinner that night, without giving the game away (I wasn't sure he'd want to, what with already having eaten lunch out). All in all, it wasn't set up to be a training day, although I had primed Cat that I'd be doing some training in the afternoon, so I emailed Sal to ask if I should do half an hour hill training or pace training. But the long and the short of it was that Cat and I talked for so long, I ran out of time. Nonetheless, I blame Sally wholeheartedly, because she didn't reply to my message till the next morning, which meant I had the perfect excuse to not do either. When I did get her message, she said she'd focus on getting more miles in, so doing some longer runs.
Thursday, then, I set out at lunchtime. No one was around - I looked out for running Dave, but assumed I'd missed him as I was late setting out. I decided that I would add a loop onto the Rowing Lake run, by going around the leisure centre and down to the river before heading up the footpath. This made the run up to 6 miles, and I set out at a good pace, about 9:30m/m. It was a nice warm sunny day (finally) but I realised I'd forgotten my water, which was stupid. Almost as stupid as forgetting to have breakfast. This was doubly stupid, and is something I'm going to have to get out of the habit of. I did quite nicely, and kept the pace up all the way across the railway line, and across the bridge where the weir is, but just over the other side, my head hurt, and I had an ache down the back of my right leg, and I just thought, this is awful, really awful, and I stopped and walked. I don't know, I may still be a bit post-viral, but on the other hand, not having proper breakfast and running without water on a hot day, really weren't going to help.
Having said that, as I walked along the top end of the rowing lake, down the nice side with the trees around, and the sun was shining, I did suddenly realise what a gorgeous day it was, and I really enjoyed my little walk. I decided I would start running again when my heartrate dropped to 120. This was entirely arbitrary, mainly being because it wasn't showing any sign of doing so. I found it ironic how much I enjoyed the walk on my run. Usually it would have annoyed me because of ruining my pace, and giving up, but it was just such a lovely day. I walked past someone who seemed to be giving my "running gear" a mocking glance, so i decided that when I'd cleared him, I'd start again - I didn't want him to think I had acknowledged the lack of running. Also, my HB dropped to 117, it was time. I started again, but didn't get the pace back up. My leg really hurt, and it made me feel like a crock, the fact that I seemed to "think of a new pain" seemingly every time I went out. It was more of a dull ache, though, so I decided I could keep going.
Well, I made it back to the Lido, and got to the pelican crossing. Just round the corner, where the Fengate roundabout is, that's where Dave usually gets me to speed up for my "home straight". Sal says it is good to get the body used to a fast ending, so you can end a race on a high. Today was different, though. I was really knackered, and just pleased to get back, and I told myself I wasn't going to do the fast bit, I was listening to my body, it hurt, and it had done well. But here's the weird thing: my feet didn't listen to my brain! They went ahead and ran faster! I swear, it freaked me out! I mean, they didn't go Dave-fast, or anything. But I went back up to a 9m/m! I was impressed, in spite of myself.
Anyway, the good news is that the pain isn't a debilitating one - it is piriformis syndrome, which affects a muscle that runs down the back of your leg along your sciatic nerve, and can sometimes pull it. This made perfect sense. There are some stretches you can do to stop it aching. Woo-hoo! On with the training!
Wednesday slid past in an annoying way, the sort that happens when one of your buddies, who's just always cheered you up and made the place a bit better, leaves. Yep, it was mainly Jim's last day on Wednesday. I took a half day, although in all honesty, the morning was primarily made up of wrapping up his leaving presents, so I time recorded it as Priority Species, as they were mainly frogs and lizards. Also, there was a special, surprise guest - Cat, who feels much the same way as I do about Jim, actually flew all the way from Ireland just for his lunch and leaving-do, and flew back the next morning. Which goes to show some people are actually more insane than me. Fortunately I'd been able to persuade him to go out for dinner that night, without giving the game away (I wasn't sure he'd want to, what with already having eaten lunch out). All in all, it wasn't set up to be a training day, although I had primed Cat that I'd be doing some training in the afternoon, so I emailed Sal to ask if I should do half an hour hill training or pace training. But the long and the short of it was that Cat and I talked for so long, I ran out of time. Nonetheless, I blame Sally wholeheartedly, because she didn't reply to my message till the next morning, which meant I had the perfect excuse to not do either. When I did get her message, she said she'd focus on getting more miles in, so doing some longer runs.
Thursday, then, I set out at lunchtime. No one was around - I looked out for running Dave, but assumed I'd missed him as I was late setting out. I decided that I would add a loop onto the Rowing Lake run, by going around the leisure centre and down to the river before heading up the footpath. This made the run up to 6 miles, and I set out at a good pace, about 9:30m/m. It was a nice warm sunny day (finally) but I realised I'd forgotten my water, which was stupid. Almost as stupid as forgetting to have breakfast. This was doubly stupid, and is something I'm going to have to get out of the habit of. I did quite nicely, and kept the pace up all the way across the railway line, and across the bridge where the weir is, but just over the other side, my head hurt, and I had an ache down the back of my right leg, and I just thought, this is awful, really awful, and I stopped and walked. I don't know, I may still be a bit post-viral, but on the other hand, not having proper breakfast and running without water on a hot day, really weren't going to help.
Having said that, as I walked along the top end of the rowing lake, down the nice side with the trees around, and the sun was shining, I did suddenly realise what a gorgeous day it was, and I really enjoyed my little walk. I decided I would start running again when my heartrate dropped to 120. This was entirely arbitrary, mainly being because it wasn't showing any sign of doing so. I found it ironic how much I enjoyed the walk on my run. Usually it would have annoyed me because of ruining my pace, and giving up, but it was just such a lovely day. I walked past someone who seemed to be giving my "running gear" a mocking glance, so i decided that when I'd cleared him, I'd start again - I didn't want him to think I had acknowledged the lack of running. Also, my HB dropped to 117, it was time. I started again, but didn't get the pace back up. My leg really hurt, and it made me feel like a crock, the fact that I seemed to "think of a new pain" seemingly every time I went out. It was more of a dull ache, though, so I decided I could keep going.
Well, I made it back to the Lido, and got to the pelican crossing. Just round the corner, where the Fengate roundabout is, that's where Dave usually gets me to speed up for my "home straight". Sal says it is good to get the body used to a fast ending, so you can end a race on a high. Today was different, though. I was really knackered, and just pleased to get back, and I told myself I wasn't going to do the fast bit, I was listening to my body, it hurt, and it had done well. But here's the weird thing: my feet didn't listen to my brain! They went ahead and ran faster! I swear, it freaked me out! I mean, they didn't go Dave-fast, or anything. But I went back up to a 9m/m! I was impressed, in spite of myself.
Anyway, the good news is that the pain isn't a debilitating one - it is piriformis syndrome, which affects a muscle that runs down the back of your leg along your sciatic nerve, and can sometimes pull it. This made perfect sense. There are some stretches you can do to stop it aching. Woo-hoo! On with the training!
Monday, 29 August 2011
Another trip.
I'm still going with the best plan for dealing with a cold being to ignore the fact that you have one. Well, that and drinking a tonne of orange juice, green tea (which I have recently decided is the cure of all ills) and glug echinacea (tincture, always) at every opportunity. In accordance with the instructions. Under no circumstances, though, should you pander to a cold by taking time off from your hectic lifestyle. But that's a given already, right?
Well the weekend came round eventually, after four days of not (really) training - pilates counting more as an antidote to aching muscles than training per se. And what I had planned this weekend, the August bank holiday weekend, was a weekend off, where I would relax, do a bit of gardening and housework (long-overdue) and possibly pop over to Melton for my cousin's birthday celebration, advertised on Facebook as a party called "Destroy the Silence", where I am assuming his band, Pretentious, Moi? would be playing. Although in all honesty, I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to be able to do this, so I actually have no idea where the party was. In the event, it was as well I'd let him down gently at an early stage, because I ended up going back up to Edinburgh.
I know, I know, I've already been to Edinburgh - and what a great time I had! But you know, there are some friends that you'll do anything for, because when they ask, it's because they need your help, and you both know that when you need each other, that's when it's important. It kind of reinforces the friendship. It's good. Well, that happened. Emma rang. She said her plans had fallen through, and she didn't know what to do. She had to get her 8-week old daughter Dorrie, her son Jasper, and a month's worth of stuff, home from Edinburgh on the train. Her husband had to go straight to the next gig. She was by herself.
I'd like to sound like a hero here, and say I just told her straight off, "yep, I'll come". That is, of course, what happened, but the lack of heroism is because of how close I was to doing that anyway. The rational side of my brain said that I needed the weekend at home, sort self out, sort house and garden out, and most of all, sort cat out, train sensibly, get on track. The part of my brain that has taken over as dictator, however, already had a list of shows it wanted to see and had missed. It had psychologically already spent the money for the train ticket. This was simply the extra justification it needed. I'm happy(ish) to report that the majority of those shows had already sold out, so my Dictator-for-Life, Party-till-you-drop brain was foiled, but the missed shows weren't replaced by early to beds and healthy diets.
So, let's see, I had planned on coming up on Friday afternoon, but owing to feeling full of cold, I changed my plans to come up on the Saturday. I actually had a sober, and early to bed week, in a desperate attempt to clear the cold. I thought I'd better do a little more sorting of the house as well, so on Friday, I did some washing up, and generaly tidying, and also picked up about 400 rotten pears off the garden floor, and tried to disperse the drunks (made entirely of wasps, you understand), in preparation for Ian who was coming round to salvage some of the unrotten (less rotten?) pears, and I was keen that he wasn't killed in the process by my stripey, humming friends. More because he had kindly agreed to look after Frank at the same time, than out of genuine concern.
On Saturday, I continued the assault on the house, it was long-overdue, and several loads of washing were achieved. I set off for Edinburgh in the afternoon. I have to say, it still lifts my spirits every time I arrive. I walked over to the Magnets' venue, ensconsed myself at a crowded picnic table outside, and waited for the show to finish. The heavens opened, and a deluge of rain came down, doing little to diminish the crowds, but making me feel slightly smug at my umbrella-protected shelter. I later learned that the deluge had started at about five to seven each night with such precision that the backstage crew were genuinely unnerved by its regularity. The Magnets were just pissed off at the dip in sales on CDs that resulted from their crowds rushing off to seek shelter elsewhere. We made our way back to the flat in the downpour, and had some dinner, before heading out to see the Magnets guest on "The Horne Section" at 11pm, which is a great show, mixing some comedy banter with whacky games, set to some improvised musical accompaniment (including, but not restricted to, horns) and guest turns that I remember fondly from last year. However, we left the flat somewhat late, and had to run all the way to the venue, which was helpful, as it was a great way of kick-starting my belated training activities.
It wasn't the early bedtime Sally has been beseeching me to take. Somehow, it never is.
Well the weekend came round eventually, after four days of not (really) training - pilates counting more as an antidote to aching muscles than training per se. And what I had planned this weekend, the August bank holiday weekend, was a weekend off, where I would relax, do a bit of gardening and housework (long-overdue) and possibly pop over to Melton for my cousin's birthday celebration, advertised on Facebook as a party called "Destroy the Silence", where I am assuming his band, Pretentious, Moi? would be playing. Although in all honesty, I decided some time ago that I wasn't going to be able to do this, so I actually have no idea where the party was. In the event, it was as well I'd let him down gently at an early stage, because I ended up going back up to Edinburgh.
I know, I know, I've already been to Edinburgh - and what a great time I had! But you know, there are some friends that you'll do anything for, because when they ask, it's because they need your help, and you both know that when you need each other, that's when it's important. It kind of reinforces the friendship. It's good. Well, that happened. Emma rang. She said her plans had fallen through, and she didn't know what to do. She had to get her 8-week old daughter Dorrie, her son Jasper, and a month's worth of stuff, home from Edinburgh on the train. Her husband had to go straight to the next gig. She was by herself.
I'd like to sound like a hero here, and say I just told her straight off, "yep, I'll come". That is, of course, what happened, but the lack of heroism is because of how close I was to doing that anyway. The rational side of my brain said that I needed the weekend at home, sort self out, sort house and garden out, and most of all, sort cat out, train sensibly, get on track. The part of my brain that has taken over as dictator, however, already had a list of shows it wanted to see and had missed. It had psychologically already spent the money for the train ticket. This was simply the extra justification it needed. I'm happy(ish) to report that the majority of those shows had already sold out, so my Dictator-for-Life, Party-till-you-drop brain was foiled, but the missed shows weren't replaced by early to beds and healthy diets.
So, let's see, I had planned on coming up on Friday afternoon, but owing to feeling full of cold, I changed my plans to come up on the Saturday. I actually had a sober, and early to bed week, in a desperate attempt to clear the cold. I thought I'd better do a little more sorting of the house as well, so on Friday, I did some washing up, and generaly tidying, and also picked up about 400 rotten pears off the garden floor, and tried to disperse the drunks (made entirely of wasps, you understand), in preparation for Ian who was coming round to salvage some of the unrotten (less rotten?) pears, and I was keen that he wasn't killed in the process by my stripey, humming friends. More because he had kindly agreed to look after Frank at the same time, than out of genuine concern.
On Saturday, I continued the assault on the house, it was long-overdue, and several loads of washing were achieved. I set off for Edinburgh in the afternoon. I have to say, it still lifts my spirits every time I arrive. I walked over to the Magnets' venue, ensconsed myself at a crowded picnic table outside, and waited for the show to finish. The heavens opened, and a deluge of rain came down, doing little to diminish the crowds, but making me feel slightly smug at my umbrella-protected shelter. I later learned that the deluge had started at about five to seven each night with such precision that the backstage crew were genuinely unnerved by its regularity. The Magnets were just pissed off at the dip in sales on CDs that resulted from their crowds rushing off to seek shelter elsewhere. We made our way back to the flat in the downpour, and had some dinner, before heading out to see the Magnets guest on "The Horne Section" at 11pm, which is a great show, mixing some comedy banter with whacky games, set to some improvised musical accompaniment (including, but not restricted to, horns) and guest turns that I remember fondly from last year. However, we left the flat somewhat late, and had to run all the way to the venue, which was helpful, as it was a great way of kick-starting my belated training activities.
It wasn't the early bedtime Sally has been beseeching me to take. Somehow, it never is.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Half-arsed
Welcome to the insanity that I border on. On Monday, I had a splendid rest day. In the evening I went out for a curry with Keith, who was a bad influence on me, which led to a glass of wine more than necessary. (The waiters weren't any help either. I'm paranoid every time they smile at me now, although none of us mention the Lido). When I came home, I was just emailing Keith when there was a knock at the door. It was Maggie, who for some reason thought that 10pm was a good time to give me a massive sack of greengages. She informed me that a mutual friend's neighbour had a big tree, and it was brimming, and she had offered to take a bag, because she thought I could make jam out of it, and give it back to her. She honestly said that. It's only occured to me, as I'm typing this 3 nights later, that she was almost certainly the worse for a couple of glasses of wine herself. I mean, she can be demanding, but this was bordering on rude. For some reason, I took them. I'm blaming the wine.
I ate a few, and they weren't a patch on my apricots. I decided that the only time to make jam was right then. So I pitted the entire bag, put them in the preserving pot, and stewed them. I'm starting to think that there is a fine line between reducing the watery-ness and totally losing the flavour. These were very watery, and to my mind, didn't have a lot of flavour to boot. I checked online, but beyond vanilla, there weren't any decent jam recipe suggestions. I opened the cupboard, got out the ginger in syrup, and sliced up a couple of balls. That helped. Now it just tasted of ginger. I tried the freezer, found a couple of pounds of gooseberries, and chucked them in. That was better. But now it tasted of ginger and gooseberries. Still, at least it tasted of something. I didn't have enough jam sugar, so I decided to go to bed.
On Tuesday, slightly knackered after a bad night's sleep (it was very hot, and I couldn't figure out if that was because of red wine or just summer), I ploughed through emails at work. I decided that as Sal had suggested that if I wanted, I could go swimming after my half-hour slow run (we'd been going easy on me in a hope that my leg would make amends), I would run after work, which would enable me to go straight to the pool afterwards with enough time. I'd even invited Maggie for the swim. So, I had a free lunch-time! I invited Heather to lunch, but she had pre-holiday shopping to do, and didn't come. I ended up mainly just working over lunch instead, with a brief sortie to pick up a sandwich, some sugar and a load of jam jars. Around then, I realised that I didn't have my phone, and hadn't really set a time to meet Maggie. Inevitably, I ran late. Well, that wasn't the half of it, although I did. I mean, I worked late. I meant to leave the office at 5, so I could get in my half-hour run and then go swimming, but it was easily half past before I was anywhere near getting ready. I realised I had some logistics to sort out - I had cycled in, but I needed to take a pool car home for an early start the next day. No problem. Pile the sugar into the car, go home, change, pick up phone and give Maggie an update, jog to, and maybe in the vicinity of the pool, swim, pick up bicycle, go home. Brilliant.
I went to get the car, and started to drive out, poorly negotiating the exit barrier. As I reversed and pulled nearer to it, a colleague knocked on my window. "Your back wheel's flat", he told me. He was right. Not completely, but pretty damn nearly. "I might take it to the garage and pump it up" I said hopefully. He looked at me slightly disbelievingly. "You've got a journey tomorrow? Do you want to be stuck in the middle of no where with a flat?" He recommended that I take the keys back and get a different car. I left a note for Teresa to tell her that the car had a flat tire, and also needed exorcising. (She'd given me the same car to get to Oxford last week, and I'd cracked the windscreen. Long story, but that's not a telegraph wire in the photo). By the time I left, it was 6. I'd missed swimming and Maggie. I was knackered. I did see Mags when I got home though, she'd done the swim, and felt refreshed, despite my absence, so that was good.
I got home, fully intending on going running, but I also had the jam to make. I went into the garden, remembered that I'd hung my washing out before I left for work this morning, and saw that lots more apricots were ready: I fetched a bowl, and filled it. I still had time for this run, but only just, because I had to meet Summer to help someone who is coming to Edinburgh with us with his poetry. Well, not so much his poetry as his delivery. I looked at the apricots: I didn't have time for the run now. I'd do it later. I had already warmed the greengages to try and reduce some liquid off them, and while I stirred them, I started pitting the apricots. They were sweet and lovely, and it was time to go. I grabbed some poetry books and headed out.
We had an interesting session, which started out badly when the heavens opened on Summer and I as we walked to the pub. On account of everyone who had been enjoying a quiet summer's pint in the beer garden dashing indoors, there was no quiet area left to help the would-be poet. We decided to go back to Summer's house, and I had him read out a non-rhyming poem, which I thought most closely resembled his style. It was Tich Miller, by Wendy Cope. He liked it, although interpreted it in a quite unique way. Eventually we called it a day, and I went home. I turned the 'gages back on, and finished the apricots. (Pitting them, not eating them). I shoved the jam sugar in, and put it on a low simmer. I was so tired, and there was still a light rain going on. I debated just telling Sal that the slow thirty minute run had been a breeze. Hell, I might as well throw in that the swim was refreshing as well. But how stupid is that? It's not like she's actually anything like as scary as everyone made out. When I've been too tired for runs, I've simply said that, and she's agreed that it's important to listen to your body. What's the point of fibbing? As the teachers used to say when they caught us cheating on tests, "you're only cheating yourself". Worse though, I'd also feel I was abusing Sal. I mean, she's giving up her time to sort me out. The least thing I can do is do the training. I like to leave not running as the last resort. Also, I left my bike outside the passport office.
I got garmined up, shoes on, and slipped out the front door, waiting in the darkness for the garmin to find the satellites. What it mainly found was that it was almost out of charge. Never mind. I started up the street. I know Sal worries about where I run, so if she finds out when I run, she'll probably go spare. I shall have to sign a disclaimer for Sal saying "I did not run at night because I was scared of this lady, and I do not hold her responsible for anything that happens to me from third parties in Dogsthorpe, New England, Fletton, up the embankment, or the wider Peterborough area." Anyway, I'd sign that quite happily because I like running at night. It reminds me of that song from Guys and Dolls, "My time of day". Especially the smell of the rain-washed pavement bit. They were still being washed, when I was running. And the run, well, it was easy. My hurty leg was still giving it gyp, and I almost got knocked over on the corner at the end of Tony's road, by some girls cycling on the pavement. I got sad running past Jan and Tony's thinking of them moving away, and not having any more fun evenings at theirs. But then I got a bit worried at having left the jam on the hob. The garmin had long since died, but my watch was still going, and said I'd been away for 20 minutes. I still had to pick up the bicycle, and get that home. Hope the jam didn't stick while I was gone. I had images of Frank trapped in a burning house. I wasn't sure why he'd be trapped, but you know, it'd be typical.
I got to the bicycle, which was still there, and cycled it home through the rain, which had eased off quite a bit by now. I pushed it round the back, and as I turned the outside light on, I had a flash of a white shirt, and felt a momentary panic that someone was in the garden. Then I realised it was just a white shirt. The washing was drenched. Never mind, tomorrow's supposed to be nice too, right?
On the plus side, the jam wasn't burned, so I bottled it up, washed the preserving pan, and shoved the apricots in it, which I stewed very lightly and went to bed, feeling pleased Sal didn't know what time it was.
I ate a few, and they weren't a patch on my apricots. I decided that the only time to make jam was right then. So I pitted the entire bag, put them in the preserving pot, and stewed them. I'm starting to think that there is a fine line between reducing the watery-ness and totally losing the flavour. These were very watery, and to my mind, didn't have a lot of flavour to boot. I checked online, but beyond vanilla, there weren't any decent jam recipe suggestions. I opened the cupboard, got out the ginger in syrup, and sliced up a couple of balls. That helped. Now it just tasted of ginger. I tried the freezer, found a couple of pounds of gooseberries, and chucked them in. That was better. But now it tasted of ginger and gooseberries. Still, at least it tasted of something. I didn't have enough jam sugar, so I decided to go to bed.
On Tuesday, slightly knackered after a bad night's sleep (it was very hot, and I couldn't figure out if that was because of red wine or just summer), I ploughed through emails at work. I decided that as Sal had suggested that if I wanted, I could go swimming after my half-hour slow run (we'd been going easy on me in a hope that my leg would make amends), I would run after work, which would enable me to go straight to the pool afterwards with enough time. I'd even invited Maggie for the swim. So, I had a free lunch-time! I invited Heather to lunch, but she had pre-holiday shopping to do, and didn't come. I ended up mainly just working over lunch instead, with a brief sortie to pick up a sandwich, some sugar and a load of jam jars. Around then, I realised that I didn't have my phone, and hadn't really set a time to meet Maggie. Inevitably, I ran late. Well, that wasn't the half of it, although I did. I mean, I worked late. I meant to leave the office at 5, so I could get in my half-hour run and then go swimming, but it was easily half past before I was anywhere near getting ready. I realised I had some logistics to sort out - I had cycled in, but I needed to take a pool car home for an early start the next day. No problem. Pile the sugar into the car, go home, change, pick up phone and give Maggie an update, jog to, and maybe in the vicinity of the pool, swim, pick up bicycle, go home. Brilliant.
I got home, fully intending on going running, but I also had the jam to make. I went into the garden, remembered that I'd hung my washing out before I left for work this morning, and saw that lots more apricots were ready: I fetched a bowl, and filled it. I still had time for this run, but only just, because I had to meet Summer to help someone who is coming to Edinburgh with us with his poetry. Well, not so much his poetry as his delivery. I looked at the apricots: I didn't have time for the run now. I'd do it later. I had already warmed the greengages to try and reduce some liquid off them, and while I stirred them, I started pitting the apricots. They were sweet and lovely, and it was time to go. I grabbed some poetry books and headed out.
We had an interesting session, which started out badly when the heavens opened on Summer and I as we walked to the pub. On account of everyone who had been enjoying a quiet summer's pint in the beer garden dashing indoors, there was no quiet area left to help the would-be poet. We decided to go back to Summer's house, and I had him read out a non-rhyming poem, which I thought most closely resembled his style. It was Tich Miller, by Wendy Cope. He liked it, although interpreted it in a quite unique way. Eventually we called it a day, and I went home. I turned the 'gages back on, and finished the apricots. (Pitting them, not eating them). I shoved the jam sugar in, and put it on a low simmer. I was so tired, and there was still a light rain going on. I debated just telling Sal that the slow thirty minute run had been a breeze. Hell, I might as well throw in that the swim was refreshing as well. But how stupid is that? It's not like she's actually anything like as scary as everyone made out. When I've been too tired for runs, I've simply said that, and she's agreed that it's important to listen to your body. What's the point of fibbing? As the teachers used to say when they caught us cheating on tests, "you're only cheating yourself". Worse though, I'd also feel I was abusing Sal. I mean, she's giving up her time to sort me out. The least thing I can do is do the training. I like to leave not running as the last resort. Also, I left my bike outside the passport office.
I got garmined up, shoes on, and slipped out the front door, waiting in the darkness for the garmin to find the satellites. What it mainly found was that it was almost out of charge. Never mind. I started up the street. I know Sal worries about where I run, so if she finds out when I run, she'll probably go spare. I shall have to sign a disclaimer for Sal saying "I did not run at night because I was scared of this lady, and I do not hold her responsible for anything that happens to me from third parties in Dogsthorpe, New England, Fletton, up the embankment, or the wider Peterborough area." Anyway, I'd sign that quite happily because I like running at night. It reminds me of that song from Guys and Dolls, "My time of day". Especially the smell of the rain-washed pavement bit. They were still being washed, when I was running. And the run, well, it was easy. My hurty leg was still giving it gyp, and I almost got knocked over on the corner at the end of Tony's road, by some girls cycling on the pavement. I got sad running past Jan and Tony's thinking of them moving away, and not having any more fun evenings at theirs. But then I got a bit worried at having left the jam on the hob. The garmin had long since died, but my watch was still going, and said I'd been away for 20 minutes. I still had to pick up the bicycle, and get that home. Hope the jam didn't stick while I was gone. I had images of Frank trapped in a burning house. I wasn't sure why he'd be trapped, but you know, it'd be typical.
I got to the bicycle, which was still there, and cycled it home through the rain, which had eased off quite a bit by now. I pushed it round the back, and as I turned the outside light on, I had a flash of a white shirt, and felt a momentary panic that someone was in the garden. Then I realised it was just a white shirt. The washing was drenched. Never mind, tomorrow's supposed to be nice too, right?
On the plus side, the jam wasn't burned, so I bottled it up, washed the preserving pan, and shoved the apricots in it, which I stewed very lightly and went to bed, feeling pleased Sal didn't know what time it was.
Monday, 25 July 2011
Dear Sally
Er. Right.
You know how it was nice and sunny earlier? And now it's raining? How about an early night as a quid pro quo?
I'm flummoxed as to how I come to be so totally knackered, but I am. On the plus side, I did have a shorter, unscheduled run with weight training earlier today, but it was only about 15 minutes. And I wasn't wearing my trainers. I learned some valuable lessons though. Want to hear them? Course you do.
Well, I was on my way back from a meeting in London, and made an brief diversion on the way home to Blacks (which is having a massive sale) and scooped a bag which I thought would be appropriate for a weekend Glamping next weekend (my second hen party of the year: mum couldn't believe it - she says she thanks her lucky stars that she was born in 1938 and avoided all this). I made my way, with new purchase (in which I placed my work bag and computer, because the new bag has wheels) to Victoria underground station, which despite having massive posters up everywhere claiming huge improvements to the service, still opts to get around the problem of overcrowding at rush hour by making you walk approximately twice your actual journey distance, in underground tunnels. To be fair, it was reasonably effective. But I got to a train, eventually. Then it stopped at Warren Street, where the polite driver informed us that owing to an incident at Kings Cross that the police were sorting out, we'd have a few moments' delay. He then let us know that he had permission to go on to Euston, but there would be a further wait there. My train was at 16:40, and is the only fast, slow train (regular commuters will understand this oxymoron). It was 16:22. I jumped off the train, swung my new purchase onto my back (ah-ha, it has wheels AND rucksack straps), and set off up the Euston Road.
Now, here are some interesting points. It's less than a mile between Euston and Kings Cross (although that isn't allowing for platform length), and I didn't even hesitate about running it. I knew I could run that distance - and I knew I could do it in less than 14 minutes. I'll tell you something else (while I'm here, and all): I also know I couldn't do it previously - I've had to do it at a fast walk on previous such occasions. Furthermore, pace training may even have its place in this saga - it's not easy running along rush-hour pavements between two major train stations. There are lots of people. Some of them seem to hesitate before going, oh, she'll figure it out - and stepping directly into your path. The art of slowing down, negotiating, and then speeding up, is pretty handy, in fact. A thought I'd never appreciated before. You know how maths teachers always used to say "you'll use this in later life", and while I was in the position of needing to do some trigonometry the other day (no, really. It was to do with those trees and the plot markers) I swear I couldn't remember anything more than SOHCAHTOA. And even though I can remember what those letters mean, I still can't remember what they're for. The point being that my training has already had practical application, while my brain failed on the only practical application for trig in 20 years. (I strongly suspect that Keith could have done the calculation, but he refused to accept my point that it would be of any value).
Anyway, I made the train. Unfortunately, so did Roger, so I had to listen to an entire train journey about a rock festival him and his teenage son were on their way home from. His son had the good grace to pretend to be asleep, which is the only thing you can do when your extremely embarrassing father meets an extremely embarrassing friend on the train. Also, I discovered why runners don't tend to wear short skirts. As Rog put it, first class may get a free cup of tea, but they don't get a free cabaret show.
You know how it was nice and sunny earlier? And now it's raining? How about an early night as a quid pro quo?
I'm flummoxed as to how I come to be so totally knackered, but I am. On the plus side, I did have a shorter, unscheduled run with weight training earlier today, but it was only about 15 minutes. And I wasn't wearing my trainers. I learned some valuable lessons though. Want to hear them? Course you do.
Well, I was on my way back from a meeting in London, and made an brief diversion on the way home to Blacks (which is having a massive sale) and scooped a bag which I thought would be appropriate for a weekend Glamping next weekend (my second hen party of the year: mum couldn't believe it - she says she thanks her lucky stars that she was born in 1938 and avoided all this). I made my way, with new purchase (in which I placed my work bag and computer, because the new bag has wheels) to Victoria underground station, which despite having massive posters up everywhere claiming huge improvements to the service, still opts to get around the problem of overcrowding at rush hour by making you walk approximately twice your actual journey distance, in underground tunnels. To be fair, it was reasonably effective. But I got to a train, eventually. Then it stopped at Warren Street, where the polite driver informed us that owing to an incident at Kings Cross that the police were sorting out, we'd have a few moments' delay. He then let us know that he had permission to go on to Euston, but there would be a further wait there. My train was at 16:40, and is the only fast, slow train (regular commuters will understand this oxymoron). It was 16:22. I jumped off the train, swung my new purchase onto my back (ah-ha, it has wheels AND rucksack straps), and set off up the Euston Road.
Now, here are some interesting points. It's less than a mile between Euston and Kings Cross (although that isn't allowing for platform length), and I didn't even hesitate about running it. I knew I could run that distance - and I knew I could do it in less than 14 minutes. I'll tell you something else (while I'm here, and all): I also know I couldn't do it previously - I've had to do it at a fast walk on previous such occasions. Furthermore, pace training may even have its place in this saga - it's not easy running along rush-hour pavements between two major train stations. There are lots of people. Some of them seem to hesitate before going, oh, she'll figure it out - and stepping directly into your path. The art of slowing down, negotiating, and then speeding up, is pretty handy, in fact. A thought I'd never appreciated before. You know how maths teachers always used to say "you'll use this in later life", and while I was in the position of needing to do some trigonometry the other day (no, really. It was to do with those trees and the plot markers) I swear I couldn't remember anything more than SOHCAHTOA. And even though I can remember what those letters mean, I still can't remember what they're for. The point being that my training has already had practical application, while my brain failed on the only practical application for trig in 20 years. (I strongly suspect that Keith could have done the calculation, but he refused to accept my point that it would be of any value).
Anyway, I made the train. Unfortunately, so did Roger, so I had to listen to an entire train journey about a rock festival him and his teenage son were on their way home from. His son had the good grace to pretend to be asleep, which is the only thing you can do when your extremely embarrassing father meets an extremely embarrassing friend on the train. Also, I discovered why runners don't tend to wear short skirts. As Rog put it, first class may get a free cup of tea, but they don't get a free cabaret show.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Discretion, Valour and Failure: would you like guilt with that?
Let's address failure a moment. How do we deal with it? Does it represent the end of a task, or a learning opportunity, a chance to get stronger? How do you make the judgement call between when you are copping out and when you actually need to stop? How do you stop wondering about it afterwards? Why do you feel bad for days and days when you know that it was the right decision? Let's face it, this was my reaction to a bad session, early on in training, followed by a clear instruction to take a break. If I fail the run, it won't be pretty. I'll cry. A lot.
As a matter of fact, I was going to title the blog entry "Will to Fail" after a song of that name by Katie Lee, which you can purchase on itunes. It's in an album called "Songs of Couch and Consultation" on which my favourite track is "Repressed Hostility Blues". I'd link to it if I could figure out how - it's worth a listen. I didn't call it that because I'm relatively certain that no one else would have had a clue about that particular reference. Katie Lee was singing this rich parody of psychiatric complaints (she has another album, brilliantly entitled "Life is just a bed of neuroses") back in the 1950s. Brilliant. My connection to the songs is via my old man, in his professional capacity (no, he's a psychiatrist. He's not a professional dad. And, no, he didn't help me professionally. No. Really. Not even just for practice).
Anyway, if you do sneak a peak, (or a listen), as a teenager I held on to this song. I thought it was much easier to fail than to succeed, and embracing it seemed the way to go. I got into the very bad habit of getting in the put-down (to myself) first, because it seemed an obvious way of being wryly entertaining, and, fantastically, not being ridiculed by others. Of course, what it does in reality is nauseatingly scream that you need reassurance and compliments from others (which they may or may not choose to give, depending on how needy and desperate you are). It is of course, a boring and tedious trait to have, and I was trained out of it with the help of some of my more abusive friends. What strikes me now, after Thursday's fiasco, is that I clearly do not have the Will to Fail anymore, in any capacity. It depresses and upsets me to fail. This is tragic, and means that my life is going to be a big disappointment in the long run. But you know, if you set small, achievable targets, you can fool yourself a lot of the time.
Anyway, on with the story. I think to say that the past four days has been a little busy would be an understatement of epic proportion. To say that I'm burning the candle at both ends would be wrong. I broke the candle into several pieces, and lit all the ends.
By the way, I shall interupt my narrative, which isn't flowing at all, to point out that my respect for Sal is increasing in epic proportions. (I remain extremely alarmed by her response to All Heart, though, it does make me question the value of entering a marathon, which I had been toying with - she's just said that running a marathon damages you. How is that good?) Anyway, back on to the flattery. I fear I may have painted too harsh a picture of Sal - I was chatting with some friends on Thursday, and mentioned the whole "I ran 18 miles on a broken pelvis" statement, (which, by now it should be clear, had a major negative impact on me) and Dave (that's Thespian Dave, for clarity, who has never met Sal, but did read the blog) said "Yes, but I had the impression it wasn't HER pelvis". Now, I've been informed by my co-runners (Nigel, and Dave, and maybe even moustachioed Chris) that if you do something WRONG that attracts the Evil Eye and incurs the Wroth of Sal, you get a note on your training schedule that says SEE ME. I believe them in this, it's already happened on my Facebook status a couple of times, although I've so far assumed in those cases that it was in jest. The ticking-off, apparently, follows (possibly also the trampling over your broken pelvis).
However, I now have reason to believe that Sal is not only eminently reasonable, but that she will drop hints to you, before she loses it (I'm wondering here about the male psyche and their ability to pick up on the hints). For instance: I did blog at some point that I hadn't really eaten, and the following week, my schedule included a note about breakfast - so she'd processed a failure, and simply made a suggestion. Obviously I then ridiculed it in my blog, but then she had suggested (unwittingly) that I run in the morning, right after a Hen Party. Likewise, I received a quiet suggestion via Facebook this week, following an observation of my night-owl tendencies on the internet, that sleeping is really important for runners, and some early nights wouldn't go amiss; this is not the first time she's mentioned this: I can see how some tolerance towards aberrations will be permitted, but at some point, if I constantly ignore them, some Quiet Words will be had. And deserved.
And those words might be "I told you so".
So back to Thursday, and perhaps a day or so before, for history's sake. Now, I'm not a big one to share illnesses (stop that sniggering. Perhaps I could amend that to "any more": this is partly through a realisation, via Facebook, that statuses stating illnesses are monumentally tedious, and therefore should only be undertaken if sympathy is an absolute imperative. But to be honest, call up your mate and get it in person. The tragic and honest truth is that no one else cares. So I figure that there is a wider lesson here, which I've tried to take). Another reason for not mentioning health, even in this blog, was the nature of the problem. So, without graphics, I've had a stomach upset for a few days. Now, I've also had the edge of a cold going on. I didn't mention this for two reasons: If I waited to be in tiptop working order, I'd never get more than a week and half's training in. Well, that's how it feels sometimes. I don't want Sal to ground me on that basis, so I thought it was better to just not tell her. And then, I'll probably be ill on the race day, so I may as well get used to how it feels running through it, right?
Well, First Defense is my preferred weapon in the armoury against the common cold. Mainly because I can claim to be snorting drugs, of course, but also because I believe it works, and, as everyone knows, belief has a lot to do with the success of these things, and cannot be overrated. So I'm snorting me drugs, which is holding off the cold nicely, and I'm trying to ignore my grumbly tummy, and I'm not letting out on my social calendar, which this last week mainly just involved Pint of Poetry on Wednesday night, but with a massive line-up of participating in a play on Thursday evening, Friday and Saturday, and preparing for a BBQ on Saturday evening, with the necessary cooking, baking, house and garden tidying; and going to Ipswich for a workshop on Sunday. But you know, I had time off work, and was confident I could achieve my training as well, because they don't call me Superwoman for nothing. (Or at all, now I come to think of it).
I technically had pace-training on Thursday, which I planned to do, as usual, at lunch time. I shunned the Natural Runners, secretly disappointed that they didn't offer to join me. Especially as I met Rob on his way back from the Natural Run, on which he had clearly been hearing about The Blog, because his face fell as he said "I still won't be in your blog, because we haven't been running together". It was so lovely to hear of someone actually wanting to get into the blog, I thought I'd give him this honourable mention (although, according to Nigel, Rob is the master of innuendo, so we can expect richer pickings when he does come out on a run with me). My day started poorly, however, as when I picked up the garmin, I realised that, having attempted to upload the data to the internet, I'd failed to recharge it. Wrong cable, see? I say I realised then. I didn't. I realised at lunchtime when I turned it on and it said "low battery".
I ignored this, and set off, happily noting that my heartrate, during my warm-up, stayed at 147 bpm, my pace being a more relaxed 11 minute mile, although for some reason, that old peroneal tendon was still playing up and didn't quieten down into the run as usual. I also found as I jogged that I was feeling really quite giddy. It was at this point that I had the dawning realisation that I hadn't eaten. Not only hadn't I eaten, the previous day I'd had a bowl of puffed wheat breakfast cereal for dinner. This was the stomach thing, you see. I didn't have much appetite. And once I'd got that point, being hungry made me feel sick too (which was why I ate the cereal on Wednesday night). I realised that if Sal found out, she was going to give me a serious talk about diet. It isn't one that I actually need - I don't habitually skip meals, and I'm on board with the idea of slow-burning meals before runs, but I figured she'd probably feel duty-bound to make sure she'd said it if she found out what I was doing. I resolved not to tell her.
At that point the Garmin died. Now I couldn't log the bloody run. I felt seriously pissed off. The heart-rate thing has started to interest me, and I haven't done any pace training since I borrowed Nigel's heartrate monitor. I also hadn't taken my phone with me, having figured that I didn't need it, what with the Garmin and all. So as I was figuring, on my watch, how many more minutes of jogging I had before I started my paces, I suddenly realised that I wasn't going to be able to know if I was doing a 9 minute mile or not. Well, actually, I'd just know I almost certainly wasn't doing one. And I thought about the impact a sprint on my calve, which was now kind of almost "hurting" as in Anita's definition, "not that kind of pain". I knew Sal had said I could run on it, but suddenly I wasn't sure how far to let the pain go. There were too many things going on in my life. There were too many things going wrong with my jog. There seemed to be a connection. I was overdoing it. I needed proper sleep, I needed to sort things out, and decide on my priorities. I needed to be well to do those things. I quit.
I decided to go home and eat, and charge up the battery, and not tell Sal anything about the lack of food thing, but to ask her about the tendon. I admitted to the inital-cold-symptoms as well. If she thought I should do it, I could still do the training in the evening.
Sal's response was prompt and definitive: the tendon wasn't serious, but a break of a few days would only help it, and the cold. A few days' break now would be no bad thing, and I wasn't to worry. The fact that suspending my training saved my final shreds of sanity from my frenetic lifestyle is still adding an uncomfortable side-order of guilt, but the tendon is still sore going up stairs today, so I'm holding by my coach's recommendation. Plus, Frank is loving it. He's also like me to point out that he is definitely cuter than the puppy dogs, and he can do the whole "upside down" thing, although would not deign to have a pilates exercise named after him.
And when she messaged me on Facebook on Thursday saying "Go to Sleep"? My response: "Yes'm"
As a matter of fact, I was going to title the blog entry "Will to Fail" after a song of that name by Katie Lee, which you can purchase on itunes. It's in an album called "Songs of Couch and Consultation" on which my favourite track is "Repressed Hostility Blues". I'd link to it if I could figure out how - it's worth a listen. I didn't call it that because I'm relatively certain that no one else would have had a clue about that particular reference. Katie Lee was singing this rich parody of psychiatric complaints (she has another album, brilliantly entitled "Life is just a bed of neuroses") back in the 1950s. Brilliant. My connection to the songs is via my old man, in his professional capacity (no, he's a psychiatrist. He's not a professional dad. And, no, he didn't help me professionally. No. Really. Not even just for practice).
Anyway, if you do sneak a peak, (or a listen), as a teenager I held on to this song. I thought it was much easier to fail than to succeed, and embracing it seemed the way to go. I got into the very bad habit of getting in the put-down (to myself) first, because it seemed an obvious way of being wryly entertaining, and, fantastically, not being ridiculed by others. Of course, what it does in reality is nauseatingly scream that you need reassurance and compliments from others (which they may or may not choose to give, depending on how needy and desperate you are). It is of course, a boring and tedious trait to have, and I was trained out of it with the help of some of my more abusive friends. What strikes me now, after Thursday's fiasco, is that I clearly do not have the Will to Fail anymore, in any capacity. It depresses and upsets me to fail. This is tragic, and means that my life is going to be a big disappointment in the long run. But you know, if you set small, achievable targets, you can fool yourself a lot of the time.
Anyway, on with the story. I think to say that the past four days has been a little busy would be an understatement of epic proportion. To say that I'm burning the candle at both ends would be wrong. I broke the candle into several pieces, and lit all the ends.
By the way, I shall interupt my narrative, which isn't flowing at all, to point out that my respect for Sal is increasing in epic proportions. (I remain extremely alarmed by her response to All Heart, though, it does make me question the value of entering a marathon, which I had been toying with - she's just said that running a marathon damages you. How is that good?) Anyway, back on to the flattery. I fear I may have painted too harsh a picture of Sal - I was chatting with some friends on Thursday, and mentioned the whole "I ran 18 miles on a broken pelvis" statement, (which, by now it should be clear, had a major negative impact on me) and Dave (that's Thespian Dave, for clarity, who has never met Sal, but did read the blog) said "Yes, but I had the impression it wasn't HER pelvis". Now, I've been informed by my co-runners (Nigel, and Dave, and maybe even moustachioed Chris) that if you do something WRONG that attracts the Evil Eye and incurs the Wroth of Sal, you get a note on your training schedule that says SEE ME. I believe them in this, it's already happened on my Facebook status a couple of times, although I've so far assumed in those cases that it was in jest. The ticking-off, apparently, follows (possibly also the trampling over your broken pelvis).
However, I now have reason to believe that Sal is not only eminently reasonable, but that she will drop hints to you, before she loses it (I'm wondering here about the male psyche and their ability to pick up on the hints). For instance: I did blog at some point that I hadn't really eaten, and the following week, my schedule included a note about breakfast - so she'd processed a failure, and simply made a suggestion. Obviously I then ridiculed it in my blog, but then she had suggested (unwittingly) that I run in the morning, right after a Hen Party. Likewise, I received a quiet suggestion via Facebook this week, following an observation of my night-owl tendencies on the internet, that sleeping is really important for runners, and some early nights wouldn't go amiss; this is not the first time she's mentioned this: I can see how some tolerance towards aberrations will be permitted, but at some point, if I constantly ignore them, some Quiet Words will be had. And deserved.
And those words might be "I told you so".
So back to Thursday, and perhaps a day or so before, for history's sake. Now, I'm not a big one to share illnesses (stop that sniggering. Perhaps I could amend that to "any more": this is partly through a realisation, via Facebook, that statuses stating illnesses are monumentally tedious, and therefore should only be undertaken if sympathy is an absolute imperative. But to be honest, call up your mate and get it in person. The tragic and honest truth is that no one else cares. So I figure that there is a wider lesson here, which I've tried to take). Another reason for not mentioning health, even in this blog, was the nature of the problem. So, without graphics, I've had a stomach upset for a few days. Now, I've also had the edge of a cold going on. I didn't mention this for two reasons: If I waited to be in tiptop working order, I'd never get more than a week and half's training in. Well, that's how it feels sometimes. I don't want Sal to ground me on that basis, so I thought it was better to just not tell her. And then, I'll probably be ill on the race day, so I may as well get used to how it feels running through it, right?
Well, First Defense is my preferred weapon in the armoury against the common cold. Mainly because I can claim to be snorting drugs, of course, but also because I believe it works, and, as everyone knows, belief has a lot to do with the success of these things, and cannot be overrated. So I'm snorting me drugs, which is holding off the cold nicely, and I'm trying to ignore my grumbly tummy, and I'm not letting out on my social calendar, which this last week mainly just involved Pint of Poetry on Wednesday night, but with a massive line-up of participating in a play on Thursday evening, Friday and Saturday, and preparing for a BBQ on Saturday evening, with the necessary cooking, baking, house and garden tidying; and going to Ipswich for a workshop on Sunday. But you know, I had time off work, and was confident I could achieve my training as well, because they don't call me Superwoman for nothing. (Or at all, now I come to think of it).
I technically had pace-training on Thursday, which I planned to do, as usual, at lunch time. I shunned the Natural Runners, secretly disappointed that they didn't offer to join me. Especially as I met Rob on his way back from the Natural Run, on which he had clearly been hearing about The Blog, because his face fell as he said "I still won't be in your blog, because we haven't been running together". It was so lovely to hear of someone actually wanting to get into the blog, I thought I'd give him this honourable mention (although, according to Nigel, Rob is the master of innuendo, so we can expect richer pickings when he does come out on a run with me). My day started poorly, however, as when I picked up the garmin, I realised that, having attempted to upload the data to the internet, I'd failed to recharge it. Wrong cable, see? I say I realised then. I didn't. I realised at lunchtime when I turned it on and it said "low battery".
I ignored this, and set off, happily noting that my heartrate, during my warm-up, stayed at 147 bpm, my pace being a more relaxed 11 minute mile, although for some reason, that old peroneal tendon was still playing up and didn't quieten down into the run as usual. I also found as I jogged that I was feeling really quite giddy. It was at this point that I had the dawning realisation that I hadn't eaten. Not only hadn't I eaten, the previous day I'd had a bowl of puffed wheat breakfast cereal for dinner. This was the stomach thing, you see. I didn't have much appetite. And once I'd got that point, being hungry made me feel sick too (which was why I ate the cereal on Wednesday night). I realised that if Sal found out, she was going to give me a serious talk about diet. It isn't one that I actually need - I don't habitually skip meals, and I'm on board with the idea of slow-burning meals before runs, but I figured she'd probably feel duty-bound to make sure she'd said it if she found out what I was doing. I resolved not to tell her.
At that point the Garmin died. Now I couldn't log the bloody run. I felt seriously pissed off. The heart-rate thing has started to interest me, and I haven't done any pace training since I borrowed Nigel's heartrate monitor. I also hadn't taken my phone with me, having figured that I didn't need it, what with the Garmin and all. So as I was figuring, on my watch, how many more minutes of jogging I had before I started my paces, I suddenly realised that I wasn't going to be able to know if I was doing a 9 minute mile or not. Well, actually, I'd just know I almost certainly wasn't doing one. And I thought about the impact a sprint on my calve, which was now kind of almost "hurting" as in Anita's definition, "not that kind of pain". I knew Sal had said I could run on it, but suddenly I wasn't sure how far to let the pain go. There were too many things going on in my life. There were too many things going wrong with my jog. There seemed to be a connection. I was overdoing it. I needed proper sleep, I needed to sort things out, and decide on my priorities. I needed to be well to do those things. I quit.
I decided to go home and eat, and charge up the battery, and not tell Sal anything about the lack of food thing, but to ask her about the tendon. I admitted to the inital-cold-symptoms as well. If she thought I should do it, I could still do the training in the evening.
Sal's response was prompt and definitive: the tendon wasn't serious, but a break of a few days would only help it, and the cold. A few days' break now would be no bad thing, and I wasn't to worry. The fact that suspending my training saved my final shreds of sanity from my frenetic lifestyle is still adding an uncomfortable side-order of guilt, but the tendon is still sore going up stairs today, so I'm holding by my coach's recommendation. Plus, Frank is loving it. He's also like me to point out that he is definitely cuter than the puppy dogs, and he can do the whole "upside down" thing, although would not deign to have a pilates exercise named after him.And when she messaged me on Facebook on Thursday saying "Go to Sleep"? My response: "Yes'm"
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