May 2011 – Not a Jogger

Sleep-running

Yesterday, 5pm, 5 miles. That was the plan. The plan that slipped gently into the bin as I snoozed on the sofa, open book resting on my chest, glasses sliding up onto my forehead.

A rest is as good as a run, I told myself, particularly if one has enjoyed the company of two sets of house guests in one weekend, and has several chocolate gifts to consume. In that case, a rest is not only as good as, but is also considerably more likely than, a run. Especially if one has had a drink or two the previous evening.

Back to work today.

It was sunny and I took my kit to work. To go out for a run after getting home this evening would have required running the nap/chocs gauntlet I failed so miserably on yesterday. The flesh was weak. I knew I would have to run straight from work or not at all.

I did all the things that make it harder to wimp out of a post-work run: I told everyone I was going to do it; I ate a big lunch AND a mid-afternoon snack I would feel guilty about not ‘running off’; I saved an episode of my current favourite podcast ( ‘This American Life’) for it; and I finished work dead on time.

There was no reason not to go. Today, 5.30pm, 6 miles. That was the plan and that was what I ran. It was great.

Four Miles Later:

Not dead;

Still hungover.

Bank Holiday Bonanza

A bonus (to me, anyway) of the three day weekend is having three chances to run. This doesn’t necessarily mean I will run on all three days but for some reason I don’t have a wedding or hen night to go to, so it’s possible.

Yesterday, without meaning to, I ran 9 miles with Mr N. We meant to run 7 miles, the extra 2 were a little prize for my not concentrating on Haverstock Hill and missing the turn off to Gospel Oak. I was feeling so good I didn’t mind, but Mr N was not, and did.

As I write this on Sunday morning I’m sitting in bed, having finished the crossword, with quite a serious hangover, pondering whether a run would kill or cure. It has to be cure. Right? In 15 minutes I’ll get up and get the trainers on and find out. To be continued…

A run-in with the President

So, I was running in Regent’s Park and who should be in my way but Barack Obama?! I know, I too was surprised! Wasn’t he supposed to be playing ping pong with Pippa Middleton, or barbecuing Nick Clegg over the cabinet table? Turns out he was in the Park all along, blocking off large parts of my usual route with his white tape, metal fences and armoured police with enormous terrifying guns.

I was going to take a photo to record the cause for my outrage, but then I looked at all the guns and thought, maybe not. Even from far away, the policemen still seemed to have their sights trained on me. Were they impressed by my running stylings? I don’t think so. They meant business. And not that kind of business.

My run-in with the President, or at least, my run-in with his temporary residence in London, wasn’t the only excitement of last night’s 7.5 miler from work to home via the Park. Nearing home in a particularly urban part of Archway I witnessed what I can only describe as an Ice Cream Van drug deal. I may have been watching too many episodes of the Shield, but I swear that a group of youths were working as go-betweens between a Mr Whippy and dark-windowed saloon, and that what was changing hands did not involve any strawberry sauce.

This idea is gold, I was thinking. The plaintive siren call of ‘Greensleeves’ as the van approaches your street. The panicky search for mum’s purse to steal the necessary cash. The purchase of the two-ball speedball, the Choc-Ice, the Freeze Pop…

Non, rien de rien…

I did not want to run this morning. I wanted to stay in bed. I wanted to eat my breakfast. I wanted a cup of tea and the nudge of a passing cat on my shin, the Today programme, an unread section of Saturday’s paper, the view of my garden.

I did not want the struggle into a too tight sports bra, the forcing of contact lenses into half-closed eyes, the gulp of stale water from the bedside table. I did not want the shiver of morning air on my bare arms, the arthritic drag of stiff knees up Crouch End Hill. I did not want the thunder of passing buses or the attention of curious dogs on their morning walks. I did not want to run this morning.

I did run this morning. I ran 5.5 miles and 4 of them were not awful.

When I had woken up I remembered something a wedding guest said to me on Saturday, that you never regret going for a run. I suppose this is a cliche, but I had never thought of it before. It is entirely true, and knowing that is probably the difference between a beginner and someone like me. I run because I know I will be glad to have done it, no matter how badly it went.

Brain Training

I’m just back from a fabulous weekend in Cornwall for a wedding, and didn’t manage to post this while I was there due to a) the wedding, b) alcohol, and c) all the fun.

Before heading down on Friday, I squeezed in a quick 4 mile circuit of Crouch End on Thursday night. Running was just one of a long list of tasks to tick off that evening. If the ideal run is ‘free’, unbounded by time or distance pressures, then this was the opposite of that. My mind was racing over packing and remembering the bridal make-up and borrowing the video camera and buying confetti and would we get a seat on the train and what time we should leave and before my brain had started to unwind the run was over.

To make amends, and to balance all the merrymaking, we planned a 5 mile run in Cornwall on the Saturday morning from our borrowed house in Stithians. It was a glowering morning, the few splashes of sunshine chased away by swift clouds, wind bobbing the hedgerow flowers. The roads were narrow and winding and a car swerved wildly around one bend to avoid us. The greens and blues I had been expecting from the Cornish countryside were strangely leached of brightness and I couldn’t seem to fix the route map in my head firmly enough not to worry constantly about becoming lost.

We ran to a ‘lake’, which held an Ordnance Survey promise of rolling beauty, but what we found was this:

That’s me, crossing the concrete dam of the reservoir, which had turned what was probably once a charming valley into a giant grey water trough. It was a bleak sight, even in the shaft of sunlight that greeted us as we approached the shore. It might be unfair to stretch this observation into something wider, but it seemed to me, as I quaffed champagne on a deck overlooking Helford Passage later that day, that the crumbling working parts of Cornwall were bringing the manicured parts into uncomfortable relief. A drive past boarded up buildings in Redruth on the way to drink cappucinos in St Ives this morning increased my unease.

As runs go, this wasn’t free in terms of route or timing, but I can picture every corner and hill. I was free to think about the land, the houses and who might live there, the weather and the passing cars. We weren’t running fast so I wasn’t thinking about my body at all, not even my hangover. I think it was mainly an exercise for my brain.

Rain Dogs and Englishwomen

The clouds had been gathering for most of the afternoon. I have a great view from my office window, so great that someone once brought in a cloud book to help us avoid work more thoroughly. These were rainclouds, i was pretty certain (and heard it on the weather forecast).

Other than a few drops, I don’t think it’s rained in North London for about a month now. I can tell how bad the weather is by how often I go to the gym, rather than run outside, and I think I’ve been twice since March.

It started to pour steadily as I left the office. I had my kit with me, planning to head for the treadmills, but as I walked to the tube I changed my mind. The pavements were darkening and the kings cross traffic noises and smells were muted by the falling rain. It had been so long since I ran in the wet that I realised I missed it: the shiver of damp t-shirt on arm, the stream of water running off my cap, even the irritating drops on my glasses.

Of course once I started running it stopped raining within a few minutes, and the slick pavements of East Finchley weren’t romantic so much as dangerous, but it was a lovely run all the same. I could smell the earth’s pathetic gratitude for those few millimetres of water and there were fewer people about to get in my way.

I ran 7 miles, mainly because I wanted to run down this road in Alexandra Palace park. I’m not sure why I like it so much, maybe because of the trees. It’s peaceful.

Relapse; redemption

On Monday night I planned to run. I hadn’t eaten much lunch so I ate a banana at 3.30pm. I made sure to drink two glasses of water at 4.30pm. It was a sunny evening and I had no plans or chores to do. There was no excuse.

BUT THEN

I had to stay half an hour later at work than I planned, which meant that I had to wait longer for a bus home, which then took longer to get home in the traffic, by which point my stomach was rumbling, and the book that I was reading was so good…. that I abandoned the run, heated up some soup and sat on the sofa for 4 hours and finished A Visit from the Goon Squad with a cat on my knee.

This meant that I had to get up at 6am this morning instead to run 5 miles to Muswell Hill and back. After such a restful evening I was able to jump out of bed and bound out of the door, thoughts of time and its vicissitudes still bouncing around my brain. I was able to, in theory, I mean to say. In practice I creaked out of bed and rasped around the streets, so brain-dead that I didn’t even see my husband run past me in the opposite direction, holding up his hand in an unrequited high five.

Weekend off

My name is Gina and I’ve just had a weekend without running. It’s been eight days since my last race. I feel the urge to make this confession in public and be absolved.

I made a brief visit to the gym on Saturday morning, but walked right by the treadmills on my way to the weights from the cross-trainer. On Sunday, I walked to Alexandra Palace and then got the BUS back home. Many runners passed me, looking hot and sweaty, but I felt nothing. No guilt, no envy, not even admiration. I was on my way to buy cakes and flowers and they were on their way to pain and chafing.

At 10am on Sunday morning when I would usually be running, I fell back to sleep and woke up to find a cat (my cat, don’t worry), sitting on my shoulder. He purred. I smiled. Neither of us was counting lampposts in order to get through the next mile without stopping to dry heave.

This is my confession. It is a dangerous one for a self-proclaimed running evangelist to make. Is the exception that proves the rule, or the thin end of the wedge?

(said cat)

I’ll give it all I’ve got

When I die, when I die
I’ll rot
But when I live, when I live
I’ll give it all I’ve got

I went to see Sufjan Stevens at the Royal Festival Hall last night (excellent review of it here) which simultaneously ruined, and made, my run this morning. Ruined because it was so gloriously long I didn’t get home until midnight, and made because my plodding steps were soundtracked by all of last night’s lyrics recurring in my brain like so many mantras.

It’s a long life, only one last chance
Couldn’t get much better, do you wanna dance?

It was a pretty dire run, to be honest, but my mood is still so elevated from the concert that it counts as ‘ho-hum’ rather than bad. I am not going to disclose how many times I stopped to walk. Instead, here’s a lovely photo of the playing field I ran past at about 6.45am.

if I was crying
in the van, with my friend
it was for freedom
from myself and from the land