June 2011 – Not a Jogger

Cretins

It’s Wimbledon time, and therefore the season to get disproportionately annoyed at other people. My Dad likes to shout “Cretins! Morons!”, and “Peabrains!”, at the television whenever the audience yell “Come on Tim!” just before the player is about to serve . According to Pa Notajogger, audience participation in sport should be limited to polite applause. Apart from when Leeds Utd are losing, of course, at which point it is mandatory to hurl insults in a broad Yorkshire accent you haven’t used for 40 years.

Yesterday evening I experienced some unwanted audience participation of my own and I rather wished my Dad had been there to voice his opinion.

It was time for the 5k Challenge III so, although I was very tired, hot and really didn’t want to, I planned out a 5k outdoor route and attempted to run it as fast as I could. The route wasn’t ideal: there were roads to cross, people to get stuck behind and hills to run up and down. It was also a warm evening and I was mildly dehydrated. Enough of the excuses. Two kilometres in it was going badly but I was holding on. At the next upward stretch I ran past the open door of a betting shop, which pumped out a blast of cold stale air, along with a thickset man who started running close beside me up the slope, shouting words into my face.

I don’t know what he was saying – I had headphones in and was staring straight ahead – but it was something like, “Come on, run faster, even I can beat you!”. He was laughing like a drain. People have done this to me before, but usually the cretin pretends to run for two seconds but then gives up, but this moron kept on running, and he was faster than me. Automatically, my legs speeded up, ‘I can beat this peabrain!’, my body said. Then my mind kicked in and countered, ‘I will not alter my running plan for this loser’. I slowed down and the guy threw his arms into the air in a victory gesture, cheering.

Rounding the corner away from him, I slowed to a jog to catch my breath. At 4km I slowed to a walk for 10 seconds. I left the watch going and finished the 5k in 21 minutes, 25 seconds. Not too far from my treadmill time if you take into account the slowing and walking, but you can’t do that. The time I finished it in is the time it took. If I hadn’t slowed down to walk I would have slowed down in general.

The gym isn’t real life and the treadmill isn’t real running. Real running comes with other people.

Capturing beauty

It’s hard to take a good photograph on a cameraphone. Sometimes, if the light is right and the hand is steady, it’s possible to capture an approximate likeness of reality, but most pictures disappoint. Last night on the way home I ran past some trees in Camden that were a supremely green kind of green and I wanted to capture them for this blog, as I knew I wouldn’t be able to describe them using words.

Sadly the clouds had thickened overhead and the picture doesn’t show the looming flourescence of the leaves. They just look like ordinary leaves, not something to make you stop in your tracks and fumble with your phone in an attempt to fix them in the memory.

Oh well, the photo does show one of my favourite streets to run down, so I thought I’d put it up anyway. It’s a short, wide street in Camden between the Park and tube and I like peering into the little shops and pubs and imagining who lives in the houses and flats. I have got into some odd habits when running this route home – I look forward to certain streets, trees, gardens or shop windows – even patches of particularly smooth pavement have been known to give me pleasure.

Hot Hot Hot

Yesterday was the British summer. That was it. It was already 25 degrees by 9am and, just a few days after midsummer, the sun was high in the sky. Mr N and I girded our loins with as few items of clothing as possible and headed out for a 9 mile run to Regent’s Park.

Along with my good sense, I left my water-bottle-belt-thing at home because the belt needs to be tight and if it’s on tight then it makes me really hot. I realise that this was not good logic on a hot day. I always dismiss runners carrying drinks with scorn, “bottle w@nkers,” I judge them, “they’re probably running for 20 minutes, what are they going to do, die of dehydration in that time? Ha ha”. Well, the joke was on me yesterday, and I didn’t even have any money to buy any water either. W@nker.

It was a terrible run. We clung to the shadows of tall buildings on the way to Camden and veered from tree to tree in the Park, but I still came back with sunburn. My leg strength had been used up by a long walk on Saturday so it felt like there were swinging sandbags attached to my knees. Nearing the Park exit, we stopped to dunk our whole heads under the taps where a couple were washing their panting dog. With a soaked vest slapping against my back I forced my flailing body onwards, onwards, up the hill towards home and a cold, cold drink.

Next summer I will take the bottle, remember the sunscreen and not be so mean about other runners.

Part Wimp

I’m slightly deaf this morning after a very loud gig last night. It’s been a metal kind of week, so I was a bit laissez faire with the earplugs and kept taking them out to fully appreciate the onslaught of noise coming from the speaker 5 metres away. With that, and the drizzling rain, this morning’s run was a muted affair.

I ran 3 miles more out of habit than desire. I was up, it seemed like the right thing to do. No hangover this morning, apart from the sonic one. I was only planning a short run and I wanted it to be flat, so I found a new route around Archway and Tufnell Park. All main roads, no beauty, no hills either. Job done.

Crazylegs Crane

Mr Notajogger expressed awe at my 6 mile run this morning, which made me feel better about being late for work as I rushed around the kitchen.

I wasn’t sure I’d manage an East Finchley circuit when I left the flat, but some mornings just make it easy to run. My legs were tired but the sun was out, wispy fair weather clouds were floating overhead and I was in a very good mood. This was mainlydue to my trip to see the Home of Metal exhibition the previous evening, which is brilliant and rock-tacular. I particularly enjoyed the photographs of old gigs and metal fans. Fans of metal I mean, not fans made from metal.

It’s going to be hot this weekend and I’m looking forward to getting out the vest and flappy shorts on Sunday and putting them to the test with a long run. I may have to pull out the camel~~toe~~pak if it’s properly sweaty. I have no idea why this seems exciting to me, but for some reason it is. I have Friday fever.

5k Challenge II

I meant to run my 5k challenge outside last night, but ended up in the gym again out of laziness. I know it will be harder to run the 5k in the real outdoor world and I’m scared I won’t be able to push myself hard enough. I have to try, though, so next week I absolutely definitely will do it. Probably.

On a positive note, after 20 minutes on the cross-trainer, I managed to knock a whole 5 seconds off last week’s 5k time, and finished it in 20 minutes, 5 seconds. I felt like a jockey flogging a racehorse going flat out for the last three minutes, but I didn’t slow down. In fact, this time I started at 13.5 km/h and worked up to 16km/h, which was fairly murderous. I would much rather have run the whole thing at 15km/h, but that would not have been possible. On a treadmill the monotony would have killed me.

I must try this outside, I need to be able to gauge my speed. Running on a treadmill is not going to help me run faster in a 10k race. I will absolutely definitely run outside next week. Definitely!

Waking up

I managed a 5 mile run to Muswell Hill this morning, whilst still half asleep. In my heavy lidded gaze, runners blurring past looked fresh and frightening. The best part of the run was every downhill bit, but especially Muswell Hill itself, which was half a mile of juddering joy.

After that 200ft descent, things improved and I started waking up to the day. I noticed the overblown roses in gardens, the shopkeepers opening up and Mr Notajogger running by at the bottom of Park Road. I also saw the dead fox, cradled stiffly in the gutter on Middle Lane, between two cars. He was small, like a cat, and looked oddly alert with his head at an unnatural angle. Who would pick him up and bury him? I ran past and tried to move on.

Heading up the final hill to my flat, I started thinking about the day ahead, remembering emails I needed to send and cards I had neglected to buy. The fox receded, the roses were forgotten, and the day began.

Sunday Service resumed

I am happy to report that yesterday morning I went for a run of about 9 miles, untainted by the need to atone for any previous or planned over-indulgences. The fact that I then ate a massive roast beef Sunday lunch and plateful of cakes at my book club is unrelated.

It took less than two hours for Mr Notajogger and I to agree on a route long enough for me and short enough for him. A trip to Regent’s Park was out, and I couldn’t face the hills of our regular Ally Pally run, so we compromised on a route from last year’s marathon training. Calculated to include the most miles for the fewest hills, it’s not pretty. From the urban splendour of Archway roundabout and the Seven Sisters Road, it snakes past chicken shops and housing estates, under railway lines and down bus routes, up stadium steps and across snarling junctions. When the most attractive parts of your run are the occasional trees of Finsbury Park, you know it’s not a thing of beauty.

Still, it was great to be outside and running without guilt. My mileage last week was low, so this took it to 23, almost respectable.

Dubious Motives II: Revenge of the Wine

So, I have been getting on my self righteous high horse about bad reasons for running, but this morning I ran for the worst reason ever: to get rid of a hangover. However, the joke is on me as it didn’t work.

I drank some wine last night. Of differing colours. And amaretto…? Ugh. It was fun, but waking up this morning at 6.48am was not. This was not intentional (both the waking up and the not fun aspect of that), but as I was up I decided I may as well go for a run as I couldn’t feel much worse.

I didn’t feel worse – I was in the fresh air, the ibuprofen were kicking in and I was taking it easy; 4 miles later I almost felt good. Once the endorphins wore off, however, not so much.

Tomorrow I will run for a good reason – just because I want to.

Harder, Better, Pasta, Stronger

I have eaten pasta every day this week, twice most days. Shells, spaghetti, penne, mini macaroni, the lot. I’ve scoffed so much that I’m turning into a human version of the statue Kramer makes for Jerry Seinfeld out of dried pasta -Fusilli Gina.

Magazines are stuffed with so many women claiming never to eat carbs, it feels subversive to talk about my love for pasta. I think that’s what inspired yesterday’s post and my worry over what constitutes a good motive for running.

Running to lose (or, more likely, stay the same) weight is usually laudable and sensible, but running out of guilt for having eaten a sandwich is not. This is because:

1. It turns a delicious sandwich eating experience into a crime; and
2. It turns a good run into a punishment for this supposed crime.

The obsession with being thin over being healthy is one I try my best to ignore, but it’s hard. Runners’ magazines are just as bad as fashion ones at prizing the benefits of abnormally low body fat over those of maintaining a healthy weight. Their excuse is that top athletes need to be thin to be fast, but most of their readers will never be that fast, or that thin. Are they providing positive role models or fostering an unhealthy obsession?

Today I did my bit for sense, science and feminism by eating a pile of pasta and then going to the gym.