December 2011 – Not a Jogger

Christmas Casualties

Ow. 7 miles on my feet after two solid days’ scoffing and quaffing. An hour’s penance was the least I could do, but the most I could manage. It felt like I was carrying a giant belt of cheese around my stomach. Mostly because I was.

I had it lucky. Barely one minute from the flat I spotted my first Christmas casualty, a magnificent red and gold fox lay sprawled in the centre of the road. Facing away from me, towards the park, his huge tail was ruffled by the breeze from occasional passing cars. As I turned back to look again, a van halted in the middle of the junction and a man approached the fox with a plastic bag. It was a small one, the type you would get from a corner shop, not big enough for your christmas presents. Not large enough to contain such a beast.

The next corpse I encountered was a turkey carcass lying on a grass verge, at eye level. Disturbingly red and shiny, the sight of it stayed with me for the whole run.

Litter was everywhere today. Bags full of beer cans sat next to cardboard packaging for plastic toys, wine bottles rolled down hills. Rounding the hill for home, a burst water pipe washed rubbish out of gutters and onto me via a passing bus.

The Nine Before Christmas

I’m really proud of myself for managing a full 9 miler to Regent’s Park this morning. So proud that I rewarded myself with half a bottle of wine, so I’ll keep this brief.

I’m going to put my feet up for a couple of days but will be back on the 27th for another instalment. In the meantime, here’s a snowy pic of me and Mr N running on Christmas Day 2 years ago. Happy Christmas!

Girl Racer

I was terrible at sport at school, but when I was 10 I was picked for the Windsor house relay team on Sports Day. I was shocked and terrified, but a tiny bit pleased.

Maybe they knew something I didn’t? I still run the same way now (including lip biting), though not in the same shorts.

Not a Morning Person

Running before breakfast is hard. When I’m fit, it’s just about manageable. When I’m not, it’s like running through porridge.

This morning I felt exhausted before leaving the house. Tiredness of the general and physical kind are combining – why isn’t it christmas yet? I only have three days left at work – the shortest of the year – but they feel like the longest.

Enough of my moaning. The run was tough, shorter than I had planned and I was struggling to think of anything positive to say about it, but then I realised: I had run the whole way. I didn’t stop to walk. I may have only run 3 miles, but they were 3 whole miles.

I ate my porridge with a little less resentment after that.

Frosty Wind made Moan

The first really cold run of the winter yesterday. It was still zero degrees at 9am and the pale sun, which had been glimmering weakly, promptly disappeared as I shut the front door behind me.

Pavements were rimy and littered with hidden puddles of ice. As I struggled up the first hill, occasional hard pellets of snow scratched my face. Before I’d even registered what they were, they became dabs of slush and swooped down in wet whirls for the rest of the run.

It was hard. I managed 7 miles and an hour’s running – my first full hour in a couple of months. My hands were so cold they went completely numb and then extremely painful as the feeling returned in the last 20 minutes. Unlocking the door on my return, I felt like an astronaut in space gloves trying to pick up a pin on the moon.

Back in the flat, skin tingling, face and ears burning hot and cold, sweat and sleet mingling in my hair, I caught sight of a smile in the mirror.

I’m a runner again.

No Guts, no Glory. Or something.

At the weekend Mr Notajogger and I bought a Christmas tree at a garden centre in Highgate and decided (ok, I decided) to carry it home rather than try to get it on a bus. Mr N sighed, slung the tree over one shoulder and headed up the path. “I guess carrying a whole tree makes you a real man or something?”, I asked in mock awe. A well-dressed lady passing by turned and said, “I like ‘or something’ “.

I helped carry the tree for about 100 yards of the two mile journey home. My hand hurt. Mr N shouldered the tree the rest of the way. This is roughly equivalent to our running skills at the moment. However, I will not wimp out. I will shoulder the tree and get it home eventually, no matter how long it takes.

This morning I braved the dark, the wind, and my sore lungs for another run. I tried not to walk, but gave in when I got to the Arsenal stadium steps. Today was not the day for Rocky heroics. I used the opportunity to check out the new statue of Thierry Henry as an excuse to keep walking around the concourse for a bit, then reluctantly picked up the pace.

As I headed down the final two streets I was fighting the need to stop with every step. I panted, grunted, and finally shouted “come on!” to myself out loud. I made it home, insanity intact.

Back on the Streets

I’m back!

This time for real. In trainers, on the streets, out of breath.

On Friday I laced up the shoes and headed out, but only managed about 400 metres before having to stop and walk. My stomach was killing me – a stitch combined with not having used those muscles for anything other than digesting cake for the past month. “Cake ache” – it’s a new one. I would have laughed but it started back up every time I started to run again. Even jogging was no good. I headed home depressed.

On Sunday I tried again. This time I was determined to run no matter what. It hurt, but I managed 5 miles with a few breaks to walk up hills. My muscles were all working fine this time, but my lungs were suffering. I shouldn’t be surprised, I haven’t even walked much in the past few weeks, but somehow I am quite shocked at how much difference it makes. ‘This must be how normal people feel when they go for a run’, I mused patronisingly.

I’m going to take it easy this week and run every other day, but I can’t relax too much as I have signed myself up for the North Dorset village marathon (can you imagine anything better?) on 6 May 2012 and so need to get the mileage up fairly swiftly. I reckon I’ll need a 16 week training schedule, so I have until 16 January to be running 35 miles a week.

Gulp.

Race Report – A view from the sidelines

I am back!

Sadly, not back running (give me a week or so, then we’ll talk), but I wanted to write about Mr Notajogger’s amazing PB-smashing 10k performance on Sunday.

As he has mentioned, he’s been training for the last 8 weeks to try to improve his 10k time: 43 minutes 57 seconds. He followed the same schedule that I started, but then had to abandon. Mr N is very good at following training schedules. I tend to use them in the same way that I would a recipe, adding a handful of raisins here, changing the oven temperature there. He uses them in the way that he would a recipe, to the absolute letter. As a result, he knocked 54 seconds off his PB, and I am sitting on my bum eating cakes.

It was surprisingly fun to be watching a race, rather than participating in it. I particularly enjoyed waiting at the start line, watching 350 runners shivering through the announcements, whilst dressed in a parka and boots. Despite the grey weather, there was a lovely atmosphere – it really is a friendly race and my hands ached with constant clapping. There are three laps, so from the leader’s first appearance at about 11 minutes (!), there is always someone passing who needs to be cheered on.

Dan (Mr N) looked good at the end of the first lap, bang on time to break 43 minutes, which was his goal. The second lap is the killer in this race, it’s really hard to maintain motivation and not let self-doubt creep in. He dropped off the pace a bit, but was still looking good. I gave him a few choice words of encouragement (I may have shouted) at this point, which obviously did the trick as his final lap was his fastest and he finished in 43 minutes and 3 seconds. Whoop!

What is Dan doing to celebrate this great achievement, you might ask? Is he joining me on the sofa with the cake? Not quite. He is starting a new 8 week plan to knock off those 3 seconds.