November 2012 – Not a Jogger

Running into problems

So I had the inevitable conversation with my mum about running in pregnancy.

I haven’t been lying to her, I just haven’t actually told her I’m running and she hasn’t asked. That is, she hadn’t asked. On Sunday night she was still crying with joy from hearing about the me feeling the baby kick for the first time when she sobbed out, “You’re not running, are you?”.

What could I do? I couldn’t lie to her, she’s my mother. I’m not 16 trying to deny a visit to the pub. I’m a 37 year old woman doing something I believe is good and healthy. Still, it didn’t go well. She loves me and she wants the best for me, and I love her and I want the best for her. I just don’t think that has to involve not running.

On Monday morning I had planned to run before work. The alarm went off. Mr Notajogger got up for his run. I heard the sound of rain on the windows. I thought about my mum. I hit snooze.

This morning I planned to run before work. The alarm went off. Mr Notajogger did not get up for a run. I heard the sound of rain. I thought about my mum. I got up, put my kit on and left the house.

I ran very slowly, perhaps more carefully than normal. I avoided slippery piles of leaves. I tried to avoid puddles, with mixed success. I walked for a few minutes half way around my circuit.

I don’t feel triumphant about my run. I don’t feel guilty either. Ok, maybe I feel a little bit guilty.

Sitting here at my desk thinking about it, I’m aware that I haven’t sorted it out in my brain yet. I wish there was some proper research out there I could quote to my mum to make her feel better, but there really isn’t. Even if there were, it wouldn’t be into my pregnancy, or my baby, or my running, so I don’t think it would help.

I want to be a good mother, but my mother is a good mother. So what does that make me?

The baby has been kicking me all morning, reminding me that everything is fine.

It is fine, I think.

One good reason for running in the dark

Nobody is around to see how slow you run or notice you stopping to walk.

Today I’m 18 weeks pregnant. I look like I’ve eaten three bowls of pasta and they’ve somehow lodged themselves below my belly button. You wouldn’t give up your seat for me on the train, but you might consider giving pointing me towards a gym (if you were a total bitch).

I’ve been trying to keep to the plan of running 3 x 3 miles every week, and sometimes I’ve managed it and sometimes I haven’t. It’s not that I’m less motivated, it’s just that I have more excuses. Sleeping badly, feeling tired, needing to wee every 20 minutes (seriously), weird stretching pains. I could go on, but I really shouldn’t. Apart from the odd pains and the weeing none of these excuses are any different or more valid than those of all runners when the alarm goes off at 5:55 and they don’t want to get up.

This morning I did get up. It was dark, but compared to Wednesday’s funfest of rain, wind and dark, at least it was only dark. I pulled on my biggest running gear (now looking comically small), a weird belly support tube thing, and ambled out of the door. It was blackest night, even at 6.15am. There were no stars and no lights in the windows of the tower blocks. I skirted the busier roads of Finsbury Park, hoping for tail-lights and milkmen to break up the gloom. There weren’t any. Running up Hornsey Road, I spied a black bra lying in the gutter.

There might be one good reason for running in the dark, but there are plenty more not to.

I am Not a Plastic Bag

Last night I raced a plastic bag home and lost.

I was running along Brecknock Road with the wind behind me when a white shape hove into view on my left, at knee height. It was a thin plastic bag, filled with air and ballooning in loops above the pavement. I believe it was from Sainsburys.

La Sainsbury was a formidable foe. She edged ahead of me a few times, taunting me with her speed and agility. Dancing hypnotically, she dashed back and forth in front of me like a chaotic metronome. I almost ran into a bollard. Turning a corner, the race got interesting. La Sainsbury dashed into my legs, wrapping herself around a shin. I tried to kick her off without breaking stride, like a can-can dancer who’d had enough. I failed. The old bag clung on, then dashed away, then lodged around my shoe.

We continued our tango for about half a mile, La Sainsbury and I, but in the end only one of us could triumph. Just before Tufnell Park tube she sailed upwards on a gust of wind ahead of me and out into the night.

I plodded home.

EDIT – a friend has pointed out that Sainsburys bags are orange. I like the way La Sainsbury sounds however, so I am letting it stand.