notajogger

Running out….

I’ve been talking about it, I’ve been thinking about it, now I actually have to do it. I have to stop running.

Just for a while, maybe four weeks. To some people this would be an early Christmas present, or at least not a big deal, but not to me. I first put on my trainers with intent in 1994, ran a half- marathon in 2000 and have run 3-5 times a week ever since, barring injury.

I run on holiday. I run on Christmas Day. I run therefore I am.

Is this right? An awful lot of how I feel about myself is defined by running. How I feel about my body, about food. I sometimes think that my self-esteem is propped up only by running. As a literal example of this, when I was seeing a psychologist for a while last year I used to run to and from the sessions, and sit there sweating for 45 minutes in between.

Hmm.

It’s good to run, objectively. Running is a good thing, good for the body, the mind and the soul. However, I am not entirely made of running. Should running define me? Most people who meet me have no idea I run, I hope. Does that mean they don’t really know me? I don’t think so.

Last Gasp of Autumn

Sunday was the kind of day that we used to call ‘unseasonably mild’: 17 C (62 F) in mid-November. I wonder if it’s now ‘seasonably’ mild? In any case it felt like spring, not winter, was around the corner. In my garden the rambling rose which began flowering in April is again in bud.

The last of the falling leaves were calling me outside. My bed was warm, but the sunlight was warmer. I think this might be my last ‘long’ run for a while. I managed an hour, stopping to walk sometimes, taking my weekly mileage to a weakling 15.

Enough of the self-pity, it was an amazing run. As I crossed the top of Alexandra Palace park I was on a literal and metaphorical high. I slowed down to savour the view: trees, newly empty of leaves; a blue mist over miles of rooves and chimneys; a couple sitting on a bench far away enough always to look happy.

Mid-way across the park, this song came on my i-pod. Like all the best Low songs, it sounds like sadness and glory, fear and hope. It could make a grown woman, running across a sunlit park on a November day, cry. Especially me.

Gym Jams

I darkened the doors of my gym last night as it felt less risky than running outside. Lack of risk was in this case defined by proximity to toilet facilities, rather than likelihood of muggings.

The receptionist at Fitness First greeted me with suspicion. I think she was confused as to why I had come in two weeks in a row. Or did she greet everyone in this way? A strange feeling of unreality persisted throughout my visit. In the changing room a woman stood touching her toes, backed right up against a large mirror, naked but for two blue plastic bags on her feet. On the cross-trainer next to mine, a woman was pushing out the miles, head down, with her chin touching her chest for 25 minutes. I never saw her face. While stretching, the woman behind me stopped lifting weights periodically to do a handstand against a pillar.

As I was leaving, waiting to swap my locker key for my membership card and get the hell out, the wary receptionist handed me a ticket for a spin class instead. I was wearing my coat and scarf. “Don’t make me go back in there”, I said.

A run-walk strategy

I love that there is a technical term for “walking for a bit”. Last night I adopted a run-walk strategy on my way home from work. This was sort of intentional, or at least inevitable. Cumulative tiredness has left me struggling to find the energy for running but I reasoned that: a) I had to get home somehow; and b) some of that ‘how’ could be running.

There were several bonuses to this approach. Within my ‘run-walk strategy’ I could find time for window shopping, for day-dreaming about shopping, and for actual shopping. The first was mainly indulged on Upper Street, and particularly at this shoe shop:

The poorly photographed boot (bottom right, ankle variety) had the most perfect heel I’ve seen. It was curved so sweetly it distracted me from the fact that my own functionally-shod heels hadn’t moved in five minutes. I plodded on.

The day-dreaming then induced by the passing slideshow of gleaming windows built into a theoretical orgy of consumption as I acquired multiple coats and dresses, more shoes, two woollen jumpers, a scarf and a 50s reclining chair from heaven.

My actual shopping was done in Tesco on the Stroud Green Road.

A Very Quiet Weekend

Saturday dawned, cloudy and grey. I lazed in bed for a good couple of hours, will-I-won’t-I-ing. Eventually I scraped myself into my running shoes and lurched around the streets for 20 minutes like a zombie. The furthest I moved for the rest of the day was from the sofa to the kettle. I watched The Princess Bride, Harry Potter (5, I am way behind), and read the paper from cover to cover.

Sunday dawned, cloudy and grey. Mr N was planning an 8 mile tour of the Crouch – part of his “easy week”. I felt good, but how good? Not 8 miles good. I turned down his running chat for a solo amble with the latest This American Life podcast. In the end I ran about 7 miles, (with a minor walking break towards the end). The sun came out, the legs were steady and I even made it out of the house again that afternoon.

—

It’s hard to read about the New York marathon, or races of any kind, when you feel too tired to train properly, or you’re unfit or injured. Even on a good day, stories that should be inspirational can feel like accusations – you will never do this.

Seriously, though, running a marathon in just over two hours must involve witchcraft. It’s as fictional as Harry Potter, as much of a fairy tale as The Princess Bride. Not so many laughs, though, I shouldn’t think.

Fur Coats: the way forward

Last night’s run home from work was only my second of the week. I am finding it surprisingly easy to cut back. My bed has been particularly comfortable, the evenings especially dark.

Usually when the clocks go back it spurs me on to run. I like being out at night – there are fewer people in my way and no-one can see how fast (slow) I’m running. I can’t run in the park any more, but I feel safe running on the roads, despite the best efforts of the odd drunken idiot.

The only bad thing about running during the winter is the washing. With two runners in the house running 4-5 times a week each, our washbasket overfloweth. It’s not even cold yet so this can only get worse. By Christmas our bed will have disappeared under the piles of dirty or drying laundry and we will be forced to run in jeans and workshirts. There will be chafing.

Yesterday’s run was filthy. It was teeming down and I landed in at least two monster puddles crossing busy junctions. Back at the flat, a very wet cat was waiting on the doorstep to greet me. I peeled off my soaking kit in the hallway, attempted to find places to hang it all, emptied the washer of its current load and hung that up. The cat shook the water loose from his fur in seconds, licked off the remaining few drops in a trice and eyed me patronisingly. Where was his dinner?

The Idiocy of Strangers

I am not a violent person. When I do get angry, it’s usually at myself or, occasionally, at more general things like racism, cheating, or people who wear leggings as if they were trousers.

When faced with someone jumping a queue, though, or a woman with visible knickers, I struggle to get angry at them personally. It just makes me sad, because I know they’re humans having bad days or fundamental lapses in judgement, and I too am a human who has bad days (though I would never leave the house in a pair of tights and a leather jacket).

This morning I got angry at a person, personally, in person. It is the 1st of November and I was running down Tufnell Park Road at 6.30am in the dark. Two men and a woman were filling the pavement ahead of me, tripping down the footpath on their way home from a Halloween’s carousing. They were young and tall and costumed, probably students with nowhere they had to be on a Tuesday morning. I ran close to the wall, annoyed that they didn’t seem to be making room when, just as I was squeezing by, the girl screamed into my face, then laughed as I jumped and dodged out of her way.

It was nothing. A split-second encounter.

I was so cross it took me the rest of the run to calm down. I wanted nothing more than to turn around, run after the girl and push her to the ground. I wanted to do it so much my fingertips ached with the longing to do it. I wanted to scare her. I wanted to show her I wasn’t scared. I wanted to tell her she was an idiot.

I didn’t. People love to goad or taunt runners, because they know that a 6.30am running type isn’t going to turn around and deck them. If you ever retaliate, or shout at them, they are offended, “I was only joking”, they say. Well, I’m not laughing.

Cutting Down

It’s been a low-key weekend of running. I ran home from work on Friday night, did nothing on Saturday, then went out for a quick circuit of Crouch End this morning.

This would all be great, indeed was great, but my eating habits have not adjusted to a lower mileage. A mid-morning croissant here, an afternoon cake there. My jeans are noticeably tighter. I keep waiting for my brain to tell my stomach it needs less energy but I think it must be too busy digesting the Welsh Rarebit I made for lunch.

I’m so tired at the moment there’s no way I’m increasing the mileage so there’s only one thing for it. The jeans have got to go.

21st Century Schizoid Woman

This morning’s was a run of two halves.

6.15am – 6.35am: I bounded over puddles and dodged pavement cyclists, laughing as a wet branch hit me full in the face. My music was loud and electronic, there were even bongos. I dashed up the stems of the Emirates stadium like a premiership side on a winning streak.

6.35am – 6.55am: I pounded slowly across the stadium’s uneven concrete surround, swearing as the water from hidden puddles filled my trainers and slopped up the backs of my legs. My music was quiet and sad, at one point there was total silence but for the sound of breathing. Not mine. I inched home like a premiership side that knows its glory days are behind it, but just has to keep struggling on in the hope that the old formula will come good once again.

Ironic Woman

On Sunday evening, when I decided to stop the training plan and postpone my race, I was feeling good. I was making tough choices for the right reasons. What a grown-up I was being, how sensible and measured. How, dare I say, smug.

Last night I ran home from work. I mean, RAN home from work. Like a bullet from a gun. Like a rat from a trap. Like a person who could run a really fast 10k time.

Hmm.