notajogger

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.

Dubious Motives

I got up and ran 4 miles this morning, and I’m not proud of myself.

There was no need to go out less than 12 hours after I got back from a hard session at the gym. I have plenty of opportunities coming up this week to run, the weather wasn’t particularly nice and I hadn’t had enough sleep. My muscles ached throughout and I don’t feel better for having run today, I just feel unnecessarily exhausted.

When I examine my motives for running today, I don’t like what I see. I went so that I could eat more cakes and drink more booze. I went because I had put on a kilo when I weighed myself at the gym last night and I could be faster if I were thinner. I don’t need to be thinner, I am fine as I am (repeat until I believe it).

5k Challenge

I came out of the office to an Edward Hopper summer’s evening. Waiting for the bus, several runners passed, throwing sharp blue shadows onto the gold pavement. I snapped one’s departing calves, enviously, knowing I was headed underground to my gym.

It’s been a few weeks since I did any training other than running. From experience I know that’s the swift way to injury so I’m going to try to go twice a week from now on. I also want to test out my 5k theory – that running a hard 5k every week will speed up my 10k time.

I know it was only on the treadmill, but I ran the 5k in 20 minutes, 10 seconds. I don’t know if I could run that on the road, but that time must indicate I could break 43 minutes over 10k.

Don’t look back

More re-treading of the paths of my youth this morning. In a 4 mile circuit I ran past my primary school, secondary school, the nursery I went to once and hated so much I never went back, the pub we used to drink in aged 16 (it was so dark they’d serve anyone) and the place I stopped, exhausted, chest heaving, on my first proper run.

It was only two streets from the house, not even half a mile away. Loping easily past today, I remembered feeling like my lungs were scorched and might burst into flame any second. It was so painful, how could something that was supposed to be good for you hurt so much? Running was just another adult conspiracy, sold to teenagers on a ticket of false promises, like green vegetables, classical music or love.

I must have been about 17 years old. I went to aerobics classes and I was young, how could it be so hard to keep running for more than 10 minutes? I gave up and didn’t try to get beyond the 10 minute barrier again until I got to university and wanted to impress a boy.

Two years older and two stone lighter, I stuck out the pain of expanding my lungs purely to prove that I was as strong as any man (ok, one particular man). Four weeks later, I could run a circuit of the University Parks without stopping.

That was nearly 17 years ago, as many years as it had taken me to put on my green flash and try to run like my dad did. Is it heartening or depressing that I’m fitter now than I was then?

Memory Lane

Heading home to my parents’ this weekend, I was looking forward to running down the road pictured above and out into the country. The scenery is probably nothing special to most people, but to me there’s a memory around each corner. On a sunny morning like this one, my spirits were lifted as high as the larks over the fields.

15 minutes in to the run, a Red Kite began circling overhead.

As I passed by Ketton church and down over the river and out into open country, I decided to keep going and make it to Collyweston, 5 miles away from home. It’s at the top of a hill but the climb was worth it. When I got to the cottage below, I stopped to admire the garden (pant unattractively) for a minute then turned around and began the 5 miles home. I was 2 minutes faster on the return leg and by the end was running a good half-marathon pace.

As I dashed down streets I used to walk to school, I felt 18 years old and invincible. In the hallway mirror of my parents’ house, I saw an exhausted, red-faced, 35 year old woman.

D –

This morning’s effort – 5 miles to the Hill of the Muswell – was not my best work.

It was underwhelming. I did not reach my true potential. I let myself down. Tenacity was not demonstrated. Mental toughness was absent. A hint of laziness might even be said to have been detected.

If you had passed me on any of the uphill stretches after the first 1.5 miles, you may be forgiven for imagining that I was out for a walk, rather than a run. ‘Who goes for a walk at 6.30am, without a dog?’, you might have wondered.

The best part of the run was the part after I stopped my watch at the end. And no, that is not the best part of every run. It is a good part, yes, but if the run is anything short of horrific, it’s never the best.

Bad days happen. Legs unaccountably turn to jelly overnight. Muscles buckle. Brains turn to mush.

Coffee. That’s what I need.

People Watching

I went to an amazing gig last night, but only after I had first run home from work, via Regent’s Park. As part of the run I went past the gig venue (Koko, Camden). It was a grown-up concert, featuring an orchestra, so there wasn’t anyone queuing up to be first in as I ran past at 5.30pm.

One of the many pleasures of running from my office in Kings Cross to Regent’s Park is passing Koko and trying to work out who’s playing that night judging from the age, outfits and behaviour of whoever’s in the queue. The weirdest queues are always for the most mainstream acts. The younger the singer, the older, fatter and odder the fan at the front. The best queues to watch are for ’emo’ bands – apologies if that’s not an accepted term any more. They look like they’re having the most fun together hanging out and everyone has made an effort to look different, with the result that they all look the same. When I run past them drinking vodka out of coke bottles and swearing self-consciously, it makes me wish I could be 15 and belong to a tribe that wears stripey socks.

Back to the run. There was nobody outside Koko and very few people in Regent’s Park. The half term rush had gone and the sky was glowering ominously. I cut through Primrose Hill on my way home and got a bit lost. I always get confused around there – all the rich people wearing high quality leisure-wear sitting at the pavement cafes look so similar I can’t work out which street I’m on. I don’t want to belong to their tribe.

Surprise Race Report

Did I not mention I was going to run a race today?

I ran the June one in the Regent’s Park 10k summer series, which are organised by Mornington Chasers and a really friendly and low-key set of races. They happen on the first Sunday of the month and although I have free entry* to them this year, this is the first one I’ve made it to. I didn’t do any specific training, but I’ve been running regularly, so this was really an experiment. They take entries on the day, so it’s a good race to know about if you’re feeling similarly experimental.

Conditions were great – not too hot, no rain. The field is always a mix of regular runners and newcomers, who quickly spread themselves out along the course: three laps of the North-East corner of the Park. By the second lap I’m usually overtaking a few walkers and by the end it’s hard to judge which lap people are on. The only way to run it, as every race I suppose, is to stick to your own plan and not worry too much what other people are up to. It’s chip-timed, and although the three laps are a bit tedious they give you a good picture of how you’re running.

I ran an ok time for me: 43 minutes, 44 seconds. I was just happy to make it under 44. I would love to run a 42 minute 10k, but I’m not sure it’ll happen this year. Or maybe ever. Anyway, focussing on the positives, my split times were quite heartening, and accurately reflect how the race went for me:

00:14:29

00:14:38

00:14:34

A less than 10 second difference between the fastest and slowest third of the race, with the middle section the longest. The middle of three laps is always the worst, psychologically. Physically I was making a bit of an effort to reign it in and not tire myself out as I knew I didn’t have the legs to put in a fast finish on top of a fast mid-section. As it happened I was then able to do a little sprint finish, which is always good for the ego.

A good start to the day, and I might actually do some training for the next one. Sub-43 minutes is the aim, which would be an official PB, as I’ve never run that in a race before.

*Hilariously, I came 3rd in the series last summer in my category and so got given free entry to the races. I have now gone up an age-group however, to LV35, so oddly now have no chance of placing anywhere – all the good runners are over 35.

Sweet Days of Summer

The jasmine’s in bloom in my garden, so according to Seals and Croft summer is here. It’s just the beginning of June, but the sun was warm enough at 6.30 this morning to raise a Meditteranean scent in the breeze from the suburban gardens of Muswell Hill. If I closed my eyes I could be in Menorca, I thought, bumping down a narrow lane towards a turquoise bay.

If I closed my eyes I could be run over by a bus, or step in dogshit. I kept them open and tried occasionally to glance at the budding blue sky with its wispy clouds, whilst keeping track of where it was safe to put my feet. I only passed one other runner today. She looked as tired as I felt, and her eyes didn’t even flicker in the direction of my face as she pounded by.

I used to hate running in the early mornings. On the rare occasions I did get out before breakfast, I would feel so sick or exhausted I would be incapable of going at anything other than one speed: painfully slow. I’m not sure when the transformation took place, but now I could almost say that I enjoy running in the morning. I don’t enjoy the getting up and getting out of the house part, but once I’m out, beyond the first five minutes of wheezing and creaking, it’s almost as good as any other run.