notajogger

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.

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.