It’s ok to be a gym lightweight

Queen of the empty bar

Social media is sometimes like an aunty who once heard you say that you liked frogs and then buys you frog-shaped content – slippers and soap and ornaments and birthday cards – for the rest of your life. The minute you get curious about something, let’s say… how to do a deadlift… social media will give you so much content about deadlifts you will feel like you never want to do a deadlift again.

When we hold all potential human knowledge in our pockets, it’s so hard to hold on to curiosity and learn something new. But I have been trying. Once a week, since January, I’ve been to the gym to lift heavy weights. I’m 48 and menopausal, with creaky knees. After battling injury for a year, I now fully believe that lifting heavy weights is going to keep me running.

Heavy weights? I thought this was about being a lightweight. It is, I promise. The weights I lift are puny compared to what I see the awesome women in the gym lifting. But they are heavy for me. I can feel them engaging my core, challenging my stability, and building new muscles. I’m going once a week, and my legs feel stronger and more stable when I’m running. When I did crossfit a few times a week, I was strong but I had so much DOMS (delayed onset muscle soreness) I could barely run.

If you don’t lift weights, going to the gym can be intimidating. Everyone looks like an expert. It’s hard to pick what to do, even harder to know if you’re doing it right. It’s scary to join a class, and expensive to get a 1:1 personal trainer. So social media is doing a lot of heavy lifting (sorry) when it comes to training advice. Over the past few months I’ve had instagram accounts telling me that I won’t make progress unless I lift 3 times a week, that I shouldn’t do deadlifts, I should do romanian deadlifts, I should only squat, I should never squat.

I’m not going to give out training advice, but I will share that I:

  • Only lift once a week – once a week, every week, is my commitment;
  • Prioritise strength, not fitness – I get my cardio from running;
  • Take my time – yeah I look at my phone between sets;
  • Pick things I like – slam balls are fun;
  • Do the same workout every week – then I don’t have to make decisions;
  • Embrace being a lightweight – form is more important than numbers;
  • Increase weight s l o o o o w l y – in four months I’ve only upped my squat and deadlift weights once;
  • Regularly put my wedding ring in the washing machine (in my shorts pocket).

This is working for me. I can now squat down to sit on the floor and stand up again without using my hands! This is my olympics. Find what works for you, and don’t let people on the internet tell you what that is. Including me.

I swam one length

I’m not badly injured. Just the kind of injured where I can run, but I’m not sure I should. The kind of injured caused by “overuse” rather than anything specific.

A running injury caused by running: a classic of the genre.

(I did not swim in here)

The physio said my knees are “irritated”. The right one is particularly pissed off, making weird clicks when I bend it, and both knees feel a bit swollen the day after a run. Clicks are normal, apparently, but mine don’t feel normal.

I tried running less, stretching more. Leaving it a day between runs stopped the swelling, but I felt too nervous to run fast in case the knees got worse. I don’t want to put up with it, I want it to go away. So I’ve been resting for a week to see if that helps.

I am not good at resting.

After days of doing nothing, on Friday I cracked and cycled to the gym for some sweet sweet sweat. I rowed 2km, did 30 minutes on the elliptical, swam 20 lengths, and cycled home. Swam 20 lengths? So why does the title say one?

When the London marathon was beginning without me in it, last Sunday, I was walking in the rain listening to Lauren Fleshman’s excellent book, GOOD FOR A GIRL. Everyone who cares about women or girls, or running, should read this book. It’s so insightful about what it means to push our bodies and minds to the edge, and how risky that can be for women in a system built for men. Anyway, a throwaway line from the book stayed with me – when injured, Lauren just decided to teach herself front crawl.

I never had swimming lessons. One day my dad took my armbands off, held my belly up for a bit and then let go. It was like riding a bike, if riding a bike involves your parent constantly asking why you still swim like a banana. As a consequence, I can swim one stroke: breaststroke. Badly.

At the pool on Friday, I thought about Lauren Fleshman *deciding* to swim, and I thought about my daughter worrying every week about swimming lessons but going anyway, and I thought about the few times I’d tried to do front crawl and couldn’t get the breathing right, and I just decided to do it anyway. I kept swimming, I kept trying to breathe in every third stroke, I kept trying to breathe out less forcefully in between so that I wasn’t desperate for the breaths every third stroke. It didn’t work, I did run out of breath. But I did keep going.

I swam one length of front crawl and hated every second. Yesterday, I went for a run and loved every second. And my knees are still irritated.

I know the feeling.

You do not have to run.

I have The Cold. It starts with a hacking cough, you know the one. The one you think is Covid but can’t be Covid because you just had Covid and managed to run 27 miles last week and you were really looking forward to running further than ten miles this weekend and maybe making it to the magical half marathon and over 30 miles for the week but now you can’t run because when you cough it feels like a knife to the lungs? That one.

On Thursday night I could feel The Cold approaching. Both the husband and child already had it but I was firmly in denial until this morning, when I finally had to face it: I had The Cold. I felt a quiet and controlled rage. It had been such a busy work week with no time to run, leading up to a Thursday with not one but two board meetings. Instagram and twitter were full of photos of people running around in the frost while I sat like a sloth at my desk. I had a plan to get back to fitness after Covid. I had a two a day mince pie habit. I *needed* to run.

I gave myself a talking to. It is good to eat food I enjoy, and lots of it, in the winter. It cheers me up and literally no-one cares if I put on weight. It is fine not to get fit or fast in the next few weeks. I know I want to, but it’s better not to be injured and run a bit, than to be injured and not run at all. It’s not my fault that covid affected my heart rate and running, but it will be my fault if I rush back to training hard and do myself more damage.

Whenever I get that panicky feeling that “I have to run”, I stop to examine where it’s coming from. It’s usually not a good place. I don’t think running should be a punishment, or a chore. It’s something that I love. I might not love every run, but I can give myself the chance to.

I don’t have to run, I want to run. But today I couldn’t run, so I went for a walk instead. Then I ate a mince pie. It was delicious.

Counting the weeks…

12 weeks since I last ran.
34 weeks pregnant.
6 weeks (ish) til I give birth.
12 weeks til I can run again (hopefully).

It feels like my life is all about statistics at the moment, but like all statistics they’re mostly meaningless. You could easily spend 9 months obsessing over percentage chances and due dates and centimetres long and pounds gained and be none the wiser or better for it. The only sure thing is that at some point within the next 8 weeks a baby is going to arrive and I will no longer be pregnant. I am very excited about this for a number of reasons:

1. I will no longer feel like a weeble when standing up. At the moment I have to force myself into Tadasana pose at all times when upright, or the muscles in my bum tense into agonising pain. This is harder than it sounds, particularly when leaning forward to do basically anything you need to do standing up (washing up, making dinner, selecting chocolate bars in tesco).

2. I will be able to turn over in bed without having to wake up and perform a 5 step procedure involving lifting and lowering my knees and moving 30 degrees at a time.

3. I will be able to drink a cup of tea without needing to take an ice bath afterwards to cool down.

These are not complaints- I’ve really enjoyed being pregnant and it’s forced me to slow down and appreciate life in a different way. I put so much pressure on myself to get stuff done, tick things off. When you can’t physically do things it makes you question why you need to, which is good, though does mean I may never shave my legs again (who cares?).

Of course, the main thing I’m looking forward to is running again. I don’t miss it, because the thought of doing it now is like landing on the moon- I appreciate that others have done it, but there is no way I could even if I wanted to. No, I don’t miss it now, but I do miss what it used to be like and I’m excited about what it will be in future. We’ve got many years together to look forward to, running and I.

And if the running doesn’t work out, there’ll always be the baby…

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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.

Vampires ate my trainers II: this time it’s serious

I gave blood on Monday night and Thursday finds me only just capable of walking without feeling faint, so I don’t think there’s much chance I’ll run this week.

I don’t really understand what’s going on with my body. When I gave blood in March I felt fine afterwards; my running wasn’t at its best in the following two weeks, but I didn’t feel faint or sick. Giving blood is an important act, and a small amount of wobbly headedness is a small price to pay for saving a life so this shouldn’t put anyone off donating, but I would quite like to feel normal again now please.

I managed to walk to work this morning, which was made interesting by a couple of serious head-spins when I looked up quickly from the pavement or my i-pod to the street. It reminds me of the winter when I had labyrinthitis or, as Mr N called it, David Bowie Disease. Sadly this didn’t involve hanging out with the Goblin King, rather constant dizziness and nausea. At its worst I couldn’t walk without falling over because I wasn’t able to tell whether my feet were hitting the ground or the walls. Fun times.

This faintness is nothing like labyrinthitis dizziness – I know it would stop if I lay down – so I’m trying to treat it like a trippy addition to my commute. It was a little bit like walking on a bouncy castle at times, but most of the pavements stayed where they should be and I managed to remain upright. Concrete is no soft rubber pillow, as my smashed i-phone screen can testify.

Weekend off

My name is Gina and I’ve just had a weekend without running. It’s been eight days since my last race. I feel the urge to make this confession in public and be absolved.

I made a brief visit to the gym on Saturday morning, but walked right by the treadmills on my way to the weights from the cross-trainer. On Sunday, I walked to Alexandra Palace and then got the BUS back home. Many runners passed me, looking hot and sweaty, but I felt nothing. No guilt, no envy, not even admiration. I was on my way to buy cakes and flowers and they were on their way to pain and chafing.

At 10am on Sunday morning when I would usually be running, I fell back to sleep and woke up to find a cat (my cat, don’t worry), sitting on my shoulder. He purred. I smiled. Neither of us was counting lampposts in order to get through the next mile without stopping to dry heave.

This is my confession. It is a dangerous one for a self-proclaimed running evangelist to make. Is the exception that proves the rule, or the thin end of the wedge?

(said cat)

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Be Prepared

I’m writing this on the train to Richmond, where we’re staying the night before the race. I still have the cold, my legs ache and I haven’t run a decent mile all week, but I’m carrying on as if none of that mattered, in the hope that it won’t (it will).

Whatever, in 15 hours the race will be underway and in 17 hours it will be over. I’m as prepared as it’s possible to be. I have vaseline, sticking plasters, tissues, jelly babies, foam bananas (secret weapon), real bananas, pasta for dinner and my race number.

Wish me luck!

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The difference between a cold and hayfever

At the moment I think it’s that you can run with hayfever, but not with a cold. Or at least, that’s my excuse. I think it’s a cold. I haven’t had one all year! I woke up on Monday with the telltale constant feeling that I’m going to sneeze that comes with hayfever, but today my head feels like a medicine ball and I can barely keep my eyes open.

The result of this malingering is that I didn’t run yesterday and I’m not going to run tonight. I don’t want to, which is a good sign that something is awry. I’m on such a roll lately I’m like a puppy scratching at the door when it comes to running time.  There is a 14 mile run in the diary for Sunday, which I really really want to do, but I might just really really have to calm down instead. Harrumph.

New Shoes

It’s time to wear in some new trainers.

This is my fourth pair of the same: Asics GT-2150 (D). They’re a wide fitting, as regular fit ones hurt the outsides of my feet. Ten years ago, when I was training for the London marathon, I got a stress fracture in the fifth metatarsal of my right foot three weeks before the race. It was heartbreaking to have to pull out after all that training, but more so because I’d brought it on myself: I went out in new shoes for a long run without breaking them in.

Despite this bitter lesson, I’m still tempted to pop on the new trainers and dash out for a 6 mile run as soon as they arrive in the post. I always leave it too late to get new ones – my old ones should have been retired at least a month ago. I’ve been putting it off for a few reasons: they’re expensive and I’m going through too many (at 25 miles a week, the recommended 300-500 miles is only 3-5 months); Al Gore; Sweatshops; but mainly because I ran my first marathon, ten years on from the one that never was, in them.

I know they’re not magic shoes, I’ll run another marathon, and at this rate I’ll get through another 30 pairs before I’m 50, so I think I’m ready to bin the old pair and walk around for a bit in my new shoes.