Wimping out – Not a Jogger

January: the month for taking motivation wherever we can find it

Speculoos & cream cheese: motivation in a biscuit

It’s getting near the end of January (hurrah!), and resolutions are fraying along with tempers. We are all hanging out for payday, for lighter days, and warmer weather. But running can’t wait, at least not for me. If I am going to run London marathon this year – and I think I am – I need to get out there now.

Usually I have a training plan, and use that to hold myself to account. But not this year. At least, not yet. I had so much time off running in late 2022 that I never got to build a good marathon running base. My past three months’ running still look like a rollercoaster with big dips for Covid and The Cold, and I haven’t strung together three weeks’ good mileage yet. Once I can do that, I will call it marathon training.

Running without a plan is tempting in the spring or summer, when just being outside is a delight. Right now, ploughing through the mud in -4, not having a plan is a big risk. With energy bills so high, my house is cold, and just getting changed into my running kit is the hardest part of going for a run.

January is the toughest month for running. It’s mad that this is time most people start training for their first marathon. And honestly, if nearly thirty years of running has taught me anything it’s this: find motivation wherever you can. Looking forward to a bath when you get home? Want to wear that new headband? Have to go to the post office? Want to see the seals in the River Nene? All reasons I have used to go for a run in the past two weeks.

The king of motivators – always – is the one I use least: running with other people. I run alone because it’s convenient, but also because there’s nobody else to worry about. Even when I’m running with friends and family I get anxious: am I talking too much? Too little? Am being boring? Am I going too fast? Too slow? I wish I could turn off these fears, because running with other people is brilliant. Time goes more quickly, I get to hear all the gossip, and – most importantly – I always turn up.

(p.s. I did not see the seals)

Things I have learned in the last week:

Tiredness may not be due to running, it might be the start of a horrid virus;
Chocolate oranges do not offer the same immunity benefits as actual oranges;
Films featuring small dogs in a central role should win Oscars;
Skipping two days’ running in favour of lying in bed is good for the body but not the spirit;
Running with a mild fever helps counteract the effects of icy weather;
Though really isn’t to be encouraged;
I mean that, stay in bed folks;
Kendal mint cake is the new running gel;
Just because you can run 10 miles doesn’t mean you’re cured;
A hot toddy is the answer, no matter what the question.

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.

Weekly Round-Up, Race Climb Down

My training has been going well, though last week I only managed four sessions, and I was looking forward to trying for a sub-43 minute 10k on 6th November. Last night, however, I decided to postpone this world record* attempt until 2012.

Nothing dramatic, I’ve just recently started a course of medical treatment which is leaving me really tired. I’m perfectly able to run, but running at full pelt and high mileage seems foolish and probably counter-productive. It’s time to put my health first and at the moment that means running less and sleeping more. Ho hum.

I was really enjoying running a tempo, hill and interval session every week so hopefully I can pick it up in the New Year once I’m off the drugs (this makes it sound like I am currently having a lot more fun that I really am).

Pre-race postponement, I managed a 10 mile run to Regent’s Park on Saturday and thoroughly enjoyed it, though it did wipe me out for the rest of the day. Had we not had visitors on Saturday night I would have been in bed by 7.30pm. It’s non-stop party in my flat.

*world record for fastest 10k run by a 36 year old woman from North London with two cats called Bill and Ted

Sticking it to the Plan

I haven’t been sticking to the plan. I missed my interval run session on Tuesday, kept to the steady 5 miles on Wednesday, but wasn’t sure what to do yesterday. Should I run the stipulated ‘5 x long hills’ or do Tuesday’s 8 x 600m at 3k pace instead?

I left the house undecided. I’d mapped out a 600m section of road, but it started at the bottom of my ‘long hill’, so I was still keeping my options open. At the end of my mile warm-up I finally made up my mind and plumped for the intervals.

On the second interval, it dawned on me that the first 100m of the interval was straight up a hill. It was like a mini-hill session in itself. I was getting tired. Maybe I could count this as a hill session too? Was there therefore any need to run the full 8 intervals or could I possibly run fewer? Maybe I could run only 6. Or even 5?

I ran 5. Not enough for an interval session, not enough for short hill session, but enough for my tired legs and lungs. Take that, plan.

Sleep-running

Yesterday, 5pm, 5 miles. That was the plan. The plan that slipped gently into the bin as I snoozed on the sofa, open book resting on my chest, glasses sliding up onto my forehead.

A rest is as good as a run, I told myself, particularly if one has enjoyed the company of two sets of house guests in one weekend, and has several chocolate gifts to consume. In that case, a rest is not only as good as, but is also considerably more likely than, a run. Especially if one has had a drink or two the previous evening.

Back to work today.

It was sunny and I took my kit to work. To go out for a run after getting home this evening would have required running the nap/chocs gauntlet I failed so miserably on yesterday. The flesh was weak. I knew I would have to run straight from work or not at all.

I did all the things that make it harder to wimp out of a post-work run: I told everyone I was going to do it; I ate a big lunch AND a mid-afternoon snack I would feel guilty about not ‘running off’; I saved an episode of my current favourite podcast ( ‘This American Life’) for it; and I finished work dead on time.

There was no reason not to go. Today, 5.30pm, 6 miles. That was the plan and that was what I ran. It was great.

Relapse; redemption

On Monday night I planned to run. I hadn’t eaten much lunch so I ate a banana at 3.30pm. I made sure to drink two glasses of water at 4.30pm. It was a sunny evening and I had no plans or chores to do. There was no excuse.

BUT THEN

I had to stay half an hour later at work than I planned, which meant that I had to wait longer for a bus home, which then took longer to get home in the traffic, by which point my stomach was rumbling, and the book that I was reading was so good…. that I abandoned the run, heated up some soup and sat on the sofa for 4 hours and finished A Visit from the Goon Squad with a cat on my knee.

This meant that I had to get up at 6am this morning instead to run 5 miles to Muswell Hill and back. After such a restful evening I was able to jump out of bed and bound out of the door, thoughts of time and its vicissitudes still bouncing around my brain. I was able to, in theory, I mean to say. In practice I creaked out of bed and rasped around the streets, so brain-dead that I didn’t even see my husband run past me in the opposite direction, holding up his hand in an unrequited high five.

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)

Pride comes before the Wall

I love these light, bright evenings. Instead of getting home and having to force myself into running kit and out of the door, I walk in and can’t wait to get out back out again, trainers on.

At least, this is how I felt last night. I went for a 5 mile “easy run” around Crouch End and Muswell Hill and it really was easy. Wow, I thought, I’ve reached the point in my training where even when I’m tired my legs can carry me along without too much effort. Running up Mount Doom at the end, I felt like I was being pulled up the hill by an invisible ski lift.

This evening, however, the ski lift was nowhere to be found and I was flailing in the gutter. It was the dreaded tempo session (hard): 35 minutes (5 miles) with 1 mile either side. It was hot. It was hell. I managed a pathetic 10 minutes of the tempo section before realising that if I carried on I might actually die of exhaustion. I can’t work out what went wrong, everything hurt at once. I managed to keep running for the whole distance, but could only manage two short bursts of speed and ran the rest at a snail’s pace.

Apparently Kenyan runners are famous for their tempo runs. They run them for 10-20 miles. I don’t think I am a Kenyan.

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.