Not a Jogger

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.

First Sign of Madness

What a beautiful day.

I went to a concert last night so I got to bed late and was unprepared for my 6am alarm call, but even so it was a joy to encircle Crouch End with my weary gait this morning. It gets light so early at this time of year that the sun is already fairly high in the sky, even at 6.30. The day feels like it has been up for hours and is just waiting for people to notice.

There were a few other runners on the street, including Mr N, whom I did spot this time when we passed each other, though I pretended I hadn’t until the very last minute, because I am hilarious. He did not laugh.

I wasn’t paying much attention to the other runners. When I was thinking about what to write today I thought, ‘I’ll write about how weird it was that it felt like 10am but there were no people about’, then I remembered that actually there had been quite a few people, I had just erased them from my memory. Now I think back, I passed about six runners, all running towards me and all locked in their own thoughts. None of them acknowledged me, and I didn’t acknowledge them directly, though I did do a sort of half-head-nod of recognition, which is my London way of not being rude whilst simultaneously not wanting to intrude on people’s personal space.

I wonder if any of them noticed me? When I run, I sometimes feel like I am carrying my thoughts with me like a cloud of balloons above my head, jostling in the breeze, for everyone to see. I have caught myself singing or laughing out loud to my i-pod many times, and I worry that the same thing might be happening with my thoughts when I run. Can I be sure that I am only thinking them or might I actually be voicing them? It’s not unknown for me to talk to myself. I hope I am not getting a reputation as the Crazy Running Lady of Crouch End.

It’s probably too late for that.

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.

Four Miles Later:

Not dead;

Still hungover.

Bank Holiday Bonanza

A bonus (to me, anyway) of the three day weekend is having three chances to run. This doesn’t necessarily mean I will run on all three days but for some reason I don’t have a wedding or hen night to go to, so it’s possible.

Yesterday, without meaning to, I ran 9 miles with Mr N. We meant to run 7 miles, the extra 2 were a little prize for my not concentrating on Haverstock Hill and missing the turn off to Gospel Oak. I was feeling so good I didn’t mind, but Mr N was not, and did.

As I write this on Sunday morning I’m sitting in bed, having finished the crossword, with quite a serious hangover, pondering whether a run would kill or cure. It has to be cure. Right? In 15 minutes I’ll get up and get the trainers on and find out. To be continued…

A run-in with the President

So, I was running in Regent’s Park and who should be in my way but Barack Obama?! I know, I too was surprised! Wasn’t he supposed to be playing ping pong with Pippa Middleton, or barbecuing Nick Clegg over the cabinet table? Turns out he was in the Park all along, blocking off large parts of my usual route with his white tape, metal fences and armoured police with enormous terrifying guns.

I was going to take a photo to record the cause for my outrage, but then I looked at all the guns and thought, maybe not. Even from far away, the policemen still seemed to have their sights trained on me. Were they impressed by my running stylings? I don’t think so. They meant business. And not that kind of business.

My run-in with the President, or at least, my run-in with his temporary residence in London, wasn’t the only excitement of last night’s 7.5 miler from work to home via the Park. Nearing home in a particularly urban part of Archway I witnessed what I can only describe as an Ice Cream Van drug deal. I may have been watching too many episodes of the Shield, but I swear that a group of youths were working as go-betweens between a Mr Whippy and dark-windowed saloon, and that what was changing hands did not involve any strawberry sauce.

This idea is gold, I was thinking. The plaintive siren call of ‘Greensleeves’ as the van approaches your street. The panicky search for mum’s purse to steal the necessary cash. The purchase of the two-ball speedball, the Choc-Ice, the Freeze Pop…