rose – Page 11 – ROSE RUNS

March 23, 2014March 26, 2014

America

I have been running a lot and training a lot and writing not much, but also travelling. I was in Stamford, Connecticut, at a shipping conference which is largely made up of 2,000 men in suits, many of whom have more money than God. I had a day in New York en route, and was supposed to do 15 miles. But New York means seeing New York friends, and I’d had dinner with Adam, Vanessa and their gorgeous daughter Isla – not yet five, and she understands the solar system – along with too much wine. Alcohol, dehydration and jet-lag: I woke up wide awake at 4am with my head feeling like the inside of a ship’s engine: NOISE and PAIN. I was supposed to be running with Roger of ISWAN, the charity that has brought me to the US to do some talks and events. But at 4:01am I began formulating excuses not to run, namely that I was pretty sure my head would fall off. I took some painkillers and dozed, and at 5am I was still in pain, and at 6am too. When I finally awoke properly at 7, my headache was gone, the sun had risen over Manhattan, and I decided to run.

Thank goodness.

The night before, Vanessa had told me that it was the New York City half marathon in the morning. My reaction was not, great, I can see Mo Farah running, but, shit, now I can’t run up to Central Park because there will be 20,000 people there. The half marathon start was at 7am. My club mates on Facebook were asking me if I was going to watch, as Mo Farah was racing, but I had no intention of going to Central Park to deal with 20,000 people. So Roger and I gathered downstairs, with hats and gloves – it was about zero degrees, with a wind-chill of minus 10 – and headed west to Riverside Parkway. We got there, ran up a few blocks. It was icy but beautiful and sunny. And then the day got better still, because we had inadvertently run into the route of the half marathon, as all the tents and police cars and cheer-leaders made obvious, and within five minutes of us realising that, there was Geoffrey Mutai, then Stephen Sambu, and then Mo Farah. He didn’t look happy, maybe because we were yelling “COME ON MO GO GB” at him. Later I discovered he had fallen near the start. And he collapsed at the end, though he overtook Sambu. That’s not good news. I don’t assume that he’ll win the marathon, and he says he’s the underdog, but passing out for three minutes, as he apparently did, is an ominous sign.

We carried on up the Riverside Parkway. It was a bit odd to be running in the opposite direction to 20,000 people, but at least the running and cycling path was pretty empty. And we got the cheerleaders and bands and DJs, though they all had their backs to us. After Central Park, the half marathon disappeared, and we carried on. Roger needed the toilet and lo and behold, a rare sight: an open, heated, clean public toilet in Riverside Park. Well done, New York City. I was still wearing hat and gloves but my hands were getting colder and colder. We could see the George Washington Bridge by now, where I’d intended to run to, but by now my right hand’s fingers were disturbingly solid, so I asked Roger if he’d mind us turning round and doing our own half marathon instead of 17 miles. He didn’t. He’s also marathon training, but for Stockholm, at the end of May.

The other way was warmer. The wind was on our backs. My hat came off. And we ran alongside the marathon runners trying to figure out how our paces matched up. It was all very Big Running, as Richard Askwith would say. I reviewed his book Running Free for the Guardian, and liked most of it very much. But I didn’t much like his oppositional stance: pure, natural running versus Big Running. I object to inflated race fees, but if someone – i.e. me – wants to spend money on kit, then why not? He’s right though about being imprisoned by paces and GPS watches, and once the marathon is done, I plan on putting my watch away for a while.

When we got back to the hotel in Tribeca, and after I had gobbled a bagel with cream cheese, I found two paracetamol tablets by my bed. I hadn’t taken any painkillers. Placebos are great.

The shipping conference was at the Hilton hotel in Stamford, Connecticut. The city is supposed to have many rich residents, as it’s on the Gold Coast next to Greenwich. But the Hilton was in an odd industrial park next to the turnpike (I love that Americans use that word for a motorway, and expect always to see horses and carriages). It didn’t look like promising running land. Nonetheless I asked a receptionist to recommend a good place to go running. He was the wrong person to ask. Not because he looked unfit and overweight, but because he said, “I recommend you use the hotel gym.”

I said, “No,” and he looked shocked. But there was no way I was going to spend three days at a conference, stuck inside, and run 15 miles on a treadmill. Anyway I don’t think I can. The most I’ve run on a treadmill is 5 miles, when I was on a cruise, and that was hard going even when I had the ocean to look at. So I gave up on the receptionist and turned to Google. I usually use walk jog run or map my run, but the problem with those is that you have no way of judging whether your peers like running through Blade Runner hell-holes or whether they think carefully about their routes. Finally, though I’m not sure how, I found a route down to something called Greenwich Point Park.

The next morning I got up and set off. It wasn’t promising: storage warehouses, chain-link fences, somewhat grim streets. But then it began to change, and the houses got bigger and bigger, and suddenly it felt like I was running through old money: huge painted clapboard houses, US mailboxes, green lawns. There were no pavements on much of the route down but that didn’t matter. There were no runners either, but that could be because it was freezing cold. After 4 miles, I reached the park, and a beach, and the ocean, and it was beautiful.

It was so beautiful, I ran back there every day to cleanse hotel-life from me. The conference was interesting, but it was a conference, and there were suits everywhere, and I needed to run. The next day was the Run with Rose event, somewhat publicised to link up with my marathon fund-raising for Seafarers UK. Roger had promised to do the run, and Jason Zuidema of the North American Maritime Ministries Association, who had also been instrumental in getting me to Stamford, had apparently been training especially, having last done a 10K a year earlier. Some other maritime chaplains had said they would come too but that morning was even colder, and the chaplains, from their table in the warm breakfast hall, said they had, oddly, changed their mind.

So it was me, Roger and Jason, and our escorts: Noah and another guy in a car who were filming us for NAMMA. I don’t know what purpose me running down a road will have for North American maritime matters, but I hope it has some. By now I had new shoes and new compression sleeves, bright orange to match my jacket and hat, so I looked like a Belisha beacon, without the stripes.

Roger and I had come with full cold-weather gear. Jason was in a t-shirt and shorts. No gloves, no hat. He lives in Montreal. It was twenty degrees colder there. His car was filthy and when I asked him what he had driven through, he said, “Canada.”

We took a more direct route, and we made it. This time there was time to hang out on the beach and photograph iced sand:

On my penultimate day, I was woken at 7am by a phone call. “Oh no, have I woken you?” It was Phil Parry of Spinnaker, who I’ve met a couple of times now. And suddenly I remembered suggesting we go run together at 7am. I had forgotten, entirely, and I hadn’t even been drinking. But I was down and ready by 7:05, and off we went again, up to Selleck Street, along Fairfield Avenue, down to Shore Road, and all the way to the shore. Like Roger, Phil is a tippy-toe forefoot runner and they both make me feel quite clod-hopper. I intend to lighten my shoes, but not until the marathon. Like me, Phil was astonished at the beauty of the beach, which seems a thousand miles away from the stuffy hotel. On the way back we decided to stop for breakfast in a scruffy sandwich shop on a scruffy street. It looked like nothing much, but it said “hot coffee” in the window, so we went in. The man behind the counter wasn’t particularly effusive, but I said something about us being hungry runners, and suddenly woop: it all changed. He’s done four marathons, and one day he decided to do a marathon in Iceland, just like that. He gave us training tips, and told us about Icelandic marathons, and made me the best toasted bagel with cream-cheese I’ve had for years. A great running encounter with the man behind the counter.

I flew back to the UK and had no sleep on the flight. The next day I was minimally functional and with no thought of exercise. But yesterday I ran 20 miles with Janey along the canal. Same plan as before: I ran from Keighley, she met me at Saltaire. It was a changeable day of weather, and I got wet but it didn’t matter. I felt OK. Not as good as at the Hull 20, but not bad. My legs were tired, my hip began to ache, but I could run through all of it. Poor Janey was feeling “bleeurgh” when she set off, and stayed feeling vaguely nauseous, but still not only managed to run 13 miles but looked like she was as perky and sprightly after 13 miles as she had been when we set off.

So that’s it for long runs. I think it’s hilarious that only two years ago I was still stuck on treadmills and not running more than 5K, and now although I have a 16 mile run to do this weekend, I don’t think it’s a long run.

I found two magazines and two race numbers from London Marathon when I got home. I don’t know why. But I read the magazine, and considered the state of my hip (tolerable), and thought: I’m ready. And I’m excited.

—

ACTIVITY
WEDNESDAY 12 MARCH: 7 MILE CLUB RUN
SUNDAY 16 MARCH: 12:62 MILES, NEW YORK CITY, 1:59:08
MONDAY 17 MARCH: ABOUT 7 MILES, STAMFORD, CT ABOUT AN HOUR
TUESDAY 18 MARCH: 5K RUN WITH ROSE
WEDNESDAY 19 MARCH: ABOUT 7 MILES, ABOUT AN HOUR
SATURDAY 22 MARCH: ABOUT 20 MILES (GPS SAYS 20, GB.MAPOMETER SAYS MORE; MY WATCH STOPPED WORKING IN THE DARK ARCHES)

March 10, 2014March 10, 2014

Hip, hip, hip

It worked. The preparation worked. And the god of weather intervened to help matters. So, here is my race report of the East Hull 20. I was the driver. I picked up Richard “Titch” Joyce at LPSA, our de facto clubhouse, at 7.30am, then Gemma and her Hyde Park Harrier friend Ben. Gemma had texted at 5:55am to ask if we could take Ben as his lift had vanished when his club-mate, the driver, fell off her bike, and although my kitten alarm-clock had been banished from the bedroom, I was awake with faint nerves. A rendez-vous at the Shell garage was arranged and off we went to Hull. The sun was already out, there were some runners on the roads, and I still wasn’t scared. Not like I had been scared at the Bridlington Half, when my club-mates kept asking if I was alright and told me afterwards I’d looked terrified. Yesterday I wasn’t terrified. I’d packed my smoothie, some coffee, gels, water, my recovery quiche. I had slept properly. Everything felt good.

We got to the club-house of East Hull Harriers early enough to leave us an hour of Faffing Time. This is essential because there is so much to do: pick up your number, go back to the car to pin it to your vest, faff, go back to the clubhouse to use the toilet again, faff, go back to the car again, faff, go back to the clubhouse to use the toilet again. By the final toilet visit it was 9:56 and the race started at 10. We still didn’t know exactly where the start was but headed out of the clubhouse onto the main road. Further down the road the runners were massing on both sides of the road, as if they were about to dive into the middle and swim down it. The traffic was still passing, we still didn’t understand how the start would work, but we only had a couple of minutes to get nervous, then suddenly everyone moved into the road and a gun went off.

Oh. That must be the start. Or a calamity.

Off we went. For 20 miles. I started quite quickly but wanted to stick to my marathon pace, which is 9:10 per minute mile. Ben and I had debated in the car park for a while about whether we should vest it or not. I thought that “to vest it” was my neologism and was about to be proud of it, but he said Hyde Park Harriers use it all the time. Anyway, we vested it and after a mile of running I knew it was the right decision. It was sunny and warm and beautiful and I warmed up quickly but not too much. There was bunching for the first couple of miles, then space appeared between groups of runners, then more space. There were a dozen or so of us obviously aiming for a nine-minute mile pace. Two of them were right behind me and talking in an uninteresting fashion about football, then DVDs, then more football and I thought, oh well, it’s one reason to run faster, to get away from them. So I did.

It was a beautiful course, once we’d done a mile or so of road: paths, country lanes, fields and nice houses to look at. It was FLAT. After a few miles I ended up running with a man in bright orange top and shoes, who said he was going to run the Rotterdam marathon, that that would be his kit and he was going “full Dutch.” On the other side of me was a woman from Sleaford, a place I had never heard of but which I now know is near Lincoln, in the flat bit but near the hilly bit of Lincoln. For a while we played “who lives in the hilliest town?”

I do.

We stayed together for about 15 miles, and it was companionable. We didn’t talk if we didn’t feel like it. Every so often Full Dutch Man would say something encouraging, and he managed to do it without being annoying. I told him he should put his mantras on t-shirts. He told me he had Irritable Bowel Syndrome and that that morning he had suffered for it, but that now he was fine. I told him about my post on running incontinence for the Guardian, and a woman who had been running near us suddenly sped up and left us. I can’t imagine why.

There were plentiful water stations. There were endlessly cheering marshals, on bikes, at water stations, at corners. I think the sunshine lifted everyone, and there was a cool coastal breeze to go with it which was lovely. Full Dutch Man told me that the East Hull 20 had been voted the windiest course in Britain in Runner’s World, and that last year had been cold and with a gale in his face all the way round. He hadn’t seen the scenery because his head had been down into the wind for 20 miles.

I must have got my fuelling right because for many many miles I felt great. I felt STRONG. I realised how often I’m usually giving myself trouble in my head about running, that I feel tired, or my leg aches, or my shoes are a problem. I didn’t do that yesterday. I just ran, and I enjoyed it. After mile 10, I could start counting downwards and that’s always a delight. At mile 13, I suddenly felt tired, but an all-over tiredness, not the leaden legs I’d had on my 18-mile run. After the first water station, when I chucked my unfinished water bottle immediately, I kept hold of the bottle for the next two stations, because after I’d chucked the bottle at mile 5 or so, I got so thirsty I started hallucinating water stations. That was my only mistake and I’ll correct that somehow, with a hydration pack or a bottle belt.

At just after mile 10, we saw the faster runners coming back the other way. There was only the shortest of crossovers, which meant it was impressive rather than dispiriting to see the leaders sprint past us. We ran through villages where some people cheered us. We ran down lanes where cars were driving, and some drivers were generous and thoughtful, and some drivers were contemptible. The woman in the Range Rover who had her window down and shouted “SINGLE FILE”: I mean you. You can tell who does sport and who doesn’t by how much respect they showed us. (We were, by the way, mostly running in single file when she yelled at us.) We passed lots of cyclists and they passed us and although I wish they would use their damn bells, they mostly treated us respectfully and us them. Some drivers though drove at 40 miles an hour past us and I had some moments of runners’ rage at such heedlessness. Full Dutch Man said three runners had been killed around Rotherham in the last year, and most had been wearing headphones and listening to music. One though had been killed by a lorry driver who was being prosecuted for manslaughter, because he had been driving like a dickhead on country lanes with poor visibility.

At mile 15, it felt like running five more miles was impossible. At mile 17, it felt possible. At mile 18, it felt harder than ever before. At that point, a lot of people were walking. Full Dutch Man, who has run dozens of marathons, and who was clearly faster than me but staying with me out of kindness, said the last two miles was when most people began to struggle. I was struggling a bit, but Full Dutch Man kept me going. We lost our Sleaford companion. She was doing a training plan that sounded insane to me, and which had had her running 24 miles the week before. That didn’t help, and nor did her having a stitch at mile 12. She said she wasn’t enjoying it at all, and she fell back and we carried on. Full Dutch Man had warned me of a hill at mile 19, and we got there and it was, to anyone who runs in Leeds, just a short sharp incline. Then it was downhill to the finish, and Full Dutch Man never faltered in his cheery encouragement, not even then. “See the banners? That’s the finish. You can do it!”

I thought at one point that I might manage to do it in under three hours. That would have been great, because my paces have been somewhat haphazard and seemingly heading to a 4:30 marathon time. But a three hour time might mean I can do four hours after all and although that doesn’t matter, it does. I didn’t do three hours, but I only missed it by six minutes and six seconds. We got near the finish line, and Full Dutch Man’s wife was waiting with his Labrador. Full Dutch Man started calling to his dog, who began to jump and pull and look doggy-delighted. His wife called, “well done, lady!” at me as we passed, and then as we approached the funnel, Full Dutch Man said, no, you go first. And he let me go ahead. What a thoroughly charming man. Afterwards, we hugged, and I thanked him, and then today I looked at the results and found that his name was Malcolm.

Malcolm of Kimberworth Striders, thank you.

Afterwards, I collapsed onto the grass outside East Hull Harriers club-house. Titch and Ben had already finished: Titch did it in 2 hours 15, as he would, being a speedy little dynamo. The finishing prizes were a bottle of water, a towel embroidered with East Hull 20 – much better than a baggy, saggy, ugly race t-shirt – and a lavish buffet. I managed to stand up, with some difficulty, and although I don’t get hungry immediately after running (it usually hits an hour later, suddenly, so that I am so urgently famished I could eat a tree), I made myself eat quiche (protein = recovery), chocolate cornflakes (sugar = recovery), cheese sandwiches (protein = recovery) and an orange (sweet, liquid = delicious). On the way back from the car to the clubhouse, I met a woman who had been in the race, still running though she had passed the finish line, looking at her watch. She saw me looking at her with bewilderment and said, “It’s not quite 20!”

Crikey. At that point, who cares?

I’m not sure how I drove home but I managed it, though seeing signs for “Leeds 28” made my exhausted brain think I was still racing.

It was great though. It was hard but not as hard as it could have been. I mostly felt strong and fit, and when I didn’t, my race slogan of “look what you can do, look what you can do” helped. I thought of lots on the way, as there was silence to think in despite me running in company. I remembered Gemma’s race slogan, written on her hand: Legs, Mind, Heart. Those are the three things that control you during a long race, in that order. I like that.

A race on a sunny but cool enough day, with kind and encouraging marshals and good company and scenery along the way, and afterwards showers equipped with shampoo and countless hair products, and tons of food: I might do it again next year even if I’m not marathon training. It was my first ever 20 miles so I did my jump for joy at 18:20, and Gemma and I tried to recreate the jump afterwards but we couldn’t deal with the iPhone’s second delay and after two jumps I had nothing left in my legs.

My hip was fine during the run. I got other niggles, but they’re just for entertainment, I think, like a foot niggle at mile 14, and a brand new knee pain at mile 18. Today, though, my hip hates me.

—

ACTIVITY
EAST HULL 20
Distance: 20 miles
Time: 3:06:06

March 8, 2014March 8, 2014

Preparing

I signed up to run the East Hull 20 last November or so. It made sense, in a way that the fact that I may one day be able to run 26.2 miles made sense, in a dreamy, hysterical, impossible kind of way.

It’s tomorrow.

And, oddly, I’m not too nervous. I wonder why. I had leaden legs on my 18 mile run, but I wasn’t knackered apart from in my legs. Perhaps I’m confident, but that’s not like me. Perhaps I’m denying the fact that I will wake up tomorrow morning at 6am, pick up my club-mates Gemma and Richard, drive to East Hull, and then

FREAK OUT

and run 20 miles. I didn’t really think of this as anything but the next step in my training runs, rather than the longest run I will ever do before the marathon. Then someone said to me last week, you should treat it as your marathon. You should wear what you’re going to wear, eat what you’re going to eat, prepare how you are going to prepare.

Oh. Then it became more alarming. And yet. I don’t have my race vest from Seafarers UK. I’m still not sure about which socks I’ll run in: the comedy rainbow compression socks are great, but today on Parkrun they were making my toes tingle, and that was over only three miles. Also they didn’t enable me to beat the dog who was faster than me by miles. (Comforting thought: dogs are four times as fast as humans. I have no idea where I read that.) I did however beat the ten-year-old girl who was running alongside me for a while with her dad. We were passed (i.e. coming in the other direction) by a group of power walkers, and the next few hundred metres were spent, entertainingly for me, listening to her dad try to answer her question of “what’s the point of power walking?”

Quite.

So as I don’t know about socks, and I have forgotten to buy isotonic stuff to put in drinks and anyway I don’t want to run 20 miles carrying a bottle of water, and my hydration backpack hasn’t yet arrived, I concentrated today on eating and baking. I made power chia flapjack, a version of Veggie Runners’ spicy flapjack, with a large dollop of chia seeds added, along with some preserved plums I bought in Singapore. Then I made a power chia banana and almond milk smoothie for tomorrow morning when I will be stumbling around at 6am. Then a beetroot, feta cheese and kale recovery quiche (eggs = protein = good). Then a carb-loading onion and broccoli pizza, to stop me from heading out to Nash’s fish and chip shop for a large amount of chips, mushy peas and gravy. I had them once, and felt strong when I ran the next day, so in my head they are now i) magic and ii) justifiable. But the Brownlees swear by pizza, so it was pizza.

I have laid out my race outfit, and searched for my race number with some desperation, before searching then for the booking email that told me we would pick up race numbers on the day. I have looked at the East Hull Harriers website and at the course, which has an alarming number of small and large numbers on the main road, which means the loop of doom, when faster runners come back and you know you are several miles behind them. I have checked that I have enough energy gels for throughout the race, and I have charged my watch. I have prepared my post-race clothing of clean t-shirt, clean pants, clean long trousers, clean socks, other shoes. I will probably take jelly beans or jelly babies but will get them on the way, and anyway I’m not sure about them as my throat does not swallow them properly and once you’ve run a mile with half a swallowed jelly baby in your throat, you tend to look at colourful sugary confectionary with darkness in your heart.

I will barricade my door tonight so that my furry alarm known as my kitten – who arrived to lick my neck last night at 3am, 4am, 5am, 6am and 7am – can’t disturb my sleep. I have not had alcohol since Thursday. I paid £25 for an excellent sports massage in which Ward, the man with terrifying hands, poked at my knee where my ITB arrives at it and made me squeal. Yes, he said. That explains why your knee has been aching.

There is petrol in my car. The race location postcode is in my phone for Google maps.

And that is all the preparation I can do. Now my feet just have to run 5280 feet.

—

ACTIVITY

TUESDAY: TRAINING SESSION, JENNY

WEDNESDAY: CLUB RUN + EXTRA
DISTANCE: 10 MILES
TIME: I DON’T KNOW BECAUSE MY WATCH STOPPED BUT 8 MILES WAS 1: 14
PACE: FAST. 8.30 MILE ON AVERAGE

SATURDAY: PARKRUN
DISTANCE: 3 MILES
TIME: 25:04

March 4, 2014March 4, 2014

Lists

Some exorcism was required, still, after last Monday. I planned my long run carefully this week. Unlike last week, I would:

1. run in daylight
2. run in a straight line
3. run with somebody
4. run on a path
5. did I mention run in daylight?

My plan called for 17 miles but I wanted to do 18, because I’ve signed up for East Hull 20, a 20-mile race in East Hull, next week, and I want to do it. Jenny’s plan is carefully thought out and cautious, because she doesn’t want me to get injured, and we both know that I’m prone to injury on my right side. So she didn’t want me to increase my mileage by more than 10% a week, which is as it should be. But I wanted to see if I could do it. Yorkshire stubbornness.

I got the train to Keighley, after looking on this useful site at how far 18 miles away on the Leeds-Liverpool canal was. Janey of Veggie Runners offered to keep me company for some of the miles. She didn’t want to do the whole run because

1) her marathon isn’t until October
2) she’s not insane

We arranged to meet at Shipley, six miles from Keighley, then run the “last” 12 miles together. I got up in time, I ate toast and peanut butter, I drove to the train station. I could have cycled or got the bus but had enough forward thinking to realise that I would not want a three mile uphill cycle ride after running 18 miles, and that I would be too tired to get a bus either, and that I may be in a peed-my-pants state which sometimes happens with a 44-year-old bladder and weak pelvic floor muscles. Really! Women pee while running! I was carrying a backpack with a sweatshirt, gels, water, but I didn’t have space for spare clothing too or my usual race kit of a large packet of wet-wipes I didn’t want to sit on a bus worrying about smelling So, the car, with something to sit on.

Nobody on the train looked twice at my rainbow running socks. Maybe it was too early. At the station, I asked for directions to the canal. Turn right, get to the roundabout, take your third right. I did – going via Asda’s toilets first to avoid the peeing-my-pants situation (it didn’t work: 18 miles requires a lot of hydration) – but got past the roundabout and thought: this road is going uphill. Canals are on the flat. This can’t be right.

Yes. Sometimes I’m thick. I googled to check a map and of course the server decided not to work. By now I was getting a bit nervous. I was supposed to meet Janey at 10 and it was already 9. I can usually run six miles in an hour but not at long run pace. But it was a beautiful sunny morning so at least she wouldn’t have to wait in the rain. Anyway I still hadn’t found the canal. I got to a bridge over the River Aire and thought shit, is everyone directing me to the river? A canal can’t be on a hill. I asked an old gentleman – I call him that because he was dressed properly in coat and hat, elegant in the way that old people are when they leave their house – where the canal was. He directed me uphill. There, at the end of that street. And there was a sign, and then there was the canal, on a hill. What a thing to behold. I love engineers already, but engineers who put canals on hills: brilliant.

I set off running. Then I stopped to get my earphones right. Then I stopped to get my New Yorker podcast right. Then it was hot so I had to take my jacket off and then I had no pocket, so I ran with my iPhone in my hand but that made it skip so I stopped and put that away. I already needed to pee but the only options were people’s canal-front gardens, and it was late enough in the morning for walkers and dogs to be about and empty stretches to be impossible. The sun shone, the water glistened, the ducks swam. It was lovely. But Shipley was still six miles away. I saw a sign saying Liverpool 115 miles and thought, shit, I’m going in the wrong direction. If I’m stupid enough not to realise canals can be cut into hillsides, perhaps I’m daft enough to run to Liverpool when I want to go to Leeds. But the Leeds distance was on the other side.

I ran past the Bingley Five-Rise Locks. I’ve seen them before, but not passing them quite this fast. I would have stopped to gawp, as they are beautiful, but there was no time.

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Later I encountered a police officer talking to three men by another lock, and a path that seemed fenced off. I asked the police officer, can I run this way? Aye love, or you can swim it.

It was six miles of beautiful canal, peaceful water, nice soft path. No roaring rush-hour traffic, no fear, no panic, no running-loathing.

I was 15 minutes late to meet Janey. She greeted me by offering a banana, we both drank and set off. I’m trying not to have gels before 10 miles so my body gets used to using energy without extra carbohydrates, but after 8 miles I started to feel oddly weary. I kept going, but then stopped for a gel. My legs started to feel heavy, and by mile 12 or so, I felt wooden and they felt leaden. Janey has a lovely light-footed running style and also manages to make running look natural and easy. But by now I was feeling like a clod-hopper, like my feet were thudding too heavily on the ground. I tried to adjust my cadence to Janey’s, as hers is fast and efficient. But I am taller and my legs are longer, and I don’t have her tippy-toe forefoot strike so it was hard. Though once I did attempt to adjust my running style, by standing taller, kicking a bit higher and trying to increase my footfall, it felt easier, but the problem was that all that took a bit of effort and that was increasingly hard to find.

I kept apologising to Janey. She knows loads about nutrition and vegetarians (you may have guessed that) so we talked about that for a while, and I realised that because I’ve been so careful at getting enough protein, I’ve been neglecting eating enough carbohydrates. That probably explained my leaden legs. There was no other reason I could think of: I was well-rested, I was hydrated, I’d had a good breakfast.

Even so, it was a beautiful run. I forgot to do my celebratory jump when I got to 15.1 miles, my longest ever distance, but remembered at about 16, so Janey took this great picture. That, however, was the fifth take: Well done, tired legs.

At Rodley the walkers multiplied. We met a little girl who looked in wonder at my socks, and at Janey, and at me. She was with her dad, then her mum and a friend ran past – as in, they were running for sport, not just running past – and she burst into tears at seeing her mum run off. We ran off in the other direction with the sound of her committed inconsolation getting fainter as we ran.

My mileage calculations were slightly off, or that site is slightly off, because we got to 18 miles with a mile to go to Leeds city centre. But I stopped. I’d pushed things enough. We walked the last mile, I drove home, and then followed Jayne’s strict instructions: Eat something as soon as you walk through the door, before you even stretch. Peanut butter and oatcakes, preferably. So I walked through the door and did this:

1. Feed the cats
2. Eat a Ryvita with peanut butter
3. Stretch.
4. Stretch more.
5. Stretch more.
6. Foam roller.
7. Spiky massage ball.
8. Run a bath.
9.Lie in the bath.
10. Try to stay awake
11. Go to bed.
12. Sleep the sleep of the righteously exhausted.

And the next day I got up and ran five miles, cross-country, for the last of the PECO XC league. We didn’t win the league, but we came second, the highest ever. And somehow my legs got round the course even when it seemed impossible. And I applauded them, and me, and there some flowers at myself, and in my head, I did this again.

ACTIVITY
SATURDAY: 18.03 MILES
TIME: 2:56:31

SUNDAY: 4.81 MILES, WITH MUD, ROOTS, AND MORE MUD
TIME: 48:09

February 27, 2014February 27, 2014

Exorcising and exercising

I wasn’t supposed to run last night as I’m doing a cross-country at the weekend. But I wanted to exorcise that horrible run. I didn’t want to think about miles or timing or splits or pavements. So I went running with my club. The route was one of our duller winter road runs: Kirkstall Road, city centre, Meanwood Road. I wore my socks:

and my club-mates laughed at them and that’s the point of them (as well as keeping my legs tight and supposedly more injury-free), and we ran. And I bored poor Niamh with the tale of my horrible run for about two miles, and although she is much faster than me, she sociably kept at my pace and listened to my probably overlong tale of trauma. Then through the city centre, to the bemusement of shoppers and going-homers, so that we run to a faint acoustic trail behind us of “it must be a club” or “why are they all in yellow?”

Etc.

Then dull and boring Meanwood Road, Grove Road, Headingley, & back. I’ve done the route dozens of times and finally paid enough attention that I could find it on my own. The weather was warm, I ran in a t-shirt, I didn’t use my watch. I just enjoyed running with friends on a dark pre-spring evening, and it was great.

It was just, simply, great.

—

ACTIVITY
DISTANCE: 7 MILES
TIME: ABOUT AN HOUR
ENJOYMENT: MUCH IMPROVED

February 25, 2014February 25, 2014

Horrible

I can’t remember ever hating running before. I have hated it while running, but that doesn’t count. But I have never thought back on a run and shuddered. Now I can do that. Now I am thinking back on last night’s run and shuddering.

Last week’s long run was meant to have been 17 miles but I hadn’t done them. I was supposed to run them on Sunday and didn’t because I didn’t get up early enough, I was tired, and I was at a family lunch that was also family tea and family evening drink in the local. There was no running. But I really want to stick to my marathon plan so I thought I could sneak in the 17 miles on Monday and then do another long run much later in the week, so I could be on track for running the East Hull 20, a 20 mile race (obviously) in East Hull (obviously). I had a deadline to finish and told myself I would get to my studio early and the run would be my reward for finishing it. That did happen. I sent it to my editor at 3.30pm, and by 4.30 I was standing outside my house holding my watch hopefully to the sky as usual, trying for a satellite. I had procrastinated during the deadline by planning a route with my usual gb.mapometer.com, which is brilliant because it automatically follows roads. A small pleasure. I also checked what time sunset was going to be, here. I spent ages trying to devise a perfect 17km loop, and finally decided to run up Harrogate Road, down to the reservoir, along Eccup Moor Road, then up Eccup Lane. Then I would run along Otley Road, and down Harrogate Road from Harewood. I checked with Google Maps whether Eccup Lane had pavements as I haven’t been up it before. It didn’t, but I didn’t think it would be too busy and it would still be light. I assumed Otley Road and Harrogate Road, as they are two major roads, would have pavements, and I knew that I would hit Otley Road as it was getting dark so could then safely run down on major roads all the way home.

It was a good plan. What an idiot.

For the first 8 miles, the run was great. It wasn’t raining, it was getting dusk and I love twilight. There were a few walkers around the reservoir. I was listening to the New Yorker’s fiction podcast and a story by Joyce Carol Oates lasted several miles, and it was wonderful. By Eccup Lane I was listening to Jonathan Safran Foer reading Amos Oz’s The King of Norway, and I was content. There were a few cars, but I was in my neon orange hi-vis jacket, I ran into the direction of oncoming traffic, the darkening light was beautiful and even though there were no other runners around I felt safe and happy.

I reached the end of Eccup Lane.

Shit.

No pavements.

I thought, it’s Otley Road, there must be pavements soon. I started walking on the verge. I didn’t want to run because it was tussocky and I was worried about going over on my ankle. I was nervous, because by now it was properly dark and the road seemed narrow, and the cars were fast. I thought, maybe I should run back up Eccup Lane, but by now it was too dark and I’d rather not run along a country lane on my own at night. Or, I calculated, I can keep walking to the junction with Harrogate Road and from there run back on pavements, a long straight run home. I knew from runs I’ve done along the Leeds Country Way nearby that there was a pavement on Harrogate Road up towards Harewood House’s main gate. I managed to cross the insanely busy rush hour traffic on Harrogate Road, by now listening to Italo Calvino, who I have always loved but will now always associate with a shitty terrifying run, and ran up to Harewood House.

Shit.

The pavement disappeared.

Normally at Harewood House we would cut inside the grounds and run along the perimeter path down to Wike Lane, where we usually park. But no way was I going to run along a woodland path in the pitch black on my own with no torch. I decided to set off walking. I knew there was a pavement from the road off Harrogate Road towards Eccup reservoir and I didn’t think it was too far.

I was wrong. It’s actually making me shudder and faintly sick to write this because it was so horrible, and although Otley Road was bad, it was about get a lot worse. I couldn’t run because I couldn’t see. The verge was wide enough but it had branches and dips and ditches and clods. All I could do was keep walking. And walking. And walking. I don’t actually want to look up how far it was because I’d be too upset, but I think I walked for an hour. In the pitch black, into cars rushing past at 60 miles an hour, and it was endless. On and on and on. I was scared of the traffic. I was actually scared for my life. I was scared that I was walking along the perimeter wall of Harewood and what if someone came over from the woods on the other side? I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t see my feet in front of me. I was spooked. It honestly felt like a nightmare, or a scenario that someone has written. I didn’t know what to do.

I kept walking. I walked past two bus stops but they were on the other side of the road and it seemed extremely difficult to cross: the commuter traffic was constant. I made the decision not to try and cross and wait for a bus because I thought, it won’t be too long and then I can run and I can do my 17 miles. That was the wrong decision. It was long, and terrifying. And horrifying. I don’t use any of those words lightly. I felt trapped. By now there was no point going back because I had walked so far. It seemed like going forward, however scared I was, was the only option. So I did. I thought, it can’t be much further. It can’t get much worse.

And then it did get worse. After about 45 minutes which felt like 45 hours, the verge disappeared too. Suddenly I was on Harrogate Road with no pavement and no verge to walk on, in darkness, with no torch. I’d been using the torch on my iPhone, but the iPhone had died. Where the verge stopped, there were barriers. I stepped over them and had no idea what I was stepping into. I couldn’t see anything. I had to duck under road-signs. I fell a couple of times, I stumbled a lot. I remember getting tangled in some fence but by now I was so scared and so profoundly upset, I didn’t take any notice. I had no idea whether I was walking through junk or dead bodies or broken glass. By this point I was so distressed I could imagine anything. And it wasn’t over. I remember looking ahead at the road stretching uphill and thinking, oh god, oh god, when will I get to safety? All I could see was more dark terrifying road. I even thought of calling the police, but my phone was dead so I couldn’t phone anyone. I couldn’t see how to escape. I just kept saying to myself, it can’t last forever. It has to end.

The grounds of Harewood stopped and then there were fields. There was a farmhouse and I thought, shall I go and knock on the door and ask for help? But I knew I couldn’t be more than two miles from safety, and I felt stupid. I also didn’t think they’d answer the door. So I didn’t.

I decided to walk in the fields instead. I couldn’t see anything in the field I climbed into because I couldn’t see anything at all. There could have been bulls but at that point I barely cared. I had to climb through a vast pile of cattle shit to climb over the wall to get out and by that point I was almost crying with distress. And there, finally, was some pavement. I had reached the road to Eccup reservoir. And I ran home, as fast as I bloody could. Only when I got home did I realise that my leg was extremely sore, and saw this:

I’m guessing barbed wire. I put on some soft trousers and limped round to the corner shop. I’m off alcohol, mostly, while I’m marathon training but sod that. I bought a bottle of red wine and drank half of it. Fast.

I must have been passed by 300 or so cars on my long scared walk. No-one stopped to ask if I needed help. I suppose I can be thankful no kidnapper or rapist stopped either. I’ve travelled to many dangerous places: Iraq, Afghanistan, Kosovo. I am not known for exaggerating or overblowing things. So when I say that I’ve not feared for my life like last night for a very very long time (not since Serb soldiers in Kosovo swung their machine guns in our direction) I mean it. It takes a lot for me to express emotion, but I almost cried with relief when I saw the Shell garage.

Today I got up and went to the gym for my session with Jenny. My leg was sore but could still jump and lunge. Well done, leg. I confessed to Jenny that I hadn’t done my 17 mile run, and normally she’d express concern that I wouldn’t be able to do the East Hull 20 or that I was diverging from her carefully thought out plan but she must have seen my face. I was still upset. I still am. What kind of main road doesn’t have a pavement? Why are cars prized over people so that pedestrians don’t even get a safe pavement and are bewildered and frightened by mad rushing vehicles?

Yes. I know why.

I decided to work from home today. I wanted the comfort of my cats. And I still feel drained. When I got home from the gym I gently bathed my barbed wire wounds with rosewater, recommended by a triathlete who runs in minimal clothing on moorland and gets spiked, scored and cut a lot by thorns and wires. I added some lavender oil, recommended by my friend Martha who knows about these things. The woman in the chemist said her mother swears by rosewater oil as a healer of skin. And I got some post: technicolour compression socks. So I put them on so that when I look at my legs I don’t see them trudging endlessly through a long night, but I see this instead:

—

ACTIVITY
MONDAY: 10 MILES OR SO, 4 MILES OR SO WALKING
TIME: TOO BLOODY LONG

TUESDAY: GYM SESSION WITH JENNY: PLYOMETRICS, STRENGTH, LOTS OF GLUTE WORK & LEG STRENGTHENING WITH EXPLOSIVE JUMPS

February 22, 2014February 22, 2014

Nationals

Today was the Saucony National XC, known by runners as the Nationals (along with the Northerns and the Yorkshires), but by the organisers as The National, like a horse-race.

I checked the weather report and thought something must be wrong: the sun was due to shine. The temperature was balmy. That’s all wrong for a cross-country. I learned my lesson at the Northerns when I forgot gloves and had to buy a hat, and despite the unusual yellow thing in the sky, I took coat, hoodies, gloves, hot tea. The venue was Wollaton Hall in Nottinghamshire and the usual conveyance was Bal driving the Fun Bus, also known as the minibus she borrows from work and is allowed to do so as long as we don’t get one speck of mud in it. We all take bin bags and watch our feet.

I was nervous. I’ve done plenty of races since I joined Kirkstall Harriers, and I’m less nervous than I was when I ran my first race, the Bradford 10K (a very boring and more boring road race along the road to Shipley and back). I still however stand at the start line of any race and feel like I have no idea how to run, and that running is an impossibility. And then the whistle goes and we go, and I remember. But the Nationals were going to be huge. They expected 7,000 entrants. We got to Wollaton and someone said, this is Wayne Manor. And so it is: some of Dark Knight Rises was filmed here, understandably:

The grass that rolled down from the house was covered with marquees and tents and the feather flags of clubs. It looked like a mediaeval field of battle with Portaloos. We arrived, we put our feather flag next to Leeds City Club, who are very fast and do things like check the terrain and then decide what millimetre length of spikes they need. We faffed, we got our numbers and swore an oath not to mutilate them:

We queued for toilets (they had mirrors! and toilet rolls! and hand sanitiser!). I dragged my club-mates out for a dynamic warm-up, and it really was dragging: I’m going to make dynamic warm-ups popular in my club if I have to die of overdosing on lunges. Then we stripped off and went to wait in the start marquee. At first it looked like a cattle tent, and we were only a few cattle. Then as 780 women arrived to race, it began to sound like a demented aviary with the sound turned up. A mass of women in a confined space is LOUD.

Then out to the “pens”, then 10 metres forward to the line, then fingers poised to start hundreds of watches, then off. And suddenly I remembered how to run again. Except it was too fast. The first mile was 6.30 miles and that, for a 5-mile race, would send my lungs running for shelter and claiming asylum somewhere. I slowed down. And I noticed immediately that this was a fast, fast race. The field was very good. I knew that because I’m normally in the middle of races, but here I was in the last third and not even at the start of it. I was overtaken a lot, but I also overtook enough not to give up and start running backwards. The course was extremely nice: only one hill and one tolerable ascent. It was mostly undulating and on green grass, except for one tree they’d laid across the course, and a trench of water, and 200m of mud. It all seemed random. I pictured the race organisers doing a last-minute check of the course and thinking, shit, we’d better stick in some mud and a ditch and oh, let’s just lay a whole tree in their path too. I jumped over the tree, and ran straight through the water, and did whatever I could to get through the mud, which was more than ankle-deep. I wanted to keep my shoes. It was the easiest cross-country course I’ve ever done, though I won’t tell England XC that. Anyway next year the Nationals are at Parliament Hill. That is to say, A HILL.

I did alright. I could have been faster, but these were good runners. I was as usual overtaken by women 20 years older than me, and that pleased me as usual. As we got up to the final ascent on our second lap, the men’s race started and suddenly every head of every spectator snapped in their direction. Thanks. I finished with a sprint and overtook some nemeses. That’s the wrong word: in the ranks where I run, there is no hostility and no elbows out, as I bet there is at the elite end. If you bash someone, you say sorry. There is warmth in adversity amongst the slower.

Still, I sprinted and beat some women I’d been running nearby for a while, and one of them, as I sprinted past her up to the finish line, said “well done!”. Now that is why I love my running tribe. I came 547th out of 708. Then we waited for the men to finish, although the sun went in and suddenly we were standing around, with no means of getting back to our bags (as the thoroughfare was over the race course), dressed in shorts and vests in winter. The women’s race – 8km – was won by Gemma Steel in 27:42. The men’s race, which was 12km, was won by Steven Vernon, who crossed the line with his fists in the air and for a small fraction of time, I thought, that must feel great. I wonder what it’s like to win a race. But I will never know, and that’s fine. We didn’t see Batman but we did see Jonny Brownlee again. He looked happier than he’d done at the Northerns, but still didn’t win.

Then we encountered a man with a large chain of silver badges. I said, are you a mayor? No, he said, I’m the president of the English Cross Country Association. So we praised the race, and praised the website, and praised it some more, and then I said, why can’t you have drink stations? I was desperately thirsty and couldn’t get to my kit and hadn’t taken money with me to pay for refreshments. He said, it would be extremely difficult to provide drink stations for 7,000 runners. But the paying refreshment tent managed it, and so does every marathon.

Still, it was sunny and fun and with enough mud to keep me happy. And I was lucky. Last year, there was snow and ice:

One of the men crossed the line shouting “I’M 46!”. Good for him. I also love that I am 44 and only started running at 41, and now find running through mud one of my favourite ways to pass my time on earth.

—

ACTIVITY
5 MILES CROSS-COUNTRY
TIME: 43:10

February 21, 2014February 21, 2014

Water

It’s Friday so of course today is the day I finally did the 10 mile run I was supposed to do on Monday. I am usually more disciplined, but I have been procrastinating about all sorts this week, from marathon plans to not writing something I should have written weeks ago. So it’s Friday and although last night I fell off my marathon no-alcohol wagon, with two gin and tonics and half a bottle of white wine, I still got up from my desk chair at 12.30 and headed out. It had been a beautiful morning. There was something called “the sun” in the sky, last seen in October. But there is a weathervane in my body which works against me. Yesterday I set off to my studio on my bike in clear weather, and five minutes later there was a cloudburst. My jeans needed wringing. Five minutes after I arrived at the studio, the sun came out.

The weathervane worked again today, because as I reached the bridge over the Leeds-Liverpool canal, the rain began to fall. It was cold, and now it was wet too. I kept going, and the rain stopped, and then it started, and then it went horizontal, and then the sun came out, and then I dried a bit, and then it rained again.

I am ambivalent about running on the canal alone, but I did it and it was fine. I saw about half a dozen people, some lone walkers, some cycling, some fishing, and although I intended only to do five miles (as I’m doing a five mile cross country race tomorrow so that would make up for the 10), I carried on, and on, until I reached Fishpond Lock near Rothwell. Rothwell! That’s a WHOLE OTHER TOWN. I impressed myself. The canal and river – at some points I was running between them – were beautiful, and the feeling of running alone and there being no-one else was soothing rather than sinister. So I ran for five miles, and then I ran back, and it was good. My hip was sore – oddly, as it was such a flat run – but I loved it. And then I went to Kirkgate market and ate my body weight in falafel.

The M1

Swimming spot? Or inspection ladder.

ACTIVITY
DISTANCE: 10.03 MILES
TIME: 1:32:12

February 20, 2014February 20, 2014

Brooks

I have not been writing but I have been training. I’m slightly diverting from my marathon plan but only in when I run: so my Monday 10 miles has been put off until this morning and then at 7am I knew I was going to put it off again until tomorrow, which means running Friday, Saturday (at the English Cross-Country championships), then getting 17 miles done somehow on Sunday. I realised at club training last night, where I bored poor Marion with my running clinic and injury geekery for about five miles, that although I’m only running three times a week, I’m still doing 35 miles.

So, I need to look after my feet. I currently have two black toenails and two thickened toenails, but other than that, my feet are fine. They are fine because my shoes are great, and my shoes are great because they are Brooks.

I got my first pair of Brooks a few years ago at Up and Running. I went in there with no preference. I think I wasn’t even running 5Ks at that point. They felt the most immediately comfortable. And though I’ve had injuries, I don’t think my shoes had anything to do with them, and I’ve never seen a reason to run in anything but Brooks. (Except for cross-country mud and bogs, for which the tractor treads of Inov8 are unsurpassable.) I run in Brooks Ghost 6, and I have a pair of Brooks Ravenna which I bought when I was misdiagnosed with a tendon problem and thought I needed support shoes (and to their credit, the Sweatshop staff tried to persuade me not to buy them), and my trail shoes are Brooks Cascadia. I also have a pair of Brooks racing flats but haven’t run in them for a while. Why do I like Brooks? Because they fit. Because they are comfortable and giving but supportive. Because I’ve never had a reason to switch.

So when I heard about the scheme that Brooks was running called Try it On, I signed up. They were lending a pair of shoes from their Pure range, for a week. I can’t remember my thought process when I chose which shoe, but I can’t have been thinking straight, because I chose the Pure Drift. I am scared of minimalist shoes, since my hip injury happened when I ran in more minimalist racing flats. So when I got them out of the box, I was puzzled. They looked a) gorgeous

but b) extremely low to the ground (it’s called a heel drop in shoe geekery) and flat. I looked them up and saw they were the most minimalist shoe in the whole range. That worried me. Minimalist shoes require months of transition. They’re fine for tippy-toe ninjas who run lightly with a forefoot strike, like Gemma or Alan “Bambi” Brydon, one of our fastest club runners. But I heel strike. And I have an ongoing ankle problem. I need some cushioning between my feet and hard ground.

Still, I ran in them. I put in my orthotic inserts, and I ran in them for 8 miles, mostly on road, but with some trail too. I got them very muddy.

And I didn’t hate them. But I didn’t love them. I didn’t get injured, and they got me round 8 miles, but I didn’t like the impact on my feet. It felt like my feet were slapping against the ground. And afterwards, all sorts of muscles I don’t normally use ached, and I was very tired. That’s a good thing and not a complaint but it all added up to me not loving them.

I didn’t run in them again, because I was doing a cross-country and then my long run, and I didn’t want to risk them on a 15 mile run. So I took them back to the shop and waited my turn for a while, as a man had arrived just before me, also returning his borrowed Brooks. The Brooks rep, a young man called Chris, apologised when he got to me, but I didn’t mind: it had taken time because he was extremely assiduous and thorough, which was fine by me. He was also impressively calm when I opened the box to show the state of the shoes. I apologised. I should have rinsed them, at least, but I hoped to use them again and then didn’t. I told him the truth: I didn’t get on with them. And he said he understood, and that other people had also mistakenly chosen the Drift without realising quite how minimalist it was. He asked if they should put an alert on the website when people pick the Pure Drift, asking, “are you sure you want a shoe this minimalist?”

Yes. Good idea. Chris was knowledgeable, charming and introduced me to new terms in shoe design that even I, with my vast geekery, didn’t know: a caterpillar? Shoe DNA? He said I was right not to take them on my long run, and he wouldn’t do long mileage in them. We both agreed I should have picked the Pure Connect instead, as it has more cushioning. I wish I had. Chris gave me my voucher for £25 on the Pure range, and suggested I consider using Pure Connect for my shorter faster runs and stick with my Ghost for long runs and the marathon, as that’s what he does.

Agreed. Except I can’t thoil another pair of shoes at the moment. And I’m going to the US where they are cheaper. And I think I need to replace the Ghost if I’m doing 35 miles a week and going to be up to 40. But if I do buy another pair of shoes, even though I didn’t get on with the Try it On, they will still be Brooks.

I asked what would happen to my muddy shoes. Would they end up being sold at races, as Sweatshop does with their returned shoes? No, said Chris. They will be distributed to the community. He was looking into donating them to a young people’s beginners’ group. Lucky them.

—

ACTIVITY
TUESDAY: STRENGTH SESSION WITH JENNY (WEIGHTS, PLYOMETRICS)
WEDNESDAY: CLUB TRAINING, ABOUT 7 MILES, ABOUT AN HOUR

February 17, 2014

Graduating

I wrote in my feet post about graduating from Teri’s Pure Running sessions. Here are screenshots, with her handy yellow lines, showing how I used to run and how I run now.

When I can figure out how to upload a 16MB video when the limit is 6MB, I’ll upload that too. But for now: proof. My legs kick back higher and closer to 90 degrees. My right foot wiggles less and less catastrophically. My torso sinks less. My legs don’t sink into each other like before. The angle at which my heel strikes the ground is less acute and less brutal.

I run better.