ROSE RUNS – Page 8 – The muddling through of a middling middle-aged menopausal fell runner

April 21, 2015April 21, 2015

Compensation

My mother looked at me suspiciously, just after I’d told her I was off running. “You’re taking this surprisingly well,” she said. “I thought you’d be weeping and wailing.” She’s right. I am taking this surprisingly well. I also thought I would be weeping and wailing, not least because I thought I was so dependent on running to keep my brain and moods stable. It’s not that I don’t miss running. I do. I supported my club-mates at the Meanwood Valley Trail race on Saturday, along with FRB, and although I got to borrow our chairman’s lovely Nikon camera and take photographs, I was wandering around before the start wishing I was wearing shorts and about to run seven miles through the woods on a beautiful sunny day. And today is another beautiful sunny day. It’s nearly 19 degrees, and too hot for me to run in, but I’m feeling wistful about a late evening run on the dusk at the end of a hot day. I love cooling twilights after heat. Instead, I went to the physio, to be poked and prodded with total professionalism and considerable pain. I’m not sure which hurt more: my kidney, my QLS (I think; anyway somewhere in my back); my outer ankle, which is extremely tight because it’s been compensating for the inner one, or the other way round; or my inner ankle. Actually, as I’ve just winced in memory of what she did to my inner ankle, that was definitely the most painful. I think I actually bit the pillow.

But it’s all doing me good. I know it is, and I think I am not weeping and wailing because I know it will work, and I will get stronger. Also, in a way, not running has been a revelation. Yoga: I haven’t done yoga for years, since I started running. I’ve done Pilates, but that’s more like gym stuff. I don’t care for spiritual yoga, or chanting Sanskrit in a room in Leeds, which is just daft, but I think yoga is more holistic than Pilates. I’d forgotten how much I like it. So I started Operation Fell Soon with very good intentions and practice, waking up at 6am to get to a 7am yoga class by SweatYogaFit at Northern Monk Brewery. It was fabulous. I really loved Helena’s teaching style, and how she would say, “if you’ve got room [in your body], do this but if you haven’t, it doesn’t matter.” I wasn’t as stiff as I thought (though my physio today actually did an intake of breath at one point, so she would disagree), and at the end I thought, that was actually a good workout. Running has made me a running snob; I disdain cycling, I abandoned yoga and I haven’t been swimming for years.

The class was £6 and afterwards I paid another £4 and had breakfast at Northern Monk, which was great. It was home-made granola with cacao nibs and compote. Plus coffee of course. I may have started doing yoga but I’m not *that* healthy.

Then, I re-discovered swimming. I got slightly obsessed about aqua-running, which someone had mentioned might be a good idea, so I started googling aqua-running belts, then shoes, then looking for classes. Once I’d wasted all that time, and FRB suggested going swimming, I just thought: sod it, I’ll swim instead. And I’ve been saying for years that I was going to go to Bramley Baths, which are not only stunning:

but community-run. It was lunch-time, and I was worried the baths would be busy, but there were just a dozen of us, and plenty of room to swim. And I launched my aqua-running initiative by going to the deep end, out of my depth, and running on the spot. God, it was HARD. I was exhausted after 100 kicks, and I did 5 sets of them. Aqua-running is supposed to be brilliant at maintaining cardio fitness for injured runners, and I can see why. So, Operation Get Fell Soon continues. Next week I may be allowed to cycle, but not yet.

April 14, 2015April 14, 2015

Pause

It’s official. I’m crocked. I can’t run, and I probably shouldn’t cycle, but I can swim, yoga, walk. Still, crocked.

To back up:

Last week I booked an appointment with a physio clinic in Leeds. I’d asked my club-mates for recommendations and several had recommended X’s practice. I phoned X, he phoned me back, he was very nice and sounded like he knew what he was talking about. I made an appointment, but it was ten days away, as X works with a local rugby team and was accompanying them somewhere. I phoned him back as I was in a bit of a panic. I was still in conflict about whether to run the Manchester marathon, and I thought I’d better see someone sooner rather than later. He agreed, and booked me in with one of his employees. I had high hopes. Probably too high: I wanted a judgment on whether I should run the marathon, and also a long-term rehabilitation plan.

I turned up in time and waited outside. The premises are next to a hair salon, and physio clients wait in the salon but I thought that was odd so I sat outside the studio, which had the blinds down. And they stayed down. My appointment was at 4.30. That came and went. I began to wonder whether I’d got the time wrong. At 4.40, Y. came out. Now, some more backstory. Some club-mates had recommended X, but one who I trust had said he’d had a really bad experience with one of X’s physios and not to see anyone else but X. The night before I’d run alongside another club-mate who has been suffering with quad issues for months. She told me she’d seen a woman at X’s clinic who she described as quite dippy, and didn’t recommend her. When I met Y. I realised it must be the same woman. Never mind.

I sat down and she started to get my history. I told her: I’ve had the problem before, it went away, it’s come back with fell-running and – I think – because I now run in minimalist shoes and now forefoot-strike. I’d brought my running shoes with me, and pointed at them. She turned and looked at them, and didn’t ask to see them. Not a good sign. I told her I wanted to run a marathon and she asked how long it was. After she spent twenty minutes asking me questions, she got me to lie down. She massaged my ankle area, stretched my hamstrings, told me they were tight. I told her I thought my ankle was less inflamed when I ran downhill, particularly when I made sure to heel strike. She said, “you should try and do that all the time.” What, run downhill?

I asked if I should ice it or rest it or use heat. She said, “you should see which helps.” I asked if I should tape it. She said, “that might help,” but didn’t tell me how to. I asked if I should do the marathon and she said, “that’s up to you.” Really helpful. She suggested trying Biofreeze, did a bit more manipulation then said, “that’s all I’ve got time for.” I’d only been in there 40 minutes. Then she said they only took cash, so I left and walked up the road to a cashpoint. I heard “ROSE!” being yelled, and she was running up the road with her clipboard. I thought I’d stolen something. She said, breathlessly, that she thought I should see a sports medicine consultant, and that she was going to talk with her boss. That night, she left me a phone message saying she was now sure it was posterior tibial tendinopathy and it wouldn’t be a good idea to do the marathon.

So this is what she didn’t do:
— look at my shoes
— watch me walk, jump, move
— give me any clear advice
— give me any rehab exercises
— give me any long-term plan

I was furious. And despondent. I got home and did some more injury Googling. I read again what I’d read before, but this time it hit me: posterior tibial tendon problems can be progressive. They can lead to a ruptured tendon, knackered arch and flat foot. They could mean I never run again. I decided not to do the marathon.

And I booked an appointment with another physio. The Coach House is well-known in Leeds. Alison Rose, one of the directors, treated Jessica Ennis after she broke her ankle. The Brownlee brothers go there. I’d looked at it, as it had been recommended along with X, but it was £65 and seemed expensive.

I’ve just come back from my appointment. It was worth £65. It was like a mirror image of the idiot physio from last week. I was a bit nervous after last week’s disaster, so that after I’d made the appointment, and the practice manager told me I was booked in with Lucy, I looked Lucy up and saw she had been a competitive diver and knew about diving. A diver? I want a runner! I phoned back and said, with some alarm, “but does she know about running?” The practice manager calmed me down, reassured me they all know about running, and reminded me to bring my running shoes. A good sign.

I got to the treatment area, and Lucy first took my history. She looked at my shoes and orthotics. Then she asked me to walk, then walk on tip-toe, then on my heels. She got me to move in all sorts of directions, in all sorts of ways, from my toes to my upper back. This took about half an hour. She was calm and friendly but not unnecessarily chatty. I really liked her. Her professionalism gave me confidence. She finished checking out my movements then told me her conclusions:

— my upper back is very immobile (not a surprise, when my posture is so terrible); my extension upwards and sideways is very restricted and that limitation is probably impacting all the way down my body
— the ankle area is very inflamed. She said, “But we knew that already!” She said even the nerves that should be gliding were not gliding.
— she said she was most worried that the ankle bone felt so tender. She said, “it’s not presenting as a stress fracture but if we don’t do something about it and you keep running, I’d be very concerned”
— my glutes don’t fire, and my hip flexors are a tangle

Then she said, swiftly, we can work on all of it. She loosened my back for ten minutes, stuck her fingers into my hip flexors – OW! – and under my rib cage. At this point I remembered to tell her that some of my organs are stuck together with endometriosis. She said, with her fingers probing under my ribs, “that’s your liver,” but I have no endo excuse for that one. We agreed though that endo is a good excuse if for example my kidneys were up around my ears.

The most important thing she said, apart from the fact that I nearly have a stress fracture, is that I can’t run. No high-impact anything. The aim is to get my ankle pain-free and then start to strengthen it. Meanwhile we work on untangling and loosening everything else. She gave me exercises to do, but not too many, and she demonstrated them but more importantly gave me a sheet with them clearly pictured. She said she would book an appointment with the podiatrist for new orthotics, as mine were old and worn.

And she gave me confidence that she could help me. That, actually, is the most important thing of all. I want to get fixed. I want to get back on the fells, and I will do what it takes to get there. Even if I have to go bloody swimming.

I’ll be back

April 6, 2015

Achievement

Yesterday Nicky Spinks ran up 27,000 feet of ascent over 66 miles and 42 of the Lake District’s highest peaks in 18 hours and six minutes. She broke her own women’s record by six minutes. She is 47 years old, has had breast cancer and a hysterectomy, and she is an astonishing athlete. What an achievement.

Yesterday I ran 10K through the woods and canal of Guiseley and Esholt. It took me 1 hour and 1 minute or so, which is the slowest time I’ve ever run a 10K race in, even an off-road one. I ran without a watch. My aim was to get round without my ankle or tendon exploding, and I did. That was my achievement, and I’m happy with it even if my ankle isn’t.

Of course Nicky Spinks did something more marvellous than I did. But even her amazing result has been reported by no newspapers or TV. I pointed this out on Twitter and was told – by men – that fell running is not a spectator sport. When I’ve argued with the sports editor of the Guardian, he made a case similar to the one he makes in this piece by the Guardian readers’ editor, that when they publish stories about women’s sport, hardly anyone reads them. Might that be because women have been so drastically excluded from mainstream sports coverage that they don’t bother picking up the sports sections any more? I don’t, because if I do I just get angry. They are profoundly insulting, because they don’t acknowledge women in any way. The odd female by-line, usually accompanying a piece about men’s football, doesn’t count. As FRB pointed out yesterday, the Sunday Times ran a full page spread on the Augusta golf tournament, which hasn’t even happened yet, and a tournament in which a British woman had a good chance of winning, and which *has* happened, was given one paragraph. Elsewhere in the Sunday Times, admittedly, there was a good article on the Oxford and Cambridge women’s rowing teams, who are for the first time being allowed to race on the same stretch of the Thames. It didn’t say so in the piece (which is behind a paywall), but I get the sense that this was only contemplated while accompanied by the promise of a large amount of sponsorship for the mens’ race. It’s the thoughtless exclusion that enrages me: that whenever anyone asked the organizers of the Boat Race – the Sunday Times weirdly called the piece Boat Grace – why the women had to race on a further away stretch of river, no-one could give an answer. Also in that piece, a statistic on how much women’s sport is covered in British TV and newspapers. TV: 10%. Newspapers 2%.

I’m not suggesting that cameras should have accompanied Nicky Spinks on the Bob Graham Round. Fell running is a minority activity and I hope it stays that way, as does everyone who gets up the fells. We like the space. I just mention her because it’s an example of amazing achievement that will never be applauded widely. Just as Jo Pavey has been dropped by Nike, yet they have decided to sponsor drugs cheat Justin Gatlin. Inconceivable.

Anyway. Well done, Nicky Spinks. Well done, me and my posterior tibial tendon.

Nicky, post-run:

Me, post-run:

April 1, 2015

Try a little tendonitis

Injured. INJURED.

I don’t like being injured. Especially when it is a chronic injury that has become acute and probably the best I can hope for is that it just becomes chronic again. If I look back at my four years of running and all the niggles, pains and injuries, I will get despondent. If I add up how much I have spent on physios, massages, biomechanical analyses, shoes, orthotics, podiatrists: I would hang up my running shoes out to dry where they would take on a whole different purpose.

Here’s the boring bit about the injury: Last year, I got an ankle problem. It happened after I ran a Parkrun in some Brooks racing flats, having been running in cushioned shoes. I didn’t spend six months acclimatizing to minimal shoes. Heavens, no. I just ran in flats, on park paths in Leeds that have quite a severe camber, and I’ve been paying for it since. My inner ankle would start to hurt after a few miles, and the inner ankle bone would be extremely sore to touch, as if it had been hit with a hammer. It also hurt when I did squats. I went to a podiatrist who gave me orthotic inserts. I had an MRI done and a few months of physio that was good and involved needles. The soreness went away, and later my hip started to get sore instead.

Then it came back. It came back after I started fell-running. Fell-running is a wonderful activity and I love it beyond measure. But my ankle does not love it, because running up and down fells over all sorts of terrain can make your foot move in all sorts of directions. And my Inov8 shoes, while I love them, are not particularly cushioned either. The ankle problem started to show itself again, in soreness, then more soreness, then, shit: pain. So my marathon training, already stopping and starting because of travel, has now been stopping and starting because of pain. I did what I thought I was supposed to do and massaged Voltarol into it, took anti-inflammatories, iced it. Then I read this, by the doctor who came up with the concept of RICE (rest, ice, compression, elevation). Damn.

I phoned my GP. The GP practice has a new system of phone triage. You phone and ask for an appointment and a doctor phones you back to see if you actually need one, in their view. I’m guessing this works better for them, but I used to see a GP who I liked and who was kind and patient, and the three times I’ve gone through this system, I’ve got the impression that the doctor couldn’t get off the phone fast enough. Also the first one prescribed me zopiclone instead of zolpidem sleeping tablets (for flying) and they made me hallucinate Game of Thrones battlements for an hour, then have amnesia for the next hour. Luckily FRB did not run a mile, as most people would have. Anyway. The ankle. The GP looked up my MRI results and said it had shown fluid on a tendon. I said, “which tendon?” She said, “you wouldn’t know it.” I stopped myself saying, “you patronising witch, I would,” and said, “I probably will, because I’m a runner and we are geeks, so which one?” She said it was my posterior tibial, advised RICE (see above) and then said, “bye, then.” I said, “hang on. Might physio help?” “Oh. Yes.”

Most frustrating. Though not as frustrating as not doing any exercise for four days. Today I contacted a private physio practice, I ran for 6 minutes on the treadmill and my ankle didn’t scream, and I did a strength workout. My brain and soul feel better, and I’m going to try a short run tomorrow in cushioned shoes with orthotic inserts. I’m beginning to wonder if I can run the marathon with crutches.

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March 9, 2015March 10, 2015

From Haiti to High Cup Nick and beyond

It’s been a while. Such a long while. This is what has happened.

1. Rombald Stride
This is a well-known and beloved race in my part of Yorkshire. It takes its name from a) Rombald Moor near Ilkley and b) because it started as a long distance walk. Now it’s mixed, so that walkers and runners set off together – though some walkers set off earlier – and all along the 22 mile route, you pass walkers. I said hello to all of them. Some of them said hello back. Anyway. I was nervous. I had no idea how I would run 22 miles. And I was scared of getting lost. You’ll be fine, said FRB, who was also doing the race. At your pace, there will be people around you. You’re unlikely to be on your own until Baildon moor. This didn’t give me much confidence though. I’m terrible at orientation and navigation. I did as he suggested and photocopied my OS map, then drew the route on it.

The official directions from the organisers are hilariously brief and enigmatic. They say things like “at Baildon Moor, turn left for five miles”. So FRB did me some very detailed ones. I packed those and the map in a transparent folder. I got my fell kit ready: waterproof trousers and jacket, with taped seams. Hat. Gloves. Spare gloves. Spare socks. Gels. Dried fruit. Chocolate. Rombald is famous for its wonderful refreshment stops along the way. I was tempted into doing it in the first place by someone saying, “You get to run along Ilkely moor munching a pork pie and drinking a cup of tea. What’s better than that?” It sounded great, even if I can’t drink while running and I’m vegetarian. But I knew there would be hot and cold drinks, and cake.

The race start was from Guiseley. Registration was in a local school, where I tried to calm my nerves by looking at the wall displays. This pleased me a lot:

But it didn’t calm my nerves. I just swallowed them and headed out of the door when everyone else started walking through it. A mixture of runners and walkers – shoes and boots – crossed the road near the McDonalds and headed down a ginnel – though it may have been a snicket – to gather in a huddle, mass and gathering. I remember that a young woman, neither runner nor walker, was trying to walk in the other direction. She can’t have made much progress against a few hundred runners in a narrow ginnel, because someone shouted, “let her through, she’s late for work!” and with laughter, we made a space, and she made it. She looked a bit befuddled.

I chat to people at the start, and it was a treat to chat to walkers for a change, although the few that I did talk to were all of the same mind: You’re RUNNING this? You’re MAD. And then, we were off. The weather was clear, the visibility was good. I began with no hat, and never needed one. The gloves came off quite soon. I’d listened to FRB and put on capris and knee compression socks, rather than my usual race gear of shorts and socks (and of course was niggled when he turned out to be wearing shorts). To such stupid inconsequential things do minds that are running turn, because they are trying not to think of things like : I’VE RUN HALF A MILE AND THERE ARE TWENTY-ONE MORE TO GO.

Or, I HAVEN’T RUN BEYOND 15 MILES AND I HAVEN’T TRAINED AND OH GOD HOW AM I GOING TO KEEP UP AND WILL I BE LAST AND WHAT IF I GET LOST

etc

We left Guiseley and ran through Esholt and up to Baildon Moor, and there were always people around me, and I didn’t get lost. Up and up to a trig point, then the Twelve Apostles, then miles of flags across the moor. It was beautiful.

There were regular stalls with drinks, or drinks and cake, staffed by lovely volunteers. I took a fig roll at one of them. “A fig roll?” said the young woman serving them. “Not a Jaffa Cake??? You’re mad!” The first drinks were cold, but after that there was tea, although I took none. From Baildon to Ilkley, past the Sunday walkers who were tiptoeing on the icy footpaths and looked at us running on them with amazement and awe (or bafflement and pity). By now the rest of the field had thinned out. I was desperate for the toilet but an exposed moor doesn’t offer much shelter, and I wasn’t desperate enough to squat publicly, though that would probably come. I walked some of the climbs, but mostly I kept moving, through black bog and heather and ice and flags and moor and paths. Then we dropped down into Burley, to the best equipped food stall of all. “We’ve got pork chops!” they said. And, when I said I was vegetarian, “There’s nut-roast in the van!” If only I could eat while running, I’d have had some. But I had flapjack and cake. And probably another fig-roll.

Burley to Menston would be urban and peri-urban. But I’d recced this part and actually remembered it, except for one moment in a farmer’s field in Burley where suddenly nothing looked familiar. I waited for runners to appear over the near horizon, and asked them the way, and they told me in detail and with kindness so off I ran. My legs were OK, though my socks were rubbing, but I’d been putting off changing them for miles. I sat down in a ginnel in Menston though to sort them out, and every runner asked if I needed help. Runners are kind people.

Through Menston, through fields, over stile after stile. Some beautiful, lovely, delightful person had rigged up this licorice allsorts staging post, and I will be forever thankful.

Then there was a dash long dash down, down and down to the bottom of the Chevin. And I was running down, and down, and I knew that I would soon be going up, and up. I knew the Chevin. I know it is STEEP. I’ve walked it and run through it, and I’d recced it with FRB. I’d been dreading the climb, but actually I enjoyed the walk. It was hard, and it was steep, but I chatted to another runner on the way and it began to feel like a nice 20 minutes of not running. And then, to the top, and I knew there were less than two miles left. I looked at my watch and it was about 20 past 4. I thought, I’m going to do this in less than 4 hours 30, dammit, and I belted down into Guiseley, down residential streets, through the centre, over the roundabout, back to the school, into the back entrance, where I stupidly sat down on a chair for two minutes before going in to report back. I ran nearly 22 miles in 4 hours 30 minutes, and they gave me a key-ring.

2. Haiti
Ten days later, I flew to Haiti. I was going to report on cholera, and I was going to be based in Port au Prince. I’d organised a guesthouse, a driver and translator, and set up all my meetings. But what I hadn’t managed to organise was a running guide. I try to connect with local runners wherever I go, but Haiti defeated me. It was so hot. The streets were bad and dreadful, as was the traffic. And I never saw any runners, ever. I didn’t even see this guy. I’d been told by my hosts that it wasn’t safe to walk on the streets, and certainly not at night, so I was over-cautious. By the end of my ten days, I’d happily have rewound and gone running, even at 5am. That would have been easy, what with my jetlag and the loud dogs and cockrels that blasted out their morning crows and barks right outside my window. I eventually made contact with Run Haiti, a new organisation that is trying to get Haitians to run. The director had not only read The Big Necessity, but had also run a cholera treatment clinic. Even so, we couldn’t manage to meet. So no running in Haiti, and instead I did endless 7 minute workouts in my bedroom. I had a fascinating time and met wonderful people.

By the end of ten days, my press-ups were pretty good, I never wanted to see another fried plantain again and I dreamed of green salad.

3. High Cup Nick
I got back from Haiti on Friday morning. I’d had nearly 18 hours of travel, no sleep on the overnight plane from JFK, and stayed awake all day. I slept like the dead on Friday night, then got up on Saturday morning to be driven to Cumbria to run up this:

©Visit Cumbria

Yes, at this point I did question my sanity. High Cup Nick is known as one of the iconic fell races. It’s small (the race, not the fell), and based in the lovely village of Dufton.

This was my fourth fell race and I wasn’t getting any less nervous. I did the usual race preparation: Go to the toilet. Get my number. Pin my number. Change into my fell-shoes and compression socks. Strip off all layers. Make sure I had full kit (FRA rules: full waterproofs with taped seams, map, compass, whistle). Go to the toilet again. And again. And again.

We gathered on the village green, and off we went. A steady incline for the first mile or so, and after that I can’t remember much until we got to the valley bottom – black bogs – leading up to the climb up High Cup Nick. I remember passing a woman and telling her I was jet-lagged and she said, “you’re mad!” It seems to be a theme. Then, the climb. It was like the ages of man backwards: upright first, then to a crawl as we got near the top, where the waterfall was spraying uphill. Really. The clag had come down and the temperature dropped, so I put on my waterproof. By the top, I was trying not to look down, as the footholds weren’t huge and my head for heights is not great. But staring straight ahead meant staring at the backside of a man wearing rather short shorts. So the safest thing to do was watch my feet and not look beyond my next handhold. I did stop at one point to gawp though. And my goodness, it was stunning. A silver river snaking through the valley for so far, it disappeared into the horizon. I always try to stop and gawp, though I don’t think I’ll ever do what a runner near me was doing, which was climbing with two feet and one hand, because the other one was holding his phone, to video his ascent.

At the top, I ran with Jenny of Pudsey Pacers. There was a nice ridge run for a mile or so, then a pelt down a farmyard track. I’d knocked my watch putting my waterproof on, so I had no idea how much distance was left. Running at 7 minute mile pace down the track was a bit reckless, in retrospect, as there were a couple of miles to go. But it was fun. So on, and on, until we got to a house, and a yard, and then there was the blessed village green, and a village hall full of delightful women dispensing hot soup and bread. By heck, I love fell-racing. So I did some more.

4.Brussels & Pendle

But first, I went to Brussels, for a shipping conference. It was fly-by-night, and I meant to go running, but instead worked on my speech. Back home, and a ten mile run with FRB on the streets of north Leeds. He asked me what pace I wanted to do but I’ve discarded my plan so thoroughly I no longer knew, so I settled on no slower than 9.30 and no faster than 8.30. We did the ten miles at 8.45, and it felt fast, and I was exhausted. The next day my calves were extremely sore, so I foam rollered and ibuprofen-gelled, and the following day got back in a car to drive to Barley to run up and around Pendle Hill. I’d watched FRB do the Tour of Pendle, a 17 mile fell race, last year, and promised I would do it too. This was the warm-up. The Stan Bradshaw Pendle Round, a 9 mile run with nearly 2,000 feet of ascent. It was beautiful, and hard. I was limping before I started, and when I did start running, I realised how tired I was. I came the farthest back I’ve ever come in a race, 165th out of 176. I spent a lot of it looking round making sure I wasn’t last, and seeing that there were only about a dozen runners behind me. I wasn’t last, and I got round, and I’m proud of that though a wee bit mortified about how slow I was. But some days there’s just nothing in the tank, and this was one of them. I thought I might DNF (Did Not Finish) but I didn’t, and so well done me.

Before:

After:

And on Sunday, I rested.

February 5, 2015February 5, 2015

Hungry

There is a condition and it is called “hangry.” I know. Hideous word. But it conveys a state of being for which no other word exists: where you are so hungry that you lose all restraint and become furious. It is a state that runners can get in if they don’t respect fuel and nutrition. I read this blog today and thought, 25km on no food? Not even a gel? That is bonkers. Yes, there are theories about running while fasting, but the human body’s glycogen runs out at some point and probably before 25km. Science on that is everywhere but here is a start. For me, I notice the energy depletion – known by Americans but not British people as “bonking” – after about an hour. So in both the marathons I’ve run, I have been regimented: nothing for an hour except some water, then a gel and water every three miles, and the water mixed with energy tabs if I could manage to get one out of my pouch and into the bottle. I’m good at nutrition, right? Except I’m not.

I still can’t get my diet right. I get carbs and proteins mixed up. I find myself thinking, what’s a chickpea? Is wholegrain bread good or bad carbs? I should know better by now but I don’t. Yesterday I was planning to do my club training run in the evening. A steady 7 miles, nothing too taxing as I’m saving my legs for Rombald’s Stride on Saturday. (I realise “saving my legs” is a nonsensical phrase to unsporty people.) I had Weetabix for breakfast, poached eggs on toast at 11, then at 3 thought I’d better eat something and had 2 vegetable samosas. That would be enough, right?

No.

I set off with my club and my legs were heavy. After two miles though I’d forgotten about my legs because I was RAVENOUS. For the next mile I could only think of food. Then my only thoughts were, where is a shop? Where can I get jelly babies? The route took us from Kirkstall into town for two miles, then along the canal a bit, over the ring-road and into Armley. In other words, NO SHOPS. Finally, as we ran up Cockshot Lane, I saw a bright shop front.

Car showroom. Closed.

I saw another business with bright lights. Closed.

I saw another one. Convenience store! Open!

“I’ll catch you up”, I told our run leader. “I need to go to the shop.” He looked shocked. “Oh, OK. We’ll wait for you at the top.” The next minute was a flash: dash into the shop. Dig £2 coin out of my running jacket. Say with desperation “DO YOU HAVE JELLY-BABIES?” to the two lads behind the counter. They hand me a packet, looking a bit surprised. I give them the money, while sweating and probably panting. I take the bag, run out and start running up the road. Three young men who looked a lot like trouble seemed to enjoy the sight of my legs in shorts as I ran past, but I didn’t care. I needed sugar. SUGAR. I ran up the road. It took ten minutes. By the time I’d caught the others up (way before the top, run leader of little faith), I’d eaten half a dozen jelly babies. I felt a lot better. We stopped to regroup and I offered them around and everyone declined. Who the hell needs a jelly baby after three miles of running?

I did. I clutched them for the next four miles as if they were my jewels. My legs felt better and I ran faster. Funny, that. My trainer would be horrified to read this, along with the fact that I was still so hungry afterwards I ate a Chinese takeaway of tofu and black bean sauce, in about two minutes.

I chased that down with another Weetabix. And then, I wasn’t hungry.

February 3, 2015February 3, 2015

Niggles and dogs

My marathon training plan is designed to avoid injury and niggle. But I do have niggles. Here is what’s going on so far:

— A right hip that is sore when sitting or resting
— A right knee that sometimes collapses on a morning when I go downstairs
— A right inner ankle pain/ache that is worse when climbing hills or doing deep squats

Spot the connection. My right side has always been problematic. I started running in 2010, and my first problem was the ankle. I went to my GP, then to a podiatrist. I was told I had “frozen feet” and that some of my smaller foot bones may have fused together. He gave me orthotic inserts, I ran with those, I stayed away from the racing flat shoes that I thought had given me the problem in the first place (along with the camber of Woodhouse Moor), and the pain went away. Then it was my knee. Then it was my hip. I went back to the GP. I had a scan. I was referred to a physio, who said my muscles were extremely tight and did acupuncture to release them. It was surprisingly powerful. He told me there was nothing wrong with my feet, that they flexed normally, and gave me exercises to do which I promised to do and didn’t.

Along the way I did six sessions with Teri of Pure Running in Harrogate. Teri thought, and the physio thought, that my problems were due to not having enough core strength, and having an unstable pelvis that sagged down to the right when I got tired, putting pressure on my ITB, and hip, and knee, and probably ankle. I tried to change my form, I got less and less hip pain while running, so I stopped seeing the physio and I stopped seeing Teri. I got stronger by doing my PT and other strength sessions but I knew that my right side was the danger zone. Last year I saw Tom Hughes of Trimechanics, and we worked on my form again. It’s the same principle: stand taller, get my pelvis over my stride, stop my right foot kicking out, which it does when I’m tired. (My mate Elliot called it my Dick Emery kick.)

Tom gave me exercises, and I did them sometimes but not enough. Meanwhile, I took to the hills. On the hills, my hip is fine. But the ankle pain is back. On the weekend, I was in Scotland, near Edinburgh. I had to do a long run at some point, and I’d looked on the map and seen this magnificent patch of green space. Perfect!

Then I saw the word “law” a few times. I knew that from going to North Berwick that a law is a hill. Then the words “Pentland Hills.” Then a map with contours. They are high. And I was not going to do my long run while climbing 1,000 feet. So, back to the map. Maybe a road? But they didn’t have pavements, or they were busy or dangerous. We were staying at a country house with 20 or so people, and my Fell-Running Boyfriend (FRB)’s dad, also a runner, looked on the map and saw a dismantled railway line. I looked it up. The Dalkeith-Penicuik walkway. 9 miles long. Perfect.

I went to the website. The Dalkeith-Penicuik walkway is closed between Bonnyrigg and Dalkeith while Borders Railway does renovations. That cut about 4 miles off. Damn. Still, it was the best option. FRB was supposed to be having a rest day, but he decided to come along, so we set off. The railway path ran right in front of the house. We turned left, first, towards Bonnyrigg. The view wasn’t the nicest – Bonnyrigg was a mining town and it’s not been prettified since – but the walkway was flat, although it was tarmac, which I didn’t much like. There were lots of people out with dogs. I’ve never minded dogs while running. I like dogs, and I’ve never had any problem with them. FRB is more circumspect. He thinks dogs should be held or kept on leads on narrow pathways such as the walkway. One dog jumped up at us, and persisted, while his owner, a nice enough woman, kept saying the usual Dog-Owner’s Mantra: “he’s very friendly. He’s only playing.” Yes, but he’s only playing while jumping up at me, and do you know how often runners hear that? We went on, and the walkway did indeed end at the far side of Bonnyrigg, beyond the nicely preserved old station:

And this is how it used to look:

©John Alsop

On we went, and the further we got, the prettier it got. On the right as we ran were the magnificent Pentland Hills, looking steep and stunning.

The path turned to shale and gravel, and was nicer underfoot except for the ice. FRB and I had made different decisions about footwear: I was in my Pure Connects, i.e. minimalist road, and he was in his Inov-8s. Neither was perfect, but both were OK. We ran all the way to Penicuik, through tunnels and along escarpments and a beck, into a housing estate, then turned around and came back.

Then I got bitten by a dog.

We’d seen a surprising number of Alsatians on the route, along with some thug dogs and some nice collies and Yorkies. I can’t remember what this dog was, but I think some sort of Alsatian cross-breed. His owner was a woman. The dog approached FRB first, as he was running ahead, but didn’t do anything. FRB always stops when a dog approaches and waits for the owner to get the dog under control. I stopped too, but the dog came up to me and jumped and bit me. FRB thinks I was clawed, but I remembered its mouth opening and the teeth. It punctured my thigh. Not badly, but the skin was broken. I was shocked. I hadn’t expected it to happen. I don’t think the owner realised it had bitten me, and neither of us told her, though I wish we had. We ran on, and I got angrier and angrier. I was angry not so much at the dog, nor at the owner who couldn’t control it, but that I would now probably be nervous of dogs, when I hadn’t been before. Dog-owners: CONTROL THEM. At least keep a hold of them when runners pass. I love dogs, but even the nicest natured dog can turn. We can never know what a trigger can be: a smell, a colour, a movement. Please hold them. I know that runners coming up behind dogs and people is an issue, and I am trying to perfect the best way of doing this without spooking them. Shouting from afar makes people jump. Saying “excuse me” when getting close makes people jump too. If I cough, I’m not heard, and I can’t depend on them hearing my footfall, because the noise of running feet changes according to weather and terrain. But I’m working on it. I may borrow my cat’s bell collar. She’d be glad to be rid of it.

There were no more incidents, and after four miles I’d calmed down. We did 14.5 miles, which was enough in icy conditions, and got back to the house to find the wood-burning stove going, and eggs and morning rolls (excellent Scottish baps) ready to be gobbled.

The next day FRB and his dad wanted to run up the Pentlands. And so did I. I dressed for height and hill, as well as an actual temperature of about zero which would feel like five degrees colder with wind-chill. I put on capris, knee-length socks, a vest, fleece-lined running top and a jacket. With, of course, hat and gloves. We parked at the foot of one of the laws and set off. No warm up: that’s for jessies. The path was ice and snow. We all had Inov-8s on, and except for the sheet icy bits, the Inov-8s were great.

The first ascent was steep. Near its end, FRB’s dad said to me: That’s the toughest bit done. And I believed him. Now I know that father and son are adept at not telling the truth about how many hills there are, and I will never believe either of them again. There were two or three more climbs. But actually the lie helped, because each climb was a surprise, and I just got on with it. Another thing that helped me: that FRB told me the day before he thought I could be a good fell-runner. He said I had strong legs and could be a good hill-climber. I remembered this, as my legs started screaming on yet another climb, and I kept going. Praise is a powerful thing.

Some of my climb was walking. Probably a lot of it was walking. My ankle began to get sore, and then it went from a faint ache to a loud ache and then to actual pain. But I kept going. And it wore off on the downhills.

We got to the first top and it was so very beautiful but so very very cold and windy. FRB’s dad was in shorts and two T-shirt layers. He was colder than either of us, so we kept going after taking some very fast pictures.

I realise now that this how my fell-running brain works:
On the up: “I can’t do this, I never want to do this again, it hurts.”
At the top and on the downhills: “I love this, I can’t imagine never wanting to do this, I want to do it again.”

We encountered half a dozen other runners, some of whom gazed at FRB’s dad’s shorts with some wonder, as he was the skimpiest dressed of all. It’s the Carnethy Five, a classic hill race, next week, and I guess they were doing recces. We dashed downhill through snow and got to the reservoirs. Then it was two or three miles along tarmac to the car park, which was fun in fell-shoes. The sun was out, and it was beautiful.

Now, I just have to figure out how to do a 23-mile moors race this weekend without my ankle complaining too much. Along with the rest of my constitution.

—

TRAINING DONE
MILES: 21
ASCENT: 2,000 FEET (1,500 FEET ON PENTLANDS, 500 FEET ON THE WALKWAY)
EGG ROLLS CONSUMED: QUITE A FEW

Screen Shot 2015-02-03 at 11.26.02

January 28, 2015January 28, 2015

Stormy

My moods have been low recently. I don’t know why but I suspect it’s do with my hormone levels, which are perturbed and unbalanced by endometriosis. At least, that’s my guess, from reading about how overloaded oestrogen (which endometriosis is probably a result of) can depress dopamine and happy hormones. I’m trying all sorts to heal them: taking magnesium, taking a horrid but I think effective potion that a herbalist prescribes (which is supposed to balance my oestrogen), using my Lumie alarm clock to wake up more gently and give me some Vitamin D. But the fail-safe method is running. Endorphins versus oestrogen. Yesterday I had my usual personal training session at 7.30am, and the good mood lasted until the afternoon. Today although it’s my club training night, I thought it was safer to start the day with a run and coast on the endorphins for the rest of the day, hopefully. My cat woke me at 5, my alarm woke me at 7, and I got up at 8. The blinds were drawn, but I could hear a howling wind. But I looked outside and it wasn’t raining, and the trees were still upright, and I needed to run, so I fed the cat, got dressed, packed a small rucksack with a change of clothes (but did not wrap everything in a plastic bag, which will be relevant), and set off.

It wasn’t cold. It was light. It seemed OK. Everyone I saw walking their dogs had hoods up, and clearly they had read the weather forecast because after half a mile, by the time I got to end of Gledhow woods, and up the steep hill into Little Switzerland, the rain began. It was gentle at first, though cold. But I was warm, and had stripped off my top in the woods so I was only wearing my light running jacket. I kept running, and the rain got harder, and the wind got up. I’d planned a 7 mile run that included a run around Roundhay Lake then down into the city centre to my studio. But I got to Roundhay Park and up to the top of the hill that leads down to the lake, and I swore. There was a fierce headwind, and the rain was coming sideways, and it was biting. I hadn’t had any food, and my legs were leaden. I could either run 2 miles home again, or 3 miles into town. I told myself that I’d tolerate this weather on a fell, and I would, but it was vile, so I cut out the lake, and headed into town. I imagine that a hundred or so commuters into Leeds this morning thought me a lunatic, and I was beginning to agree with them, as I got colder and wetter, and my legs got heavier. Down Roundhay Road, along Harehills Lane, which I usually avoid because so many young predatory men seem to be hanging around. This time there was hardly anybody on the streets because they all had more sense. I ran, and I trudged and I ran, and I didn’t enjoy it, but I kept going, past Jimmy’s hospital, down into Burmantofts, and to my studio. I got to the front door just as the postman arrived, and we looked at each other. I said, “that was horrible.” He said, “yes. I was going to go out on my bike but changed my mind.”

Do I regret it? No. Not entirely. I was soaking wet and chilled to the bone. I am writing this in a heated studio, while wearing a cashmere jumper, down puffer jacket and wrapped in a cashmere shawl and after an hour or so, I’ve just about warmed up. My clothes did stay dry, just about. My pace was pathetic, and I ran 4.5 miles instead of 7. But I got out of the house, and I went running in a rainy gale, and I’m proud of that.

MILEAGE: 7 MILES ABORTED TO 4.5
WEATHER: BLOODY AWFUL
TIME SPENT FREEZING AFTERWARDS: 3 HOURS

January 27, 2015January 27, 2015

From Monaco to the moors

I travel to odd places frequently to research odd things and am known for it. But last week’s travel to an odd place for an odd thing was actually not really my doing. One of my mother’s friends, John, who lives in Australia, is on the board of the World Circus Federation. He has been fascinated with circuses since I’ve known him, as has the rest of his family. I visited them when I was 18 and remember his stepdaughter had a juggler for a boyfriend even back then. When my mother was visiting them in Australia this year, and John said, why don’t you come to the World Circus Festival in Monaco? and my mother said, “er…” and ten minutes later he had booked the hotel, that was that. My mother asked me to go and who would refuse to go to the circus?

I packed my suitcase for all eventualities: warm clothes for a Big Top, glamorous clothes in case we had to drink with Grimaldis (Princess Stephanie is the director of the festival), and of course running kit. We stayed overnight first in Manchester, and though I had no time to run in the morning, I still salute Crowne Plaza for this:

I looked as usual on walk jog run and such for good routes, and as usual they were little use as they have no elevation. Once our plane pilot had decided not to land in the stunning blue Mediterranean, as it seemed like she was going to, and once we had got through the airport, past the machine-gun-carrying French soldiers who were ostentatiously standing around looking threatening, although their rather bonkers berets gave a different impression, and once we had paid €20 for a short bus trip from Nice to Monaco, and once we had left Nice and I saw the height of the cliffs and the narrowness of the roads and the beauty of the dramatic coast, but also the limited flat land to run on: after all that, I thought, I’m not running up these cliffs. We got to our hotel, checked into our room, a lovely spacious one with a view of superyachts in the harbour (that was only the beginning), and settled in.

The circus show wasn’t until the next night, so the following morning at 7.30, I took the map that the hotel receptionist had given me, left the hotel, turned right and just kept going. This is what I was running on:

I ran all the way along, up into Cap d’Ail, down some steep steps into a cove which was the end of the path. It wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t t-shirt weather either, so I paddled, then ran back. Along the way I saw women in fancy kit doing very little exercise with very tiny dogs. I saw some runners, none of whom returned my greeting or smile. I saw a woman – I swear this is true – doing a morning walk in white designer jeans and a fur cape. I laughed and ran on. It was only about 4 miles in the end, not nearly long enough according to my training plan, but I don’t have the discipline to get to the end of a route and turn and run back, so I didn’t. Instead, I went for a chilly swim in the bay near the hotel, in my running kit, then walked past dripping. I ate a mountain of eggs for breakfast, then persuaded my mother to come all the way back on the walk with me. Which she did.

The circus was that evening. It was clearly a huge Monte Carlo event. I’ve never seen so much fur or Botox in one place. Prince Albert and Princess Stephanie were both there; not only is she director of the Festival, but she once ran away with an elephant trainer before marrying an acrobat. I think it’s safe to say she likes circuses. So do I. It was exciting to walk into the big top – le chapiteau, in French – past a brass band of clowns.

Not before I had a balanced and nutritious meal though. Now I know that a toffee apple in French is une pomme d’amour.

Some of the circus acts were extraordinary. The athletic ability and strength of some performers was dazzling. At one point, a two-man act were 30 feet up hanging only on ribbons, and one of them was holding both their body weights only on his wrist. The trapezists on both nights were amazing.

But I hated to see the animal acts. I hated, hated, hated it. I do not understand why we must watch elephants standing on stools, or lions sitting on a trailer on the back of a motorbike. I don’t understand why this is presented as a form of human achievement. I couldn’t walk out, as we had been invited there as guests of my mother’s friends, but I sat in my seat seething. The use of wild animals has been banned in many countries, though not in mine, and I wish it were. Of course people who support the use of wild animal acts go on about the wonderful bond between the animal trainers and their captives. But they also talked in one newspaper article about the “parc” which the elephants had to roam around in while they waited. I saw that parc. It was a tiny yard near Monaco’s heliport. Disgraceful.

The following night, there was a fancy cocktail party in the hotel lobby, and Prince Albert was meant to attend. I decided to go a do a strength session in the tiny shabby gym instead. I finished just as the party was in full swing, and there was no access to the lifts except through the lobby, so I walked through the hotel entrance in my gym vest and shorts, and every head turned, and the crowd parted for me as if it was the Red Sea.

Ah, Monaco. Absurd tax-dodging toy-town in a beautiful landscape. Despite the ocean and the view, I won’t be hurrying back.

I was glad to come home. And I was glad that the next day I was going to be running for four miles over Yorkshire moorland. It was the perfect antidote to the ugly wealth and Botox brigades of Monte Carlo. I’d been meant to run the Four Villages Half in Helsby, in Cheshire. But after a long trip home from Monte Carlo via Munich, then a three hour drive, I wasn’t going to get in a car for another few hours just to run a half. And it was a good decision, as the half marathon was cancelled because of ice. Instead, I chose to do the Stanbury Splash, a Woodentops race up at Haworth. But the Splash became the Stoop, another Woodentops route (and the same as Auld Lang Syne), because the rivers were too frozen. I was given a lift in a 4×4, so we could park up on the tops. The snow was plentiful and then it started snowing again. So base layer and vest, but I still ran in shorts. I was nervous again, as I’m still not too sure about my fell running technique. Also I’d forgotten my watch, but my expert fell-running boyfriend lent me his, as he knows the route – and any route – backwards. I wish I had his astonishing ability to photographically recall routes even if he’s just driven or run or walked them once. But I don’t.

So, we registered, we got our three mini Soreens (malt loaf is what the race is famous for). I queued for the only toilet (the portaloos hadn’t made it up the icy road). I found my fellow Harriers, we did a team photo:

then, because fell running is not like road running, we all sang happy birthday to someone, and we were off.

I didn’t learn my lesson. I set off too far back, and I got stuck behind walkers, a lot. It was a lovely run, and the moors were beautiful, but I wish I could have run more. Because there was so much snow, it was extremely difficult to know what was on either side of the path, so it was hard to overtake. At one point, a woman in front of me, walking very slowly, was taking her jacket off and adjusting all her kit. If you’re going to do that, and there’s a huge gap in front of you, and a long line behind you, then surely you step aside?

But I’m still learning fell etiquette. What I do know is that I need to have more confidence. The finish was on a hill back up to the car-park, and I overtook two or three people and still felt at ease. I shouldn’t have felt at ease; I should have been busting a gut. So, room for improvement.

The next week, I actually did all the runs I was supposed to, though I sneaked in a cross country at the Northern cross-country championships. It was 5 miles around Pontefract racecourse, a nice flat course on grass, except the Senior Women ran after 5 or so junior races, and the juniors had nicely churned up the course for us. Also, it was fast. I was hungover and not in the best form, having stupidly had curry the night before, so I just stuck to my team-mate Marion. I mean, I really stuck to her. I was on her shoulder. She must have found me very annoying, but I knew she was going to be going at the right pace, and I didn’t have the energy to overtake her and stay in front of her. Sorry, Marion. She tolerated this until the last half mile then kicked and off she went. She finished five places ahead of me. I still managed to overtake someone near the line, so I’m pleased. Not bad with a hangover. Then the next day I got up and ran 14 miles from Bingley to Leeds. Back to the canal.

And on the next day, I rested. Really.

MILES RUN THIS WEEK: 32
BOTOX BOOKED: NONE
INJURIES/NIGGLES: Sore toes; black toe-nails; slightly aching right ankle

January 9, 2015January 9, 2015

Lost

I have thirteen weeks or so to go before the Manchester marathon. That came as a bit of a shock when Jenny handed me my plan. I’m not worried. I think I’m half-marathon fit (I hope so, as I’m doing one the week after next), but even so, the thought that Marathon Training is back is odd. One of my New Year resolutions is to dance more, but the other is to learn the difference between “could” and “should”. Marathon training has a lot of “shoulds.” But they are shoulds and not coulds because I want to do what I want to do, which is run a marathon in 3:50. I can do it, as long as I train and as long as I don’t get injured. Oddly, for the past few weeks, I’ve noticed that I’m running naturally on my forefoot/midfoot much more. I’ve no idea why. My shoes are quite minimalist, but I am not actively trying to run forefoot. Anyway my feet like it but my calves don’t.

So, last night, after I’d been on deadline all day, I thought: I’ll have a dark city streets run. I haven’t done that for a while. It seems that these days I mostly run in company. But I do like evening winter runs on streets, as long as I get choose the right streets (not Harrogate Road, for example). Pavements are obligatory. At 6pm, as I told myself it was now or never, as the wind was starting to get up, I got my kit on and got myself out of the door. I put my housekey in my jacket pocket, and set off. I had a route planned, up Harrogate Road (the bit with pavements and civilization) to the Alwoodley Lane junction, then right along Wigton Lane, back down Shadwell Lane and back home. A nice 7 mile loop, as my plan required. I enjoyed it. I like running past people who are walking home, and wondering what they’re thinking. I like running past the huge posh houses on Wigton Lane and wondering what on earth possessed them to build something so expensive yet so banal and with quite so many ugly columns. I wonder at whether the families inside these big houses are happy, or whether the husband has seen his mistress at lunch-time, or the wife has got close to her massage therapist or colleague (horrible and presumptuous of me, but Wigton Lane does seem a stay-at-home mother kind of lane). Those imaginings keep me going for a couple of miles, until the end of the lane. Then right-turn past the pub and the convenience shop, and I got to the junction where I knew I had to take Shadwell Lane. So I did.

Now there is a curious thing about Leeds. I grew up 9 miles away in Dewsbury. I have lived here now for nearly six years. But I still don’t think I know it well. I know bits of it. I know bits I live in, and bits I work in and bits I run through. But there are villages and parts of it that, unless I’ve had cause to go there, I know not at all. I ran along Shadwell Lane, thinking, this is great, I get to know Shadwell Lane, which is a road I’ve only taken about once, and that was in a car. I carried on, past fields, and more fields, then some cottages, then a pub, then a bus terminus (as in the bus got there, turned around in a turning circle and then set off again), then to the other end of the village. At this point, after running for two miles down the lane, I thought, I should have reached the ring-road by now. Suddenly my vague running brain thoughts – such as “I didn’t realise there were so many fields so near the city centre” and “it looks very rural round here, or it would if it weren’t pitch dark” and “oh I’d better run on the side of the road with houses on rather than dark fields and footpaths except there’s no pavement on that side” – all came together to the shocking realisation that I was going the wrong way.

I was going in completely the opposite direction.

I know that my geographical and spatial orientation and understanding is very poor. My brain just doesn’t retain it. There are people who can immediately tell me that we are facing a north-east direction, but I am not one of them. (I’ve just bought Tristan Gooley’s book “A Walker’s guide to Outdoor Clues and Signs” to try to improve.) But standing at the far edge of Shadwell Lane, peering at a road sign that said Wetherby in one direction and the A58 to Leeds in another, in darkness, with no-one around, I thought:

1. Why on earth didn’t I bring my phone?
2. Why on earth didn’t I bring any money?

I know why. I’m out of the habit of solo running and just forgot. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I had a few choices: I could run down the A58 to Leeds, but being geographically and navigationally challenged, I couldn’t remember where that would take me.

Did I mention that by now it was 7pm and I had an important meeting with someone (ie actually a work meeting) in Chapel Allerton at 8pm?

I thought: I can ask someone where I am. But there was no-one about. So I did the only thing possible: I set off back in the same direction. This is never fun for a runner, especially when you have carefully planned a loop in your head. Never mind. I ran up to the bus stop, saw that the bus only came to Shadwell and turned back to Leeds, and that it set off in the direction I’d come from. So there was only one thing to do, and that was add a four mile detour to my six mile run, put my head down and just bloody run.

I just bloody ran. My calves were yelling at me. I was warm, then cold. I was extremely thirsty because I’d drunk only one glass of water all day (another resolution: HYDRATE MORE), and I was trying desperately to get home in time to shower and have some food before the 8pm meeting. So as I ran back, this time the right way down Shadwell Lane, my thoughts were:

1. How quickly can I make spaghetti?
2. How quickly can I eat spaghetti?
3. But I’m trying to cut out processed food, is there anything else I can eat apart from spaghetti?
4. Sod that. How quickly can I make spaghetti?

I ran, and I ran, and I ran. I got home at 7.45pm. I ate Weetabix. I didn’t wash. I went to my meeting, an important one, and I yawned all the way through it. Today, my head and my legs are tired, and although there is a should on my plan, it’s turned into a “could,” because tomorrow is the West Yorkshire cross country championships, and my legs will get battered enough.

At least I know where Shadwell is now.

—

DISTANCE: 10.55 miles (I meant to do 7)
TIME: Quite a bloody while
LESSONS LEARNED: Several