The Finish Line

Oh my god that was AWESOME! The adrenaline and the crowd and the atmosphere simply carried me through as though I was running on air and I loved every minute of it. I can’t wait to do the next one.

No, not really. It was shit. Don’t worry. There was no Damascene conversion here.

I have been bitching here about running for 6 months now. I have run many miles in that time and, as you know, have failed to be bewitched by the charms of the sport. But even I, even at my most furious, sweary and miserable about running, had underestimated just how fucking horrible it is to run 13.2 miles.

Now, I watched the Olympics and Paralympics and I know that the crowd wants to know what goes through the mind of an athlete. So, as though Sharon Davies has just stuck a huge microphone under my nose and said “Jules, that was a pretty dreadful run, you must be feeling shit. Tell us exactly how awful you feel”, here is what I was thinking during the race:

Start – Mile 6 “I hate running. There’s Lucy and Anna! They’ve got pompoms in Brook blue and white. Cool. Oh, Big Ben looks good. I hate running. At least my thigh stopped hurting. I hate running. Archers is good. At least I’m going faster than that woman in a Care Bear suit. There’s Mum and Simon and Sarah. Nobody’s seen Dave. I wonder if he got out of bed. Oh! There’s Huw that was a lucky spot. Think I’ll have a jelly baby.”

Halfway point “I hate running. Hmmm. My foot feels a bit sore, that’s new. I hate running. Jeez, only halfway? Don’t try and cross the race with a buggy you stupid cow. I hate running. News Quiz is funny. I hate running. I bet Steve’s nearly done now.”

Mile 8 – Mile 10 “Oh my fucking eye, am I running on broken glass?! Fuck, I think I’ve broken my foot! Ow ow ow. Wow, Andy’s tall and loud.  Oh why am I doing this? Fucking stupid idea. Jelly baby. For fucking fuck’s sake, what is wrong with my foot?! There’s Lucy waving pompoms. Clever girl, I can see her for miles in those red jeans. And there’s Anna and mum and Huw again (he must know a shortcut). I mustn’t cry. Who’s that with them? Oh my word it’s Anna Jordan! Hurrah! OW, MY FUCKING FOOT. I mustn’t cry. THE FUCKING CARE BEAR JUST OVERTOOK ME. I hate running. Jelly baby. I don’t want to do this anymore. Wow, Andy’s tall and loud. THE BALL OF MY FOOT MUST BE BROKEN. I hate running.”

About 10.5 miles in, I stopped, took off my shoe and moulded the lump of cramped flesh at the bottom of my leg back into a shape that vaguely resembled a foot. Then I started again.

10.5 – 11 miles “I think that helped. I think my foot’s less sore. That’s good. Maybe I can cope with thi…MY THIGHS! MY FUCKING THIGHS! Owowowowowowowowowowowowowow. How long can I run with cramp like this? AAAAAAAAAAW. Water and two jelly babies. Oh. That’s better.”

11 – 13.2 miles “OK. Keep going. Just two more miles and it’s over and you’ll never have to do anything like this again. I hate running. Loathe it. What was I thinking? Lisa, if you take that picture I’ll kill you. HA! In your face Care Bear, eat my dust! 800metres to go. This race is measured in miles, how irritating to start talking in metres at this stage. Anyway, 800m, that’s not far. This must be nearly over. Jeez how long can 800m possibly take? For fuck’s sake where’s the finish? Oh, there it is MILES away. I hate running. Just keep going. Keep going. Oh thank fuck, the end. Oh look, there’s everyone and pompoms and everything I think I might cry. I hate running.”

And there we have it. It was awfully, humiliatingly slow. More than 3 hours. I can tell you that 38 men and a care bear ran slower than me (but I can’t tell you about women, because my chip was registered as a male runner by mistake) so I really was properly bringing up the rear which feels worse than I thought it would after all that miserable tedious training.

On the other hand, there was a brilliant after-race party where I got to spend time with some of my favourite people, including my surprise cheerleader Anna Jordan. Thanks to all my friends, family, colleagues, friends of friends and people who haven’t even met me, I've raised more than £1200 for Brook. For both of those things, I’m enormously grateful. And those of you who haven’t given because you didn’t think I’d get round, you can still chuck your tenner on the heap here.

Of course, the other thing about which I’m pretty happy is to look at where I’ve come from. I have had times in my life where I couldn’t yawn properly because my lungs were so broken. Other times when Steve had to wheel me round in a wheelchair because I couldn't even walk. I have been in some dark, miserable, frightening places that didn’t even have anything to do with running and lots of you have been there with me and helped me through it. And now, after a bit of grudging hard work and a lot of sweary complaining, I can get round a half marathon and my lungs hold up and my legs keep going. Not too shabby really, when you think about it.

That's it now, though. From now on, I shall continue to do a few short crappy runs a week to stay healthy, though I have no intention of ever running another race – they are the most fucking dreadful things. And anyway, I’m not sure if I mentioned it, but I hate running.

And now, the end is near...

I opened my race pack properly today. I didn’t get it today, as you know. I got it weeks ago but I couldn’t open it completely then, it frightened me too much so I just peeked in. I was right not to open it. It’s terrifying. Unlike the 10k race I did which was organised, you may remember, by two idiots in a basement, the Royal Parks Half Marathon (RPHM) is right proper. It’s beautifully branded with autumnal leaves, it sends you useful, well-written information and it gets a decent, well-explained race pack to you in good time for your race.

That said, in common with almost everyone else in the running “community” RPHM is also really fucking annoying in a number of ways.

1. Clothing sizes. I’m so tired of trying on running clothes marked “large” which should say “What we think a large person could be if they'd just get of their fat arses and run a bit more.” It seems that running manufacturers don’t have the imagination to believe that a woman anything over a size 12 might decide that she wants to run. In running clothes. Furious and pink faced, I have marched out of dozens of sports shops having failed to force a ‘large’ running top over my chest, or grappling with a zip up top won’t do up round my arse while material is billowing round my puny shoulders. My RPHM top is EXTRA LARGE and it kind of fits. It certainly isn’t too big anywhere and in places it's a bit snug. This makes me feel a bit down, if I’m honest.


2. Speed. I know, I know, I shouldn’t worry about how slow I am because it’s really great that I’m able to run at all and I should be really proud. Well, mostly I am. And then I look at the timing chart RPHM has included in my pack which looks at the times the “fastest runner” and the “slowest runner” are likely to achieve. By my calculations, if I run my absolute best (plus a bit better) then I will be approximately 13 minutes slower than the “slowest runner” time. If I have a bad day – or even just an average one – I could be as much as half an hour slower. 30 minutes slower than the person that RPHM imagines in their wildest dreams will be the slowest runner in their poxy fucking race. (And as you know, I’ve looked obsessively at last year’s results and I know that there are lots (well, handfuls) of people who run as slowly as me.)


3. Smiling. <puts on chirpy voice barely covering a snarl> “Remember to smile for our official race photographers who are plotted at various locations along the route” Oh do fuck off.

So, now, you see, rather than going into this stupid race with a positive mental attitude and a bit of self-belief, I’m imagining that I am going to be miles behind, waddling along in my yellow tent while everyone laughs and points and some wanker takes photos. Oh, except that by then everyone will have gone home anyway. There you go – silver lining. Eternally cheery, that’s me.

On top of it all, because I have a complicated medical history which might need telling to an ambulance person, I have to put a big red cross on my running number. So now I feel a little bit like someone with plague (though, if I’m honest, I also quite like the ‘me me’ drama of needing a red cross “Yes, yes, I have been terribly ill but…<bravely bites lip, tearful>…I’m fine now”). Also, and this has just occurred to me now that I write it, perhaps if I have a red cross people will think I’m running slowly in a badly fitting top because I am gravely ill. It can be my excuse. Excellent. That’s good then, not bad. I tell you, my cup is always at least half full.

That said, I think I have surprised many of you by how sustainable my hatred of running is. I know that people thought that after a few weeks of proper training something would kick in and I’d find it fun. But I don’t. Every single run is a slog. Every now and again, I have 10 or 15 minutes during a run where I’m not wishing it was over (usually if I’m listening to a particularly good episode of the Archers). My “good” runs are the ones where I am mostly able to ignore the fact that I’m running and feel glad that I’ve done it at the end but I have never, ever had even a moment where I have enjoyed my run.

Recently, I’ve discovered that lots of other people also hate running, they just don’t like to say it in case people think they’re just lazy or unfit. One friend thanked me for laying to bed the myth that everyone loves running if you just try hard enough. Several people have said they’ve been inspired not by my running (which is not, let’s face it, particularly inspirational), but by my sheer determination and bloody-mindedness. It is true that I – usually a traveller of the path of least resistance - have spent a vast amount of the last six months doing something hard work and horrible. During this summer of amazing sport and truly inspirational men and women, I’m quite pleased to be impressing people with how straightforwardly fucking dreadful I am at running. It’s like I embody the phrase “It’s not the winning, it’s the taking part really grudgingly and with a lot of sweary complaining that counts”. Ohhh, good epitaph. Better pop that next to my red cross.

So, I have just a few days to go. Two, perhaps three, short runs before Sunday depending on how my disconcertingly ever-present thigh injury holds up. And just so you know, when I say “short” I mean a minimum of 40 minutes. And this week, I’m saving the Archers for Sunday so I’m struggling to find things to keep me occupied during my runs. I know. My bravery is almost beyond belief.

Thanks to everyone who’s sponsored me (not too late - here's the link) and who's helped me do this – and lots of you have helped. You've helped by teasing me, encouraging me, pointing out improvements, agreeing that running sucks and telling me it'll all be over soon. You've emailed, texted, commented on my blog, put stuff on Twitter and Facebook, and generally been a friendly, supportive lovely bunch of friends and family. Lots of people seem to be popping down to London to cheer me on too, which is both delightful and embarrassing. Stand near the back, it’ll be your best chance of seeing me.

Running packs and other vital things

Oh shit. My running pack’s arrived. Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. I didn’t think I’d actually have to do it. Now I have a number and everything. And a revolting yellow running top. Yellow? Jeez, this just gets worse and worse. As Lucy said, about age 8, “Not many people can wear yellow, can they?”. I also have a Brook running top which doesn’t fit (though it’s better colours) and dozens of nice safe black ones. And my running raincoat. Which I love. I think I'll wear that, and then the top doesn't matter and I'll be a bit protected if it's rainy or cold. Oh. It's yellow.

See what I did there? I did what I have been doing since the bloody pack arrived and I opened it, peaked in, burst into tears and closed it again. I have been displacing my anxiety by focussing on the things which do not matter. Here, in no particular order, are the things which don’t really matter, but which have taken up quite some brain time recently:

• what colour top I run in;
• what pub we meet up in when we’re finished;
• whether I save up episodes of the Archers , Play of the Week & The News Quiz or download new (to me) Desert Island Discs;
• whether I take my own water bottle or grab the ones on the route:
• how many bags of jelly babies I need to buy to make sure I have enough black, red and pink ones;
• whether my GPS watch is able to stay in touch with the satellite all the way round, or if it might drop out sometimes, thus recording my run slightly shorter than a full half marathon (ANNOYING);
• what I’m going to eat on Sunday afternoon;
• what I’m going to eat on Saturday night;
• what I’m going to spend my day doing on Saturday;
• who I leave my bag with while I run (within reason);
• whether I’m going to notice my supporters as I run, what with my tendency to look at my feet;
• what my supporters are going to do with themselves between Steve finishing and me finishing;
• If I'm going to make my £1,000 fundraising target (nudge nudge, here's the link, doing really well so far, thank you all for your support)
• whether people will laugh at me because I’m so slow/whether I’m going to be the slowest/whether I will be faster than the slowest people who ran the race last year and whose times can be looked up on the internet. Apparently.

And when those distractions fail, I just wander round wondering what I walked into the kitchen/living room/hall/office for.

There is only one thing, of course, that really matters. It’s currently sitting in my chest like a mass of fighting butterflies and sometimes making me cry and it is:

• whether I’ll be able to run for 13.2 miles on October 7^th

After my big 10mile run the other week, I felt pretty confident I would be able to – I thought it was just about possible that I could do it. But last week, I got THE INJURY and now I’m not so sure.

I knew an injury would have to come at some point, and I am happy that the one I have is just a niggly/muscular/annoying thing, rather than one accompanied by words like “popping noise” “agony” “tear” “ligament” or “sports physiotherapist”. Essentially, I have a rather achy thigh muscle which has developed into something which is stiff and painful when I’m not running and barely troubles me when I do. In fact, I have managed to achieve an injury which works in my favour. Of course, when I stop running, my leg stops working which is a bit of a nuisance. I have an injury which is forcing me to keep going. Which is just as well.

It has slightly curtailed my training. I had to skip two midweek short runs just after it happened and, more seriously, I wasn’t able to run my final really long run (of 12 miles). However, everyone tells me and that if I can run 10 miles, I can run 13 and the 12 mile run would only have been for confidence. Luckily I have bags of confidence. Oh.

Anyway, I must go, the run is less than 2 weeks away and, as I mentioned, I have an awful lot of very important things to think about.

Jelly Babies

I thought I had never much cared for jelly babies. I thought I didn’t like their dry, cracky, dusty outside or their too-sweet nasty-textured inside. I now realise that I was eating them wrong. I now realise that the way to eat a jelly baby is from a sandwich bag squished into your sports bra from about 3 miles into a 10 mile run. Eaten that way – warm, soggy and a bit damp despite the sandwich bag – they are about the best food known to man. Or ploddy woman, anyway.

Sorry, is that TMI*? I don’t think they were actually sweaty – I was careful to secure the bag each time before wedging it back down my bra. I think they were just warm and melty. Whatever they were, ten of them are almost the only reason I was able to run 10 miles before breakfast yesterday morning. Only the black red and pink ones, obviously. Orange, yellow and green can kiss my ass. Nasty nasty.

Those of you paying attention will notice that I haven’t blogged since the success of the 10k. That’s because in the intervening few weeks, things have gone terribly badly. After an initial high at having achieved the 10k, my training became the most gruelling, disappointing slog. I’d have flashes of success when I thought I had made a little progress, only for the next run to leave me defeated and walking after just 20 minutes. On several occasions I considered pulling out of the half marathon on the grounds that I was clearly never going to manage it and I did a lot of tearful raging against the whole thing. I resented the fact that in my busy life, more than four hours a week were taken up doing something I despise.

Anyway, in an attempt to shake up my training and give myself an outside chance of actually getting round a half marathon in October, I re-joined the gym. I explained the whole embarrassing shambles to a personal trainer young enough to be my daughter and threw myself at her mercy, “Please will you help me just get to the stage where I can run this bloody thing and then I never have to run again?”

She was a lovely mixture of hardcore (“Is this what you find hardest? Let’s do another 20 minutes then”) and soft hearted (she really wants to work in an animal hospital, but thinks she wouldn’t be able to handle how sad it might be) and I credit her with the breakthrough in my training that means that I will get round that sodding half marathon that’s just four weeks away. (When I first wrote that sentence, it said “..in just four weeks” but even I’m not that slow). 

I realised things were picking up when I had three runs in a row during which I didn’t stop in a frustrated fury and throughout which I held a steady, even pace. My gym workout improved dramatically over a couple of weeks and I realised my legs were getting stronger. In one week, three people that I am not married to pointed out how much slimmer my legs were looking.  

But all the time, I knew that on Sunday, my training plan required me to attempt a 10 mile run and I had no confidence that I was ready to do it. Before Sunday, the furthest I had run without stopping was still the 10k in July. I had attempted other long runs, but they had failed in one way or another. Sunday loomed large and although I could see progress I felt sick and anxious at the thought of trying to do it. 

I decided to approach it as though it were a proper race. I rested my legs for two days, I had pasta, I drank more water than is probably legal in East Anglia in a drought year, I went to bed early, I didn’t drink alcohol. I got up at 6 so that I could have something to eat before running at 6.30 when it was still nice and cool. I made a proper plan for being hydrated on my route and I put 10 black, red and pink jelly babies into two sandwich bags stuffed into my bra.

I resolved to use the 10 mile run to make a decision about how I was going to approach the rest of my training. I felt that if I was able to run the whole thing, then I could continue my training plan and do my best to run the whole half marathon in October, but if I was forced to walk or stop because I was crying with fury, I would develop a new ‘run/walk’ training plan to get me round the half. 

Anyway, thanks to careful preparation, a clear plan, a some decent training and, crucially, soggy jelly babies, I made it round and I ran all the way**. I knew I was going to make it when at about 7 miles my legs felt OK and I realised I was already running further and better than I have before (something I may have accidentally shouted out in surprise when I realised it). I BLOODY DID IT!

So, now we’re on the home straight. I have four more weeks to stretch to 13 miles. I have the confidence that I can do it, as long as there are enough jelly babies and I don’t get a nasty injury. I have also discovered a significant change in my approach as illustrated by my conversation with Lucy whose 11 year old nose for an embarrassing parent is sharp.

Me (euphoric): I did it! I ran ten miles! It’s partly due to having my jelly babies.

Lucy (delighted followed immediately by dawning suspicion): Brilliant!! Where did you keep them?

Me: In two sandwich bags in my bra.

Lucy (slightly horrified): So, you had bulky boobs that you kept reaching into as you ran along? Did anyone actually see you, Mum ? Didn’t everyone look at you really strangely?

Me (light dawning): Oh, I don’t know. I don’t even care.

So there it is. I’m slow, I’m overweight and I have bulky boobs that I fish around in occasionally. But I am healthy enough to run 10 miles and I don’t care what other people think.





* Too Much Information – how did you get online for long enough to find a blog without knowing that?
**Actually, I ran all but approximately 15 seconds when some stupid wanker stopped me – yes stopped me – and asked for directions to the station. I sent him the wrong way. 

 

The support I'm getting and the donations that people are making to Brook are keeping me going - Thank you! The sponsorship page is here.

10K

Well, blow me, I just about did it. I ran slowly for a full 10 kilometres. I didn't stop, cry or throw up. I just kept at it and the kilometres gradually went by and eventually, after the longest 1.5 km of my life I got to the end. When it came down to it, the hardest thing was still how bone-grindingly, mind numbingly TEDIOUS running is.

For something so dreadful, the day taught me a great deal.

Firstly, it taught me that 20,000 people is a lot. If you end up near the tail end of 20,000 people, waiting to get to the start line, and you can see about 19,500 people in front of you, you really do start to properly worry that when you start running, 499 people will immediately overtake you, tutting, and you will, officially, be the last person to cross the finish line.

Secondly, it taught me that if you run all the way very slowly, you will probably not be the very last person over the line, but you probably will be in the last 1% (estimate - can't face looking online*) which is still quite embarrassing and also means that if you could only learn to run a bit faster, not only would you feel less self-conscious, but you'd also get the whole miserable thing over with more quickly.

Thirdly, it taught me that I can do it. That if I grit my teeth and just keep going I can run a fairly long way. Longer than I have ever run my life before. Given another 12 weeks, I can probably run further. 13 miles, perhaps.

Fourthly, to my surprise, it taught me that my lungs are stronger than I realised. In fact, my lungs gave the performance of their lives. Steady, even breathing, no burning pain and a really quick recovery. Given the terrible drugs, radiation and whatnot that has been chucked at those poor organs, never mind the whopping great tumour they shared chest space with for almost half a decade, I am enormously proud of them. Well done lungs.

My legs, on the other hand (and fifthly) are useless. Even before I had started running, they were feeling stiff and achy and nervous. Yes, I had nervous legs. From the 6k point onwards they were really very grumpy and between 7and 9 they begged me to stop. I refused and they grudgingly put on the wimpiest final performance ever. Today, they are not speaking to me.

The sixth thing I learned was that if I don't know my route very well and therefore don't know when a hill (well, a slope, it's not exactly fell running) is about to appear, I deal with it far better than if I know it's coming.

This is because (seventh) I barely look up when I run and so quite often don't realise I'm on a hill 'til I'm half way up it and think "God, this is hard" and by the time I've worked out that I'm actually going up hill, I'm nearly at the top. I think my posture is very poor indeed when I run.

That posture thing not only matters because it means I have bad technique, it also matters because I learned, eighthly, that if you are towards the end of the pack you are a really easy target for the zillions of official photographers who line the route. In a few days time I have no doubt that some hard sell official photo agency is going to be filling my email inbox with dozens of links to pictures of some revolting, overweight, stooped, sweating, red faced plodder who looks like she might fall headlong into the gutter at any second. Next time I read an article of racing tips that smugly advises, "Remember to smile so you have a super momento of your wonderful day!" I shall track down the writer and cut their fingers with the sharp edges of the paper their piece was written on.

Eight learnings....let me see if I can make it ten...one for each kilometre.

Yes, I can. Learning nine is that it's great to have supporters. I saw the little group of Brook cheerleaders, including Lucy and Dave, twice and each time it gave me a boost and I loved them for standing in the rain and cheering me on. At one point, where the run loops back on itself, I found myself desperately scanning the faces running the other way for Steve because I'd have liked to cheer him on. In fact, I passed a decent 10 minutes doing that which helped take my mind of the run.

And learning 10...Oh, that's easy, I learned that even if someone has only done four training runs on the road in the lead up to the race, you still feel fantastically proud of them when they charge round in less than 55 minutes *and* pick your medal up for you so that you don't have to faff around in the disorganised chaos at the end but can head straight for a slap up celebration lunch.


And, by the way, THANK YOU to everyone who has sponsored me. Don't worry if you haven't yet, though, I've still got months of work to do and my next goal is another 10k in September followed by the dreaded half marathon in October. There is still plenty of time to sponsor me at www.justgiving.com/hilliershitthetarmac



*Ok, I looked. I was in the last 4%. And a full 200 people didn't finish.

151.22km

151.22 km. That’s how far I’ve run in the last 10 weeks. I have been on 42 runs, for a total of 20 hours and 22 minutes. Small runs that add up to quite a lot and I’m pretty proud to have stuck to it.
Or at least I was. Then I had this conversation:

Me: How many times have you actually been out and done a road run in the last ten weeks?

Steve (evasive): Oh, a few. Ummm. I’ve been to the gym quite a bit. You know. Treadmill

Me: Sure, but not for ages. And anyway, treadmills are different. How much street running have you done?

Him (still evasive): Yeah, some. <Sigh> Ok, about 4

Me: 4?? Long runs?

Him: ‘Bout 30 minutes.

Me (bit worried about his knees): I really think you should go out today and see how you go – we only have a week left

Him (resigned): Yeah, good idea. I’ll go now

50 minute pause

 Me (Shrill): “9k in 50 minutes? After 4 training runs and the odd trip to the gym? I HATE YOU” <Sobs>

Him (Like a man drowning): “Wow, your legs have really changed shape, you know, they look lovely.”

It really doesn’t seem fair that after 10 weeks of grinding misery with flashes of only a bit awful to keep me going I am still not 100% sure that I’m going to be able to run the full 10k whereas the git I’m married to does a few half-hearted jogs around town and somehow retains a level of running ability that I am unlikely to see in my lifetime.

And don’t give me any tortoise/hare shit because although it’s true that Steve could sleep on a fencepost if he wanted to, he isn’t likely to in the middle of the 10k and will prance happily over the finish line a good 20 minutes before I do.

Mind you, considering how much I’ve hated the training so far, the 10k has come round mighty quick and I find myself wishing for a few more days to prepare.

It’s next Sunday. The longest run I’ve done in my preparation (and possibly the best run I’ve done, if it’s possible to rank 42 horrible things to find a best) is 67 minutes. Although I’d dearly like to achieve my target of 1 hour 15 minutes, I’m not expecting to do it on this occasion – I shall be happy with 1 hour 20 and have signed up for a second 10k in September that I hope to do faster.

And I guess, despite the misery and the fear that I’ll fail and the grinding boredom of the training, it has actually helped to take people’s advice and look at how far I’ve come.* I began my training with Walk/Run of 3 minute intervals. When I started, I had never in my life run for longer than 30 minutes. 5 weeks ago, a 25 minute run had me puking in the gutter. Today, 25 minutes is my ‘short’ run. I am a little bit faster. I can run for a lot longer.

And there was this one time....just one.... I was 45 minutes in to a 67 minute run about 10 days ago, and I suddenly realised that I was on autopilot. I realised my breathing was steady, my legs were fine and I was just getting on with it. I only about 67%** hated it, I could probably keep going for a very long time*** if necessary and I was actually…well…reasonably comfortable****.

Of course every run since that point has felt worse than ever, because running appears to be a bitch that way. But I hold on to that moment and I think I can do a 10k. I’m nervous and anxious and feel a bit sick. I’m stressed about the fact that I still don’t have my race pack because the ‘organisers’ of the Great British 10k would struggle to organise their way out of a paper bag (“Powered by Nike” my arse, powered by two idiots in a basement without a clue about customer service is more like it) but I am not going to give up and hide under the duvet.*****

And if I can’t run all the way this time, I will try again another time. And again, until I do. And then I’ll do the half marathon. And if I don’t get that right the first time I’ll keep going  til I do.

And, incidentally, my legs are looking bloody great******

PS Thank you so much to those of you who have sponsored me so far - I really appreciate it. I'm running for Brook - more info in the top right corner there - and you can sponsor me at www.justgiving.com/hilliershitthetarmac

 

* You see, Steve, Anna, Penny, Huw, Vicky, Dave – I do listen.
** 98%
*** A bit longer if I really had to
**** Not weeping
***** Probably
****** Apparently

O. M. Actual G

I have just run without stopping for an hour. SIXTY FUCKING MINUTES. That is all.





Well, no, obviously that's not all. That's not all at all. Because now I'm tingling and buzzing all over and, having milked as much congratulations from my family a) sport on the telly and b) texts from mates will allow, I need to tell someone else. So before I've even showered, I'm struggling to type with my swollen lumpy fingers and tell you all about it.

And before you mad runners who talk about runs which are 'blissful' or 'awesome' get all excited at how buzzy I am, I should point out that the buzz was not present until the gruelling running stopped.

I am still slow. I have worked out that if I run 10k at this pace, it would take me 1 hour 23 minutes. Slower than a snail. However, in the week, I have been able to sustain a faster pace for longer - 30 minutes at a pace that would see a 1 hour 18 minute 10k which is only three minutes away from my goal.

So, for the next three weeks, I need to spend my week getting faster and my weekends running for longer and there is a very very slim chance that I get my sorry arse round the 10k in 3 weeks time without stopping in 1 hour 15 minutes.

I think my motivation was helped by this week's ludicrous running purchase. iTunes will find itself richer to the tune of £9.99 because I bought "Now That's What I Call Running". Usually, I run to speech because I find that following a story helps take my mind off the horrible running, but sometimes I think perhaps I need to force myself to think about the running in order to try and do it better. So I've downloaded some dreadful music which will make me feel very old (plus Eye of the Tiger, obviously) in the hope it will have a positive effect on my speed.

Course now I see that written down, I realise they're songs, not miracles. Still, I ran for an hour today. Who cares.




Don't forget, I'm doing this - and the half marathon in October - because Brook needs the support. Anything you can donate will be very gratefully recieved. www.justgiving.com/hilliershitthetarmac

Remind me why I'm doing this, again?

I am beginning to believe that I'm not like anyone else when it comes to running. I keep slogging on, assuming at some point things will improve. But they really don't. Despite the odd flash of something positive - a speedy 20 minute run the other day that was very close to my goal pace, a full 45 minute run in Yorkshire while on holiday (smug score: off the scale) - I am finding the training boring, difficult and dispiriting. So, in order to keep myself going rather than throw my hands up and decide I'm just not cut out for this shit, this post is a reminder of some of the things that keep me going.

1. The early morning lady
I commute into London from Ely several times a week and on those days I leave the house at 6.20 to walk to the station. A couple of years ago, I started to see a woman who was clearly learning to run. She looks about 20 years older than me and in the early days she would shuffle slowly, but determinedly, along, watching the ground and looking like each one of her early morning steps was a bit of a killer. These days, though, she's a different woman - fast, upright, confident and looking like a real runner. She inspires me to keep going because I can see so clearly how much she's improved.

2. The cash
I'm chuffed to bits that we've already raised £420 of our £1,000 target and I'm really touched by the range of different people that have donated to my Just Giving page. When I set the target at £1000, I worried that I wouldn't make it, but now I feel like it might be achievable. A wonderful mixture of generous friends, family, colleagues and even friends-of-friends and people I don't know well at all have chipped in and I owe each and every one of those people a huge thank you for keeping me going in the hope I'll make you all proud. And won't have to give all the money back. Should you want to join the lovely people who are financially motivating me to push on, you can go to www.justgiving.com/hilliershitthetarmac where joining the club is very easy.

3. The stuff
There is one way that running suits me down to the ground - opportunities to buy stuff. I find nothing makes me feel more like I might one day achieve some of my goals than leaving Waitrose with a shiny new copy of Runner's World, fondling running clothing, or buying trainers. My favourite things are my running gloves (but they're not really useful just at the moment, so I just gaze at them and wish for frost).

4. The statistics
I also like the numbers. I like checking off the runs I do and I like plugging my running watch into my computer and looking obsessively at the run I've just done to see what my top speed is, where I seem to tire, the impact of the hills and so on. It helps with setting goals as well as being interesting in itself. I also like reading up on stuff and finding out things about running generally. The most useless piece of information I have read about running recently was in an article reviewing sports bras which told me that the top bra was 78% more effective at reducing bounce than not wearing a bra at all, which seemed to me to be a slightly less useful figure than telling me how it compares to other bras, but what do I know?

5. The charity
Brook is great. It's a really important charity that does a really difficult job. The young people that use Brook's services are often the most vulnerable and most at risk to dangerous relationships and unhealthy sex. They're also the young people most often judged or misunderstood by the people in the best position to help them - politicians, policy makers, education and health services, the media...the list is long. And Brook provides young people with a confidential, non-judgemental place to ask questions, find help, face difficult decisions and deal with painful problems. I've always felt proud to work for Brook and now I feel proud to run for Brook too.

6. The lungs, the heart and the lymphoma
I do have to keep in mind that even though I'm slow and rather gallumphy when it comes to running, I am a much much healthier person than I was 5 - 10 years ago. I take a great deal of pride in having done enough, despite everything to reverse some of the damage that I have control over; my lungs are healthy, my bone density has improved, my heart works well and my new immune system is coping pretty well with life. To the best of my knowledge, I'm relatively fit and healthy woman who can run for 6.77km

7. The people
I already know people are good - that was the first lesson that my cancer taught me (actually, no, the first lesson was always demand intravenous antiemetics, people was the second) - so it has come as no surprise that people are also great when it comes to trying to achieve something difficult like running. I love the support that you all give me and the ideas you have for keeping me going, from tweeting me out of bed to run on a Sunday morning, to cheering me on in person. People are great. The people I know are particularly great and the particularly great people I know are being spectacularly brilliant just at the moment.

So, not a bad blessings haul all in all. Enough to make this morning's miserable 50 minutes fade a little and to give me the strength to approach Tuesday's 30 minutes with a spring in my step and a smile on my face.

What? It gets worse?

Oh, good grief.

So, last time I posted, loyal reader, you will recall I was feeling pretty good about the improvements seen and the 35 minute run that I’d tucked under my belt when I was not at all certain I’d manage it. After that, the big interval training session with Steve also went surprisingly well even if it did leave me in a heap on the playing field thinking I was going to throw up (I didn’t. I’m all about the dignity).

So I went into the next long run fairly chipper, feeling like I was actually getting somewhere and that one day, in the far distant future, I might somehow stumble over the finishing line of a half marathon.

What a fool.

I fatally indulged in a little pride. I looked at the stats produced by my fancy-pants Garmin watch on the computer and noted how much faster my average pace had got. I told everyone who asked, and several people that didn’t (checkout ladies, taxi drivers, waitresses) that I could run for 35 minutes. I put on a pair of shorts that I had consigned to history because, until now, my knees looked too pudgy in them. In short, I behaved like a showy offy, look at me, peacock.

And then I crashed. Because pride, my friend, comes before a fall.

My last two runs have been worse, so so much worse, than anything at the beginning. Even though I coped with 40 minutes on Sunday, they were so slow and so painful and so miserable that even the glorious weather seemed grey and evil and I didn't even feel smug for having done it by 9am, just empty and grumpy.

I convinced myself that one bad run didn’t matter, that I would go into the next run (a straightforward 20 minutes) with a positive attitude and a spring in my step. But if anything that run was even worse, because I feel that if I can drag myself round for 40 minutes, 20 minutes should be a piece of cake, and it’s still not. It’s painful and boring and embarrassingly slow.

I'm slower than I was when I started (despite Steve and his whistle), hating each step with more venom and feel like every additional 5 minutes I'm able to keep going isn't progress, it's just an extra five miserable minutes of my life that I'm not going to get back.  Oh. Except that's probably not even true. It's fucking good for me. Bollocks. I can't even hate it unconditionally.

BUT I WILL KEEP GOING. I will. I will. I will keep going for several reasons, which I’ll just quickly summarise to remind myself:

1. Even shitty, hot, slow embarrassing running is better than having cancer or an unhealthy set of heart and lungs. Get it in perspective, whinger.
2. You have made a rule that you will do this, so do this you must. Stop being so whiny and knuckle under.
3. Brook is a fabulous and important organisation and this week alone you have seen so many reasons to support their work fighting for young people’s rights. Get a grip, princess prissy.
4. Lots of lovely people have sent you messages on Twitter (@rosylight says thank you, @ohIdoliketobe @Thoughtcat @Dernolchap @lasttocatchon ), by text, email, phone and in person and they should be rewarded for their goodness with extra effort. Pick your feet up you baby.

Good reasons, all of them. But especially number 3, and if you have a few quid to spare, please do consider sponsoring me and helping Brook make a difference to the lives of the most vulnerable young people. My Just Giving site is here and I would love to raise £1,000 by October.

In return, I’ll keep going. And I might even improve. And I'll keep doing this, even if I don't.

Progress and trepidation

I am not much of a rule breaker. I have been taking my training seriously for five weeks. I started with run/walking and have been gradually building up to longer and longer periods of running, just like I've been told to. I've tried to follow the instructions for each session to the letter; some are longer, gentler runs and some are faster, shorter runs.

So far, so straightforward, which is good because I find complicated instructions tricky to hold on to when so much of my brain power is needed to keep me putting one foot in front of the other.

And this playing by the rules, steady, simple approach has paid off a bit and I've had a couple of breakthroughs. On Friday I forced myself to go out when I got in from work. Exhausted, headachy and grumpy, I was in exactly the kind of mood that would have seen me find an excuse not to go out in the past, but this time I went. The run was even worse than usual. 25 excruciating minutes that used every bit of energy I had. Towards the end I was more shuffling than running. But I did it.

On Sunday, my training plan required a 35 minute run. Given the pain with which I had crawled through the streets for 25 minutes only two days earlier, I was rather despondent about my chances of success. I started slowly and painfully on my usual route, firmly telling myself that I must at least get to 30 minutes before falling weeping into the gutter and calling a cab.

And then I just did it. I slowly, steadily ran for 35 minutes. And not only that, I managed to restrict the obsessive time-checking to such an extent that I actually ran for 35 minutes AND SEVEN SECONDS, which was the time at the corner of the road that I had designated for my next time check (important to have rules, did I mention?)

It's good that I've had two boosts this week because things are about to turn really nasty. The training instructions get more complex and if I am to continue following the rules I have to rope in a personal trainer to help.

Well, I say 'personal trainer'. I mean 'husband' of course. But we both know from bitter, shrieky personal experience that we need to think of the relationship during our training sessions as professional, not personal. I think that when we view each other as our life partner, we expect more. We rather assume that love will spur us on - that I will try harder out of affection, and that he will be more inspiring because he loves me. It doesn't work like that. It's more like we're in an episode of EastEnders, but will less coherent shouting (I go a bit Sarf Lundun when I shout, as it goes).

The need for Steve arises because my training programme thinks it's all very well jogging along slowly for 35 minutes, but really I need to up the pace a bit, so it is throwing in a speed training session once a week. Short (1 minute) bursts of running as fast as I possibly can interspersed with 1 minute rest periods.

As I've said, I need things to be simple. If I am required to run as fast as I'm capable for a full 60 seconds, there is simply no way my brain will also be able to instruct my wrist to lift, my eyes to check my watch and my brain to process what I see there. I am not capable of organising myself to run fast for 60 seconds and then walk for 60 seconds five times. But I might be able to do it if someone else tells me when to stop and go.

So I approach this week with quite some trepidation. The training sessions get more complicated, I need to invite Steve to 'help' me and, to top it all off, the bloody sun's out again.



It's all in aid of Brook and you can sponsor me here

Oh bugger, the sun's out

I am told that in some distant future point so far away that I can't tell if it's even really there, I will find that I love running. Apparently one day a leisurely jog through beautiful countryside will be - and I quote - "bliss". So many people have said that this will be, that I have to believe it may. But until it is true, I must suffer the miserably skewed perception of the beginner runner when it comes to beautiful views and sunny days.

When I got up on Saturday, the sun was streaming through the window and the house had a lovely sense of Spring about it. My first thought? "Oh, bugger, the sun's out."

You see, when it is cold and rainy the less able runner has some assistance. Rain and frost keep a person cool, they keep the shade of puce in the cheeks down to something that is slightly less alarming for anyone else out in public. In warm weather, I watch people hover over their mobiles, wondering if this is one of those times to actually intend to call the emergency number (if they don't have proper signal, they sometimes look quite excited at the prospect of seeing if it really works). I try to smile reassuringly at them, or wheeze a breezy "Hello! Lovely day!" as I zip by. And then they wonder if, in fact, I am recovering from a stroke.

And when it rains, I can legitimately run in Steve's mansize raincoaty thing. I haven't yet learned what they are technically called - very thin, waterproof tops that cover me up past my bum as well as performing a secondary job of keeping me dry.

One of my daughter's friends saw me out running one freezing cold day and said to Lucy "Was your mum wearing a fleece out running today?" You bet your primary school ass, I was, lady. It keeps me warm and covers me up.

I feel terribly self conscious about running and anything I can do to minimise the amount of time and energey I use feeling like I might have to stop as much because I'm embarrassed as because I am knackered is a good thing. Even if that means that people look at me, note the cloudless sky, and wonder why I'm wearing a runner's raincoat. On reflection, perhaps they think I have run so far that I've come from another weather zone. Next time, I'm going to splash myself with water before I leave.

And as for beautiful countryside, well, sod that. I'm staying in a beautiful part of Yorkshire in June, celebrating a friend's birthday with lots of other lovely people. We've chosen a beautiful cottage, we're ignoring that thing the Queen's doing, and it will all be completely wonderful. Except on the Sunday of that week, my training plan tells me I'll need to do a FORTY FIVE MINUTE RUN.

Forty five minutes in less than a month's time?! That would feel insane if it was just a case of plodding round my usal Fenland-flat nicely tarmacked route. But everyone knows there's hills in Yorkshire. Every time I think of my lovely holiday, I go "Ohhhhh!" (happy face) followed instantly by "Ahhhhh" (wince) as I remember the run.

Anyway, I can't stop here gassing all day. The sun's gone in and the hail's started. Perfect weather for a run.




Don't forget - I'm doing this for a reason...

Have you started running again?

A friendly fellow commuter approached me yesterday with a quizzical smile. "Have you started running again, did I see?"

This question was a triumph of charm. Firstly, what I can do can barely be called a shuffle, never mind a run. Secondly, to say 'again' would imply that I got the hang of it before and thirdly, if another woman with an arse the size of mine had started jogging round Ely anything like as slowly as me, I think the Guiness Book of Records would have alerted me as a courtesy.

But, to give her charming enquiry due attention, then yes, I have started 'running' 'again'. And this time I mean it.

Just 5 years ago my body was no good for standing, never mind running. Every ounce of energy that wasn't being used raging at the unfortunate pusher of my wheelchair was being poured into recovering from a stem cell transplant. Simply walking up stairs was a huge achievement and my focus was very much on getting better and finding a normal life.

5 years on, I want to celebrate my health, and what better way than trying to improve my physical fitness and conquer my fear and hatred of running - something I've had since "Granny" Gower forced me to captain the cross country squad in 1984BS (Before (decent) Sportsbras, oh the humiliation).

I am starting slowly and gently and I have two goals. The first is to run the Great British 10k on 8th July in 1 hour 15 minutes or less. The second is to run the Royal Parks Half Marathon on 7th October in 2 hours 30 minutes or less. I write 'or less' only as a formality. It won't be less and it may be more. Steve is running them both too - he'll be doing proper running, obviously (whilst being very careful of that dodgy knee, of course, because we know it's no fun when one of us is in a wheelchair) as well as helping me with my training. In a non divorcy way. Hopefully.

I'm going to use this blog to track my efforts, update on my training and motivate myself. Feel free to comment, advise, support, whatever, and if you have a spare tenner or two, please visit my Just Giving page (well, OF COURSE there's a Just Giving page) where you will be able to donate to Brook - the wonderful organisation that has kept me gainfully employed for most of my recovery time.