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.