Running. Don’t you just love it?

I woke this morning with one of those huge grins that point blank refuses to go away and look just a tiny bit less smug with itself. Wandering down to the station I had to work hard to keep my feet in some kind of order as they were threatening to leap into the air for a spate of heel clicking frivolities.

When Amy MacDonald came on the iPod I couldn’t resist any more and had to run - I didn’t get too far, the platform was crowded and my rucksac was loaded with heavy study texts. The moment I got home though, I dropped the extraneous trammel and headed down to the river to release my joy with a sprint through the drizzle.

Sprint being the operative word.
Either it’s good for me to run on smiles or else someone has been slipping me performance enhancers. I broke my 3 year record for the two bridge river route and it’s my second zippy run of the week. I may have to attempt a time trial again if this keeps up.

I struggled with the running concept again this morning. I was awake from 4am thinking that I might just go out any minute and take in my required 10 mile pootle but I was still flouncing around at 11am throwing anti-running strops on the living room floor.

The new non-runner in my life has taken to questioning my strange obsession with this odd masochistic feature of my life and as a result I’ve found myself slightly bemused by the whole thing as well. I really and truly did not want to run today but at the same time I knew I had to, ought to and should go running!

What’s that about, when did I develop this addiction and do I need to go into rehab?

Sometimes I really want to run just out of the sheer pleasure of bounding around but I think I mostly run to escape myself. It’s much worse at the moment because I’m in the middle of exam stress and so am supposed to sit around on my arse all day studying. It doesn’t take much of that to make me want to run from my own company. I used to be able to sit around just fine without driving myself nuts but this exercise malarky seems to have given me boundless energy and without an outlet it turns me into a serious irritant!

I left the house knowing that a 10 miler was on my schedule but under the circumstances (I’ve no idea what they were) I’d settle for 8. In fact it was actually quite clear that I was open to negotiation and my baseline requirement was that I at least started running and I needed to get as far as Marks and Spencers for biscuits. Not a good start to a long run - I anticipated my inner whiner would kick in at the 1 mile turn off for M&S.

As it happens I seemed to be enjoying myself. I positively bounced past the first turn off point and then it started to pour down again. Rain is such a joy on a run, I love it. It makes me feel cool, committed and vaguely but satisfyingly ridiculous. I got to run past miserable walkers, huddled under the cover of trees, splashing through the puddles and calling out “light weights!”

Why is it that only runners smile in the rain?

I started to remember how great I feel when I run - you can continue forever and ever, meditating on the joys of your life and composing literary masterpieces (or even mediocre blog posts). When you finish you feel so goddamn smug that you can relax on the after affects for at least 3 days. I’m going to have such a productive revision day tomorrow!

The sun decided to put in an appearance over Twickenham Bridge and removed my perverse enjoyment so I turned round and headed back. I did nip into M&S but with my new found runners self-righteousness, I settled for grapes instead of ginger nuts.

8.5 miles - 1hr 46 mins.

Their challenge is entitled NaBloPoMo which is perfectly explained in Cathy’s post. She may call herself a pedant but today it rang too many bells as I sat in an accountancy lecture listening to the tutor attempt to simplify the functions of Internal Audit with the mnemonic (or is it acronym?) ISACSRACE. That apparently stands for, Independent, Systematic, Analysis, Controls, Systems, Records, Adequate, Complete, Exist. What the heck does that lot mean and how does it help me with internal audit?!

I’ve got about 10 days before the exam and am wasting this evening trying to decide whether to spend the next week commiting that helpful little snippet to memory - well actually I’m not, because I’m going for a run instead! 7 hours of that sort of rubbish and I need to break free!

Accountants are crap at mnemonics, medics on the otherhand are the undisputed masters, how about: “Some Lovers Try Positions That They Can’t Handle”?

This helps you remember the carpal bones (in the hand) from proximal to distal row, both lateral-to-medial: Scaphoid, Lunate, Triquetrium, Pisiform, Trapezium, Trapezoid, Capate, Hamate.
Pure Quality!

Although it may be good I have to admit that I couldn’t remember it, and had to google “dirty medical mnemonics” to trigger my memory, but you can bet in another 15 years I won’t be going to so much trouble to remember the functions of internal audit.

Anyway, back to my run. Did I mention that I went for a run today? A whole 3 miles! Split in the middle with an allotment inferno of gargantuan proportions. So you could say I did two runs today!
Impressive or what?

My new once a week running schedule is just not sufficient to keep me sane. By Sunday I’m absolutely climbing the walls.

I’m still off work, with college/study/mahjong-playing leave and have been going stir crazy. All week I’ve been promising myself a weekend treat splashing around the muddy trails of Swinley Forest and I bought some swanky inov8 mudclaws for the occassion - check out those treads.

Swinley Forest is my old haunt from the Broadmoor days and I love running around there. After last weeks Hebden Bridge trip I’ve been eager for mud, hills and bouncy forest trail - there’s nowhere better.

It was a bit cold and wet today but those are the perfect conditions for an autumnal forest run. The leaves were lush and the going was soft to squishy.

The shoes held up very well but then the soles would give a tractor tyre a run for its money. - solid grip. I slipped only once, while trying to leap a 4ft puddle by way of a slimey tree stump. Anyone with half a brain would have known that was going to end in tears but my oxygen starved brain has a tendency to want to see me in an emotional and painful heap. I escaped with only minor groin strain and some very cold feet.

I was heading to the lure of Caesar’s Camp. I love running around that hilltop fort, it was inhabited over 2000 years ago and it feels powerful. You can run around a thin trail, hugging the edge of the hill, and every time I’ve been there it’s been delightfully solitary.

Things have changed a bit with the seasons and the place seems to have been invaded by tiny xmas trees.

It seemed to be getting dark under the tree cover by 2:30 so I headed back a little earlier than planned. I was diving in and out of the woods following any trail that seemed passable and many that weren’t. I found an exciting mountain bike trail that proved almost as much fun on foot which is just as well as I’m about to flog the mountain bike to fund my lavish lifestyle and expensive tastes in running shoes.

Arrived back at the car park only to realise that I couldn’t remember the colour of the hire car and hadn’t a clue what the number plate was.

Of course I made it home eventually and was rewarded with this view of Barnes as I crossed the bridge.

I think a river run is called for next week.

This weekend, in search of lush lawns, I headed to Hebden Bridge.

Hebden Bridge is the UK mecca for guardian readers and “alternative practitioners”, and I’ve long held the view that the place would be enhanced by my presence. The “AP” euphemism was suggested by the local lesbian hotel and I’ve adopted it as a subtle way of getting this post past my mum.

I was accompanied by Lynn who was prepared to indulge my fantasy of returning to Yorkshire for a life revolving around yoghurt, communal vegetables, alternative practitioners, real ale and hill runnning (not necessarily listed in order of importance). Given that this weekend was forecast to be the wettest and windiest of the year, and even saw 1500 hardman mountain marathoners evacuated from the area by helicopter, I think it was incredibly public spirited of her!

My new home presented itself well, with a rather fabulous olde worlde railway station but friday night in dowtown Hebden was disappointly bereft of AP’s who appeared to have been replaced by spirit swigging teenagers - my favourite variety.

I’d planned an early start for our Saturday morning hike through the hurricane, but at 11am we were still struggling to swallow the locally sourced alpaca sausage that came bundled with the hotel room. I’d like to blame my sleep loving companion for the late start but I might have delayed the proceedings a little bit by leaving the walking guide hidden under the discarded and pre-requisite guardian on the Leeds train.

We got a map, which promptly disintegrated in the downpour and headed off with the plan to stick to the right handside of the river. A cunning plan, almost immediately rejected as we found ourself on a path, flanked on our right by a raging torrent and a strangely spotty youf holding a bottle of empty red wine. I thought he had puss coming out of his pores but apparently he’d just stuck his head in the river. A tick in the box for staying in London methinks!

The walk was random, preciptous and extraordinarily muddy but I enjoyed it immensely. My enjoyment always seems to be enhanced by adverse conditions. Seeing other walkers approaching me with a hang dog, god isn’t this awful expression, always makes me smile, and I think Lynn may have been cast in a similar mould.

Here’s Lynn, striding off in the wrong direction - in fairness the visibilty was somewhat impaired.

6 miles later we were sitting in the local cream tea house, being served by some of the local sullen teenagers - “What dya wan?!”
It’s a strange accent and in the mouths hungover teenagers it doesn’t go so well with the concept of “customer service”. Another tick in the box for London I’m afraid.

In order to swing the balance in favour of Hebden Bridge the hotel decided to throw a lesbian disco in our honour and although we did our best to miss most of it, we caught the tail end and were introduced to the hip and happening alternative practioners from the North Yorkshire vicinity. I have to say it was an eye-opener. My fashion sense clearly needs an overhaul if I ever hope to fit in, but I was pleased to discover that they still play the tunes from my early years at women only discos. 4 non blondes most definitely needs to stage a come back on my running playlist!

My dreams may have been shattered this weekend, but I’m not bitter. It ranks as one of the best weekends of the year and has given me a new found passion for running in wet and boggy conditions. I’ll be spending this weekend searching for good ole London mud and hills.

After any major event, of Great North proportions, me and OGB have a tendency to gather around a pint and discuss our potential prowess for next year.

So this year, as with last year incidentally, we planned to maintain our new found half marathon fitness by running at least 10 miles every week, thereby avoiding that tiresome fitness building phase before the next one. I also remember him suggesting we lose some weight, and while he couldn’t lose a stone without panicking his mother, I could easily afford to shed 5 of em, nevertheless I just nodded at him and ordered the next couple of pints.

Two weeks on from the beery bravado, I haven’t heard any hint of OGB sticking to the long distance running plan, he has however sent me begging requests to run another half in a foreign land. And he calls me expensive!

Although I’d planned a day of sheer indulgence, pouring over one of my accountancy text books, I was eventually shamed into heading out for my promised 10-miler. In fairness, I had also run out of other study avoidance techniques, there were literally no more clothes left to wash and iron and there really is a limit to the number of times you can scrub a bathroom sink.

I received a bit of stick from SHS1 in my last post, regarding my choice of running playlists. I think she may have hit the nail on the head really.

In retrospect, I feel some what betrayed by my body and the internal slob for last weeks failure to complete. Despite allowing both of them to convince me that I was facing imminent internal melt down, the predicted muscle damage failed to rear it’s head last week at all. I didn’t wince even slightly as I bounded down the stairs the next morning. That strikes me as a major cop out and I feel like the pair of them (body and slob) ganged up on me in a fairly outrageous fashion. Had they had a little private conflab, then come back to me with the view that the legs couldn’t be arsed to carry me any further and the slob was no longer having fun and just wanted to go home and play with the new computer, then I think I would have been quite reasonable about it.

In the absence of anyone else to blame then I have no alternative but to pick on the playlist. I started the Royal Parks Half with some fairly upbeat tunes but despite sticking somewhere near 60 songs on my list, they had run out by 10 miles. Then I had to scavenge through my iPod in desperation. There were no unplayed episodes of the Archers so I had to head to the audiobook section and the only unheard remnant in there was “Pontoon” by Garrison Keillor. I rest my case. That guy can induce a coma within 3 minutes, it’s a miracle I managed to push another mile out of those mutinous legs.

So today I refreshed my running inspiration and trogged up to Richmond Bridge and back.

Hip’s Don’t Lie - Shakira
Pon De replay - Rihanna
Jesus, Take the Wheel - Carrie Underwood
Jump - Madonna
Push the Button - Sugababes
Never Give Up - Melissa Ferrick
Ready to Run - Dixie Chicks
I Run For life - Melissa Etheridge
I’m not Dead - Pink
Run - Amy MacDonald
Breathe - Melissa Etheridge
Runaway - Pink
Get This Party Started - Pink

Of course 13 songs didn’t keep me going for 10 miles - I had to listen to that lot at least 4 times, so if I try that for another long run I’ll probably be chucking my iPod in the Thames.

In my mind I thought it would be interesting to see just how much pain would actually be involved - I was beginning to see it as an experiment in muscle damage.

Three days after the Great North Run I was still hobbling up the stairs and trying to recapture my youth sliding down the the bannisters. By Friday though I was able to move around without squealing and began to think this race might be a possibility afterall.

I arrived in Hyde Park to welcome a glorious autumnal morning and the classiest event set up I’ve ever witnessed. There was a farmers market in the event village complete with a wet fish stall and fresh bread counter. Someone tried to hand me a free sample of curry sauce and I was seriously tempted to quit the race and enjoy the grub.

Still unsure of my strategy for this event I propped myself against a tree and started reading through some outstanding blog posts. Speedracer happened to be deciding her strategy for running a marathon on an injured foot but as ever, her approach was gonna prove just a little too hardcore for me. Crippling yourself for two weeks is a step too far in my book, laying myself off work for a couple of days however, sounds much more like my cuppa tea. I did agree that hitting the finish line in 5 hours was going to be a waste of time though, I wouldn’t mind running over the line in 3:30 but if I had to walk, I wasn’t going to be interested.

I started running to Amy MacDonald and finally hit on the perfect motto for the event “I will run until my feet no longer run no more”.

Sorted!

It was a beautiful route, any event that forces street closures through central London has got to score brownie points. There is simply no better place to run. I was a bit worried to note that the route left the streets and headed into Hyde Park at mile 6 though. 7.1 miles looping around Hyde park was going to be a challenge.

At mile 3 my thighs started screaming in a mile 10 sort of fashion. This was going to be some battle of wills. I ran past 3 tube stations and tapped my pocket each time just to confirm that my emergency “get me out of here” oyster card was handy, but ran on regardless.

My energy was sapped at Hyde park, knowing I had more than 10k to go on familiar ground. Spectators and general park goers were getting fed up of the spectacle and started ignoring the fact that a race was in progress. I had to duck and dive through crowds and hop over extender leads as dog owners gave their stoopid poodles full reign.

There were 12500 runners in this event, almost a quarter that of the Great North, as a result, slow runners were a bit thin on the ground. In fact I seemed to be surrounded by those goddamn walkers. Run/walkers and just plain ole walkers. They were overtaking me on the hills again and was I being driven nuts.

At the 10th mile I actually stopped to walk just to see if perhaps it would be quicker that way, but no, I was even slower. At 11 miles something happened with my legs and the running got so slow I couldn’t even claim to be moving forward anymore, the garmin showed the damage - I’d lost a 6 minute advantage in the last 2 miles and my pace was well over 15 min miles. I walked off the edge and promptly threw up in the hedges.

Garmin stopped and I quit. My first DNF.

All I had left to do was join the dots.

I’m not too bothered by the failure, I wanted to see the affect on my body and I also wanted to know if I could persuade OGB and Tanya to substitute this event for GNR next year. It will be considerably cheaper.

In my opinion this is by far the better route, it was pretty well organised and had deluxe portaloos but the crowds were not a patch on the tyneside guys who truly know how to support crap runners. If you were further up the pack I don’t think you would have been tripped up by so many dog walkers.

I spotted JogBlog a few miles ahead of me but she’s been a bit slack with the race update. That’s the trouble with completing races - you get to nurse a legitimate hangover for hours whereas DNF’ers got to go home for a sober bath! Not the way forward.

I couldn’t fathom a way of setting myself a target for the 13.1 mile distance on the forerunner 405 so instead I had to set the pace of the virtual trainer and just watch my progress against my shadow. Being a “tad” heavier and not having shown an immense amount of commitment to my training this year I thought the best I could hope for was to aim for a 3:05 hr finish and so set the training buddy to 14min/miles. With the watch stuck on this screen I couldn’t tell what pace I was running at and so effectively ran the race blind. At each mile mark though I seemed to be gaining minutes on my buddy - I was kicking virtual sand in his face.

At mile 7 as was hosed down by a teenager in full firemans garb, it coincided with the end of the first episode the Archers and its replacement by P!nk’s “I’m Not Dead”. The combined effect was so refreshing that I experienced the best 20 seconds running of my life. I overtook walkers and everything!

Unfortunately in a half marathon, there is no escaping mile 10, it arrives like a soggy duvet and throws itself around your legs. At this point I was 9 minutes ahead of my target but with the duvet around my ankles I was losing minutes every few hundred yards. I was cracking up but at this time last year I had to step of the sideline to perform first aid on my thighs, something must have improved despite my preparations.

At 11 miles I had slipped back to only 6 minutes above the 3:05 target but I was smelling the sea air and getting all emotional again. My folks had driven down to catch me cross the finish line and started to feel a pb in my bones. I upped the pace at the 12 mile marker and kept looking down at my watch to see if I could get that the distance between me and my shadow to increase. It started to happen and I felt strength in my legs.

That final mile was exciting for me. It was just like the final leg of the Bushy park run, giving it all for a chance at some glory. At 7 minutes ahead of target I was struggling with my maths again to see how much I had to do to beat last year. The finish was coming upon me so quickly I didn’t think I had enough distance left to make the time but I was willing myself on anyway.

I crossed the line in 2:57:00 about 50 seconds slower than last year. Not a pb but I was so chuffed that I’d come anywhere near it. Here’s my thank god it’s over shot, I don’t think I look quite as happy as last year but then OGB had gone AWOL. His training had been a bit lacklustre as well but at the start line he’d decided he was going to push it anyway. When he wasn’t sitting at the agreed meeting point with my pint in his hand I assumed he must have been carried off in a helicopter. I was probably wondering what I was going to tell his mum as the photo was taken.

We found him eventually in an emotional heap after spending about 45 mins battling in the baggage bus for our clobber. Shoes and bags and shirts had been strewn all over and it sounded a bit like a blood fest. Luckily I got to avoid all that - that’s the benefit of running with fast friends, thay get to collect the bags while all you have to do is struggle over the finish and stumble into the nearest fish and chip restaurant.

Delicious!

I cheered up a bit on arrival at Blenheim when friendly faces appeared out of the crowd and I was reassured that Emma’s Dave hadn’t abandoned me to do the race on my own. Shame Trinny and Susannah weren’t there though; they would have been able to advise me that the short and dumpy tie style wasn’t going to do much for my physique. They might also have mentioned that a thick woollen jacket wasn’t the best sporting wear for the hottest day of the year.

I had received tie training lessons some months ago, in a pub and even through the Stella haze I could remember some of the specifics of the double Nelson knot. Or maybe it wasn’t a Nelson, that sounds like a wrestling move and that was another night and a completely different sort of pub. Anyway, my tie, it ended up in some form of quadruple knotting affair which may even have been stylish if only I were tall and lanky.

So with the race about to start we’d had to lay out our bikes in the folded position, on numbered markers. I was going in the first wave, with Dave two waves and 4 minutes behind me. With the horn sounded we ran to the Bromptons, unfolded, pushed to the track and then set off.

I can’t believe that I’ve gone to so much trouble, practically having my gps surgically embedded in my wrist, and yet “forgot” to set the flippin thing off for the race. Now you are just going to have to take my word for it when I say it was HILLY. Big, long hills!

I may have mentioned before that I don’t do hills, not uphills anyway, but with Dave a mere 4 minutes behind me I didn’t have a lot of choice and had to keep pushing. When I finished the first 6.5km loop I came really close to throwing up on the corner, I thought it would be a slip hazard though and with Dave still behind me it could be seen as unsporting.

One of the guys in my wave had a video camera on his helmet and captured some of the beauty of the course. I was breathing so hard, sweating gallons and concentrating too much on the waves of nausea that I didn’t notice my surroundings.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RZyM-igvqGg

It’s a bit noisy so I suggest you turn the volume right down, but before you get bored, pull the slider across to 4 minutes and wait for me to appear like a bat out of hell. He managed to capture almost a full minute of my backside flying down the hill with my coat tails flapping in an aerodynamic fashion.

I crossed the line in front of Dave but the gap could be measured by Brompton lengths rather than minutes but we both looked rather worse for wear.

The results are just in:
Lap 1 15:48
Lap 2 16:57
Total for the 13km 32:45 (Dave’s time was 30:26)

In terms of positions I’m 268/364 overall or 21/44 for the women. So I’m actually in the top 50% for a sport! It beats swimming.

I was gone by 9am, jostling my weeks groceries along the Thames path.

There’s a definite nutritional “issue” going on here. Take me away from my fridge and the cortisol levels start red-lining. Imagine if I was ever unfortunate enough to get a place in the London marathon, with my predicted time of circa 7 hours, I would miss both lunch and afternoon tea, the temptation of a mid run burger and pint would be too strong to resist.

As it was, I reached 4.22 miles before I felt the need to bolster glycogen levels. As a note to self, I think jelly beans are best avoided at public events. They cram about 30 different flavours in each pack and one of them is vile, of course you never know which one. I started patiently popping them in my mouth, savouring each individual nuance and then got bored and shoved 6 in at once. Of course the nasty one snuck through and I started spitting.

I started again, reading the labels this time, pink and beige spots - bubble gum flavour, a bit odd but I can keep it in my mouth. Dark green - liquorice, again not too bad, but possibly an offender in combination. I sensed the need for a scientific experiment, paired flavour combinations, perhaps I should have bought more packs.

I was busily testing watermelon and chocolate pudding flavour when I tripped over a bike wheel. I don’t know whose idea it was to combine bikes and runners on towpaths but you’d think he might have shouted or tinkled on his bell, it was clear I was pre-occupied with jelly beans and my iPod was playing full blast. I wouldn’t have minded if I’d been running at the time but no, I was in the middle of a walk interval. I wanted to shout after him that I wasn’t a greedy ox - I was on runabout!

Anyhow, did I mention the plan? I was to leave the front door, heading in a north-westerly direction towards the capital ring, running 1 mile then walking for 1/2 a mile until I could go no further.

By 6 miles, still feeling in fine fettle, I had left the canal and my workplace behind and was heading into unknown territory. I’d picked up the little capital ring arrows but almost immediately faced my first hurdle as it tried to direct me through a flooded tunnel. What with the excess pitta baggage I hadn’t made room for my wetsuit and decided to divert over the Uxbridge Road.

Back on track again I meandered for ages along the Brent river, ducking under the viaduct and avoiding flying golfballs somewhere in the region of Greenford. It was 10 miles before I reached roads, and houses and general city stuff, Celeste’s fear of getting lost in bush could almost become a reality.

A couple of turns later I was back in the wilderness and starting to get a bit lost. I am a little mentally deficient when I run but it wasn’t all my fault, someone had twisted the arrow around and sent me a mile of course. I almost bailed at this point but fortunately I had taken the precaution of downloading the audio guides of the separate sections and was soon back on the trail, cursing only slightly.

I climbed Horsendon Hill (site of WWII anti-craft guns) past quality Capital Ring walking cows and reached the summit to find the historic site was now home to a group of semi naked coca cola drinking Armenians.

I didn’t take a photo, although I would have loved a sip of coke, I thought naked men cavorting on ancient woodland were best avoided.

Down hill and vale and past other stuff that I can’t remember because I’d turned into one of the shuffling undead.

Suddenly Harrow Hill appeared, a veritable oasis where I could buy bona fide revitalising lucozade and admire this fine flint constructed church, not exactly on the route but almost worth the diversion, after all what’s another mile when you’ve already done 15?

Lost yet again, I found myself in the unusual position of being able to ask a topless, chainsaw weilding log carver if he knew where my style was. He pointed back the way I had come and said it was just after the bridge and river I’d crossed. What bridge? What river? Obviously my mental faculties were on a go slow again, the jelly bean effect was wearing off. Never one to go back when I can plough on regardless, I tipped myself over a barbed wire fence and stumbled back on to the right path, giving myself a nice sore graze on my back.

The walking intervals shortened from here on in, as it became easier to propel myself forward in a quasimodo style lurch than the alternative upright semi-graceful walk.

The audio guide informed me that a tube station lay beckoning like an exotic belly dancer and I staggered happily from the track like a weary desert traveler. I was not quite so happy when I arrived at South Kenton station to find the Bakerloo line was closed for the weekend. Public transport mayhem ensued and as a sweaty, irritable, broken and cantankerous woman, I probably didn’t make the best of seat buddies. It took me 3 hours to get home.

All in all, that Capital ring is a damn fine route for running along, I managed almost a quarter of its length and would be tempted to try for a bit more. It’s a bit of an omission that there wasn’t a single pub enroute, although that probably worked out well as I was convincing myself that I deserved at least a shandy by the 13 mile point.

Summary:
18 miles
5:35:00 (which includes an inordinately long time sat on a toilet seat resting)