I am now forced to impose a rather serious health warning on all fitness activities - particularly running.
For those of you who wish to remain in 'peak physical condition' I recommend you slip out of the runners and into the slippers, make yourself cosy on the sofa and banish all thought of fitness regimes to the back of your mind for good.
Monday saw myself and two colleagues head out on a epic 14km training run. Despite the general awkwardness of running (ie: crippling self-doubt in own ability, wondering why on earth I'm not in the pub instead, etc etc...) the run itself went very well and we all returned with a satisfied glow of achievement.
48 hours later however, it's a very different story.
One of my running companions is complaining about agonising hip pain (interestingly however his 'hip' appears to be based in his general butt area when he points to the source of the agony - I think he's just struggling to admit he's concerned he's 'broken his butt' running). He's now stepped out of tonight's planned run session as a result.
I have also managed to sustain an injury from Monday and have, quite pathetically, cried off from tonight as a result also.
During, and immediately after, the run I felt absolutely fine. After stretching out, I returned to my desk to collect my bag and coat and sat down for a few moments to check on some emails. After about 10mins I picked myself up to walk to the bus stop and was surprised to feel a shooting pain through the arch of my right foot. I hobbled to the bus, and then home. On my return I clamped an ice pack to my foot and lay about moaning and groaning milking it about my poor achey foot, fully expecting to be absolutely fine the following morning.
The icepack initially did the trick in eliminating the pain in the arch of my foot, although interestingly it's now appeared to have shifted the pain to the outside of my foot. I now have an agonising pain shooting along the top and the outside of my foot. For someone who spends the majority of my time in flat shoes and only every reluctantly dons 'heels' for business meetings/special events, I'm intrigued to discover that the pain is only eased when I am in high-heeled shoes, for this forces me on to tip-toe (which eases the pain) and also supports the rest of the foot making it considerably more comfortable. I am hobbling around, however, resembling someone 90yrs my senior in my awkward gait.
So, the long and short of it is; exercise is bad people, fight the urge and remain lethargic and idle in order to avoid any potential long-term damage.
That being said however, if my foot heals itself after a few days of rest (in heels) I shall be legging it down to the gym in order to 'make up for lost time'. Damn this involuntary addiction to attempting to achieve a higher level of fitness!! Damn it to hell!!
A knackering (but completely brilliant) weekend, followed by busy days at work, followed by t'other half's announcement that we'll have to delay our long-awaited holiday in Italy for another 6.5 weeks due to his work commitments had all left me feeling like an empty shell by yesterday afternoon.
I truly felt like someone had come and sucked all of the life out of me leaving behind a withered crusty and useless husk dressed in my clothes.
So when I was half-heartedly rallying the running troops at work yesterday to embark on an 8km speedwork session part of me was clinging to the hope that they would collectively tell me to 'sod off' and then I could crawl home and fester on the sofa instead. But 6pm struck and the call-to-order came across the email system as the runners hit the toilets to get changed from their day to day clobber into their tight lycra uniforms. With a fixed grimace and heavy feet I dragged myself into my running gear and, with a deliberately slow pace, descended the stairs to be greeted by happy faces bouncing up and down raring to go. My heart sank further still.
I protested whilst others stretched for their warm up saying things like "Ugh, this is the LAST thing I want to be doing" and "Are you SURE you want to go?", but it seemed that there was no talking them round, they wanted to go and they were going to make sure I came along with them for the ride.
As we set off every fibre of my being screamed a blood-curdling howl inside my body, but...my legs seemed to be like a pair of excited puppies straining on the lead. I couldn't quite get over it, for all my protest, my body actually seemed quite keen on the idea of a run and I set off at a pace that was somewhat brisk for me. For the first 3 or 4km my brain was still trying to convince my body that it would rather be curled up in front of the TV, but my body was continuing to be defiant to it's influencer and my legs were moving in what can only be described as 'a proper stride' (a first for me as I tend to normally adopt the 'joggers gait' of shuffling my feet along no more than half an inch off the ground)
Despite huffing and puffing to the finish line (no thanks to the pack of fags I inhaled over the weekend - grrrr), I felt a strange sensation when the run was over. I couldn't quite work out what it was. I wasn't feeling in pain particularly, I wasn't feeling like I wanted to be sick/cry/sleep. As I hopped aboard my bike to cycle home the intensity of the sensation continued to grow and I found myself pedaling with all of my might and grinning wildly whilst weaving in and out of the traffic on my journey home. When I got home I stepped through the front door and gave out a long and happy sigh. It was then that I realised the sensation I felt was one of pure, unadulterated happiness and pride in my achievement. I was glowing.
After days of being locked in a perpetual fug, the mist has finally lifted and I am able to see a brightness again. I have a 14km run scheduled tonight and am genuinely looking forward to going out again and recharging that feeling I achieved last night. I am indeed positive in mind today people! Hurrah!
So, this blog entry is to serve as a valuable reminder to myself (and others if you ever experience the same) that no matter how 'meh' you are feeling at the time and however much your brain fights you to remain in a catatonic state in front of your computer/TV, drag yourself up and into your runners and head out. Even if it's just for 20, 30, 40mins you're BOUND to feel better for it, inside and out!
</sermon>
This morning I arrived at work mildly enthused about the 14.5km run I have ahead of me this evening. I had successfully managed to rope in a couple of unsuspecting colleagues to join me, despite near killing a couple of others on my 6.5km 'speedwork' session on Tuesday evening (thankfully, we are all still distraught to discuss it with anyone else at work - oh the aching, oh the sweating, oh the cursing...).
I arrived a whole 95mins early for work and duly sat at my desk mapping out our, seemingly endless, route online.
Now for those of you who don't know me, up until about 18 months ago the prospect of me covering such a distance via any other method other than motorised transport just simply wasn't conceivable - I'd have probably spat in your face and pushed you to the ground in disgust if you'd suggested I cycle it even! So, to try to bend my meagre mind around the concept of putting one foot in front of the other (a little faster than my normal walking pace) for that entire distance is troubling me.
I felt good however in the knowledge I was going to be making others suffer through it with me. Projection of pain or somesuch.
However, after emailing the troops with rallying cries as to how I'd mapped our long and 'exciting' route, I was suddenly bombarded with excuses of 'antenatal classes' (darn the 'modern day man'), 'house-purchasing offer to sort out' and a 'sore back'. Now, I'm reliably reassured that these are all fairly valid excuses however in my selfish manner I am now cursing them all (behind their backs of course) that I am now left to face this mighty giant of a distance on my own and with only an ipod shuffle playlist, that I could recite verbatim to you it's been heard THAT many times, for company.
My MD has very kindly offered to step in and escort me on the route but the fact that he can run 10k in something obscene like 30 minutes and regularly ranks quite highly in triathlons, the prospect of chasing him in a full-on sprint when he's already slowed down to his 'jog' pace for 10 mins before he disappears from sight on the horizon ahead of me means I'm feeling a wee bit nervous about that offer.
I have 4 hours left to convince myself that I still must go. If I miss this long run then I'm scuppered for the rest of the week due to commitments. It's now or never...
Time to get purchasing a new playlist for my shuffle before one more rendition of my existing collection of running favourites has me launching myself into the Thames after 1km.
Please send me some positive, motivating vibes people. I'm gonna need 'em. <deep breath>
This morning I witnessed someone tumble off their bike. It was an agonising, toe-curling moment as I sat patiently in front of a red light waiting for my assigned time to forge ahead through the wall of traffic ahead of me, towards my destination.
As I sat, gaze fixed upon said red light like it was a giant spoon and I was Uri Geller bending that sucker in half, I heard the distinct sound of a bicycles brakes screaming out as they clamped, full force, down onto the rubber tyres which then, in turn, skidded rigid against the bitumen road beneath. Like the alarm call of a sentinel meerkat alerting his pack to an approaching predator, the fidgity mass of cyclists gathered alongside me at the traffic lights all simultaneously sat upright in their saddles and craned their necks around to discover the source of the alarm.
As I followed their lead and looked round my eyes caught sight of a big blue lorry recoiling back down upon its haunches after a hefty slam on its brakes. My heart sank as my eyes moved along the length of the lorry towards the front end and my eyes began to shut themselves in fear of what mangled mess may be lying on road in front of it like a gnawed old branch that a dog has just proudly returned to its owner as an offering of its loyalty and obedience. As the fallen cyclist came into view I noticed him moving <phew> and I'm quite sure I heard a rather curt (and obviously rather pride-dented) "For F*CKS SAKE!" escape his, thankfully intact, person.
Now, instinctively I drew my right foot up off the pedal ready to dismount my bike and run to his aid, but I was sharply interrupted by the voices in my head. Were they the voices of reason? I don't know. However, they began to question;
'On a scale of 1 - 10, just how embarrassed do you think this guy is now having just stacked it in the middle of a T-junction surrounded by stunned looking cyclists/pedestrians/motorists?'
...ok...probably about an 8.5....
'now, imagine again how further embarrassed he will be to have a girl run over to help pick him, and his bike, up'
...hmmmm...
'looks grumpy doesn't he?'
...well, yeah...
'do you reckon he might snap at you if you try to help him? he looks like the type doesn't he in his 'oooh, I was born to cycle lycra shorts and skintight Tour de France style tshirt'?'
...hmmmm...yeah...s'ppose so...
'perhaps someone in closer proximity to him will rush over to help'...
...and with that followed a seemingly endless period of time where it became very clear that no-one was going to leap to this guy's aid and everyone just sat gawping at him as he picked himself up off the floor and after waving his fist at the lorry driver and cursing some more (despite the fact that it was clear he had tried to cross the path of an already in motion right-turning lorry, so, in effect was in the wrong and just being an impatient pr*ck like 80% of the London cyclists) he picked up his sorry bike and hobbled to the pavement. Still, all eyes were upon him, but no caring, concerned hands were reached out to help him. I began to think about what a selfish and uncaring society we have become over the past........Oooh, the lights turned green.........Off I pedal.........Tum te tum te tum.....
Thursday. That's one of my 'threshold running days'. That means that at 6pm this evening I must don my lycra and run round an 8km route I have mapped out and for 2.5km of that I must be running at my 'lactate threshold' - basically the point where I think I could perhaps quite happily projectile vomit over myself and curl up into a wee ball on the floor.
Normally this would mean that I spend the entirety of Thursday dreading the arrival of 6pm. Today however, that dread is all-consuming
You see, last evening, after a rather unwelcome end to what had been a fantastic day, I found myself headed to the local public house with a determination in my step and a rebellious vigour charging my blood. I confidently strode up to the bar and asked the barmaid for a large glass of her finest red wine (considering it was a Samuel Smiths pub, this translated to 'a glass of your finest paint stripper please my good woman'). Four glasses down I had shrugged off the lingering irritation lurking on my shoulders and was having a good old time shooting the breeze with friends.
Today of course this means that I have woken with a nagging thud inside head and an appetite to rival that of the Half Ton Man.
Although I don't feel bad for 'slipping off the wagon' as in fact I had never actually imposed the presence of a wagon into my daily routine, I do feel that I could have equally enjoyed last evening with a substitute lemonade in place of the red wine. I certainly wouldn't be feeling as unsure of myself as I do now and wouldn't be filled with quite so much dread about my impending run this evening.
Mulling over my motivations in the shower this morning it dawned on me that booze is rather like an old friend (lets call him Bob) that you just can't face telling you don't get on with anymore. You know the type, he invites himself along with you when you go out and with a heavy heart you agree but you know he's just going to spoil your evening by telling your other friends embarrassing stories about you and never once putting his hand in his pocket ensuring you end up ploughing through the pocketful of cash you've taken out with you for the evening entertaining both you and him. At some stage however you just have to stop taking Bob's calls and sneak off with your other friends for a great evening without telling him where you're going or who you're going with. It feels like a bad thing to do, Bob's been a great friend for years and years and you've had some quality times with him (if only you could recount some of them...) but now you've moved on. Your lives are drifting apart and you just don't have as much fun with Bob anymore. It'd be nice to bump into him at Christmas or at the odd party perhaps but Bob's just getting in the way generally now.
Is this 'bye bye Bob'? You know what?...I think it could be...*gasp*
Well, as with most things in my life, the blog career started with good intentions a good 16 months ago now, however it seems that my innate lack of commitment and drive meant that I somewhat fizzled, rather than exploded onto the blog scene.
So why am I back, I hear you ask.
I have recently commenced a rigorous (for me) training schedule for a half marathon I have, in a moment of blind madness, signed myself up for in November. I have also purchased my first adult bicycle to join the heady sweaty, panting masses on the daily cycle commute around London, I'm finding I need an outlet in which to share my experiences of this new lifestyle I’m desperately trying to embrace.
You see I am still finding all of this quite a novelty. I have spent the first 31 years of my life actively avoiding exercise regimes of any variety. Don't get me wrong, I have 'dabbled' in certain sports in my time and some have had a more lasting impression than others (i.e.: rock climbing, which I am still very keen on but unfortunately don't get around to much these days due to a distinct lack of real rock in central London), but mainly I've preferred Pub Life to Park Life. Just over a year ago I decided a change needed to occur.
I put myself in for the Race for Life 5km City run and began to buy all of the 'kit' - my signature first move when attempting to nurture an interest in anything is to first invest lots of time and money buying shiny bits and bobs before then finding out I have no idea what any of them are for. My first training run involved me getting all dressed up in lycra, performing some stretches I'd seen the likes of pro footballers doing on TV before a game, kissed my other half goodbye and headed out with pride swelling in my chest and my ipod fully charged thumping dance music into my ears for motivation. A pathetic 1.5km down the road it became clear to me that one can't just 'head out for a 5km run' when one's lifestyle revolves mainly around cigarettes and booze. My wide-eyed other half opened the door to a sobbing mess of sweat and dribble not 10mins later as I wailed uncontrollably that I was never going to make it and all those poor cancer victims were going to suffer for even longer because I was too unfit to be able to help them.
Well, somehow, and I'm still not quite sure how, I managed to get myself to the stage of being able to run for 5km and I made it round the Race for Life in an admirable 28mins raising a staggering £600+ for the charity.
I found however that once I'd done that I was missing a certain 'something' in my routine. I returned to the pub life and filled my evenings with pints of wine and Marlboro lights and my lycra was left to ruin of moths in the back of my wardrobe. Every morning my Race for Life medal would wink it's light reflection at me from where it dangled on my mirror in my bedroom, until eventually the penny dropped and I realised I needed to sign up for another race.
In the meantime my father had been diagnosed with bowel cancer and I felt that I should, quite literally, go the extra mile and so I signed myself up for a 10km run. Now, anyone who’s new to running will know that psychologically the leap from 5km to 10km is like going from jumping over a puddle to leaping across the Atlantic Ocean. I rallied several colleagues from work together to do the run with me and after about three months of semi-serious post-work ‘training runs’ we lined up on Piccadilly on a blazing hot Sunday morning in July and, along with 30,000 other runners we pushed ourselves over the starting line and our challenge began. Thankfully we all managed to get across the finish line and all in good time (just don’t ask me what it was. Ahem).
Now…barely 2 months later… I find myself 3 weeks deep into a training schedule I’ve downloaded from some ‘serious runners’ website and am nervously feeling the need to share my experiences with the masses.
I’m 32 years old. I have a desk job in London. I’m ‘overweight’ (according to the ‘experts’ at the NHS, but sheesh, what the feck do they know eh?!?). My BMI is close to that of a plate of lard and yet despite running 4 times a week and cycling every day (oh and paying a delightful man each Friday to let me beat him up with boxing gloves for half an hour) I’m still hauling the remnants of thirty years of indulgence around in my lycra tights.
Things are looking good however. I haven’t smoked in 11 days or touched a drop of alcohol for that matter. All of this behaviour however is luring me deeper into unchartered territory and being rather nervous of the unknown, I’m looking for back up on my journey.
With that in mind I would like to take you on the trip with me. Being such a general flunky in life I’m bound to make a hash of things along the way which no doubt will provide plentiful humorous anecdotes about how I’ve near killed myself by trying to outrun Usain Bolt or some such. Anyway, I thought it might provide interesting reading to some as a natural-born sloth attempts to join the ranks of the ‘fitness freaks’ without being sniffed out as a blatant impostor.
See what you think…
Right, well....errr....hello there.
Not really sure what one should be doing on these 'blog things'. Despite being part of the whole Generation X thing, these things seem to somewhat pass me by regularly, and I'm left wondering how I became so sad as to have to ask my Mother to explain what Skype is after she excitedly tells me she's now a regular user!
I'm taking the lead from my eldest bro I think, and as well as a (disturbingly competitive) need to run the marathon next year, as he's done for the past 5 years, I also now need to record my struggle to get there in blog form, as he does. Seriously, one of these days I'll start thinking for myself. I hope.
So, there it is really.
I'm rather used to nobody listening when I prattle on endlessly so this kinda works for me, however, if you are reading this and thinking you'd like to read more then do, by all means, come back from time to time and get better acquainted.
I thank you.
Hjonesy.
