I'm almost embarrassed to write this post, and I'm not easily embarrassed. I once ripped my trousers whilst trying to impress a girl by doing the splits (before I got snarfed up by wifey-o). Did I turn more crimson than a bible binding? Oh no, not this hard case. I moonwalked it off. Did I get the girl? Well, no. But I did learn a valuable lesson and have donned hardier gusseted trousers whilst out courting ever since. True story...ish.
I'm going to go a whole post without mentioning my knee (except then), and should I inadvertently mention my knee (except then), I will donate five Great British Pounds to the charity of choice of the first charming commenter.
Clearly, I'm going to read back through and air brush out the slippages, but accidentally-on-purpose leave one in at the end for comedic value. No spoilers here.
...hang on, let me consult the bank before making extravagant promises...
"Love? Can I borrow a fiver? It's for my running blog thing. What? No! Fine. In a minute. Can I borrow the bloody money or not?"
She said yes! We're on.
So on Friday night, I had a terrible run. I couldn't loosen myself up, it was like running with rigor mortis. My legs felt as if someone had swapped my sleek, stylish man-lycra trousers with lead drainpipes. My feet were slamming into the pavement with every step and I just felt completely out of control. More than likely I was running on empty after a bit of a trying week. All in all, I came out with a bitter taste like I'd just drank the bottom of a pickled onion jar. I was genuinely disheartened, which dragged right through the weekend also.
This running malarkey was one branch of a complete lifestyle shift for me, from reckless, feckless and something else that rhymes with reckless and feckless to responsible adulthood (in body anyway. Beyond a lobotomy, there's not a lot I can do with my brain).
I gave up smoking, I started eating healthily (and routinely), started drinking water, rather than guzzling bottles of carbonated diabetes, all in the hope to feel better in myself.
Oh, and I went to buy some new trousers and tried them on in one of those fitting rooms that give you a spotlit, 360-degree exhibition of...everything. I couldn't believe what I'd done. I was grabbing fistfuls of myself that I never knew were there, my voice trembling with horror as I was saying, "What the hell is this? How long has that been there? Oh my God, there's more back here. This isn't mine. Is it?"
It didn't take long for the running to become the linchpin that all the other branches revolved around. It became the motivation in itself (and Pervert's Pass. Refer to "Dynamic Warm-ups"). For the first time in too long, I set myself a challenge that I had to push myself to achieve. When I started flagging, I began losing focus of everything else. All my resolutions started falling by the wayside in turn.
I was supposed to have a two-week hiatus. It was the sensible thing to do. The slow part of my brain where my Jekyll tends to reside sat the impetuous Hyde-side down and had a little chat about the bigger picture and about slowing down to speed up.
Jekyll was absolutely correct and resting up was thoroughly the correct course of action... for everyone other than me! Cue bravado!
Actually, as ridiculous as it sounds, especially after my recent posts, I think there was a fair case to send Jekyll off on his way and give Hyde's evil twin a call and get on with some serious idiocy.
I had to wash that bitter taste out of my mouth. I couldn't take a break from this on such a negative note, I'd seriously run the risk of not finding my way back. Like a sailor who's staring down the barrel of six months at sea. What's going to keep me warm in the night? What's going to keep me honest and rocksteady before the mast? What's going to ensure I come back to thee? A limp handshake? Oh, no, no, no. A sweaty, wriggly, *censored due to explicit content* between the sheets.
I've got my gait-analysis-cum-physio-assessment booked in 2 weeks and promise I will heed their advice, but to lure myself back, I needed one last hurrah.
Let's go have it on the pavement one more time.
Today, I was full of frustration and energy so decided pseudo-heroism was the order of the day. Once more unto the breach! W5R1, done.
The last couple of runs, I've been over thinking it. In trying to preserve myself, I lost the enjoyment. I sacrificed natural rhythm for a short, hammering stride that I don't think did me any good. Tonight, I went out untethered and just let myself go at my natural pace. It felt great again, I felt strong and determined...and completely bloody knackered. Even during the warm-down walk, it's like someone gave my bloodstream a double measure of toilet cleaner.
I really needed it though. A burn off of the excess. The flare stack got lit.
Including the warm-up, down and interval walks:
Total 4.3km, average pace of 6:55min/km. 1 mile in 10:04, 2 miles in 20:23.
Very, very naughty. Someone's going to have to protect me from ktsok. If she sees this, she'll probably stride over and beat three different colours out of me: red, brown...and some kind of reddy-brown. I promised I'd go slow. Now everyone's going to be hearing nothing else but my bloody knee* again for the next fortnight. Tune out. Unsubscribe.
*There's the five-pound, right there! Luckily I didn't offer to do it for crap similes. I'd be bankrupt.
Happy running everyone.
Drowned rat
We really do run with our heads
Wk9r2 in heavy snow & cross country without music, timer or even Laura...
Wk7 R2...today was a good day 😀
W9R3 ... Nearly died.. but I bloody well did it...!!!
