It’s Blind Date! …with a static bike.

Wednesday 8th Feb

 It’s an early start this morning. I’m up with the larks to go see Magician Dave (Physio) for some more spells and contortions as he tries his best to un-make this holy mess I’ve made of my Peg Leg.

I turn up at the Miracle Centre and his polite – if slightly officious – receptionist makes me a bowl of Flat White. I’m not sure whether I’m in a physio’s waiting room or Starbucks, but I’d be happy with either right now.

‘How is it?’ he asks in his unmistakably Irish twang, and I begin to wade through the ridiculous tale of my having undone precisely ALL of the patching together he’d achieved before my ill-conceived attempt at the Dewsbury Bidet 10k.

He is patient, understanding, and kind. He doesn’t stand before me with condescending tones of ‘Well, that was fucking clever wasn’t it, Rachel?’ or repeated, disapproving sighs. He knows me well enough now to be confident that either of those responses may insight me to drive straight home and go out for a bastard rage-fuelled run (yes, he also knows that I am THAT stupid.)

He pulls and pushes my limbs as I move this way and that.

‘Can you push your RIGHT hand towards the LEFT corner of the room’

‘And your LEFT hand down the INSIDE of your RIGHT thigh.’

‘Good. And your RIGHT hand down to the floor to touch your RIGHT foot.’

 Suddenly, I’m in an expensive game of Twister. Or the Hokey Cokey.

I’m given my orders:

  • a prescription of rehab exercises (I hang on to his instructions as though I’m hearing the words of God himself);
  • I can do ‘other’ non-impact training, he generously confirms; Oh, and
  • No running.
  • NO RUNNING.

Those words, ‘NO’ and ‘RUNNING’ hit me and I grapple with myself for being utterly ridiculous. ‘Let’s see how it is in a few days – a week,’ he says (I realise, I’ve had longer holidays). By then, he reassures me, I MAY be able to reintroduce some very short, steady runs. But my head still spins with unanswered questions:

WHEN will I be back running? I want a time, and a date. Possibly even a place. He can give me nothing.

Will I lose my fitness? Will I lose all that I’ve trained for over the past six years just because of one silly treadmill run too far?

What will I do instead? What other training shall I do to a) stay sane and b) stay fit? I hate most classes; I fall off bikes (although admittedly not indoor ones – yet); and I can’t STAND swimming (I get cold and want to wee in the pool.)

What about all the races I’m booked to do on the run up to London? Write them off?

What about the marathon? The VLM 2017

What about the marathon?  Yes – the VLM 2017

And finally, what about the marathon? I see the hashtag #VLM2017 flash in front of my eyes. I so desperately want to be on that start line in April, the question spins around my head and eclipses all others.

 It’s suddenly like being in a bad episode of Blind Date from 1996. I begrudgingly revisit Contestant Number 1 – the static gym bike. He isn’t too bad, I guess. Maybe we could get along? It seems I’m left with no option but to go on a second date.

That lunch time, myself and the Static Gym Bike go to the First Dates restaurant. We have a pleasant chat; we have a few things in common. ‘The food is nice,’ I tell myself, whilst being fully aware that anything with the word NICE attached to it is thoroughly shit.

I look over at the other table. There is another woman on a date with the Treadmill. She doesn’t love running like I do – I can tell. She isn’t even interested in it. But she’s on a date with it, and I’m not. I’m stuck in the corner with Dull Arse Static Bike for company.

The clock ticks by. Offensive, red pixelated seconds and minutes pass away in front of me, and I turn the volume up on my Warren headphones (*There’s Something About Mary reference for the uncultured.) ‘Yazz & the Plastic Population: The Only Way is Up’ suddenly blares out into my ears. Oh, for fuck’s sake! I shout silently to myself as I work up to face my second endurance set – another hard effort 8 minutes.

The dinner date between Non-Runner and Treadmill has ended. She’s flounced off, not even giving it a backward glance, whilst the belt still spins slowly, as though it wasn’t ready to be left on its own just yet. Another day, I’d have dumped Static Bike and the endless ‘intervals’ in a heartbeat, and hopped aboard my beloved Treadmill. I’d say, ‘Listen, Tredders. I know we’ve had a few fallouts recently, and it hasn’t all been plain sailing, and you know that – well, I’m VERY FOND of you. I love running on pavements infinitely more, but in here, you are my true love. Can we not just patch things up and make it work?’

 But today, I’m on a date with Static Bike, and there’s no escape.

I come to the end of my session. I’ve split it up into purposeful, manageable chunks. I’ve worked hard – I’ve sweated (more than I would on the treadmill, to be honest) and I feel a sense of achievement that I’ve at least stuck it out.

I drift over to the mats and then focus on the Words of God rehab exercises I’ve been sent to fit into any given opportunity. I try my best to remember how I should be doing them. Am I supposed to breathe IN here, or OUT? Is my leg supposed to be at THIS angle, or THAT? I don’t honestly know, but I do them anyway.

I look at the clock and see it’s time for me to head back to my desk. Dave (work mate Dave, not Physio Dave) will be wondering where I am. And just as I’m about to head out of the gym, Static Bike shouts over, ‘So, shall we do this again sometime, then?’

 ‘Yeah.’ I say, miserably – eyeing up the Treadmill with watery eyes. ‘Yes, lets.’

 ‘I’ll call you…’

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London Marathon Diary 2017, Sunday 5th Feb 2017: Who am I when I can’t run?

London Marathon Diary 2017

Sunday, 5th Feb 2017

Who am I when I can’t run?

Today is Sunday, 5th Feb, and it’s exactly 11 weeks – or 77 days – until the 2017 London Marathon.

How’s my training going? It’s going shit. I’ve already vented my frustration at having two weeks’ worth of KFC family-bucket sized, ‘Do you wanna go large with that?’ flu rampaging through our house, knocking me sideways, off my feet and away from any semblance of ‘real’ marathon training (ref. ‘Lemsips and Race Disasters’ Blog post.)

And then. AND THEN it got worse. I kicked my own arse so hard on the bastard treadmill playing some misconceived game of ‘catch up’ that I brought on an injury to my lower calf/Achilles area. This caused me to go all E.T and Phone Home on Thursday morning, as I stood by a wet, lonely bench high on Norland Moor with wide, sad eyes waiting for my long-suffering Other Half to pick me up 3 miles from my own front door (ref. ‘Beware: The Dreaded Treadmill Overkill’ Blog post.)

It is now Sunday. By my basic calculations, that is a mere THREE DAYS after the E.T Phone Home incident, and subsequent emergency Physio appointment at which he (Magician Dave) said – and I quote – ‘So, you WON’T be racing on Sunday then, Rach, will you?’

I didn’t answer.

I did believe in miracles, and I did turn up to the start line of the Dewsbury 10k race this morning. I knew it was a gamble: my leg would either handle it, or it wouldn’t.

It wouldn’t.

I set off knowing the grumblings were still there, and by only ONE MILE into the race, the pain was intensifying. At 1.7 miles, there was nowhere to go, and so I limped off the course and made an about-turn, facing the Walk of Shame back to the start.

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Runners stared at me as though witnessing a resurrection, as I trudged slowly down the street in the wrong direction, back to the centre of the toilet bowl that is Dewsbury.

‘Are you OK?’ A kind marshall asked, as I hobbled by, pathetically.

‘Injured.’ I said, feigning a sorry smile, whilst hobbling and pointing to my leg.

A St. John’s Ambulance pulled up, and a kind chap shouted out of the window ‘Do you want a lift back to the start, love?’

‘Yes. Yes, please, I do’ I shouted back, as the prospect of a 1.7 mile shuffle back down the Dewsbury U-bend wasn’t altogether appealing – certainly not in (short) shorts and a thin running top. I hopped in the van and made polite chatter with the crew, who looked grateful to have something to do. I turned down their kind offer of emergency Lucozade, having barely broken a sweat, and confirmed that I didn’t need bandaging or carrying anywhere, which seemed to dampen the mood slightly.

Once safely dropped off back at the Dewsbury bidet, I conveniently bumped into Andy, a lovely runner also hampered by injury, and a true gentleman. I stood with Andy, still slightly stunned from the wilful disobedience of my left leg, whilst wrapped up in his warm, winter coat with the oversized arms hanging down around my knees like a homespun Mr Tickle costume. We chatted about our recent running experiences and respective misfortunes, whilst my very own Hero in Human Form Cheryl (#FlyHighEdie) and baby Annie joined us. She hugged me with a warmth to challenge Andy’s overcoat, and the world seemed just that little bit brighter.

We waited for our respective Running Other Halves to cross the finish line – which they did in 41 and 43 minutes respectively (well done Tom & Dodd) and hobbled off to Weatherspoons, where I dunked my emergency non-branded digestives into a refill coffee to ease my running sorrows (I brought them along from home… just in case.)

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It’s all smiles… then RICE

And once back at home, it got me thinking. Two things:

Firstly: Who am I if I can’t run? How does it make me feel? What is my state of mind? And how does it– and will it – impact on the rest of my days, until I am free to bounce around the hills and vales once more in serotonin-enhanced bliss?

This may seem a little melodramatic (it has been known to be a particular penchant of mine) and also rather hasty, as I don’t yet know the full extent of my lower limb’s blatant refusal to play along with my marathon hopes and aspirations.

But these are questions that I will ponder, as the coming days of cross-training, rehab and ‘rest’ (NO! NOT THAT WORD) are on the menu. It already makes me shrink and recoil in my own skin to think that I am ALREADY struggling with this as a concept, whilst there are

  1. a) PLENTY of other people who are experiencing similar minor irritations like warts on an otherwise peachy arse; and
  2. b) there REALLY ARE FAR bigger problems to be facing in the world (and I know plenty of lovely, incredible people personally who are having those daily battles right here, and right now.)

I will put some more thought to this, and to the glaring flaws this highlights in my own ability to handle even mild adversity (of which I have had a reasonably generous dollop across my 38 years of spinning around like some preoccupied Tasmanian Devil on this oversized revolving marble, I must confess.)

Secondly: This is the start of my NEW Virgin London Marathon 2017 journal. It came to me in a lightbulb moment. For the next 77 days, I will document the ups and downs, the triumphs and disasters and the bumps in the road that will see me to the start of the VLM 2017… or not. I last did this on the run up to the VLM 2015, and – hell – it ended up being the very first chapter of my book ‘Running For My Life’ (which will be published Jan ’18 by @BlinkPublishing with signed copies also available on the free table at Tesco’s shortly after.)

 So, on Instagram* (Cullen_Rachel) I will post a photo EVERY DAY for the next 77 days to document that journey. Some days, it might be a photo of a bar of Dairy Milk and a Foam Roller, but it will all be a part of my journey to VLM 2017.

The question is: Will I make it?

*I still don’t quite ‘get’ Instagram; the whole hashtag thing, or the fact that I only have about 7 followers (you know who you are, and I love every single one of you :-D)

But my Mum loves me.

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Instagram?? Hashtag? Mum – Are you there?

BEWARE: THE DREADED TREADMILL OVERKILL

Last month I was busy crowing about ‘the realities of marathon training’ and my virtuous early morning speed session. YAY ME! (I would have used ‘sessions’ in the plural, but it only happened the once.)

January was a bastard of a month. We all had flu, passing it around various family members like a gravy boat at Sunday lunch.

“Here you go, Mum”

 “Thanks, Till. Gav, it’s all yours…”

 “Cheers, Rach. You want a bit more? There’s plenty left.”

 “Yeah, why not. Pour it over the Yorkshires.”

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This was the best gravy boat I could find.

Once the gravy boat flu was well and truly exhausted, we tried to return to some kind of normality… and then mild panic set in.

 ALERT. BEGIN MARATHON TRAINING. ALERT. BEGIN MARATHON TRAINING.

After all, that’s what we DO in the New Year isn’t it? A spring marathon means only one thing – get all the bullshit of Christmas out of the way and it’s Game On… Or it should be, if you’re not treading water in some virus-infested quagmire, watching the rest of the Running World upping their mileage on Strava, that is.

A N Other Runner: “We’re upping our long run to 16 miles today”

 ME: “But it’s still twelve weeks to go to the marathon!”

 A N Other Runner: “Yeah, but we’re already ahead of the plan.”

 ME: “Oh. Right.” (I reply, thinking I’ll be lucky to get 16 fucking miles in THIS WEEK!)

 Once just about back in the land of the living, it’s return to normality. Work; kids; there’s even some evidence of a world outside the front door again, and it’s CATCH UP TIME.

MONDAY: school run / work / school run. I’m already behind schedule.

I KNOW! We’ve got a gym at work. I’ll jump onto the treadmill at lunch time, and I’ll do my speed sets then. Yep. I’ll get STRAIGHT back into it. Snooze, you lose, and all that!

 Job done; box ticked. Nice one, squirrel.

TUESDAY: Speed session done, and I’m virtuous again, but I feel like I’m still playing catch up. I’m down on my mileage and I’ve missed a week’s decent training whilst drowning in Bisto.

I KNOW! We’ve STILL got a gym at work. I’ll jump onto the treadmill at lunch time again and do a steady 10k. I was on it yesterday, but if I take it STEADY today, it’ll be fine.

WEDNESDAY: I fucking hate the treadmill. I’m going to take my OUTDOOR running kit to work today, and I plan to run OUTSIDE in my lunch break. [At 12 noon, reality hits and it’s not pretty: not only is it pissing down but there’s a pea-souper out of my office window. With little/no visibility and nothing to be gained by running outdoors and falling down potholes and/or getting mugged by opportunistic weather-enthused petty criminals of North Halifax, I think again.]

…I KNOW! There’s a gym at work and I can do a few miles on the Dreadmill. What harm can it do?

 [Later]

 Work Mate Dave: ‘Rach, are you limping?’

 ME: ‘Yep. Yes I friggin am limping, Dave. It’s that bastard treadmill. I knew I’d done something to my leg earlier. It hurts to walk.’

 Work Mate Dave: ‘Bloody hell, it looks like you’ve crapped your pants.’

 ME: ‘Thanks, Dave.’

This is precisely what the first three days of my week have looked like. Other options for training quickly evaporated around school runs, pick-ups/drop offs, after school clubs and other activities, including an evening spent traipsing around Lidl’s whilst my child was busy having a life.

THURSDAY: I’M WORKING FROM HOME. YAYYYY! I WANTED to do a nine-miler from dropping Tills at school, but there’s fat chance of that. Shit. My leg still hurts when I walk. I’ll set off early doors and see how I go. I can ring Gav if I need to bail out.

 ME: ‘Gav. Please can you pick me up? I’ve done 3 miles and my leg’s killing me.’

 Gav: ‘We need to get you in with Dave (the Physio, not Work Mate Dave.)’

 And so, that very afternoon I am in with Dave (the Physio, not Work Mate Dave.)

In summary:

  • I have pushed myself to come back from the Sunday lunch family-bucket Flu too soon, being entirely panicked at ‘falling behind’ my purported marathon training schedule, and obsessing over how many miles Billy Bobbins has run in his Marathon Training Plan on Strava (I don’t even LIKE Billy Bobbins, so why am I even following him on Strava?)
  • I have – like some naïve fourteen-year-old cramming for pointless Economics mocks – tried to shoehorn miles in wherever the hell I could. The madness and logistics of the rest of my day/week thrown out the water, I’ve steam-rollered another layer of whoop-ass onto ALREADY dangerously high levels of cortisol. Any why? To keep up with Billy Bobbins on Strava?
  • Treadmill Dreadmill Overkill (which it will.) Once a week it’s a necessary evil. The greatly revered speed session is firmly on my ‘Must Do’ weekly task list. BUT some limp, half-arsed, dribbly-cocked, and ENTIRELY pointless 10k pounding on a revolving belt? Why? For what? Just to wreck my legs a bit more? Or to put something next to Billy Bobbins who’s been out for a sub-7 min/mile twenty-miler on Strava (the Wanker.)

And so it’s this. I am (only slightly) injured as a result of my own impatience / stupidity / inability to consider the full consequence and purpose of ALL my training, and select carefully. I have rehab exercises, I can do yoga (which I love, so this is one very positive thing) and I MIGHT miss out on a race this Sunday (which will upset me greatly because that is a part of my Marathon Training Plan and I want to be on the start line.)

I am avoiding treadmills like the plague, and if anyone locally spots me on one in the near future (unless I am quite clearly killing myself with speed sets which will be cruelly obvious) then please ask the nearest Gym Attendant to remove me immediately from the machine. Either that, or just go and pull the plug.

I’ll thank you for it, later.

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THE REALITIES OF MARATHON TRAINING

I rolled over and sleepily reached for my iPhone, but grabbed hold of a banana instead. It’s a sign, I said to myself, and set about eating the banana. When I DID eventually locate my phone, it informed me of the time. It was Tuesday, 10th Jan 6:15am. Shit.

The plan was this:

  • Creep about silently to avoid waking those in the house both under 7 yrs. and over 40 yrs. old;
  • Locate some training gear (in the dark) and put it on (also in the dark);
  • Drive to the gym, arriving at approx. 6:55am

[The gym opens at 7am. Max 5 mins allowed to walk from car to entrance, plus a further 3 mins to wait for shutters to lift, shuffle past early-bird pensioners, and get upstairs]

  • Arrive on the treadmill for 7.03am;
  • Execute speed set. This would be (ideally) 5 mins w/up, followed by 5 x 5 minutes @15kph (2 min rest in between)
  • Dive off treadmill
  • Race back home to:
    • get those under 7 ready for school;
    • allow those over 40 to go to work; and
    • try to make myself look like I hadn’t done any of the above, so I could glide into the office without resembling a panting dog.

That was my plan. It sounded semi feasible, until 6.15am on Tuesday morning when it needed to be translated into reality. Shit, shit shit.

With the under 7s and over 40s undisturbed, I crept downstairs and quietly clicked the front door shut behind me. I was on schedule: it was 6:45am.

Once parked up on the dark, dark street down the dark, dark hill* (is it too obvious that I’m both a parent and a geek?) I made a run for it out of the dismal, dreary rain and into the offensively bright CMBC leisure centre standard lighting.

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Down the dark, dark street in the dark, dark town was a… badly lit gym

Hang on – there’s a bloody queue! A group of mainly (nocturnal?) older folk were gathered around the gym entrance waiting for the shutters to lift. How long have they been here? And what the hell else are they busy doing for the REST of the day?! I wondered, as I took my place on a plastic seat near the vending machine and began eyeing-up the bags of Quavers.

We all scanned and bar-coded our way in, and most of the OAP Fitness Bus headed off to the pool, whilst I ventured up the stairs in hot pursuit of my treadmill (I have one treadmill I prefer to use in the gym, and can suffer from minor palpitations and awkward ticks if it’s taken.)

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Hey, Warren!

Time check: 7:02. Jumper off, headphones on. PRESS ‘QUICK START’; begin warm up.

Time check: 7:07 GO, GO GO! INCREASE SPEED & RUN LIKE THE FUCKING CLAPPERS!

Time check: 7:12 Walk. Don’t die, just walk. It’ll be OK.

Time check: 7:14 GO, GO, GO! INCREASE SPEED & RUN LIKE THE FUCKING CLAPPERS AGAIN… But hang on. There’s an elderly chap from the OAP Fitness Bus standing & staring. HE’S FRICKIN PERVING AT ME WHILST I’M TRYING TO FOCUS ON MY SPEED SET! He walked over to the nearest treadmill and stood still. Watching me running like the fucking clappers on the treadmill. Off putting? Just a bit. He might have stood a chance if it were 1962.

Other than the ageing perv, this pattern continued right through until 7:40am when I cooled down for all of 20 seconds and dived into the disabled loos to put my dry kit back on.

I looked in the mirror. No. I haven’t just trained with my gear on inside out. Referring back to point (2) of my plan (locating training gear in the dark and putting it on in the dark) THIS was the result. Maybe Old Man Perv was reading the washing instructions on my shorts and NOT actually fancying a bit? I could have got him all wrong.

Heading out of the fluorescent CMBC leisure centre and back out into the dark, dark street, it was… still dark.

My wacky races drive back home up silly, spindly hill was frustrated by a White Van Man blocking the way. Move over! I’ve got a child to get dressed! I had uncomfortable visions of Gav still sleeping whilst Tilly wiped jam over the entire kitchen, having broken both the toaster and the kettle trying to make herself a cup of tea.

Time check: 8:02

Tilly was sitting in the kitchen happily tucking into a Pain Au Chocolat. (We’re not posh. It was a treat.) YEEAAAHHHH! I’VE DONE IT! PLAN WORKED! I gave myself a virtual fist-bump at arriving home on schedule, still having time to dress child and disguise the fact that I was melting.

‘Tills, let me have a look at that you’re eating,’ I said, suddenly concerned at the particularly anaemic-looking pastry. On closer inspection, it resembled a sodden panty liner from a Tena Lady advert.

‘Gav. This is raw. She’s eating raw (uncooked) pastry.’

‘Actually, it does taste a bit soggy, Mummy…’

***

My speed set was hard, but I nailed it. My plan wasn’t easy. It was a ball-ache, and depended on my eternally supportive Doddy to child-watch whilst I shoehorned myself out of the front door in the dark, with my Lycra washing instructions on clear view for the Fitness OAPs to see.

THIS is the reality of marathon training, whilst navigating the *other* demands of life. My speed set was done by 7:40am on Tuesday, 10th January. I was buzzing for the rest of the day. Partially because I’d kicked ass on that – my – treadmill, but mainly because I’d STILL managed to feed, dress, and sort out my child, wash away the sweaty salt marks from the sides of my scalp, and float into the office (on time) looking like I HADN’T DONE A THING. (I’d even straightened my hair. It’s a newfound girliness I’ve recently discovered.)

*For those wondering, reference to children’s book ‘Funnybones’ by the Ahlbergs.

** Also for info, I was in bed and fast asleep for 8.45pm that night. You can’t have it all.