Up and at ’em

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I had a ready-made excuse for not running this morning. Last night I made my regular trip to donate my armful and claim my reward of biscuits. Unfortunately, the donation didn’t go according to plan (I won’t go into details, judging by Ginge’s face when I told him about it, it’s not a tale for the squeamish or those with issues about needles. I will say that in eight years of giving blood, this is the first problem I’ve had) and I was left with a half completed donation and a leaflet on bruising which advised avoiding lifting, not over exerting myself and waiting 36 hours before resuming normal activities. In my eyes, going out for a 6am run is not a normal activity, but I figured that it wasn’t scuba diving or operating a crane so I might as well get on with it.

This morning there was plenty of cloud cover making it a lot milder than I expected and meaning that Miles had one of his moments confusing ‘clouds’ with ‘ceiling’. I couldn’t be bothered getting into an argument with him and set off without a GPS signal – I feel that this marks a turning point in our relationship, but it was fully justified when he started the “Are you indoors?” conversation half a mile into the run.

Dear Miles, indoors has carpets. Love, me.

Despite what Miles would have you believe, I did actually run about 3 miles and it was marginally faster than the pace than he says, although you will have to trust me on this one. I promise that I didn’t lounge in bed and then dawdle round the car park for ten minutes (because I have only just thought of this plan).

The owl who was afraid of the dark…

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I’m afraid that I’ve not adjusted very well to the clocks going back. For some reason or another, I’ve preferred to run in the evenings and haven’t done a 6am run for months and months (I suspect it was during Juneathon) and I’m struggling to get back into the habit. On several occasions, I have managed to set an alarm and get up at 5.30, but on the same number of occasions I have also managed to peer through the blinds, shrug and go back to bed. While the evenings were still light, I convinced myself that it was because I could always run after work ‘because it will be light then’. In the week before the clocks changing I clung onto the dimming tea-time light, trying desperately to delay the inevitable.

If I still had a job where I spent most the day photoshopping safety equipment onto animals, I could run at dinner time. Luckily I am more gainfully employed now.

My issue with the clocks changing is that I’m faced with the majority of my runs being completed in darkness. I either get up early and run in the dark, or I run when I get home and I run in the dark. I don’t mind running in the dark as such, but it means that I have to wear my ‘I’m on day release’ hi-vis bib, don’t take my shuffle and am restricted to running on well-lit main roads which can get a bit dull at times.

On a cold and frosty morning.

I also find that weekend runs take on a new sense of importance. This is often the only daylight run I will do during the week and thus it must be A Good Run. It must be scenic, it must be well run and I must enjoy myself. I become so focused on all of this that the planning, the angst and the self-imposed pressure overshadow the basic need to put one foot in front of the other.

What? No Batman?

Luckily, this weekend the weather was particularly autumnal and I had a spring in my step as I did a 6 mile route that takes in my favourite recharging spot (the local nature reserve). I ran resplendent in my brand new New Balance purple tights (I fear they make me look half-woman, half-aubergine but was pleased to read in that day’s Observer that I was fabulously on trend darling) after revising my bottom-half wardrobe and replacing most of my baggy and wonkily lengthed tights with 50% off factory shop bargains. I can only apologise to anyone driving along the main road who was treated to the sight of me ferreting the scratchy end of its price tag out of my belly button.

I declare Sunday to have been A Good Run

I am faced with an early run in the morning. I remain unconvinced.

Touch Look Check – Breast Cancer Awareness Month

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We might be over halfway through it, but October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Breast cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer in the UK (over 48,000 women are diagnosed each year) but more women than ever in the UK are surviving breast cancer thanks to better awareness, better screening and better treatments.

All sorts of retailers have joined forces with Breakthrough Breast Cancer and are making a donation from special Breast Cancer Awareness Month products.  There’s all sorts of things on the shelves, but on the sporty front M&S and Adidas have some lovely stuff with 10% going to Breakthrough Breast Cancer.

M&S performance top – not too pink (RRP £15)

adidas Pink Ribbon ¾ Tights – I could do with these to replace my wonky, moth eaten pairs… RRP £30 from Littlewoods, Sweatshop and JJB Sports (if it still exists)

For those of you with more of a sense of rhythm than me (i.e. everyone) there’s even a Zumba range, but I suspect that I won’t be needing that anytime soon (although 30% of the purchase price does go to charity).

Even if the shopping isn’t your cup of tea, it’s also a reminder that you should check your breasts regularly and give them a little TLC (there’s even an app to help you).

TOUCH your breasts. Can you feel anything unusual?
LOOK for changes. Is there any change in shape or texture?
CHECK anything unusual with your doctor.

Royal Parks Foundation Half Marathon

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Well I don’t know what all the fuss was about…

It turned out that the only thing that I had forgotten was my breakfast, a bit of an annoyance but no major worry. 6.30 saw me peeling the lid off an individual plastic pot of muesli served with milk kept cold on the window ledge overnight and eaten with a plastic teaspoon. I bet Radcliffe never has to do that. The other unforeseen issue was the cold that had been lurking in the wings all week decided that Saturday was the day to take centre stage. I dealt with this by hoovering up ginger, chilli, decongestants, paracetamol and orange juice, and generally refusing to accept the inevitable. It seemed to work and I was pleased to be able breathe on race day.*

A beautiful blue sky of a day

Pre-race there was time to meet up with the lovely Rachel (of Fairweather Runner fame) who was taking the somewhat bonkers step of treating the race as a marathon training run by running to and from Hyde Park as well as running the race itself. We parted company at the colour-coded start pens and Ginge disappeared to take up his first cheerleading post. The start of races always makes me a bit emotional. I think it’s a combination of charity runners (especially those with personal stories pinned to them), masses of people and adrenaline that does it, but I always feel myself welling up. If there was a brass band playing as well then I would never make it to the start line.

Park. Trees, grass, parky stuff.

Other than trying not bursting into tears,  I never know what to do before a race, I don’t stretch or do any kind of lucky ritual, instead settling for  earwigging on other people’s conversations, being generally nosy and getting into a swearing through gritted teeth argument with Miles. Apparently being in the country’s capital was too challenging for his little satellite link up and we had to endure three false starts and one “Are you indoors?” conversation before he found a signal.

Releasing more than 12000 runners over the start line was a relatively smooth process taking the yellow pen 14 minutes to cross the start (oh the magic of chip timing). I’d been warned to expect a bit of congestion at the start and the end of the race, but I was pleasantly surprised by how much room I had and how little people-dodging I had to do (although in an uncharacteristic bit of pushiness, I was quite near the front of the pen). I tried not to set off too fast and to find my own pace; I think I managed it despite feeling like I was being overtaken by everyone in the world and Miles telling me that my pace was somewhere been 7min/mile and 45min/mile, neither of which seemed quite right.

Park related puns at the mile markers. Each one was a welcome sight.

Buoyed by random happy tunes on shuffle, the landmarks of London and the promise of Ginge at selected vantage points, I felt happy and relaxed for the first 10 miles. Admittedly my pace slipped as the race went on, but I didn’t beat myself up about it. At four miles I was overtaken by Puff the Magic Dragon (who turns out to be a producer from This Morning) running for Asthma UK. Around 8 miles I was at the top of a slope when I saw the dragon in the distance (a seven foot lime green dragon is a bit hard to miss) and I’m not proud to admit that the thought “You’re mine dinosaur, mine” (I have only recently confirmed his dragony credentials) passed through my addled brain. I’m not proud to admit that I put a fair bit of energy into catching him up and overtaking him. I’m also not too proud to admit that I only managed this because the poor man was dressed as a seven foot lime green dinosaur (I overheard a small child asking “daddy, why is the dragon walking?”, “I think he’s a bit hot” came the reply). I’m not proud of any of this, but we take motivation wherever we can find it.

For those of you who don’t know me, I am one of those two leggy girls in the tiny shorts.
For those you who do know me, shush…

The last three miles were hard work. By this point, you’ve long left the views of the Eye and Westminster, and are on the second lap of the parks. Now I like a good park and the autumnal scenery was lovely (even in my thirties I can get giddy at the sight of conkers), but it was hard work and a few brief walks crept in so that I could gather my thoughts and refresh my legs. I’m pleased to report that they were gathered and refreshed enough to manage a proper running finish, only slowing down to grab my medal off one of the very smiley volunteers.

Proudly sporting my medal (alright, it didn’t come off for the rest of the day) I was reunited with Ginge and Hels for a brew and some restorative flapjack before we went out for beer and pizza later in the afternoon. My finish time was only 4 minutes faster than Folkestone (when I walked a lot more and felt dreadful from 6 miles onward) which in a way is a bit disappointing, but given the lack of consistency in my training it actually left me feeling quite chuffed that I could manage this with not very much practise.

Our allocated meeting point was K-P because that stood for Knitting Penguin. Obviously.

This was the biggest race that I have done and yet I enjoyed it immensely. Because of the crowds, I was never on my own or feeling as if I was watching everyone disappear into the distance. Now, I don’t know if this is the same with every big race, or if the Royal Parks is particularly well organised but it’s certainly reduced my nerves for another one. The only thing that  I was slightly miffed to discover that feeling despite feeling (a) happy and (b) as if I was running well, on my official photos I look (a) grumpy and (b) as if I was just ambling down to the corner shop. I really wish race photos would stop dismantling my mental image of myself as a runner, instead presenting so-called photographic evidence that suggests the complete opposite.

Would I do it again? Definitely. Would I recommend it to a friend? Definitely (unless them entering was going to nick my place). I’ve already registered my interest in next year and will be taking another punt in the ballot, but in the meantime….

*(In the end I was shamed by the sight of a “Baby on Board” sign on the back of a runner in front of me – if she could run with a 5 month bun in the oven, I could struggle through with a bit of phlegm

Panic on the streets of London

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It’s fair to say that I’m getting more nervous about tomorrow’s Royal Parks Half.

Already I have woken up an hour early, insistent that we were catching the 6.10 train. We never catch the 6.10 train. We always catch the 7.10 train, even today when we made the train with only a couple of minutes to spare (although we did have time to admire two teeny black dress and heels walk of shame outfits at the station. If they weren’t from last night, I admire their commitment to early morning weekend glamour).

So I am on the train. That’s the first worry sorted.

I am fairly convinced that I have my race number, safety pins and Miles in my bag. I know I have my trainers. If anything else is missing, I’ve been reliably informed that London has a few shops.

This has reminded me that I have forgotten my oats for the morning.
I hope that my insides aren’t so delicate that they rebel against unfamiliar muesli. I am already nervous about my insides and needing the loo tomorrow.

What else am I nervous about? People. Thousands and thousands of people. 12,449 other people in fact, and one of them is Ian Beale off of the telly. This is the biggest race I have done and the first time I have been penned by predicted time. I’m hoping that I will be both carried along with the excitement and slowed down enough that I don’t set off at a pace that I would be happy with for a 5k.

I am probably worried about lots of things that I haven’t thought of yet and we’re not even past the Midlands. The best advice I have had has come from people who have run previous Royal Parks – admire the scenery, be lifted by the spectators and most of all, enjoy it!