The Fog

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Or, thumbs up to thumb holes.

Oh, thumb holes how I love you

I woke up this morning to blue skies and sunshine at the front of the house. When I scampered into the spare room at the back of the house, I peered over the biggest ironing mountain in the world to see that there were frosty cars in the car park. This meant the first frost of the autumn and my first chance to wear my Mizuno long sleeved top with thumb holes. I adore thumb holes. Maybe it’s the inner sulky teenager in me, but I love being able to yank my sleeves over my hands…

Anyway, my plan for today was to do a quick three-mile out and back, just running, no photos, but seeing the frost made it seem like a good morning to have another soul run round the lodge. I decided to take my camera just in case there was some nice frost along the way and I’m very glad that I did.

As I ran down the hill out of the village, a thick fog cloaked the road and into the valley.

The view from the road into the valley...

...and the valley back up to the road

I couldn’t see across the car park and the view that met me at the top of the steps was a little different from yesterday’s run.

Compare and contrast with Saturday's version...

The greyness surrounded me (and everything else) and made it a little eerie. There were plenty of dogs (and their people) around and when one of them barked, somehow  it sounded loud but far away at the same time. It was calm and still, cold and bleak, but all the while I ran with the knowledge that there were blue skies just waiting to get through.

Foggy ducks

The, um, view across the water

So that’s two days of mojo recapturing done – this week I’ve got an after work 7 miler planned with Ginge on Tuesday and then an early Thursday to make four sessions this week. Oh and, I wore my new running shoes and didn’t notice them at all. I think that this is a good thing, but will give them a few more outings before I decide on my final verdict.

Make a little birdhouse in your soul

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When I only have weekends to run in the daylight they start to take on far too much significance. From the middle of the week I think about it, just so that I can be certain that I will make the most of the day. Everything is invested in this one run. It must be perfect.

Well, there’s nothing like putting pressure on yourself is there? If everything did turn out perfectly, this would be great, but if the run’s not perfect (and inevitably it isn’t) then I feel let down and miserable. Or even worse than that, I spend so much time tying myself up in knots about going out at the perfect time on the perfect route, that I don’t even get out of the door…

Today I wasn’t going to fall into that trap. Today was all about running a familiar route and appreciating it. This is what caught my eye…

There were lots of autumn leaves...

...and lots of sheep...

...and some very serene swans...

....and the Green Man in the playground...

...and even more leaves...

...and the view that always tends to lift my spirits when I run this way...

...and of course, the aforementioned birdhouse.

A few weeks ago, PeopleRun wrote about rediscovering your running mojo and included my contribution – Run somewhere different, preferably somewhere scenic. Only about half a mile of today’s run was somewhere scenic, the other 5.5 were on the road, running (for the most part) the same routes that I hack out time and time again. I do stand by my own advice, but wonder if maybe sometimes it’s a question of looking around you and appreciating what you see?

PS. After my last apologetic post, abradypus asked that, if I found my missing running mojo, could I send some her way? I’m not claiming to have rediscovered mine (just as one swallow doesn’t make a summer, one run does not make a regular training routine), but I hope that this morning’s run helps both of us.

In which I apologise for being a slacker this week

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I hate writing posts where I try to make excuses for malingering, but I haven’t posted for a bit and I suppose that it’s better than nothing (other people may beg to differ).

Miles is glaring at me reproachfully from his shelf in the kitchen. If the radio’s off, I can hear him, whispering. “Slacker” he says. He looks a bit sad. Sometimes he sighs. I try to convince him that I’m giving him a week off for his own good, but neither of us truly believe it.

I’ve not been in a good running routine since my dodgy ITB got in the way and this week I’ve not run at all.

The daft thing is, when I have been out, my pace has been good (for me), I’ve felt pretty good and (most importantly) I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s just that small but important part where I crowbar myself out of bed or shove myself out of the door that is letting me down. I even have a lovely new pair of running shoes to try out (forsaking my trusty New Balance for a go in a pair of Asics), but even that isn’t enough to persuade me. Like the ever radiant Dolly, I work 9 til 5 which means that my midweek runs are guaranteed to be in the dark. I don’t mind running in the dark when I get out in it, but at one end of the day I’ve grown very attached to my bed (the thought of my alarm going off at half five makes me shudder) and at the other, I’m just glad to get home, draw the curtains and have a lovely cup of tea.

I know that I can run consistently during the winter, Janathon proved that, I just need a big kick up the bum.

In which I get up very early to enable me to hobnob later in the day

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During Sunday’s mudfest, I asked Ginge if he would be running with me on Tuesday, he agreed, we said we’d do 5 or 6 miles. Sorted. Until ten minutes later when I realised that I couldn’t run after work because I had won tickets to the preview evening at the new Booths supermarket that is opening at Media City in Salford (where half of the BBC has been redistributed).

This would be my first dark morning run since last winter (somehow I kept them up all through Janathon). The alarm went off at half five. I dragged myself out of bed and peered through the blinds. It was dark (which I had expected) and it wasn’t raining (which I had hoped). I scuffled round in the chaos of the spare room to find the rucksack that I knew contained my hi-vis. It wasn’t there. I went back to bed.

“I can’t go running” I said to Ginge “I can’t find my hi-vis”.
“It’s in the porch” said Ginge.
“That wasn’t the answer I was looking for” I said.

I got up again, went downstairs and found my hi-vis in the porch. I went back to bed.

“I can’t run because I don’t have any audiofuel on my shuffle at the moment” I said.
“zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz” said Ginge.
I realised that was a pretty shameful excuse not to run, so I up I got, rummaged through the kit drawer, got dressed, set Miles to do his thing, trainers on, out of the door at 6.00.

“Are you indoors?” said Miles…

After nearly ten minutes of lurking nonchalantly in the alley next to our car park waiting for Miles to get a signal, I set off without him (he caught up at 0.2 miles today) and only had time for a quick two-ish miles to shift the cobwebs. I’m very glad that I went because I know that it should be easier next time. I’m also glad that I went when I did because the rain came just as stepped foot back inside the house.

Anyway, the morning run freed me up to enjoy the champagne and canapés at Booths. For those of you who aren’t lucky enough to live in Lancashire (or bits of Yorkshire/Cheshire/Cumbria), Booths is a magnificent regional supermarket who specialise in lots of lovely interesting and local stuff. The branch in our town has always been frequented by older customers who can have a chat with the friendly staff and buy a couple of rashers of bacon for their tea (I have done this myself…) as well as foodie types, hip young things and the bloke who I saw buying 35 pots of hazelnut yoghurt (and 1 blackcurrant) a little while ago.

Mini-cake and champagne

The Media City branch is going more for the foodie/hip young thing market rather than the older/yoghurty demographic (although Ginge did overhear a couple of more mature chaps who were comparing it to other stores in their I-Spy Book of Booths; it lost points for having stairs). As such, the presentation just seems that bit sharper and more styled than other branches.

All very artisan and rustic

Welcomed with a glass of champagne and music from the BBC Philharmonic, we proceeded to circulate around the canapés aisles. More often than not, we found ourselves in the beer aisle (and with over 200 types of bottled beers, that’s a terrible hardship to bear) which was better than the times that we found ourselves thoughtfully perusing cat food.

I could have been 72p up on the night if Ginge would have sat nicely on the shelf

I entertained myself by playing Booths Bingo (spotting a set of slightly specialist items), scoring 3 out of 4 with Symington’s Table Creams (I’m now very disappointed that Dr Oetker has dumbed down and appears to have scrapped the maple and walnut flavour, damn you Oetker), Force Cereal and Milo (I couldn’t find Camp coffee essence to collect my prize). I also realised that I lack the grown up skill of sipping from a champagne flute without looking like I’m necking it back like an uncouth ruffian.

What a magnificent fellow!

It made me incredibly proud that we have a chain like Booths in the area. I love my trips to Waitrose when we venture down south, but this is proper local stuff and is proper good stuff. It makes me happy that there’s people who love food and somehow manage to balance the very traditional with the very modern, the everyday brands with the small local producers, the stylish presentation with the friendly service. They also gave me a lamb chop encased in pastry – this made me very happy.

In which I end up caked in mud to review my new trail shoes

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Today’s run wouldn’t win any prizes for speed, but it was bloody good fun! We’re lucky enough to have a lot of fields, woodland and nature reserves round our way, and today seemed like a good opportunity to make my shiny new New Balance trail shoes a little less shiny and new.

I’ve only ever run through the fields when it’s been dry (I don’t think that I went through them at all this summer) and with the company of Ginge (due to fears about a. getting lost and b. men with dishonourable intentions). With the new shoes, the previous night’s rain wasn’t going to be a problem. I took Ginge because he knew where we should go (having spent his formative years climbing trees and causing mischief in these parts) and is excellent company (so you can rest assured that I don’t just take him as a bodyguard/satnav).

Fields.

We have to do about half a mile on the road, to reach the fields and while we both missed the cushioning of our usual trainers, it was surprisingly comfortable. Especially as I had expected to be clattering along like a goat across a tea tray.

Low cloud over Rivington, there's a telly mast under all of that.

As we hit the mud (almost immediately after leaving the pavement), the next adjustment was learning to trust the grip of my shoes. I have never had a problem getting wet or muddy when I run, I just worry about the potential embarassment/A&E attendance involved with falling on my arse. Apart from one incredibly squelchy and slidey bit of field, where it all went a bit Bambi on ice, I felt pretty confident that I was going to stay upright throughout the run.

That way to London

Ginge’s local knowledge took us into one of the nature reserves (where our planned loop was blocked by the presence of great crested newts), across the railway, through some fields, back through a bit of woodland, through some more fields, along a lane, back into the original fields and then home. It was a mix of paths, nearly paths and mud. There were quite a few stops to look at things, a few to marvel at how much more knackered we both felt (Ginge’s official verdict was that 4 miles off road felt like 10 on pavement) and a couple for me to question whether Ginge’s 25 year old mental maps were correct (they were). The running bits in between felt fantastic.

Ginge takes me to the nicest places.......

When we were nearly home, we passed two girls walking their dogs. They were wearing wellies and carefully picking their way through the field, occasionally squealing at the drama of being surrounded by mud. As we splashed past, I overheard one of them say “uuurgh, look at them”, but I think that she was just jealous.

This bridge is deemed a danger to the public. Health and Safety gone mad.

Shoe-wise, my 749s felt comfy and supportive. When I’d tried other shoes on, my ankles had immediately felt precarious but after this first trial I would heartily recommend these to any fellow over-pronator looking for a trail shoe.

Ginge's feet post-run. Note the whiteness of the Gortex clad socks.

Ginge (who’s more of a neutral to under-pronator) also loved his 573s. When we bought them, he was offered versions with or without Gortex and only went for the Gortex because he had no choice (they didn’t have his size in the others). With hindsight, he is extremely happy about this and says they’re really good because you can “run through what you want; the deepest puddle, the muddiest puddle – your feet will be dry, even if they seem as if they shouldn’t be”. Apparently the Gortex sock inside the shoe makes it a bit more snug and takes some getting used to, but it’s definitely worth the extra money. I wouldn’t know…

Compare and contrast the above with my non-Gortexed feet.

I’m struggling to convey the utter joy that I felt in just pelting along, not caring about anything (especially not pace or distance). I felt free and happy and childishly giddy. Even hills didn’t seem so bad. I honestly don’t think that I have ever grinned so much whilst out running.

Marvel at the amazing over pronating lady! Gasp at the fact that she ended up even muddier than this by the end of the run!