Juneathon 14/30 – positive & negative

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Two ways of looking at the same run:

The negative

  1. I ran-walked. A lot. 
  2. Especially up hills. I chickened out of hills. 
  3. I can’t control my pace, I keep going a bit too fast then having to walk. 
  4. There’s no way I can do a marathon. 

The positive

  1. I covered 7 miles, which is the longest I’ve done since 2013. I’ve also not done a full 6 miles for a few weeks (due to illness and falling over halfway through last week’s)
  2. It’s a hilly route and I did manage the first couple of uphills that I didn’t think I could do. 
  3. My overall pace was pretty much what I would have been aiming at. 
  4. No one is making me do a marathon tomorrow, I’ve got until November. 
  5. Nothing hurt and I didn’t fall over. 

I think, overall, I managed to shout down the negatives.

Juneathon 13/30 – parkrun

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I am a rare attendee at parkruns. They usually coincide with either an Athon or the attendance of Louise doing some Northern tourism. I thought that I’d run Preston twice before today, but it turns out that meeting up with Louise for a brew and a chat didn’t actually count.

In a spectacular bit of miscommunication, neither Ginger or I took our phones, so the opportunity of lots of lovely photos was lost. Sigh. But this is what happened. Actually let’s skip back to before we left…

(imagine some wibbly wobbly flashback thing going on here)

At work I always joke (kind of) that as long as I’m there and I’m dressed, I’m doing well. For today’s parkrun, I nearly managed to fail on both counts. Organisation is a key part of survival when you’re a parent (so I am told) but unfortunately this is is gene that I lack. I love the theory of organisation and truly believe that the next notebook/diary/filing system/set of boxes will be the one that redeems the last 35 years of chaos. I am nothing if not optimistic. When it came to getting dressed this morning, I spotted my tights escaping from some clean washing, but then couldn’t find a sports bra. I unearthed a clean one but then couldn’t remember for the life of me where I’d seen my tights. Scrabbling through the washing baskets like a deranged mole, they eventually turned up only narrowly avoiding me recycling a pair from Thursday. Then I lost Mini-Ginge’s coat, but I did know where his shoes were, which is an improvement on most days.

I was all set to sack parkrun off and go for a grumpy run, but was shepherded into the car by Ginge (who does not get the credit he deserves for motivating and putting up with me) and whisked off to Avenham Park. Arriving with minutes to spare, I was in time for the introductory chat and was reminding that mass applause and niceness brings a lump to my throat every time.

Preston is a three lap course with a hill fairly early in the loop. I chickened out of trying to run up it, even on the first loop. My legs felt heavy and as I glanced over to see the front runners at the start of their second lap, my ridiculously negative head kicked in. I can’t do this once let alone three times. And if I can’t do this, how the hell am I going to do a marathon. Oh god. Luckily the headmistressy part of my head took over and gave me a brisk talking to.

As I completed the first circuit, I was lapped by a chap saying “I’m doing the Rock n Roll marathon in Liverpool tomorrow, so I’m saving some for that” AS HE LAPPED ME. Git. Just after the hill of the second lap, I spotted Ginge and Mini-Ginge. The smaller of the two looked a bit bemused by the whole thing, but hearing “It’s Mama” as I lumbered past has to be the best bit of cheerleading EVER.

The third lap saw a bit of walking creeping in. I know full well that this was the negative brain as I had enough in the tank for a sprint(ish) finish past a woman who I had been hovering behind for most of the route. I did feel a bit guilty about this.

When the results came in, I found that I was nearly three and a half minutes slower than when I last ran Preston (January 2013, about three weeks before I found out that I was expecting) which certainly gives me something to aim at. Especially as they let you ring a bloody great bell if you get a PB. Ding dong!

Juneathon 12/30 – nostalgia

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Tonight I have mostly watched TFI Friday and been very nostalgic for my youth. Going out at 8, 99p a pint, last orders at 11… Sigh. Back in the 90s I should have been in my prime, but I couldn’t run for a bus let alone for a mile. Ah well, they do say that youth is wasted on the young. 

Anyhow, tonight I have tried to get Ginge to teach me how to do a press up with hilarious consequences. 

Juneathon 11/30 – later

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I swear my son can mind read. I used love early runs (and relied heavily on them when I did hardcore Athons) but since Mini-Ginge came along, I think I have done one. At the most. He’s never been a brilliant sleeper, he’ll get off ok, but then decides that he wants something during the night. We’ve just had a good run of three nights sleeping through and I had planned to do an early interval session this morning. 

What happened is what always happens when I plan an early run (and by early I mean a 5.00 alarm call) – somehow he knows and wakes up around 1 or half past. Even if he settled quickly, I’m still on pins waiting for the delayed waaaah to come through the wall (he is also psychic for knowing just when I’ve decided that he’s settled and have settled down to sleep myself). 

So when 5.00 came, the alarm was switched off. At the time, I did think that I lay there contemplating getting up , but with hindsight I realise that I actually dreamed this… So no early run.

After work the sun was still doing its thing, which is lovely but I’m not built to run in the heat. By the time the boy was in bed, we’d had tea and I’d given it an hour to go down, I was getting much less inclined to go out. But I did. 3 mile loop, first half mile was tricky, then a mile of brilliance, then a pause to contemplate life and some sheep. The return was a bit wonky as my body kept reminding me that it wasn’t that long since I’d scoffed a big plate of fish and noodles. But I did it and finished with a warm glow of satisfaction and achievement, not to mention a fetching sheen of sweatiness.