And on the third day...

Somehow it didn’t seem right running across hallowed ground.  Corpses resting in the graveyard could hardly welcome the pounding of Reeboks of a morning for the music lovers from the night before and the eccentrics with their bat detectors had all been guilty of causing disturbed slumber – well into the early hours.  Location, location, location, but don’t expect a peaceful lie-in from a cathedral graveyard.

Each day the steep slope and 40 severe stone steps had risen from the nestling St David’s cathedral to taunt her.  They had challenged her to run from bottom to top in one foul swoop.  Jonah-like she’d faltered, and jackdaws laughed down from the Gate tower finish line above.

Then Bank Holiday weather had conspired against her.  It was a challenge enough to spill out of a warm holiday cottage, let alone defy screaming calf muscles, when fair weather running companions conspired to stay duvet bound.

On the first day she took a circular run at her challenge, dropping down in the cathedral valley via a circuitous but level route to try and fool her defeatist running demon.  Gentle jogging is best.  Grateful shin splints ease.  She stops to stroke some inquisitive Welsh ponies dripping in the morning rain.  Yet, as she drops down to run across the cathedral ford, she meets her challenge face on; a vertical path ahead climbing into a ladder of stone steps, with the awaiting cottage and the promise of breakfast at the top.

Stamina wilted, but pride in the face of an early tourist, forged a half-hearted and half-way attempt to the bottom quartile of the steps.  Legs groaned and stomach retched.

The next day didn’t count.  She decided to ignore the challenge altogether and turned her back against the church to run along the coastal path, down to the harbour wall, barnacled and sheltered. 

“Bless me today O Lord and enlarge my territory.Take me by the hand and keep evil away, and prevent me from causing any pain...” Her morning prayer formed easily into a reassuring running chant.

The endomorphins engaged and the warm drizzle refreshed her way back to the waiting cafetiere and warm Swansea loaf.  She had avoided looking at the cathedral by choosing this route.

On the second day she psyched a fresh attack and fuelled her inner motivator with positive self-speak.  She focused on a higher prize than the cottage – ‘Chapel Chocolates’ perched at an even higher position on the hill, above the cathedral steps.  Chocolate rewards fashioned in the shape of white chocolate dolphins and dark cocoa hearts.  Aim high, and then if you falter, you’ll hit your original target by default, she reasoned. 

But that imaginary chocolate nauseated as she clenched up those stone steps.  She stalled in the final stages, and, ignoring the cathedral gardener who had clocked her faltering, sat on the wall to catch her breath.  She praised herself mentally for the steps she had covered rather than the steps she had yet to conquer.

And on the third day she was on a mission.   She could feel it as she ran along the coastal path past St David’s burial place and flew on winged feet down the valley to confront her challenge.  She passed the Bishop’s Palace, admiring the arches and waking the rooks; she challenged them into spectatorship. 

Arms pistoned her ascent, head down, concentrating on one step at a time.  No eyes on the prize.  Slowing, she heaved to the top without stopping and raised her gaze to see her husband sitting in the early sun, hugging a morning cup of coffee.

“Took your time,” he smiled.

Self Discipline

No.  Running wasn’t just about self control – although of course, that was satisfying; it was about inflicting his will upon others.  It was about ensuring that his routine became god in a family of five.

After all, his wiry frame and sinewed, distance runner’s legs demanded a concerted effort, a strategic campaign to guarantee that targets were met and coaching goals reached.  It was a spreadsheet head game that demanded family project management of the highest order. 

To his fellow running club members he was a driven and focused athlete; to his family he was an obsessive bully who had gouged his tally of running medals at their expense.

When the children were younger, it had indeed given the family a focus to be ‘Team Daddy’, and offer vocal support and Lucozade sachets at pit stops around an eclectic range of running meets.  They knew the vagaries of a 5k to a 20 miler and translated PB’s into an all too familiar currency of hours and minutes positioned strategically road-side, willing the circulation to return to their extremities and wishing themselves inside some warm cafe.

It had never occurred to him that their enthusiasm might wane over the years, and he certainly had no intention of inviting his by now strapping teenagers, or middle-aged wife, to take up the torch and start running with him.  He begrudgingly accepted their excuses to miss his race days and distantly acknowledged that they had replaced his schedule with a programme of rugby tournaments and hockey tours.  It never occurred to him to support his ‘team’ at these events.  Their sporting victories became his inconvenience.  He festered as he ran further away from his family.

He must have had some vague awareness of the subterranean existence and earthy pleasures of his former fan club.  The odd chocolate bar wrapper, or beer can stowed carelessly in the bin, belied the nutritious shopping detail that he demanded from the family club room. His stock pile of nutritious protein shakes and wholemeal pasta remained unplundered.  A carbo-loaded larder primed to fuel an athlete, appeared anathema to beef-steak young men on a testosterone charge, and their increasingly plumptious mother.  In fact, if he had stopped to contemplate the evidence – paranoia might have made the ludicrous suggestion that the scallops of lethargic flesh paraded by his wife these days were indeed fashioned to repulse his whippet – like form.  He consoled himself that peak performance demanded abstinence.

These days he kept his running diary at work, on his lap top – backed up and accessible by mobile phone.  Back in his novice running days he had written each session’s time and distance on the family calendar in the kitchen and chuckled to see the smiley or sad face some young hand might have added to annotate his progress. This new system was much more reliable of course, and compatible with the Lance Armstrong training schedule downloaded via his Nike trainers to his IPod.  Lance’s, ‘tough workout, well done,’ had somehow, over the years, replaced the, “You can do it Dad!” crayoned beside a weekend’s scheduled long run. Now he stopped to think about it, he realised that the windows on the kitchen calendar were these days all vacant.  No need for family negotiation or liaison: total freedom.

Running without an audience had overtaken him from behind.

Tandem

Bi polar opposites.  United, a team.  Individually, hard work.

Running partnerships are forged over time.  Few niceties, no room for falsehoods.  Built on the hope that in times of hardship your partner will hit a high as you hit the wall and that there will be room on their horse for two.

Our partnership is now totally equal, but we've both been forced to earn our stripes over time. 

One is tall and slender,  Amazonian, exuding pace and determination.  She was scientific about running and googled running academia in the pursuit of her goal.  The other is shorter and dumpier, and trades running trivia and marathon urban myths.  It is difficult for the latter to fall into the stride of the former - and vica versa – in more ways than one.

Alpha runner still finds Beta runner exhausting.  Although a formidable  career woman by day, when running, Beta is lapsidaisical about training dates and times.  She has knitted herself a warming tea-cosy of a training schedule with scant thought for fartlek and transition, and a large cup of focus is given to the calorific conversion of a longer run.  In her book, two hours of steady running translates to the daily calorie intake of most women,  or put another way, earns you 10 Kit Kats and two bags of yoghurt coated raisins to be enjoyed whilst lying prone on the sofa, toying with a copy of ‘Runners World’.

Alpha runner can be equally as taxing.  When agitated she is able to both talk faster and pick up her running pace without breaking sweat.  Any hill is there to be attacked, but she will, out of deference, wait at the top for Beta to catch up.  Any runner ahead of them is there to be overtaken, and particularly if they have a large backside – Alpha has made it a personal training target never to be beaten by a runner with more adipose than herself.  Beta has a sneaky suspicion that she could herself be that lard arse that other runners might be picking off. Alpha’s pedometer is more aggressive than Beta’s; calories burnt never sound quite so appetising after Alpha’s post-run conversion.

They had been brought together through marriage, but aside from the occasional comparison of wedding outfit, children or respective in-laws, they had never really crossed each other’s radar – geographically or emotionally.

Running has now become their shared interest, however.  They came to it via different paths, and with different training partners, but now they run together, and their shared family tree gives new grist to their treadmill.

Shared relatives necessitate firm ground rules before serious running can commence.  The Sisterhood demands that what went on tour stays on tour – or in other words, anything discussed whilst running is not for public consumption. Please note.

Thus, marathon training allowed Alpha and Beta to negotiate a divorce, navigate school changes, assassinate career rivals, discuss the available options for a over-active bladder, play parent poker and discuss the pros and cons of speed dating.  Running sessions become therapy.  Even Beta starts to warm to the long distance run, now there is a human element to enjoy.  If a weekend run is cancelled, respective families feel the strain. A weekly dose of catharsis is based on more than endomorphins alone.

They share their journeying to official races.  Beta begins to enjoy the streamlined pre-race organisation of Alpha – the synchronised eating of bananas, the carefully fashioned bin-liners and the home made gel pouches.  Alpha secretly enjoys the pre-race nerves of her partner, the verbal diarrhoea, multiple trips to the porta loos and acidic sarcasm that deflects long waits for the off.

And over time, they realise that true character comes from long-distance running.  They tune to each other’s mood to the point that a strident, ‘No, you go on, I’ll be fine,’ translates as, ‘I’m struggling, don’t leave me!’  PB’s became less important than ensuring that both team members cross the finishing line – if not together, with at least one waiting to cheer the other one through.

On cross country runs, Beta takes the lead in terms of organisation.  She navigates and splashes happily along muddy tracks.  For road training, Alpha is in charge; pacesetting, water monitoring and demanding negative splits.

Most importantly, spectators now realise that these ill-matched runners, tortoise and hare, are now a formidable team.  They are consulted for physio and podiatrist contact numbers, best running reads, and recommended footwear.  They are sought out for their irreverent dialogue and forgiving approach to coaching.  They have blurred at the seams.  Alpha has softened and Beta has flexed. 

The need to run together is no longer essential, but they save their secrets anyway, ready to fuel a weekend run. Comfortable in each other’s differing strides now, and smug in the satisfaction that they have indeed completed that marathon.  They held hands and smiled beautifully - a photo finish perfect for their shared family album.

Prat Falls

“Running is dangerous,” a plumptious colleague opined as she thoughtfully selected another chocolate from the open box and glided from the office to avoid further discussion.

“So are blocked arteries, “I mutter spitefully, but she has a point.

It’s not the minor indignities such as the blackened or missing toe nails, or even the unsightly blisters, it’s the big prat falls that really hurt.  The ones that happen when you’re long distance running, and inevitably a long way from home.

At best you can hope to be running with a friend when it happens.  At worst you can then wait to have the indignity recalled at any available opportunity, and to any available audience.   The most painful injuries, by some cruel slight of fate, visually look the most comical when they happen, and so provide the best fodder for that running ‘buddy’ you are so lucky to train with, who turns out to be appearing at the Edinburgh Festival that year.

Take the time I managed to knee cap myself whilst out running with a friend.  Ok, so I should have eaten a proper lunch before setting out after work, but I still maintain that the path was uneven.  So, I trip, fail to put my hands out in time and crack both knee caps on the path.  A slow motion prat fall. Happy to oblige.

I’m fortunate enough on this occasion to be running with a First Aid goddess, and as she sits me up and puts my head between my knees to combat my feeling of faintness, I remark, “Thank goodness I missed that huge muddy puddle”.  At least I think that’s what I said, and I say it again, apparently as I come round from my faint, and sit up, having in the interim, launched myself backwards into said muddy mire.  The pain from my knees was nothing in comparison to the pain felt - walking – back to where we had started the run; work carpark.  Naturally a big audience would be needed for this photo finish – plastered like a chocolate digestive biscuit, with gunk dripping from my pony tail.  Strange how many pedestrians seemed to be out that day, and lovely to see so many colleagues returning to the carpark after working late that particular night.

So you would think that this particular experience would have made me a safer runner -more alert, more nourished, at least more bouncy.  Not a bit of it.

Like a child bidding for a parent’s attention, I now boast a whole catalogue of prat falls to add to my repertoire.   The best ones now seem to be saved for lone running occasions, but always when wearing white t-shirts, and always when muddy paths and rambling parties are on hand to get involved.  I like to alternate the decision to bash both knees or just one and now keep a ready supply of ice bags in the freezer for self-medication afterwards.

 Running in ‘flow’ for me, usually means zoning out to the point that I forget to look to see where my feet are going.  I have, however, mastered the ability to return home from these falls past fellow runners or ramblers, pretending that my coating of mud, blood, or both, is of no consequence.  I prefer to close my front door before shedding tears of pain or shame and examining my bruises.

I do learn from my mistakes though, and feel heartened that my quick thinking on mile 8 of my recent trail path running fall prevented any further knee injury and saw me falling in style with both hands out to break my descent.  Two trips to Casualty, a tetanus injection, stitches and antibiotics for an infected hand wound, yes, but at least I can still get my trainers on and the mud washed out of my shirt easily with this new stain remover I’ve purchased.

 You do receive the best boxes of chocolates when you’re a patient and I’m in free fall training to become a plumptious prat. Danger?  What sort of soft centre is that?

Running Away From the Truth

I’ve run with you on my back a few times now.   No additional weight, just your name safety-pinned on as insurance that I won’t wilt in the tough stages, won’t let you down.  You mean too much to me.

And, if I keep on running, I won’t have to sit still and think about you too much.

I’ve heard it said that in Africa there is a saying that you die twice.  Once when your body dies and twice when people forget you. If that is true, you will live a long, long life. You will out run me.

For a non-runner you are a great pace maker.  You never flag, you never sprint off, you never leave me alone. You manage to talk while we run.  To an on-looker I might cut a solitary figure, but I don’t feel alone.  I moan about being burnt out and you chuckle and remind me that I can’t be that burnt out if I can still jog 10 miles.  You send the rain to soak off my tears and the odd rainbow to remind me to blend some sunshine with my salty waterfalls.

I miss you and you are a constant stitch in my side.  When you were physically here, you braved all weathers to stand on the sidelines and yell support, even when your body was giving up the race. I’m not convinced that I supported you from the sidelines enough.  I sat by your side when you let me, stroked your tired calves, but I wish now that I’d foisted myself on you more often and ignored your orders to get on with living. I pity party all those lost opportunities to share your  best time.

You even paced yourself around my running, waited for an anaesthetising post-run glow before you hinted that life was dealing you a negative split and that I needed to find a new training partner.  I ignored your training advice, kept on running too fast, rather than tempering down to a jog to enjoy our last laps together. You made your transition to wheel chair with all the dignity you could muster and thanked me for my support.  We joked that now you had wheels you could overtake me, but we refused to articulate what my getting left behind might mean.  Refused to discuss that you had lost your legs for this race.

You were walking out of my life, but I was running away from the truth, desperate to see your footprints still.

And now you walk, gently jog besides me. You’re still very much on your second life, for, the longer you have been gone from us, the stronger your voice has become.  It’s good to hear you getting your breath back.  Good to know that your footprint on my life is that voice of integrity, challenging me not to quit, forcing me to find a personal best even when I howl that my personal best was our friendship.

 I will run in your wake always.

Don't Stop Me Now!

Don’t stop me now!

Her dream was to run marathons.  Not lycra-clad and personally trained, just slow, long distance marathons.  Really slow.  Slow enough to merit walking long stretches and taking in the crowds; floating in the camaraderie – grinning from gorgeous ear to gorgeous ear.

Even the training now seemed worth it, that gruelling schedule of kicking the wall down on a daily basis and sticking two fingers up at Fate and miserable bystanders en route. 

She was not grinding to the halt that some had expected, in fact, she was running away from the grind and she belly-laughed at the irony of it all.

Spectating wasn’t her sport of choice, though, she had been forced to become good at it as she gathered her anger and willed her hair to grow back.  She used this time in her training diary to propel others on their own marathon journeys, coaching from the sidelines until she could pound the streets again.  She sat on restless hands and bided her time; now that time had come.

Her own race had been delayed many times, of course – a stop, start irritation that she used for muscle growth; mind over matter.  She discarded her runner’s stop watch and devised her own system for marking time.  Each milestone was registered as a ballsy punch of the air rather than the dirge of minutes and hours spent training – a system seemingly valued by other runners.  Some joker still insisted on playing with the speed dial on her treadmill, but she just tuned to the new rhythm and paced forward.  No hamster’s wheel for her, the treadmill circuit was just training for the true test. She would not tread water for long.

And now she was off!  Her feet pounded out the strength of her heart beat – strong and resolute – raising the game of those along her path.  Propulsion at last.

In the grim later miles came the satisfying realisation that she had a created a binary opposite to those marathoners around her, for, as they bowed their shoulders and gagged floppily into the gutters, her spine extended and the drilling pain drummed down her now longer legs to be left, absorbed, into  the tarmac.  Running through the pain, she grew taller and focused on the tension around her shoulders.  She stopped juggling the weights and concerns of those that she loved - not because she didn’t love her loved ones anymore - but because it was time in the programme to hand these challenges back to their real owners, out of love.  The pain refused to sit squarely on her shoulders anymore and instead sloped downwards, whimpering in her wake.  Returned to sender.

Now that she was lighter she could let the gradient carry her, she relaxed and rotated the freedom in her released shoulders.  She needed a new running chant to replace her selfless training mantra.  She would accept the energy back from the crowd rather than projecting her own, and that fuel, once accepted, thankfully pulsed through her veins and raised her game once more.  She bounced from kerb to kerb, high fiving the crowds, refusing to bring the race to a close.  Buoyed, she flew.

They had not lied about the finish.  Her own field of dreams had been planted as daffodils both to the right and to the left of the home run.  A field of personal milestones radiating yellow. She swooped to gather a handful of the blooms, inhaled and realised that there was no need to stop and collect her medal.  There was no need to stop at the finish line below their clock.  She was flying, and she was smiling, and she was just going to keep right on running - leaving bemused officials in her wake as her gorgeous smile stretched onwards. She had trained for this.

Window Shopping

I cringe at my latest indignity - being filmed (from the back, waist down) on a high-tech running machine in the shop window of a fitness emporium.  Lesser mortals may choose new trainers in a more pedestrian fashion, however, in my search to overcome tortoise pace and a pain in my shin, I had taken myself considerably out of my comfort zone by visiting a specialist running retailer.

 Note to myself; when shopping for trainers, don’t borrow husband’s old socks and wear a pair of jeans that at least try not to default on the backside - in fact, wear running gear and at least look like a runner.

I enter the shop –reluctantly - with expectations of customer service based on existing experience of buying trainers and on my accepted boundaries of the customer/retailer relationship; I would not have entered the shop if I had anticipated the remotest possibility of working up a public sweat on a running machine, in a High Street shop window, and having my personal data and metatarsals crunched by a computer.  I had not even intended to go shopping today.

I favour the anonymity of internet shopping.  No flicker there from a specialist shop assistant to indicate a restrained belief that this was a running imposter; a time waster, a couch would-be marathoner with ideas of grandeur.  But, I have learned the hard way that discounted trainers from the internet are for runners with low self esteem.  They are discounted for a reason.  How can a bespoke running shoe be fitted from such a distance, anyway?  I would need moral support to get new trainers sorted.

But I don't  like to ask for help.

On the one occasion when I did persuade a non-running friend to brave a bespoke running shop with me, it was in fact the friend who emerged brandishing a pair of state of the art running shoes and the prospect of a date with the sales assistant.  Somehow, they had run out of time when it came to my turn to be fitted, and I sensed that I had been made to run up the steep hill outside the shop, to facilitate the exchange of telephone numbers rather than for my running gait to be assessed.  I bought those trainers anyway.  I don't like to make a fuss.  Besides, my friend was more than happy with the service received.

Strange that I don't see myself through the same lens as those who love me. Somehow, my line of  running medals, strung so proudly across the window in the downstairs lav by my husband (and sufficing as a net curtain for the bashful) seems only to alert visitors to the fact that there is a closet runner somewhere in the house.  This makes me tense, anticipating that a new guest will ask who this runner might be, and that I may have to laugh to try and ease their discomfort when the revelation is made, that the runner is indeed I.  I can't hurt  my husband’s feelings by asking for the removal of my trophies – it would dent his pride in me.  The irony.

Note to myself; stop prevaricating and get these trainers sorted!  Nothing is more of a giveaway on race day than a perfectly white set of trainers.   I, more than anyone, need to blend with the crowd.

So, here I am apologising  for my entrance into a new running shop.  I hadn’t known this morning that this was my destination; it was a surprise from my husband who wanted to put a stop to my whinging and the whiff of trainers well past their sell-by date.  I hate surprises, and I resent him for picking up on my depleting motivation and impressive list of running ailments. I don't remember bothering him.

And so, here I am, being filmed on a high tech new running machine, cursing my husband. 

Despite myself, I find myself fascinated by the replay of my performance on the screen afterwards.  The assistant draws cursors from the sole of my foot to my ankle to demonstrate my ‘perfect’ running position.  This equates to evidence not sales pitch in my mind.  I am drawn to the image of my feet rather than the cinematic image of my backside on the monitor, but, actually the latter isn't too bad for an ‘old girl’ either. I am beginning to trust this lens.

 I realise that the assistant, seems to be taking me seriously.  We are discussing races I have run, and he is asking me for my recommendations of cross-country routes.  I feel relaxed.  Genuinely relaxed. 

For the first time ever , my high arched, ultra wide feet are offered a choice of running shoes.  The pros and cons of each are explained, demonstrated and I am given time to ‘road test’ each.  I find myself giggling with the young customer sitting beside me; an exciting girl, fresh off the plane from South America apparently.  I hear myself offering the girl advice about running marathons, and the girl appears to be listening.  Genuinely.

I leave the shop with the best pair of trainers I have ever owned.  I chose the pair with memory gel around the ankle, incidentally – perhaps a sales gimmick, but I wanted the support, and I wanted to remember this day.  Better still, said trainers are soon officially muddy and in danger of giving that hare a run for its money.  It turns out that the niggling pain in my shin – and perhaps my snail paced running - have been caused by one of my feet pronating outwards.  Diagnosis, along with a new word to play with, means that I have chosen a pair of trainers that work with me, rather than against.

Later, running in my muddy, gorgeous new trainers, achieving a PB for Sunday dog exercising duty, I feel genuinely smug.  Loved even.