marathonmummy

On a day off, with a hangover, when any sane person would be lying on the couch drinking fat Coke and reading the papers, I was heard saying ‘I must just pop out to that new running shop in Bletchley’.

Then, I spent half an hour perusing the polyester t-shirts and garishly coloured running raincoats.

Then, I bought an ankle support, sports tape (a year ago I didn’t even know such a thing existed), a very snazzy little hand shaped water bottle and some Lucozade gels.

And to top it all off, I spent five minutes perusing the running caps.

But it gets worse. Then I went into the shopping centre, and was excited to see there was a Sports Direct I’d never noticed before (that’ll be because until recently I was sane). So despite the fact that I was on my way to Waterstone’s bookshop for a coffee and a read, I took a detour into yet another polyester clothing emporium.

Then I went into the bookshop, picked up two books on running, and had a coffee (and a chat with my Twitter chums).

But then I came home, like a sane person, and had dinner, didn’t I?

Oh no.

I popped into the house, picked up a couple of bottles of Lucozade Sport, and drove round my running route for tomorrow IN THE DARK and stashed said bottles behind gateposts and in a ditch. Like I said, I’ve lost the plot.

In my world, 7mph is really fast. It’s my zooming-on-the-treadmill maximum speed for interval training.

I am slow. Super slow. Super-ultra-mega-slow.

Just to put it into perspective, if I’d run the whole 2009 London marathon at 7mph (that’s an 8:34 minute mile), there would have been 6,682 people in front of me. I’d have finished in 3:44, which is if memory serves me right the sort of speed that foxy marathon chicks Marathonmaiden and Carpeviam complete in – in fact they’re both faster than that. They don’t hang about, those two.

Anyway, there’s no point comparing myself to two racehorses when I’m more of a carthorse. I did a lovely interval workout today on the treadmill, inspired by watching Eddie Izzard’s 43 marathon challenge last night on television. I say lovely, it was torturous but made me feel quite pleased with myself afterwards. Gosh I’m boring, aren’t I. I’m even boring myself. Stay awake there at the back.

8am, Sunday. Normal people are sleeping, or having breakfast and enjoying a lie in. Running people are putting on their trainers and strapping on their heart monitors. Not that I’m suggesting that runners are weird, obviously…but I could have been having a bacon roll in bed and instead I was out for a ten mile run.

Legs: We hurt! Ow!
Me: Oh come on, legs, I know I did a little bit of faster running yesterday and then forgot to stretch, but you’ll be okay in a minute once you warm up.
Legs: (sullenly) We still hurt. Our shins are sore.
Me: (running slowly, ignoring legs)

iPod: Hahahaha, you liked the shuffle the other day. Well, today you’re going to suffer. Manic shouty stuff from The Prodigy okay with you?
Me: It’s only half eight in the morning, I can’t do beeps and screeching yet.

Legs: We don’t want to run today. We want to sit down on the couch whilst you eat chocolate.
Me: Oh come on legs, we’ll just jog gently up to the next telegraph pole then we can walk.
Legs: Hrmph. Only if you promise to stretch us.

Rain starts.

iPod: Here you are, have a bit of depressing Johnny Cash
Me: Dire Straits yesterday, and now this? Are you having a joke?
Johnny Cash: I will let you down…I will make you hurt…
Me: Thanks Johnny, you’re not really helping here.
Legs: He has a point. We’re giving up.
Me: Fine. We’ll sit on this fire hydrant thingy on the grass verge. I don’t mind sitting on a roadside looking stupid for five minutes. We’ve got miles to go yet.
Legs: Not if we don’t want to. We might just make you walk home.

five minutes later

Me: Look at me, I’m running like a proper running person!
Legs: We’re fine, we are. We never said we couldn’t run, we just didn’t want to.

runrunrun

Bladder: Why did you have a big glass of water before you left the house?
Me: Oh shut up, it wasn’t that big. Just reabsorb it and stop moaning.
Bladder: I need the loo.
Me: runrunrunrunrun (ignoring)

five more minutes later

Bladder: I need the loo, I need the looooooooooo
Me: Right, that’s fine. When we get to the next village, I’ll ask someone if I can use their loo.
My mother: (what’s she doing here?) You can’t just knock on a stranger’s door and ask to use their loo, they might chop you into pieces and put you in their freezer.
Bladder: Hello? Getting desperate here…
Me: (not running any more, too tricky with legs crossed)
Bladder: Just pee behind a hedge. Paula Radcliffe did it during the London Marathon. You’ll be like a REAL runner then.
Me: But there are people in cars, and walking their dogs. And I don’t even have a tissue.
Bladder: Yes you do, it’s in your pocket. Did I mention I need the loo?

five more rather desperate minutes

Bladder: That hedge will do! Or that one!
Me: (mortified)
Bladder: That’s it, climb over that gate – you know you want to…
Me: (let’s gloss over this part)

Legs: Oh you are so embarrassing. We’re going to run quite fast now, so we don’t have to be seen with you.
Bladder: Ooh, that’s better. Isn’t that better? Admit it, you feel better.
Me: (wondering what it’s like to run without body parts having a conversation with you)

runrunrun, through village, up hills, down hills, past cyclists, runrunrun, look at me, I’m running!

Coccyx: Hello
Me: Oh for f*cks sake, what now?
Coccyx: You broke me a few years ago, d’you remember?
Me: Oh GO away. Why didn’t I drug you all with ibuprofen before I left?
Coccyx: (sullen mutterings)

runrunrun walkwalkwalk runrunrun

Me: Come on legs, you can do it!
Legs: We hate you. Running is stupid. Can we have a bath when we get home?
Shoulders: We don’t want to trouble you, but we’re a little bit sore…

I’ve gone over to the dark side.

Last night, following my slightly incoherent ramblings on the subject of music and running, and after a hard day of running and digging the seriously neglected allotment, we went to bed at 9.30pm. Asleep by ten, awake at six. First thought: I need to get up and have a bowl of porridge now, so I can run at 8. That is not normal.

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I can tell you about Hallowe’en and making pumpkin pie and the loveliness that is autumn, but it’s not really running, is it? I’m having a minor nervous breakdown about the neverending H1N1/swine flu/oink disease/pigthrax.