The importance of being idle

I run an ever increasing amount of mileage, divided into 3 weeknight chunks, and a longer run on Sundays. I cycle to work pretty much everyday, and jam in some cross training whenever I find a spare evening. Ironically, the more you do, the harder it is to say hey, take a day off, let your body recover. Seriously, i know it sounds insane but it really is tough. However, sometimes you've just got to do it.

I ran just over 12 miles on Sunday, and 31 miles in total that week, through some of the worst conditions since training started. Over the last week or so, we have had more snow than I've seen in a long time, and it's made running a little difficult to say the least. But I've managed to struggle through with no real problems, until now....

I woke up yesterday with horrible shooting pain down the outside of the bottom of my left foot. My first reaction was hooray, it's not my knees, and my second was to get on google and commence with some self-diagnosis. I have it narrowed down to pereoneal insertional tendonitis - it's ok when I don't put weight on it, but walking is super painful, and running is out of the question. Internet wisdom prescribes the usual rest-ice-elevation-pray it gets better cycle, which is what I've spent most of today doing, in addition to some hardcore anti-inflammatories. It's caused by overloading of a tendon that runs down the outside of the leg and into the foot, and was probably triggered when I fell over on some ice on Sunday, combined with running on uneven ground. I'm going to stay off it as much as possible, with no running for as long as it takes to feel better - tendons are notoriously hard to heal due to their minimal blood supply - I'm hoping to be back at it by the weekend, fingers crossed.

UPDATE: still no improvement, so I'm booked in with the foot doctor Friday to see what I can do to speed this up. In the meantime I've been trying to keep up some kind of fitness by terrorising the UEA pool through a combination of  high speed frustration laps whilst wearing a badly fitting borrowed bikini. It's not pretty but it makes me feel less useless.

Born to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen

by Christopher McDougall

This book was recommended to me by a very good friend of mine, who incidentally smashed his way around his first marathon last year (I’m coming for your time Michael...), and I finally got a copy of my very own for Christmas this year. However I have to admit that initially it did not interest me in the slightest. After all, I am a connoisseur of quality literature: essentially if it isn’t by Cormac McCarthy, or it doesn’t have cowboys in it, I'm really not that interested. And as Canucks have dubious taste in most things, I figured why should books be any different (joke, that was a JOKE before you all start). But like a running pimp, he kept pushing it, and eventually I cracked – flicking through a few pages one night whilst he was yakking on the phone. Fast forward three days and one conversation about how occasionally, just occasionally, I might not always be right; and I'd read the whole thing cover to cover, and thoroughly enjoyed it. McDougall manages to convey what it is that got me into running in the first place: how it nice its feels to bound along a pavement, the pleasure of reaching the top of a hill, and the sheer happy exhaustion only achievable (for me) at the end of a good run. So I guess if you want an insight into why I do what I do, and how it feels, explained in words more eloquently arranged than those hastily typed into this blog, give it a go. But I warn you, there are no cowboys.

Happy New Year!!

2013 is shaping up to be a pretty big one. This year I will.........(drum roll please):

1. Present my work at ASLO conference, New Orleans 

2. Finish my thesis 

3. Become Dr Owen

4. Run the London Marathon

5. Cycle across Canada

6. Emigrate

7. Turn 30

8. Lose all dignity during the Polar Bear Plunge

9. Raise £10,000 for cancer research and support

A wiser person than me once said, "y’know, if your dreams don’t scare you, that means they’re not big enough". Well I’m absolutely s******g myself right now, so I guess that means I’m on the right track.

Happy New Year everyone. Let's smash it. 

mum and me

Mum and Me - Rhyl Beach - 1985

Normally I find running is good for my brain. There is a particular kind of peace at the end of a long run that puts the stresses of the day/week/year at the back of my mind for a good few hours. But sometimes, on particularly long, cold and lonely runs it’s easy to get caught up in the hugeness of everything ahead of me next year. Such thoughts as “what am I doing?! I’m never going to make it!! Why couldn't you just host a coffee morning like a sane person?”  swirl around and around until it becomes a physical effort just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Suddenly running the 3 miles home, never mind the 26.2 of a marathon, seems impossible. But I always manage it. I slow down, take some deep breaths and think about where I was this time last week, last month, last year. I think about the progress I have made, and the injuries I've overcome. I think about how I feel seeing my pace get quicker and my breathing get easier. And I think about who I’m doing this for. My mum always has, and always will support me in everything I do. When I wanted to see Boyzone (age 11), she bought me tickets. When I wanted an undercut (age 16), she helped me shave my head. When I got in an assortment of trouble at school (age 6-18, mostly for having the worlds biggest gob – nothing changes), she always took my side. When I went to uni and got my nose pierced within 2 weeks of being there, she still sent food parcels. When I came back from Canada covered in tattoos (age 21), she winced, but brought me home from the airport anyways. When I said I was going to abandon my career and raise money for cancer research by spending a year running, cycling, and swimming my way across two countries, she didn't bat an eyelid, just said for goodness sake wear a bloody helmet.  So then I think, jeez suck it up princess. Compared to 29 years of dealing with a rebellious, opinionated tomboy of a daughter, who refuses to grow up and get a sensible haircut, who may never settle down and pop out the grandkids she deserves, 26.2 miles is really not such a big deal. Now move your ass.

Happy Birthday Mum, this weeks miles are all for you xx

6 miles in

So this week has been pretty cool so far for a number of reasons: I started my "official" training plan on Tuesday - it's colour-coded and sellotaped to the fridge so you know I mean business. I'm gonna start crossing off the miles as I do them (like some kind of reverse advent calendar with pain instead of chocolate) starting from today... so erm 6 miles down, only another 581.7 to go ... easy! One day I'm going to sit down and figure out exactly how many calories that is, as I find it easier to imagine energy expenditure in terms of bags of onion rings than metres of pavement pounded. But not tonight - maths isn't my strong point and I have just returned from an evening out. Which brings me to reason two: tonight I sacrificed fun (and beer) for the first time in the name of running (in the rain no less) and an early night. I know right, high fives to me. Told you I was serious about this thing. I also just found out that a friend of mine got a marathon place, after a couple of years of trying, Yay for Paul! It's gonna be super nice having someone to chat to about manky toenails and nipple chafing. But of course I'll be sharing all of those joyous little events with you guys too, so don't worry about being left out. Plenty of moaning for everyone. Speaking of moaning, hopefully I'll be boring everyone a little less with tales from the physio - nearly 4 months after my accident, looks like I'm finally fixed. I had my last treatment session today and all being well, I won't be needing anymore. Happy days! Still keeping on with the ice packs though, this time with a little help from my furry assistant...