Happy Cake Day

Today, 12th May, is Cake Day. Cake Day marks the anniversary of the last occasion on which one of my dearest friends cut herself. It's been seven years.

This is the medal I collected at the end of the Lincoln 10k, which I ran with her a few weeks ago.

I am ridiculously proud of this medal. Not for my achievement, but for having been present when this same friend who celebrated cake day today finished the 10k back at the end of March. For much of the last twelve or so years, between the booze and the fags and the self harm (and accidental self-conflagration), she's not exactly been a picture of physical or mental health. So I was thrilled for her when she said she was running the Lincoln 10k. Through choice.

I'd asked if I could run with her, too. I didn't want to impose myself, and knew she'd feel she couldn't say "no", and also knew that she'd probably feel under pressure to complete the run if someone else was going to run with her. I therefore felt a bit of a heel for doing this, which I convinced myself I was doing with the best of intentions, but really I wanted to be there to encourage her when it got tough and, despite the fact that it would be physically uncomfortable, to get through the race to the finish without walking. To have Done It.

Come March, despite preparations not being fantastic, we pitched up in Lincoln for the run. She'd been ill for the last few weeks and hadn't trained for a while, but still made it to the start line. It would be a tough hour or so.

A couple of other friends were running the race, too, but we left them nearer the start line queue in the sub 50:00 block and sub 1:00:00 block, and made our way towards the back of the gathering masses. (Having run a few road races, I'm of the opinion that unless you're one of the elite runners and can get away quickly, starting towards the back makes running far easier than tripping over the heels of tightly bunched runners.)

After a delay at the start for the police to shift a few cars parked on the course, the first couple of kilometers passed uneventfully. We'd barely made it into an unhindered stride as we passed the first marker, and were just beginning to settle into the same pace as those around at the second. 2km down, and 15 minutes had gone. I'd thought before the race that a 1hr 15min time would be a good pace to aim for, and it was with some satisfaction that I checked my watch to find us on pace. It was at this point that my friend decided to tell me she'd never run further than 2.5km.

I reassessed.

"OK, no worries. You're moving nicely - how're you feeling? Does this feel sustainable?" Heck. I was sure she'd mentioned doing 4 miles previously. I guess that must have been a run/walk. Nevertheless, she seemed in reasonable form, she assured me the pace felt fine (how would she know...? We were going to run another three times further than she'd ever done in her life.) Time to put on the smilers:

"Cool, let's get to 3km, feel proud of the achievement, assess how you're feeling, and plan from there.

3 km was a welcome sign. Already in uncharted territory, in many ways, there would be nothing new now until the finish, increasing fatigue, increasing pain, slower speed. But we were still moving nicely. Our pace had slowed once the runners had thinned out and some of the early adrenalin dissipated. Still, I assumed we'd be walking before the end of the race, but not before 5 km if I could help it - at least she'd have a 5 km time to beat in future races, and could take pride in running that distance. She agreed to the plan. 4 km came and went - 4 down, one more to go, and then there would be water, a 5 km time and a re-assessment of the race plan as our rewards.

Halfway. 5 km in 39 minutes and 35 seconds. Twice as far as she'd ever run before. This was time for her to feel proud. I think she was. I know I was. Actually, "amazed" would better sum up my feelings, and my disbelief that I was halfway through a 10k with my friend running alongside. Wow.

Collection of water bottles and an overdue re-lacing later, we were back to a steady jog. The water had evidently done some good as I noticed with some relief that the pace had picked up again to a point where I could lengthen my stride. Spirits had lifted - the talk became more positive, with mention of a half marathon before the end of the year, and an aim to complete this course without any walking.

6 km somehow disappeared without trace. There undoubtedly was a marker, we undoubtedly celebrated having trampled down another km. 7 km was nearly three times further than she'd ever run before, and 8km was time to feel absolutely bloody proud of the achievement, if also a bit knackered and on the verge of breaking.

After about 8km, she said: "Do... hssss...hsss... you think.....hhsss... pouring... hsss... water on... hss... my head... hsss.... like they... hsss..... do... hss.... on telly... hsss.... would... hsss.... help... hssss?" There followed the emptying of a good half bottle of water over her head. "Oh god... hsss... that feels good.... hsss..."

I loved her next comment about now knowing how the marathon runners feel. I had never even considered that I might see the day on which she'd identify with elite marathon runners. Previously, she'd thought they were nutters for pouring water over themselves instead of drinking it. Now she knew the feeling of relief and refreshment first-hand. That was another "Wow" moment. I was notching up quite a few of them that day. I think, and I hope,  she was, too.

Somewhere inbetween 8 and 9 km, her competitive spirit rose to the surface - I'd never known she had one. She'd spotted a couple of victims people ahead of us. A few minutes later, we'd reeled them in, jogging past with an ease that'd disappeared three or four kilometres ago. "C'mon!" For once, it wasn't me saying that. I almost exploded with happiness.

The final kilometre was a very long, long way. I was certain every corner we rounded would yield sight of the finish. But it didn't. Just another corner. She was suffering, and not for the first time I felt like a complete heel for trying to press the pace a little, just enough for me to take longer strides and relieve some of the tightness in my calves, which had done a lot of work in keeping me bouncing along whilst taking very short strides, and also because we were being overtaken by people who were walking. I wasn't having that. I don't mind being overtaken by race walkers on a mision, but I wasn't going to contemplate my friend, who'd run the whole thing (with the except of a few short paces and a re-lacing at 5 km), finishing behind people who'd jacked in the running and were going to walk across the line. "C'mon - they've given up. You haven't. Show them your pride." Crap - for the first time in the race, as we rounded the corner and caught sight of the finish,  I was having to run. Actually running. Moving with speed.

We had a huge, sweaty hug at the finish. She was in tears. I'd felt that recently, as well. I'd cried after finishing a race in January, racing after having had the norovirus. I felt empty, drained, stripped of any chattels of identity, broken and completely naked. But I'd got through something I thought I wouldn't, thought I couldn't. I'd put doubts aside and proved to myself that the strength of my will was greater than the weakness of my body. When, after finishing, the will disappears, redundant, only the weakness remains. That's why I blubbed my way back to the boathouse, and why she was in a heap, propped up on my shoulders. Empty, drained, and overwhelmed with achievement.

Later on, having collected our medals, T-shirts and thoughts, we found our friends somewhere amongst the gathered masses and made our way to a nearby pub for celebratory shandies and cokes. Our other friends who had run were pleased with their times or with getting round in one piece. I had run well within myself, and was torn between my lack of exuberance at not really having done anything, and my unbridled pride for my friend, who'd just got her first medal for anything, ever, made a massive leap of mindset from "I can't" to "I can", and was looking forward to taking her richly deserved medal into work the next day to show the guy who runs marathons for fun.

I just wish I could adequately describe how proud I am to have been a small part in that.

Bear with me...

...and I will try to explain.

I will try to explain why it is that on Friday night, I am heading to bed with a bottle of water, a tube of Deep Heat, and a bottle of Surgical Spirits for company.

I will try to explain why it is that every piece of me aches.

And then, I will try to explain why it is all so fun.

Last week, I was feeling pretty chipper. Positive developments were threatening to materialise at work, training was going well, I had fun plans for the weekend, and I was generally on top of everything: health, life and work-wise. I was remembering just how absolutely good it felt when I was a student - very little stress, excellent health, busy social life, plenty sleep. Nothing looming on the horizon.

I spent five or six hours on the river last weekend - a long outing Saturday morning, and another on Sunday. Saturday's was great. Sunday's wasn't so good. Not only had I had less than five hours' sleep, but ten minutes after getting on the water, I felt sick. Properly sick. Like a fool, I assumed it was some combination of the previous night's lack of sleep, perhaps one beer more than was prudent, and the goat curry. So, feeling properly sick and rowing like a sack of spuds whilst our coach barked increasingly impossible commands at me, I spent the rest of the outing attempting to coax my ailing body towards the unreasonable feats which formed The Plan For The Outing. I muttered many expletives under my breath. In fairness to the coach, it should be pointed out that, as I assumed I was entirely responsible for my sickness, I didn't actually complain that I felt two strokes short of death for most of the outing. I was hoping to get though in one piece without anyone noticing I was a bit worse for wear. That's part of the mentality - mustn't show weakness...

Walking home after the outing, I felt well and truly spent, I assumed from the morning's exertions. I retired home via the supermarket, and picked up kind, gentle foodstuffs to recover at home with. Or so I thought. I went to bed in my post-prandial lull, about 3pm. I stayed there until Monday morning, leaving only to dash to the loo for bouts of the sort of violent explosive diarrhoea that make you wonder just what pressure the gut can withstand.... I have no idea how I went from feeling so well to feeling so rubbish in the space of a few hours, but somehow, I managed it. And my, did I feel rubbish.

To top it all off, as I lay in bed on Monday morning composing my email to my line manager, a few people I was going to be meeting later in the day, and my rowing buddies, to explain why I wouldn't be at work/training, it occurred to me that I didn't feel quite as appalling as I felt an hour ago. And actually, I could probably make it into work. Training might be a step too far, but work... Well, I thought I could manage eight hours sitting at a desk within running distance to the loo.

I didn't train again until Wednesday - a six mile jog along the river. It was slow, and it was unduly hard work, but it felt good to be working my body again, for it to be working for me and doing my bidding instead of declaring war on my ambitions, even though my bidding was something as truely pointless as running to Chiswick bridge and back again. As I suffered no ill effects from this on Thursday, I took the gamble of going to circuit training.

I should explain why this was a gamble:

1. I hadn't eaten in the afternoon and had resorted to gobbling an emergency maltloaf whilst jogging to circuits;
   
2. Circuits are my most hated form of exercise ever. It's hard to get motivated to do the jumping around bit, and the only thing which keeps me going is the thought that everyone else is and not going is letting the crew down;
   
3. The coach is a well-meaning sadist. It was entirely likely that there would be a new and excruciating exercise or ten added to the plan;
   
4. Once I had shown my face at circuits, there is no giving up, no pulling out with a sicknote from the doctor, no explaining that perhaps it's better for me not to push it too hard right now... That mentality doesn't fit.

Circuits consists of twelve stations, one minute per station. That's 48 minutes of high-intensity exercise straight off. Add on a couple of miles' jog there and back, and a hundred or so extra bonus squatjumps just to ratchet up the lactic acid in the thighs, and my quite ridiculous pride and stubbornness, and you have the makings of a very painful outcome.

And so it is that a day later it's Friday evening and I'm lying in bed covered in deep heat. And for good measure and olefactory delight, I have given my palms and soles a good surgical spiriting. I smell like I've had a bad accident with a cleaning cupboard (and I'm not convinced that the skin around my shoulders where I've just applied some more deep heat wasn't grazed. Ooooooh, that stings!) Tomorrow morning I have two outings - 7:45 am at the boathouse. On one level, I wish I could turn my alarm clock off and stay in bed all day. On another level, I love it.

It's that other level that I need to explain, but right now, it's bedtime (bedtime for rowers, at any rate), and because I love rowing, I'm going to sleep now and will blog that bit some other time.