Solving Problems

I firmly believe that there are very few problems in life which remain troublesome following a decent run, a large bowl of pasta and a glass of wine. The problem currently bothering me most definitely falls into this category.

My current problem is that with commuting to Swindon and staying in hotels, I don't often get the opportunity to go for a run and follow it up with a large bowl of pasta and a glass of red wine, and thus very many small problems have neither been solved nor downgraded in severity from 'major disaster' to 'less annoying than the mild pains in my legs'.

I've tried to maintain the run, pasta and wine approach to problem solving whilst staying up in Swindon. I can pretty much go for a run anywhere, provided I've packed some kit. Going for a run from a hotel is usually quite pleasant – I stay a few miles out of town and it's easy to find pleasant routes to run whilst mulling through some of the day's issues before returning for a shower and a meal. The going for a run part is fine. Getting the bowl of pasta causes problems. I don't want rich, creamy food following a run. Bolognaise would be fine. Carbonara is pushing the limits of what my guts will withstand. Prawns and tomatoes tossed in garlic and olive oil would be lovely. Sadly, no hotel seems to put anything this simple on the menu, and the few that respond to my requests for something other than their standard fayre don't seem to understand the portion size requirement, leaving me with three prawns and four cherry tomatoes sitting daintily atop a smattering of fusili, and also leaving me a tad hungry.

I've also tried to use the run/pasta/wine method after getting back from Swindon. This doesn't work particularly well, either. Having got up early to get to Swindon, I'm usually hovering between between the hungry and famished border by lunchtime. By the time I make it back to London, it's about 7:30, I'm hungry and tired and probably in need of some kip. Going for a run means eating late (which doesn't work well with the need to get up the next morning and drive to Swindon), and seeing very little of my lovely boyfriend (or anyone else, for that matter), which makes the four hour commuting penalty (home to London and back to Swindon the next day) a rather high price to pay for a poor night's sleep and a correctly-sized bowl of pasta.

Today, this is not a problem. It is a Sunday. I have been for a run, I have had a large bowl of pasta and a glass of wine, and life is good.

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.

Incomprehension part II: Shopping

The energy and devotion which some people reserve for shopping leaves me immeasurably baffled. I am notoriously bad at shopping - most trips to the shops which are for purposes other than buying food leave me concluding that I don't need whichever article I thought I needed badly enough to wander round numerous shops until I find one which fits my body and budget, and for which I would gladly stand in a queue in an over-heated, stuffy and uncomfortably-lit shop for sufficient time to conclude the purchase successfully. My tolerance of such activities is atrociously low, unless I'm helping someone else to shop, in which case I will happily pull things off rails, march them into changing rooms and offer my opinion of colour, fit and comeliness, and continue this process for several hours without showing signs of fatigue.

So I am left rather befuddled that my latest shopping trip has gone so well - I have new trainers. And I had a very, very exciting time doing the shopping for them, which involved rolling up my jeans, exposing my ankles, and running on a treadmill whilst having the backs of my ankles filmed for analysis and afterwards engaging in detailed discussion of my feet, ankles and knees, and trying another pair of shoes until I found the right one. At some point in this process I managed to ingratiate myself with the customer service agent sufficiently to be offered (having visibly flinched at the price) a 10% discount because she liked me because I "picked up on things and didn't give me a hard time for having waited so long to be served". That was very kind of her, but it still left me slightly pining for feet which stopped growing at a slightly cheaper size and shape...

Nevertheless, after all that effort to find decent shoes, I am happy. Ecstatic, in fact. They fit really well. And I look great in them, in the sense that my ankles and feet do all the right things at all the right times, which is important because I weigh a ton (well, twelve stone something) and I'm supposedly running a half marathon in a couple of months. In a ball dress. (Note to self - next time wait to be under the influence of alcohol before agreeing to do such things...). Now that I have my ruby slippers, I have very few excuses to not attend the ball.

The ruby slippers

Well, I must be off - hours of sweaty fun with my shiny new toys await...