A sad anniversary

We'll get the training update out of the way and done with. It's still awful. It's getting worse. I really didn't think it could get worse but with every added mile, it just gets tougher and tougher. I thought that once I was able to run 10 miles, it would all somehow magically get easier and I'd reach a running double-digits nirvana. Alas no. Far, far from it.

I went for a 5 miler with my brother in Felixstowe. Not too bad. He reckons I'm not quite as useless as I say I am (high praise indeed....). Here he is:

My "little" brother out for a run with me around Languard. Check out one the many container ships that visits Felixstowe daily in the background.

A very tiny part of the Port of Felixstowe

Friday was my worst run in a long time. I set off with the target of 11-12 miles in my mind and was trying to be positive. After 4 miles of feeling like I was really struggling and the occasional very short walk and pause to cross the roads, I got stitch. Now, for those of you who don't know me, I have nearly 12 years of medical training behind me and yet, whilst doubled over with agonising pain in my side worsening with every breath, I had to google "what is a stitch?". And it seems no-one is really sure. Great. So this hideous pain which stopped me in my tracks is apparently a bit of a medical mystery. Which means no-one is really sure why you get it and, more importantly, how you can prevent it. Even better.
After a bit of cursing under my (laboured) breath, along with a bit of walking I was able to resume my stumbling towards Wollaton park.

At mile 7, I had a tantrum. Proper, foot-stamping, crying, throw yourself on the floor, angry tantrum. Well that's how it was in my head. In reality I was a bit too worried about the deer/ dog/ duck poo on the ground and so didn't roll around yelling "Get me a taxi home now!". I did, however, sit on a bench, fling my earphones down, turn off my up-beat, motivational music with an angry index finger jab and have a mental break down. My legs were aching, I was tired, it was hot and yet windy and I wanted to be curled up in my comfy bed. A sympathetic dog wandered over to see what the fuss was about and I was so angry with running that it was all I could do to restrain myself from giving it a swift kick.

After I'd pulled myself together, I decided that there's no rule saying I have to run the whole marathon so made the decision that walking is better and set off to purposefully walk the rest of my planned route around the park. Those two non-running miles were brilliant.

Unfortunately, it couldn't last forever; I still had another 3+ miles to do which felt like a marathon in itself, so it was back to running as I left the park. Managed another mile or two of running (by which, I mean jogging really slowly) before I gave up again and pretty much walked the last mile to our church cafe. I rang ahead and forewarned Matt that I was on my way, in a strop, to the cafe and that he was going to make it better by buying me lunch and then driving me home and that this wasn't up for debate.

12.2 miles. A miserable experience. Tired, painful legs. A few angry tears. And an appalling time of 2 hours and 25 minutes.

And do you know what's really feeble about all of this? My legs were fine the next day. Just proves that I was able to, and should have, pushed myself harder and found some strength to continue running that bit further.


There are a lot of people that I know have experienced similar emotions over the past year.

Anger. Disappointment. Sadness. Stabbing pain for no apparent cause. Frustration. Confusion.  A feeling of such weighty heaviness. Feeling like it's a real uphill struggle. Short periods where things seem ok but knowing deep down that it's going to get worse and more painful again soon. Times where even short distances last forever.

My 12.2 miles took under 2 and a half hours. The desperately sad, desolate emotions of losing Mark have been with his family and friends for one year and a day now. That's proper pain. Not a pathetic loss of motivation, stamina and strength as displayed by me.

There are times when I almost forget that Mark has gone; when I can hear his loud, fairly high-pitched laugh in my head; when I can have a conversation with his ever-present Suffolk accent; when I think "Mark would really laugh at this". And yet he has been gone for a year.

Mark meant a lot of different things to different people. To some, like Matt and myself, he was the best of friends, a best man and to Matt, an additional brother. To his colleagues, he was dependable, solid and so enthusiastic in his commitment to work with Ambassadors in Sport. To his sister, he was an only sibling and a fantastic uncle to her sons. To his parents, Mark was a great son who was such a good example of their steady, reliable, calm love. To his friends, he was the most useless host who never had anything in the fridge other than bottles of Coca-cola. He was the provider of Phase 10 and DVD marathons. He was a golf buddy. He was a prayer partner. He was brilliantly disorganised and lost a lot of Robbie Williams concert tickets. He bought vast amounts of chinese take-aways for his friends. He was a passionate football supporter of his beloved ITFC and England but an even more passionate Christian.

And a year on, that's not fading.

I'm sure that, with time, there will be a gradual acceptance of the loss of Verz. That those awful, tear-you-apart emotions will ease and that stitch-like agony will go away. But the memories of who he was to us won't fade and that is testimony to his life.

Please sponsor me as I continue to battle with my training:
www.uk.virginmoneygiving.com/longrunlizzy

Thank you.

Here is a short video that was made about some of Verz's work with AIS. It might help you understand if you didn't know him.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-a-0ZpW2bNQ

Confessions of a 30year old

Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday to me,
Happy birthday dear Lizzzzyyyyyy,
Happy birthday to meeeeee!!!!

Yep, that's right. I am now officially another year older but not wiser and definitely not any fitter or physically closer to running a marathon. Time is marching on and I sadly am no longer in my 20's and today has marked the 9th anniversary of my 21st birthday. I can barely bring myself to say I'm 30- it's so, well, adult! I realise that when I look at my life it would seem that somehow I have morphed into one these strange and peculiar species of "adult". I am married (for a huge 9 years this summer- Matt deserves a medal), I am a mummy to a toddler, I own a car, I live in a sensible house, I'm a doctor and allegedly responsible for the care of several patients. I pay bills and moan about pensions. I can't remember the last time I went dancing in a nightclub and frankly, I'm not sure I can be bothered with all that anymore. All decidedly adult. I'm convinced I still live with my Mum, being moaned at for not doing piano practice, not studying a huge amount for my GCSEs and working in a hotel part-time at weekends. How can that possibly be 15 years ago? 30 is very adult and old!!!

But age is all relative, right? 30 is ancient to a 4 year old.
Budia Singh was 4 years old when he ran a marathon.
30 is child-like when viewed by a 100year old.
Fauja Singh is the oldest person to ever run a marathon. He was 100.
(I presume they're not related and part of a huge marathon running dynasty.)
Let's hope that 30 turns out to be a good age to run a first marathon.

It's now exactly 9 weeks until the big day. In fact, in 9 weeks time I am expecting to be in a whole world of pain with legs that don't work but with a serious sense of .... Pride? Satisfaction? Utter relief that that I never, ever have to run again!

Time most certainly is marching on and training is going very badly again. After the last 10.5 mile effort, you remember- when I was chased by a deer, ran further than anyone should in sub-zero temperatures and returned home to be locked out (oh, how I love running), it snowed. Then it froze. Slippy, slidey, icy paths are not for running on so frankly, I haven't bothered. And somehow a whole week disappeared beneath the ice.
Then last week we went on holiday to Cornwall. My trainers very much enjoyed their holiday and were reluctant to go out at all. I dragged them out for a 2.5mile trip along the cliffs and whilst I was absolutely prepared to run a further 8miles, my trainers refused to climb any more hills or clamber over inconvenient boulders and so they took me home. Damn those lazy trainers.

I certainly wasn't prepared to go for a run on my birthday. After all, birthdays are designed for cake and not running. Have I mentioned my love of cake before at all? My bottom is especially fond of cake it would seem as cake always finds a way to settle there. Lovely.

So, new decade, new start (when I typed that I initially missed the "s"- I quite fancy a new decade of tarts, I might even substitute the odd cake for a tart). Back to training tomorrow. Honest. But I'd better finish my birthday cake off first. Happy birthday me!

Next time: A year is a long time when it's without a best friend.

A renewed hatred for running

Right. Let's get one thing very clear (again). I hate running.

I hate running in the heat. I hate running in the wind. I hate running in the cold. I refuse to run in the snow.

I hate running 1 mile. I hate running 2 miles. I hate running 10miles. Fairly sure I'm going to hate running more than 10 miles but haven't actually experienced that torture yet.

I hate running slowly. I hate running fairly slowly. I can't run fast.

I hate the pre-run dread. I hate the during-run misery. I quite like being in the bath after a run but let's face it, going for a run is a not a mandatory pre-bath activity.

I hate the fact I haven't lost any weight for 3 weeks. I hate that I can't remember the last day that my legs didn't ache a bit, or even a lot. I hate the sight of me in my awful running leggings.

I hate the fast, skinny runners that sprint past me when I'm out dragging my feet behind me. I hate the amused walkers that chuckle at my luminous face. I hate the dogs that try to chase me.

I hate mud that makes me slip. I hate uneven paths that make me trip. I hate pavements that make my joints ache.

And I really, really, really despise hills.

I think we've got that clear.

I had to work five days this week (I know most people manage this every week but I'm now used to my slacker part-time hours) which in combination with evening meetings for Matt, a late finish for me and music practices has meant I've only done two runs. One was my usual 4 mile loop of the oh so picturesque streets of Aspley. The other was yesterday in minus 5 degree temperatures.

It should be illegal to run in temperatures that are sub-zero. 

I'd set myself the task of running between 9-10miles and with the forecast of snow on it's way I had to get on with it yesterday morning despite the freezing conditions. (Like I said, I ain't doing no running in that cold white stuff EVER. End of discussion.)

I set off and headed for Wollaton Park again. It really is very beautiful around there, especially with such a hard frost. Everything had a blue hue to it and was quite stunning. As I lumbered around the edge of the golf course, I bumped into these guys......

The locals

Can you see just how unbelievably cold it was?! It was so cold that it made the skin on my tummy sting beneath my clothes. It made my nose run (shame it didn't help my feet run) and my face burn. Also, no matter how far I run or how warm every other part of me is, my bottom is always absolutely freezing. Must be because it's so far behind me.

Incidentally, later on a group of deer came hurtling out of the woods I was running past and made me leap a meter in the air in fright. I stopped to watch, thought I'd better carry on running and then a smaller group ran towards me- literally a couple of meters away. For a brief moment I thought I might have to learn to run an awful lot quicker but happily they decided to re-join the rest of the herd.

Here's some more pics....

Deer chilling on the golf course

Frozen lake and Wollaton Hall



When I took the above photo, I thought I'd take a pic of me to prove my running presence. Seemed like a good idea at the time (any excuse to stop walking and pause for a minute....) but retrospectively, I can see that my hypoxic brain hadn't thought through the image of a make- up free, sweaty Lizzy but hey ho, here it is......

Not at my best it's fair to say!

So ultimately Saturday morning saw me run a total of 10.5 miles which is pretty huge for me. I say "run". I mean run/jog/walk a bit/feel sorely tempted by all the benches in the park for a short lie down. I haven't given in to the call of the bench yet but it's a tough one. Felt absolutely shattered at the end of it and arrived home to find I was locked out and the darling husband (?!) hadn't thought to leave a key hidden and wasn't answering his phone. Did I mention it was minus 5 on Saturday morning? MINUS 5! And locked out! It's fair to say that a few choice words were expressed by me to the sweetheart upon his arrival home. I believe it went something like this:

"Oh hello precious. I'm so pleased to see you. I do hope you've had a good morning. Oh, how I love running. I especially love huddling in the porch in approximately 40cm space waiting for you to arrive home. I love you. Shall I make you a cup of tea?"

Something like that anyway.


In other news, I became the very proud God-mother to Noah James Smith today. He's pretty cool. He doesn't run. Sensible boy.

Don't forget, you can sponsor me at: http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/longrunlizzy
You never know, maybe raising money in memory of Mark will help me hate running less? It's worth a try.....