When I Can Run Again....

To say I'm a bit grumpy this morning is an understatement.  Just told my cute, fluffy, saucer eyed cat to "fuck off" for meowing at me.  Doesn't help that we've woken up to a world where a cartoon character with an anus for a mouth is now supreme overlord of the U.S.  Also, my "lie in" comprised of 5 hours of sleep.  Cheers, body!

Oof, that was a more negative introduction than I set out to do.  Let me grab a coffee.

Right.  Start again.  Hello, world!  How's it hanging?  Yeah?  Good!  You may (or may not, I don't know your life, man..) have noticed that for a blog entitled Rebecca Writes and Runs, there's not been a whole lot of content about the plodding I love/hate so dearly.  Welp, after 2 years of essentially ignoring an intermittent "hurty foot", I've now got full blown plantar fasciitis (the medical term for when your heel decides it FUCKING HATES you and all that you stand for).  For the last 2 months or so, I've had to stop running altogether and have become very well acquainted with the rowing machine at my gym.  At least I've not had to stop working out completely. Could be worse.

Still.  Doesn't stop me from missing the crap out of flinging on some trainers, stepping out the door and panting like a pervert round the local pavements.  I really really miss the freedom of it.  You don't have to wait until a class starts or for the right weather conditions or time of day.  No one is telling you how much to do and how long for.  Unless you're a professional athlete.  In which case, probably best not to wing it...

In a world of obligations, you can just tune the fuck out and bimble about until you're sleepy/hungry/wanting to fall down.  When I spot runners in the street recently, I look at them in the same way that I look at waiters when they bring out other people's food first.

"Why can't that be for me?"

One very good thing that's come out of my temporary (thank you, sweet Jesus!) ban from running is that I now appreciate it in a way that I didn't before.  This post is essentially a giant "note to self" - things I promise to do once I'm able to terrorise the neighbours with my sweaty fringe and wheezing face once more.  Here is my pledge to running. 

*places one hand on chest, the other on John Bingham's Marathon Running for Mortals*

When I can run again, I solemnly swear to:

1. Recognise that running is a privilege and not a right.  It is not up to me, but my poor, abused body.

2. Make the effort never to complain again how slow I am.  It may look like I'm gnashing and gurning my way through a swimming pool full of treacle, but at least I'm moving.  Even if it's not clear to the naked eye that there is actually motion involved in what I'm doing.

3.  Stop worrying about how much distance I cover.  No one is going to chastise me for not covering the 10 miles I set out to do, just as much as no one will release party streamers, a marching band and a troupe of dancing bears into my garden upon my arrival home if I do.

4.  Respect my gammy, knackered feet by actually looking after them and not smacking them against concrete when they are especially ouchy.  That's what got me here in the first place.

5.  Try my best to avoid responding "yeah, but I'm rubbish!"  whenever someone politely asks "Oh, you're into running, are you?"  Running me is going way faster than injured and sulking on the sofa me is right now.  Running me doesn't feel the need to tell their pets to fuck off.

....Yep, I think 5 promises to the running Gods should suffice.

*Patiently waits for my foot to magically and immediately heal ("heel"...heh. I'm so tired)*

Praise be, Farrah, Radcliffe and Bingham.  Praise be.

All the Wrong

My mum found my stash this week.   Don't you just hate it when that happens?

Nothing as cool as drugs or porn.  She found my stash of old photos that I've hoarded since my teenage years, and I'm so happy she did.  They're terrible!  I'd be embarrassed if it wasn't tickling me so much.  Look at the state of this pasty creeper!

 

"No, I don't know who stole the last yogurt and no, I'm not wearing a tent made from recycled bagpipes!"

...Cool hair, bro.

Naturally, I fell into a nostalgia hole.  I assume this is like a K-hole, but you remember more at the end and have less dribble on your clothes.

I wish I could share all the contents of my special box (heh) with you in all its beautiful, spot-ridden, angst infused glory.  Because who doesn't like a spotty, angsty box?  Like most people, I have mixed feelings about The Hormone Years.  School wasn't exactly a weekday party of coolness and sports for me.  I was an intense, stressed out introvert who avoided most social scenarios that didn't involve a gallon of the old confidence lube (ew.  Beer. Why couldn't I just call it beer? What is wrong with me tonight?).  I know, I know. Stark contrast to the Beyonce-esque, swan-like creature I am today. 

By swan-like, I mean white and prone to hissing when threatened.  Legend has it I can break an arm if I flap hard enough.  

Has a swan ever actually managed to break someone's arm?  Someone Google it for me.  I'm too lazy to click one tab over.  

As I was reflecting (giggling) upon my past, I couldn't help but think about what I would say to Teenage Becky if I met her now.  Maybe I would tell her to stop worrying so much about what people think of her.  Perhaps I'd break the news that she would stop growing at the age of fourteen and have to hang off bars by her elbows to be served in some pubs in her twenties.  Mostly I think I'd tell her that she is an idiot and wrong about things.  SO many things.  Here are some of the things that Specialpants McHormones believed:

1.  Dying your hair several different colours in the space of a couple of a few weeks will make it look cool and awesome.  You won't try to dye your hair bright blue, accidentally turn it grey-green and have to spend 3 days obsessively trying to wash it out.  Nor will you give up on that and then dump a load of Hyper Value's finest black dye on top of it.  The result?  See below: 

Also: Chinese dragon T-shirts from Tammy Girl will always be cool.  Everyone will be wearing them in 2015. 

2.  Yep.  Everyone cares so much about you that they're noting your every profoundly uncool move.  They are in fact judging you and only you, and not at all just getting on with their own shiny new internal chemical shitstorms while you paralyse yourself with anxiety in the corner.  Good logicking, narcissist!

3.  NOBODY loves your bands as much as you and your friends do. NOBODY!!!! They don't know all the words!  They don't GET THEM like you do!  GAH!! So many feelings!  I Wanna Fuck a Dog in the Ass by Blink 182 is about SO MUCH MORE than just sexually violating a pet (spoiler: It's not)!

4.  This? Cracking idea.  You can totally pull it off!  Even if it is upside down and looking a bit infect-y.

 

Look, but you can't touch, boys...because it's sore and I think I saw pus.

 5.  Exercise sucks and I will lose ALL of the weight EVER by going on the Special K diet with my mum.  Eating sawdust and pretend fruit in milk for two out of three meals a day is much more sustainable and fun than going outside in trainers and moving a bit.  Ew.

6.  Always trust a van of hippies at your friend's illegal rave in her barn when they offer you shots.  You are drinking a delicious minty substance.  Not alcoholic, herbal viagra. 

7.  This is an excellent look.  Much mysterious.  So goth.

Deep thoughts can be had when you're in mesh sleeves.

8.  You and your first proper boyfriend need to be attached at the face at all times, otherwise no one will know how much you LOVE EACH OTHER AND NO ONE ELSE UNDERSTANDS ANYWAY, WHY HAVE I GOT NO SKIN LEFT ON MY CHIN HAS ANYONE SEEN MY CHIN SKIN?!  

...To cut her some slack, though, teenage me did get the occasional thing right:

1.  This lot will be in my life til we're all in adult diapers, poking each other on whatever the future equivalent of Facebook is from our respective care homes:

I'm the one donning the helmet made of static...

2.  It is possible to stick the big cookie in your mouth whole:

Never be defeated by the big cookie, people!

G'night! 

xxx

Come to the Wrong Side. We Have Cookies.

Oh my lawd.  It's the weekend.  Sort of.  I still have to work a teeny tiny pretend shift on Saturday, but I'm relieved to be seeing a chunk of leisure time on the horizon at least.  It's not been a bad week as such.  Just a never ending merry-go-round of minor, avoidable mishaps.  For about one week in every four, I'll have one of these stints where every boiling hot coffee I make ends up more on my knees than in my mouth, and I turn up to work only to realise that I've got my underwear on backwards.  Not inside out.  Backwards.  I knew I hadn't put a thong on this morning!  

Tomorrow, resident man-boy is going on a night out and I'm excited to have the house to myself.  On a Saturday night, I plan to sit in my PJ's on the sofa, (where am less likely to encounter corners and things that I can trip over) watching 500 Days of Summer despite the fact that I know it back to front.  Much like my pants.  

Realising that the above (500 Days and a night of heavenly hermitude, not wearing underwear wrong) is my idea of a glorious Saturday night surprises me.  Only two or three years ago, I would be necking JagerBombs in panic at even the idea of having to spend a weekend *gasp* indoors(!).  

People sometimes casually drop the idea of being "the wrong side of [insert age here]" into conversation, which is stupid, because how can any age be wrong unless you're terrible at counting? However, I'm recently starting to see a noticeable difference between pre and post 25 me.  I wouldn't say I'm on the "wrong" side of 25, but I'm certainly on the comfier one.  I am going to document some differences between pre and post 25 year old me, because post 25 year me likes documenting things and lists.  Excuse me while I push my invisible spectacles up my nose:

Hang Overs

Pre 25: Hits pubs at every available opportunity (i.e "night time"), soldiers on through work four hours after last "sesh" ended with a bit of a headache and maybe a slightly more intense craving for McDonalds chicken nuggets than normal.  Worth it.

Post 25:  Still suffering the after effects of one night out that happened several days ago.  No amount of burgers and milkshakes can appease her.  Hates everyone.  Is never drinking again.  Wants another milkshake.  GET HER A MILKSHAKE!

Sleep

Pre 25:  Can get by on a few hours.  Bit grumpy, but will live.

Post 25:  No one who dares cross her path after less than seven hours' sleep will live.  You have been warned.

Emotions

Pre 25:  "I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS THAT I EVEN HAVE MULTIPLE COMPLEX FEELINGS ABOUT THE FEELINGS!!!!!

.....FEELINGS!!!!!!!!" 

Post 25:  "Something doesn't feel quite right inside.  Must be hungry."

Exercise

Pre 25:  Considers "dancing" (i.e flapping arms higher in the air to music with each drink) enough to burn off excess energy.  Also lifting heavy bricks of cheese to face is excellent weight training.  With this much calcium intake combined with all the lifting, am never going to get osteoperosis.  Hurrah!

Post 26:  Requires daily sweat-fest of some variety in order not to go ferile.  Bit like a dog.  Requires regular walkies and enjoys finding out new stuff that can accomplish with own body all the time.  Still enjoys flappy-arm drunk dancing, but not as solid a staple to exercise routine as once was.  Mostly because has to wedge feet into silly high heels to carry out activity.  Heels are silly. Wants cheese brick.  Mmm, cheese brick.

 

Example of what body can accomplish #1:  Becky prepares to lift the moon.

Self Image

Pre 25:  Is convinced that own body is betraying self by visually screaming its own flaws in poor onlookers' faces.  Spends inordinate amount of time hoping that no one notices how many things are wrong with own appearance and that dying hair a different colour every month will help to achieve this.

Post 25:  More concerned with what body can do (marathon/lift stuff over own head/open  jars to unlock gherkins and chilli peppers) than how it looks.  Occasionally disturbed, but mostly just amused at how funny looking self can be from certain angles, but would feel weird if suddenly had perfectly symmetrical features and/or massive boobies.  Wouldn't be self.  Brain no longer fights with body most of the time.  Too old for that shit.

...I'm so mature and wise now.  If I could only learn how to dress myself and not share my beverages with my lower body, I'd be a fully fledged grown up.

Now, who moved my colouring book?  I've got some serious art to tackle.  Did you know they do colouring books for adults now?!  I didn't until just this week.  Adult colouring books take the title of July's Best Discovery!

Marathon Training Week 7/ SUGAR!!! OMIGOD, SUGAR!!!!

7 weeks in! Ermagerd, shit's getting really, REALLY real! I'm actually going to have to do this thing, aren't I?  Without much further ado, please observe a glorious week in which I followed my training plan to.  The.  Letter.  Oh.  My. Gawd (lookat. Her. Butt*):

Mon    Restful day of resting (so restful)
Tues   5 miles
Weds  Who am I to resist a-rest (haw haw)?
Thurs 3 miles & Crossfit, during which I learned I can now fling 25kg onto my shoulders easily! Rejoicing!
Fri     4 miles
Sat  Stag do/dancing at an Irish bar induced hang over. Rest day
Sun   Penultimate Run Like a Ninja & 14 MILES!!!

Furthest I have ever-ever-ever-ever run!  And it was enjoyable!  Ninja lesson of the day was about getting cadence (the optimum number of steps to take per second while running = approx 3, or 180 beats per minute).  I learned that as long as my feet hit that ideal 1-2-3 rhythm, I could control my speed by either zipping my ankles higher up my legs to go faster, or by keeping my feet close to the floor for a low 'n' slow pace.  The way I run has completely changed over the last few weeks; for the better.  Zero injuries, and thanks to more frequent walk breaks (still getting used to not berating myself for having to do this and accepting that it's a better method of running long distance for me), I'm remembering to enjoy myself.  Plus, I'm still weirdly faster the more often I let myself have walk breaks.  Maybe if I walk the marathon, I'll win? Haz I dun a logick?

My epically tanned and muscular calves after 14 fun solo miles, 

because after 14 miles, my face wasn't prepared to be photographed.

Cameras have yet to have red-face reduction as well as red eye.

Aaand this week's plan is all going to go to shit because I've signed up to my first ever obstacle course, which falls on a rest day (Saturday).  It's the Margam Invncbl run.  6 miles, 20-something obstacles and a whole heap o' mud!  Have discovered that there are electric shocks at one point along the course.  I may or may not be sitting in soiled pants as I type.  I HATE electric shocks!!  I get pissy enough when I get static shocks off of shopping trollies.  Keep an eye out for a 5ft3 She-Hulk on the news.  I don't know how rage-y more than a little static is likely to make me.  If I even do that part of the course.  But there is a medal and a t-shirt, so no backing out now.  I have a pretty new shiny to collect, G-D it!

Clicky here to laugh at what I'm going to be putting myself through on the day. 

Runnin' done for this post.  Main topic I'm going to cover today was brought on by a conversation I had with the osteopath I met through Outcast CrossFit and who is doing a damn good job of making sure I don't make any of my own limbs fall off from over use during training (Swansea Body Kinetics - Rosie Jones).  Turns out we are both frequent sugar giver-uppers/binge consumers.  My attitude to sweets/cakes/other delicious things that make my brain light up like a Catherine wheel is well summed up by a Mark Twain quote I saw somewhere about his smoking habits:

 “To cease smoking is the easiest thing I ever did. I ought to know because I’ve done it a thousand times.”

I give up sugary treats every single day I when I wake up. Granted, it's not a habit akin to smoking in the eyes of most (especially if you are smoking in the eyes of most.  People don't like that, apparently), but I really believe that my addiction to the sweet stuff is just as intense, and can be just as damaging to our health in the long term.  I've read enough about it** to know why I shouldn't be eating Maoams at every meal.  Some examples of what excessive amounts of sugar can do to you:

• Fatty liver
• Fat and triglycerides in the blood
• Visceral fat
• All of the above can contribute to heart disease
• Damages collagen (translates: makes you prematurely look like a well used handbag)
• Over time makes you increasingly resistant to insulin, causing you to be at higher risk for diabetes.

 My logical Cleverbrain knows that if I keep eating nutritionally void party foods on the daily, I am likely to become a diabetic thirty year old who looks like she should have a bus pass and is one trifle away from an Elvis style heart attack on the bog.  No person wants that for themselves.  Nope.  No quick rush of "weeh, this is nice!" is worth it.  Cleverbrain also knows that nice things happen when I give up sugary snacks, because it's helped me try do it enough times.  When I'm off the Devil's granules,

• I'm more awake because I'm not in a WEEEEE!...zzzz...AAAAGH!!!...zzzz....WEEEEH!! cycle of peaks and crashes in my alertness.
• I'm a nicer person to be around because I'm less crazy from the merry-go-round of energy levels and spiking emotions.
• My brain feels less foggy.  Probably because it's not filled with bits of Fruit Pastille.
• I get physically leaner very quickly. I'm not too bothered about my weight, but it is easier to do my runs without little functionless almost-saddlebags that I can't even carry my loose change in.

 Of course I'm always going to want sugar.  Because frankly, it's fucking delicious. But it does bug me that all of my reasoning and good intentions to give myself a better chance at carving myself an independent and healthy old age is ruined by Cleverbrain's nemisis, the evil Professor Shitforbrains, who frequently turns up in my mind like an obese, grabby-handed child with chocolate on its face going 

MORE!!!!! I NEED MORE SUGAR NOW OR NO MORE THOUGHTS ABOUT ANYTHING USEFUL OR NON EDIBLE FOR THE REST OF THE DAY! HAHAHAHA GIVE ME HARIBO OR DIE AN UNPRODUCTIVE DEATH!!!

I don't get it.  How have humans evolved to think for themselves, and at the same time be contantly overruled by destructive impulses "just because it's nice and I want it, I want it now!"?  I understand that in the grand scheme of things, my "problem" isn't a problem anywhere near the scale of those experienced by people suffering with genuinely life ruining habits, but it is something I've grappled with for years.

Rosie the Magical Osteopath (sorry, Rosie, I've made you sound like a character off Playdays!  Send Why Bird and Poppy the cat my regards) made the point that maybe the reason that sugar is so easy to binge on is exactly that.  There's no sudden danger or deterioration while you're "on" it, and no dramatic comedown to put you off having more.  The negative effects are more long term, silent and creeping, which is ominous enough, but nothing like the shock of seeing a picture of a burnt up lung on a packet of Lambert & Butler.

Maybe after the marathon, I'll set myself a project to ease my dependance on sugar out of my life.  For now, I just wanted to get the topic out of my head, because it's been bugging me for a while.

Apparently I have a comments doohicky on this thing that I seldom mention/use.  Let me know - is your consumption of sugar something that bugs you, too?  Or am I alone here under my pile of Drumsticks and Sherbert Dip Dabs?

Also phwoar.  Do Sherbert Dip Dabs still exist??

*Apologies if, like me, you now can't get Nicki Minaj's manic giggles out of your head from that surreal version of Baby Got Back she did either.  "EhhhhHAHAHAHAH!!!"

** Two really good reads to get you started if interested: That Sugar Book - Damon Gameau and Sweet Nothing - Nicole Mowbray

Marathon Training Week 5/ Thunder Chops Strikes Again

Welp, my long run day (better known to myself as "Are-we-there-yet?" Sunday) yesterday was a 50/50 mix of mirth and bitterness.  Woke up in a mood that would have put the shits up Voldemort

Disclaimer: Am not a massive fan of the Harry Potter franchise.  I just needed a villain at short notice, and I assume Voldemort is grumpy because he doesn't really have a nose.  Please don't tell me off if he is one of the cheerier baddies like the Joker.

I decided to be a good little ninja and run to my Run Like a Ninja course, but instead, I punched four miles through weather conditions best described as "fuck no!" Also, very nearly got shat on by three birds that decided to drop their guts from above in oddly impressive synchronicity next to me.  My hamstrings were stiff, I had a face like thunder and my brain felt like it had the consistency of chewed-up pudding.  

After some sage advice from someone who recognised that I was suffering from a severe case of Thunder Chops that a few good miles is much better than loads of horrible, struggly ones, I bravely went home and filled my face with snacks instead of facing the extra eight miles I had left to make up the twelve that my training plan required.  Feeling much more human as a result, and am able to look back at the week I had and notice that pretty much every decision I made was the decision of dipshit.  This is what my week looked like:

Mon     CrossFit. Should have been a rest day.
Tues    Rest day.  Should have been 4 miles, but my legs were screaming profanities at me because of previous night's activities (squats, sprinting etc)
Weds   Rest day
Thurs  3 miles
Fri        4 miles
Sat       More squat-heavy CrossFit, because Monday's error in judgement taught me sweet F.A
Sun      4 bitter, rage-fueled miles followed by Run Like a Ninja, snacks and self pity

Not a pretty week!  On top of merrily flicking the Vs at my training plan, I also ate lots of nutritionally void blocks of food-shaped sugar, and didn't give myself the extra sleep needed for recovery. D'oh.  

Lessons learned:

• Training plans are for FOLLOWING, not eating biscuits over.
•  You can have your cake and eat it, but you can do bugger all else afterwards.
•  For the love of God woman, sleep!!

 I have a lot of epiphanies, but the do get a bit samey sometimes.  Sort it out, brain.
 

Yesterday evening made up for the daytime anyhow.  Especially after the hour long coma I let myself fall into the moment I set foot back inside my house.  Woke up in bed in my bra and pants with no clue how I'd got myself there.  It was marvelous!  

Went to see the beautiful super brain that is Dylan Moran in the night;  The comedy figure that taught me as a teenager that you can intensely fancy someone based solely on the way that they speak.  

Apart from the fact that I was seated near someone whose body odour reminded me of Quavers and feet (pisses me off that you can ask someone to be quiet in a crowded environment like that, but not to stop attacking your olfactory receptors.  "Please stop smelling like bins, I'm trying to enjoy myself!"),  I had a brilliant night.  The show flew by, and I left the building looking like that Emoji with the tears running down its face.  His climactic joke was his own homage to 50 Shades of Grey in which a man with a cleft palate and a duffel coat is sexually accosted by a mad lady hiding in his bathroom.  Steamy stuff.

I thought that today's list-y thing would tie in nicely with the kind of day I had/the type of comedy I got to watch.  *Clears throat*

10 Little Things that Piss Me Off More Than They Probably Should

1.  People who smell badly for no good (medical or otherwise) reason other than they don't wash.  As a creepy sniffer of things with quite a sensitive, pointy nose, I hate nothing more than having my senses invaded by eggy/Quavery/Dead animal-y smelling individuals.  

2.  People who ask questions and then don't listen to the answer/talk over it.  Hypocritical one, because I'm guilty of this.

3.  5 pence pieces.  They are too small and silly to be respected as currency.

4.  My total inability to read and listen to music at the same time.  It looks so relaxing when they do it on the telly!

5.  Noises  I can't control e.g my keys clanking in my pocket, or my bra doing that horrible, squeaky thing.

6.  Bad grammar/spelling.  But I love these videos!   

Jacksfilms - Your Grammar Sucks

7.  Facebook/Twitter/My iPhone and how I need to be constantly looking at all of the above.

8.   My own innate laziness that I have to do battle with every day to not turn into an unproductive human potato.  Every day I walk a fine line between functioning person out in real world and person shaped pile of mash on sofa. Mmm.  Mash.

9.  The back of other people's heads.  I don't think I've ever had a clear view of an entire gig before.  I know that the vast majority of adult humans can't help by be taller than my 5ft 2 or 3 (pretty sure am shrinking too), but I'm sure I will one day set someone's hair on fire with the intensity of my glare.

10.  Having to travel home from anywhere.  In this day and age, why haven't we invented teleportation yet?

I'll leave you with those heart warming thoughts as I go sit in a rain streaked window and glare into a cup of tea. If I failed to spread good cheer, you can watch the following video by the ture master of all things grump about how you should give your potential a wide berth.  Happy Monday!

Dylan Moran on potential from his brilliant DVD Monster

 

It'll Be Alright On The Night(time run)

Firstly, I'd like to blame my absence entirely on Netflix.  Thanks to American Horror Story, I am now completely desensitized to gore.  I don't think I'd bat an eyelid if one of my limbs just decided to drop off and spurt blood all over the walls, Phoebe off of Friends stylee. Example:

Also, I have finally decided who I want to be when I grow up.  Jessica Lange.  I don't even care if her identity's already been taken - she is a bad ass.  

While we're on the topic of bad-assery, this week, I joined a group of runners from my local running club in a nighttime run through some woods for the first time.  Loved it!  This bunch of speedsters regularly seek out hills on Wednesday nights by strapping on some flourescent gear and trekking up towards the mountains. Nutters. 

On our run, I saw some cool, out-of -the-way houses and ruins, ran alongside what seemed to be Wales' loudest river, and chugged up some inclines like the stumpy-legged steam train that I secretly knew I was.  Choo choo! 

There was something really enjoyable about not being able to see much further than an arm's length in front of me.  Usually, as I start to get tired, I can get in the habit of staring balefully the horizon and inwardly lamenting how far I have left to go. When you can see naff all ahead, this isn't an option.  Not a bad thing!  The time flew by.

If you get the opportunity to sling on your trainers and go on a nighttime adventure (with company! There's no fun in accidentally falling over if you don't have witnesses to laugh at/with you... and maybe help you up), then take it!  It's an experience.  Plus, you'll have an excuse to buy a head torch, which means you can Snapchat lots of pictures of your face lit up at weird angles to freak your sister out....

N'much more to report than that this week.  It's hard to get much shit done when you're on a Netflix spiral.  I'm definitely not in Kansas anymore.

Later, gaters!







....Don't ever let me say that again.

Laugh And A Half

Not told you yet, have I?

Last Sunday, I gone and done an 'alf. The Llanelli 'alf to be precise.  My second ever half marathon.  And seeing as I didn't post much more than "yaaay, shiny medal!" (Picture of shiny medal to follow, though. It is shiny. And BIG!) following the popping of my half marathon cherry in Cardiff last year, I though I'd write up an actual account of the day itself this time. No longer a virgin, quaking in my too-clean-to-have-been-used-enough running trainers, I'm glad I have prior experience to compare this weekend to.

As you know by now, I can only seem to communicate in lists.  I would think of so e reasons for this, but that would be another list waiting to happen.

So, behold a list of what the differences were between my first and second half marathons (I can't believe I've come far enough to have done TWO half marathons!! *squee!!!* XD)

1. Company

In Cardiff, I tagged along with an actual bus load of proper runners from a proper running club.  In Llanelli, I ran as a proper runner with a proper running club.  This is true - I have a membership card to prove   it, honest!  I have to be proper if I have a card.  Cards make things proper.  I might get them to give me a badge too, just incase people don't believe me.

The support Run 4 All mustered up was awesome.  They put up flags and some non participating runners clapped and cheered the rest of the pack on from the sidelines.  I also heard there was cake at some point too. I was either too slow to get cake, or it was all a just cruel joke to get everyone to Llanelli at 9am on a Sunday morning.

As a runner who likes to sit comfortably at the "jogging like you're crossing the road" end of the speed spectrum, I was doubly blessed because as all the faster Run 4 Allers doubled back round, I had lots of people to wave and grin at.  I was so excited that I totally missed the irony in the fact that their "well done"s were being aimed at someone who hadn't even got to where they were some half an hour ago yet.

I've said it before.  Probably:

 If you run, or want to run, no matter how slow you are,

JOIN A RUNNING CLUB, FOOL! You're missing out on loads of motivation and support if you don't!

As well as the club, I had a James, who, in running his first marathon, displayed every single bout of anger and hopelessness (followed by ecstatic elation) that I'd felt in Cardiff, and on exactly the same mile markers at which I'd felt those ways.  Both bizzarre and entertaining.  Favourite moments include:

"Three miles already! This is going to be okay!"

"Are we half way yet?"

"Why the FUCK aren't we at mile 10 yet?!"

And 

"I'm NEVER running again."

Then

"That was quite good, wasn't it?"  

Running with The Incredible Hulk made time pass quite nicely.  Didn't know my friend had so much fury to tap into under that calm and friendly surface.  Distance running brings out new sides to everyone.  If the event photos are anything to go by, my persona for the day must've been "overjoyed to be on day release".  Thumbs and grins everywhere. I don't think I blinked for five miles.

2. COLD

Cardiff:  sunshiny sunshine in the city.

Llanelli: pretty coastal path, icy wind and sideways rain.  Spent twenty minutes or so (I wish I was exaggerating) trying to slap and drag my jacket zip up my body to close it because my thumbs refused to work in such conditions.

You'll be pleased to know. I did manage to close it.

Just as the rain stopped.

3. Sprint start, Sprint Finish

Anyone who's run a distance in any race is familiar with the weird burst of energy you get when approaching the finish line, even if one of your legs have fallen off and you're dragging your arse along the floor just to keep moving so the Hell can be over with sooner.  After thirteen miles of gentle but eventually painful plodding, James and I galloped our way to victory along with everyone else crossing the finish line.

More unusually, we also galloped to the start line.  In a world turning upside down kind of event, James ended up in a half hour long men's room queue, while I had enough time to complete two whole panic wees.  

I'd already watched several men leg it out of the loos, and helped zip a smurf into a blue morph suit when James was eventually freed, and we managed to sprint to the start line just in time to tag on the the back as it moved forward.  

Fully believe I need an extra medal for the extra little bit we ran.  I'd be happy with just a small one. I could put it on the cat.

4.  =)

My goal for Cardiff was to just get round, preferably without walking. I got round, but at mile 9, I had to walk.  My body wouldn't accept any argument.    And then I had to walk intermittently til the end.  I'd underestimated how much that distance would grind on my joints and on my mental energy.  For five miles, my brain tantrummed, screamed and bawled until it was over.   I looked to so tired at about mile 11 that a nice, probably psychic lady made me eat some of her Haribo because "you look like you need it."

I loved the experience, but sweet baby Jeebus, did it take a lot out of me.

Llanelli's goal? Slow down and enjoy.  And I did. I knew I'd get around.  I knew that if I slowed down to a pace that even a tortoise on ketamine would call leisurely, I could get more comfortable and happy mileage out of my brain and legs.  It worked! I did the whole thing in 2hrs35 mins and 18secs.... Not the speed of champions, BUT, I was three whole minutes faster that Cardiff, and didn't need to stop to walk. Not even once! And I did it all with a big, fat smile on my chops!

Running is my hobby.  Why kill myself over a race I'm never going to win?  Might as well enjoy and just accept that the mile markers will come in their own time. All I had to do was keep moving.

It also helped that for most of the race, I was behind two women dressed as the Mario Brothers.  How can you not keep bouncing along with that theme song in your head?

Do. Do. Do.

Do do do do. 

do do do DO do do do do do do...

Etc.

MEDULZ!!!

Also HAT!!

Ooh, I love free goodies!!!

Let's Take This Outside...or...Why I Hate The Gym

Been a bit sluggish on the post front lately.  Apologies.  I fully blame my sister for introducing me to Girls (TV series, not potential same-sex mates).  My need for this programme is so all-encompassing that I just watched a full episode in between writing this sentence and the one before it.  I cannot be helped.

Sorry, another one happened.  

What was I going to write about?  

Oh, yeah. I went to the gym this week! *muffled fanfare*  

I hated it.  HATED it.  You know when once in a while, you go to an old haunt you frequented in your teen years because it was the only place in town that served booze to minors?  

Yeah, you doooo, don't give me that!  

Well, the gym reminded me of that kind of nostalgia.  You think it'll be fun.  That because you enjoyed it sooo much when you used to go there (at least you think you enjoyed it, otherwise why did you spend every weekend there?), then why don't you still go there now? 

And then you go.  And then you remember why you don't go there now.

Reason I went was because it was especially crappy outdoors, and I had ten miles that needed bashing out at some point this week.  Plus, I'd started my annual weighing up of the pros and cons about getting a membership for doing that cross training thing that I've heard so much about.  

Now, I don't want to offend any gym worshipers - I appreciate that the gym is a haven for many, and a social hub, and I admire your dedication and willpower for going regularly, but Christ, I found it frustrating to be there!  

I went along with a friend who had the same mileage to do.  For the duration of our visit, he happily bounced the miles away on the treadmill, whereas I rage-quit after half an hour (an impressive feat for me - I wanted to break the machine apart with my bare hands after ten minutes), and then half heartedly played on some machines I'm not even sure that I used correctly.

Aforementioned friend found me two hours later, sadly pedaling away on a stationary bike and starting listlessly into my Kindle.

Karl Pilkington - The Moaning Of Life, if interested.

I want to leave myself a list of reasons here of why I hate the gym, so I can avoid further bouts of murder-rage should I begin to entertain the idea of signing up again.  

So. 

 Dear future Becky:

1.  Repeatedly doing the same movement over and over whilst not going ANYWHERE makes your body angry with you, the world and everybody in it.  YOU ARE NOT A HAMSTER.  You do not require a hamster wheel.

2.  People don't like it when you start watching them because you are not moving ANYWHERE and therefore have no scenery to take in.  They do not understand that the reason behind your stares is that you want something, anything to look at that's not a wall or a frosted window.  They think you are judging them/ogling their goodies. 

3.  You don't know how 90% of the machines work.  And yes, you do look like a knob trying to figure it out just because you're too much of a proud wussy to ask the nice staff.  That thing you used to make your arms hurt a bit?  Probably for toning your butt, or face, or something.  Just give up.

4.  It frustrates and irritates you that you have zero control over what music they play in there and that every music video that matches the songs on the TV screens boasts body shapes that you will never obtain, even if you lived in the gym and lived off protein shakes and awesomeness for the whole year.  Even if you lost all of your body fat and got hair extensions, you still won't be Iggy Azalea (sp?!), because you are five foot three and she has at least sixteen feet's worth of legs... Measurement feet, not actual.  Although exotic, Iggy Azalea is not many legged spider creature.

5.  The weights area will always terrify you.  You will hover around its boundaries, wimp out, and then stare wistfully at it as you sadly toil away on the rowing machine until the clicking in your knees drives you mental.

There.  Hopefully that will save future me some time and money.  

Went for a ten miler today in weather ten times worse than what it was on the fateful gym night.  

The wind was howling, the sky was grey and it intermittently hailed and rained.  My feet kept feeling like they were being blown out from underneath me.  I had to actually climb over a fallen tree to keep going along the route I'd chosen, and several people made a point of pointing out how deranged I was for bimbling around in it.  

And I LOVED it!  A normal long run became an obstacle course, and because I was unsure of my footing, splashing through puddles (weee!), and had to keep an eye out on where my feet were landing, the time flew.  And I even got some extra distance in when my hat blew away a couple of times.

And that's another thing.  This was the first run I've ever worn a hat during - It was a revelation!  I had no idea that being buffeted in the face by rainwater and hail was optional.  Hurrah for peaked hats!

I know everyone's different, and they enjoy to exercise (or not - that's okay too.  I love a sofa as much as, if not more than anyone.  S'up, sofa surfers! *poorly executed gang sign*) in a way uniquely preferable to them.  And I reckon it's not until you try something that you hate with so much fervor that it actually gives you energy that you figure out what it is that you really, really like doing.  And I really, really like putting my stretchy pants on and lolloping off out the door and pounding the pavements, whatever the weather.  

Bring it on, wind! I don't fear you anymore!!




.....I really hope that someone skim reading this post doesn't think it's about my heroic conquering of flatulence.  That's another post entirely.

Potato Guts & Stupid Ideas: Just Another Sunday

Hang on a sec while I adjust my seating position.  I think I have a roast potato somewhere in my ribcage.

That's what it feels like anyhow.  After a week of mindful, albeit constant eating where I've been eating smaller amounts of good stuff all day long (and therefore in my mind, eating more overall - so is obviously better.  More eats = more happies), I've just returned from a pretty epic-sized Sunday dinner at A's parents' house.  

Not wanting to be an impolite guest, I threw as much as I could down my gullet.  All the lovely greens and spuds and meats.  And now my guts want me dead. I feel like I'm in a pivotal scene from Alien.  I didn't think of the social consequences of my new choices.

I've even been told that the lack of ever-present Haribo in my face hole is weirdly un-me.  Illogically, I fear that my new found reduction in interest of sugar has made me dull.  Like a likeable quirk has been sloughed away by my "boring" attempts to better my health.

Which anyone with half a brain would say was pretty fucking stupid.  No one is going to stop returning my texts because I don't feel like getting a Cornetto as often as I would have before.  

*squeak* I hope.

I'm still Spartan-ing on nicely.  Just taken my body out for walkies because after yesterday's Parkrun, my hips decided they hated me.  It felt like really severe growing pains.  But I doubt that I've got much growing left to do at almost-26. 

I did my first nine miler in ages on Wednesday with a friend who's also training for the Llanelli Half in March, and was overjoyed to feel totally fine over the following two days.  Turns out, it just took Saturday's Parkrun for my body to wake up and go 

"Oh, yeah, I forgot - anything over six miles hurts Becky.  Let's ruin her whole night's sleep and the last episode of Dexter for her by convincing her she has sudden onset arthritis!"

For the record - The last episode of Dexter didn't need any help in being ruined.  It made me want to cry anger tears.  Bastards.

Rest of weekend has comprised of devouring another e-book, for I am poor, and paupers spend their weekends indoors and hiding in books.  

To be totally honest, I think I'm starting to prefer my new routine of parkrun -> family -> geeky time - > box sets on sofa to sit around, waiting for people and drinks -> DRINKING!!! -> "I'm not too drunk, I just have so many EMOTIONS!! -> "ow, my head. Fuck my life."  -> MCDONALDS, NOW!!! -> nap until Monday.

I'm either maturing or taking the fast lane to Hermit Town, population: Becky and cat(s).

Anyway, the book was called

Onward! The Absolute, No B.S., Raw, Ridiculous Soul-Stirring Truth About Training For Your First Marathon - By Brook  Kreder

I read it because a little worm of insanity has chewed into my brain and is trying to convince me that either next year or the following one (giving myself a little wiggle room just in case I pussy out next year)... that I might like to run a marathon.

 Maybe.  

At the minute, even though I've done a half marathon once, I still find even 13.1 miles daunting .  It left me in shreds last year, but the sense of personal achievement was like nothing I've ever experienced.  I can't even picture how my body would allow me to even walk twice that distance, let alone run it.  But part of me keeps thinking - if I felt euphoric after 13.1 miles, perhaps I might sprout wings and take to the sky with the flying pigs out of the sheer awesomeness of what I've done after 26.2! 

 Plus, I am hooked on reading books about people accomplishing their first marathons.  Alexandra Heminsley is my absolute hero, and I guarantee that if you read her book Running Like a Girl , you will not be able to put it down.  She's down to earth, funny and honest about her experiences.  

Another good one is Muireann Carey-Campbell's Be Pretty On Rest Days . The Brook Kreder one I read this weekend was okay.  An alright read if you can get around the fact that, although she has an admirably foul mouth, Kreder keeps using asterixes on every f******* swear word, which drives you a little bit f****** mental after a few pages.

F*ck that sh*t,man! If you're gonna swear, just f******* swear!

Point is - I've loved reading along with other bloggers and writers' personal journeys and feel like I've run right alongside them with no physical consequences and a cup of tea, but I think I want a real-life go now.  

I want to have something as awesome as a marathon in my list of achievements.  It's rare that you meet a person who has run one marathon only.  From what I've read, training for one seems to have the capacity to drastically change who and what you are for the better.

But it also sounds pretty fucking terrifying and horrible, and I enjoy having toenails. 

Still, I reckon I want in on the action.  I want something that ballsy and impressive to document on here too.  I want to show people like right-now me that it's do-able. 

Until then, here are some super exciting pictures from my Spartan week involving a 9 mile run, some swimming, and lots of walks during which I shuffle around the block worrying about how suspicious I look walking around outside without a dog in tow:

p.s Hi to any readers from Run 4 All, Neath who responded to my shameless spamming on Facebook!  I damn near pee'd my pants when I saw how much my blog views jumped up by last night!

p.p.s While I'm recommending books, another good one I've just remembered is Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.  For someone who runs a paltry eleven and a half minute mile on most runs, I certainly read a lot about running! Hoping that I'll magically catch a case of 'proper runner' off of the pages.