To Do or Not To Do

Writing this blog is very difficult for me.  

Not because I'm about to broach a sensitive topic.  Nor am I physically incapacitated.  Unless you count being severely creeped out by an ice cream van playing the most terrifying melody known to man (Greensleeves) on repeat as it does loops of the neighbourhood as incapacitation.  I hope that if he does try to kill me, I'll at least get a Fab lolly out of it.

My conundrum is that I've had the house to myself for the whole weekend.  A has gone to a stag do in Geordie Land (Newcastle, not a theme park where Mickey and Minnie Mouse have been replaced by Ant and Dec... But I would go to that theme park), leaving me do what I do best when I have more than a couple of hours alone:  Panic about not making the most of it by being at a perfect, unachievable combination of productive and relaxed.  To conquer the free time crazies, I wrote myself a sort of To Do list.  Because that's what cool people do:

 

This list is precisely why writing this is so difficult.  Free time plus listy thing should equal calm Becky.  Instead, two opposing trains of thought in my brain are now clashing:

• The one that wants a pat on the back and a cookie for completing said list.
• The one that thinks list is bullshit, because this is my time off, and I shouldn't have to do anything!!  Not even writing this stupid blog, because that's still doing something!!!

So...what do I do in response to my warring mental faculties?  I procrastinate of course! And I half ass more or less everything by using flawed logic to get out of it.  Thought I'd give you a lowdown of what went down on my super cool, not-at-all worrisome weekend home alone to give you an idea.  Am like Macauley Culkin (spelling?!) with boobs.  Sort of.  That's a mental image to give you nightmares, isn't it?

CrossFit
Done, dusted and kicked it in the arse!  Or I was kicked in the arse...Both?  Even went to an impromptu extra open gym session today, where they let a few of us in to play with big tyres for a while.  After several failed attempts, I managed to flip the big bugger!  So far, so good.

Long run 
To my credit, did a run.  By "long", I did have about 8 to 10 miles in mind, what with the upcoming Cardiff Half in October.  I did 6 and a bit and called it a day because there was a two mile stretch of hills at the end.  Each hill adds on an extra two miles, right?  Dubious reasoning aside, I did really enjoy this run.  I tried for the first time to keep within a comfy heart rate zone thanks to my Fitbit Charge HR, and it was blooming magical!  Didn't worry about my speed or lack thereof even once, and only needed to stop moving when I needed to avoid being squashed by cars.

Go see mum - there'll be cake
Mum's birthday yesterday.  There was cake.  There was also a doggy bag of leftover chilli and crispy bread rolls.  Happy mum's birthday to me! Also happy birthday to mum, who is likely to be sat in a foodless kitchen as we speak.  Standard protocol for one of my raids visits.

Avoid spending money
Walked in a daze around Tesco after open gym.  Wanted a sandwich, came out with coat hangers, bath salts (because I'm eighty now?) and a whole bunch of other shit that I don't need. Regretting not getting this, though:

"Yolo hair and body wash - for bathers that don't give a fuck!"

Scuse the grubby hands.  I may never wash my hands after flipping the Big Bugger (Heehee. New euphemism?)

Watch films that Andy won't

This translated as getting more pissed than anticipated on two teeny glasses of wine in front of Bridesmaids/The newer Hunger Games one and idly stroking the cat with an issue of Glamour Magazine on my lap.  Apparently when I'm home on my own, I morph into Bridget Jones.  All that's left for me to do this afternoon is get into my pyjamas (*cough* remain in my pyjamas) and lip synch ballads into what's left of my wine.  Ooh, I haven't watched Bridget Jones for a while, have I...?   

Sort out stuff for jury duty (food)

Doing jury service for the first time tomorrow.  Excited as it'll be a new experience for me, but concerned that there will not be ample feeding intervals.  Handbag apples and wads of cheese oatcakes it is, then.  Mmm, transportable food.

Clean house

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.... heee.  *slaps knee*

Write something fictional

Have decided that to do list is inaccurate enough to be considered a work of fiction.  Good job, Becky!  Excellent weekending!

 

In a Minute Now: Growing Up in Wales

My mother sat me down as a child and shared something with me:

"Becky, we found you in a bin and decided to keep you."

She also strapped me in my pushchair with a loaf of bread and pissed herself laughing as the ducks swarmed towards me while I screamed (I can't have been too bright a kid.  Upon reflection, I should have just lobbed the bread away from myself), but her questionable sense of humour is beside the point today.  I think she might have been right about the bin thing.

I sound nothing like any of my family members.  Dad was a moustachio'd scouser (is there any other kind?), Mum and the youngest sis have strong Welsh accents, and even the middle sis, who is only two years my junior, has a hint of a Welsh twang in there, even if it is only a subtle one.

I, however, sound like I've just come from a Victorian tea party, which prompts the question

"So...Where are you from, exactly?" or, from those more rude and/or drunk 

"You're not from around here, are you?"

The answers are Wales and yes, shut up!  I've lived here for twenty odd of my twenty seven years.  Before that, I was an army brat living in Germany, but the vast majority of my memories are here, as well as half of my family, who give me biscuits and tea when I visit so I ain't going nowhere!  I belong in this sheep strewn patch of green as much as anyone who was born here.  I loves it, I do.  I have no idea why in two decades my accent's not even remotely deviated from that of a BBC newsreader, but I'm proud to have been brought up here.  Hell, my first name even featured heavily in an infamous welsh riot masterminded by cross dressing locals (see: BBC Wales History - The Rebecca Riots) !

I love Wales' industrial history and its deep roots in art, literature and music (Dylan Thomas may have been a roaring drunk, but that bastard was a clever roaring drunk!), and I love the fact that even if you are in a city, everywhere still has that local feel.  I live in Swansea right now, and my favourite thing about it is that even though it's a city (albeit a baby one), you can always find refuge in the greenery of lakes and trails when you're out running.  Oh!  And I'm seldom further than twenty minutes from a beach!  Not bad, eh?

So..thought I'd use today's post to share with you some things I've learned growing up in South West Wales.  Here goes:

1.  The smaller the town you grow up in, the less need there is for surnames.  My hometown is called Penygroes, which translates to "top of the cross".  Probably because there are more churches than actual families there, which meant that everyone was named by their neighbours after where they worked.  Pete the Petrol Station, So-and-so the Shop.  And so on.  Don't think it works as well these days.  Becky the Call Centre doesn't quite have the same twee feel to it.  Becky the Blog does, though... Might have to pedal that one and see if it sticks.  Sounds a bit too much like "blob", though...Hmm.

2.  Rissoles are a delicious treat from the chippy, and not balls of offal in breadcrumbs (or "lips, arse and teeth" and I heard someone say not-so-inaccurately once).  So much so that my local nightclub served them alongside burgers at the end of the night.  It's been a while since I've gleefully torn into a glob of questionable "meats" at 3am.  I miss that nightclub.

3.  "Butt" is a term of endearment and not just another way for someone to call you an arse.

4.  It is an important tradition to dress your children in old timey Welsh ladies' and men's clothing once a year on St David's day.  You  might think it's cute to see your offspring in a little bonnet and pinny, but I remember what a whole day dressed in fabric made from Satan's beard felt like.  It felt itchy.  And hot.  However, I ever choose to replicate my genes, I know for a fact that I was inflict this on the poor sod too.  "Ahh, look!  You look like a tiny adult!  Stop scratching and smile for the camera - it's not that itchy!"

5.  It is also tradition on this date to eat cawl.  (Pronounced "cowl") - a watery soup made from what tastes like salty water and moist, soft vegetables. Mmmmmm.  Okay, maybe I'm not as Welsh as I'd like to be.  Can't stand the stuff.  It's like drinking armpit water with lumps in.

6.  The Welsh language is the best.  The alphabet is all kinds of fucked up.  We have all the English letters... A, B, C...etc... but this isn't good enough on its own.  How to we make an alphabet our own?  I know!  Let's throw in a handful of extra letters, to trip the foreigners up!  Here we go.  How about... A, B, C, Ch, D, Dd, E, F, Ff, G, Ng, H, I, J.... I never liked K, can we get rid of that one?  Cool...L, Ll, M... etc.  Language is much more colourful, but try and sing that one to the alphabet tune and someone might have to gently guide you to a corner and quietly sit you down with a snack so you don't strain yourself too much.

Here are some words I like:

• Pili pala (pill-lee-pah-la) - Butterfly
• Popty ping (pop-tee-ping) - Microwave
• Guto Ffowc (git-oh-folk) - Guy Fawkes (I love this one.  When I learned it, my mum, who isn't a Welsh speaker, thought I'd made it up and was just using it to say mild swear words)
• Cacen (Cack-en) - Cake (same reason as above.  "Haha, I get to say "cack" and no one can tell me off!)
• Coch (Co...spit all over everyone making a noise I can't write down phonetically) - Red

7.  There is no sense of urgency in Wales.  Everything is done "In a minute now."  So, now, then?  Or in a minute?  "I said I'd do it!  In a minute now!" 

8.  You cannot move for castles.  If you go on a school trip, you go to a castle.  Fancy a walk?  Let's go to a castle!

My house

9.  No flag can top ours.  We have a mother lovin' dragon on it.  Anyone care to claim their design is cooler than that?  Anyone else got a badass red DRAGON?  No?  Didn't think so.

10.  Wales is effing gorgeous.  This next picture is just a generic view from the area I went to comprehensive school in, taken on my phone.  In South West Wales, this kind of view is standard:

My garden

Sudden urge to go outdoors now.  No idea why.  I think I'll leave my list there and get my shoes on.  Hwyl fawr, pawb! Cymru am byth! =)

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!

Pros & Cons of Being an Introvert

Whoops.  Been a little while since I wrote a thing, hasn't it?  My bad!  In all honesty, I've struggled to think of something to write about that doesn't involve clocking up mileage in my trainers.  In the last couple of weeks, I've gone crawling back to CrossFit (SO happy to get back to it!) and have discovered that I'm almost back at square one when it comes to upper body strength, which is fine.  Means I get to go back almost to newbie status where every minor improvement I make blows my tiny little mind.  

Miraculously, I have a Monday off work today - insert smug and gloaty comment here - so I've decided that now is the time to hop back aboard the blog train.  Choo choo!  Still struggling to think of something of actual interest to blog about, so I'm going to do the next best thing and write about myself.  When in doubt... thinly veiled narcissism!  Hurrah!!

So...me!

I am a keen devourer of anything remotely touching on psychology, especially if it has self help-esque undertones in it.  Think Bridget Jones, if she was drawn in by dubiously sourced percentages and stats.  I enjoy reading about personality types, even though I do have enough brain cells to realise that a lot of it needs to be taken with a pizza-load of salt, let alone a grain.  Said brain cells may be lying dormant, tucked somewhere behind my ears, but they are there nonetheless.  

There are a billion and twelve different categories you can fall into in the murky world of personality testing, but I'm going to touch on one of the big two - introvert and extrovert.  After much extensive reading and reflection (internetting and reading pop psychology books like the true psychologist I am), I have determined that I am the former.  Introverts aren't necessarily just quiet and/or shy.  Although on the sliding scale of social ineptitude, I often lean towards the "cat stole, devoured and pooped out your tongue" end, given the right combination of familiarity/excitement/being in comfort zone (drunk.  Being the right amount of drunk), I can be a tough one to shut up once I get going.  Where you are in terms of being an introvert or extrovert is on a spectrum, but from what I gather, introverts:

• Internalise much of what happens to them (check)
• Express themselves better in writing than verbally (check?  I haz the words good?)
• More energised by time alone than social occasions (went to a brilliant wedding this weekend, booked the Monday immediately after it off to hide in my house eating cheese toasties away from humankind.  Case in point)
• Especially chatty internal monologue (shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!)
• Sensitive and shit.

All of the above applies to yours truly.  Now that I have decided what I am (sadly, dinosaur wasn't an option.  Or unicorn warrior princess), I must be an expert in introvert...ism(?), so I am like, totally qualified to dole out some information about what it's like to be an introvert for those who aren't or are unsure of which camp they should be pitching their tents in.  Ahem...

Pros and Cons of Being an Intovert

Heehee, I love Cyanide and Happiness.  Click here for more funnies - http://explosm.net/

Pro:  When people have decided that you're one of "the quiet ones", anything you do that isn't avoiding eye contact and hiding in the office fridge from human interaction is mightily impressive, considering how you're so shy and all.  "Oh, my God, guys, she told a joke!  Let's all laugh uproariously to show her how brave she is!"

Con:  Sometimes people don't expect you to be able to handle as much as you can i.e confrontation, responsibilities etc etc.  They are forgetting that we are prepared for every single fathomable outcome of every situation because we have already over thought them all.  Raptor attacks included.  Is chatty Bill from accounts prepared for raptor attacks?  No?  Didn't think so.

Pro:  It is so easy to entertain yourself! Days off work are gold dust.  The less I have planned, the better.  I shit you not - after a busy week at work, I like nothing better than having twenty minutes to sit alone in the living room with the TV off.  Who needs recreational drugs when you have stifling quiet, solitude and snacks?  I think that part of my affection for long distance running is that I get to spend ages just being.  It's easy to appreciate the little things in life when you get off on just being alive at any given point in time.  We're a cheap date in the long night out that is life!

Con:  Whenever an introvert is having a quiet day, it usually means that there's a full on brass band/fireworks display/Rammstein concert of an inner monologue going on in their brain.  Not necessarily always negative thoughts as such, but always, always so bloody LOUD!!  It's hard to concentrate on speaking to people when you have a voice on loop in your mind going "Oh, they think I'm being rude because I'm not talking, maybe I should say something, it's been too long since I've said something, oh, here's your opportunity to say something, oops, you missed it, I'm hungry, what time is it, what are they talking about again, look how rude I'm being, say something, not that, something else..."  On some days, I would find having the Crazy Frog song stuck in my head easier to cope with than my own inner voice.  She's a pain in the ass.

Pro:  Sometimes people assume that you've got more of the clever than you actually has because you must spend all that time alone/sat with your gob shut, thinking.  Hahaha fools!  *chews TV remote*

Con:  Small talk makes me want to set my hair on fire just so I've got something else to do.  I hate the idea of coming off as disingenuous, and strongly feel that conversations should be for:

a. learning more about each other
b. sharing opinions and information, or
c. lolz

I'm acutely aware that the purpose of small talk is to make slightly awkward situations feel less awkward to those involved.  This in itself makes me feel so uncomfortable that I'm convinced that one day, I will spontaneously combust out of discomfort and/or embarrassment when someone innocently points out that it's rainy.  At least if it's raining, I won't cause accidental arson on a large scale.

I would continue, but I have some serious pottering around the house to attend to.  It's going to be MENTAL!!  Party on, friends.  I will take less than a fortnight to write the next one, promise!

So, I Ran a Marathon...

Ran a marathon on Sunday.

No biggie.

I RAN A BLOODY MARATHON!!!! HOLY SHIT, IT ACTUALLY HAPPENED!!  

After nearly a year of boring my friends and family about injuries, mileage, food, trainers, posture, gels and that all encompassing fear of not finishing, I only went and bloody finished!  Proof? They wouldn't have given us shiny, shiny medals, a free pint and bright yellow T-shirts if we hadn't!

....I'm the one who looks like I'm on my knees on the left.  I am, in fact, stood up and, no, the marathon didn't shave a few inches off my legs.  If it had, you would be seeing only my forehead.

The last time I had that level of sick-maky fear before I did something was when I was seventeen and about to take my driving test.  I giggled, babbled, nearly wept through bouts of swearing and had to pee every two seconds.  Sunday was no different.

"HahahahaHAHAHA, what are we doing? Where is my gel belt? What if I don't finish?! HAHAHA this is so stupid! Fuckfuckshit hold my things, I have to go pee!"  

Didn't help that with each wave of nerve induced nausea I felt, my knees went a bit wobbly.  Like in a cartoon.  I kept having flash forwards of myself getting to the start line and my knees just giving out under me.  

"3, 2, 1... Nope!"  

Mercifully, that never happened, and myself and Amy (my long legged compadre from above picture) made it over both the start and finish line without incident.  I say without incident.  At one point, I jabbed myself in the eye with my own finger whilst trying to remove a fly from my face, and a small child sprayed me right in the gob with a water gun.  Oh, and I went to gleefully high five another small child on the side of the road and in the process knocked a big bag of marshmallows out of its hand... Sorry, tiny human.  I hope most of your squashy treats stayed in the bag!

The most surreal thing about the whole experience (bar the fact that we actually managed to travel 26.2 ACTUAL MILES on our own, human feet) was how it didn't suck.  At all.  I spent the whole thing waiting to hit the wall, but it never happened.  I took my time and walked when I needed to...Which was often, and I was more than fine with that.  

I firmly and comfortably (and proudly - I've learned that it takes a fair bit of grit to keep moving for that much longer than the speedsters already enjoying their pints at the finish line while you're still sweating in places you didn't know could sweat. finished at the back of the pack with the last few hundred marathoners (eek, I'm a marathoner!!).  Perhaps the trick to never hitting the wall is running behind it.  Maybe the wall has little wheels on it like a trolley, and it's pushed along by all the faster people?  Thank you, faster people for keeping the wall a safe distance away from me!

The route was lovely - dipping in and out of park lands so I got my greenery fix, and threading around ginormous, significant looking buildings that screamed "I am historically important, even though you have no idea why, uncultured swine!"  And those hills I feared for the first 8 miles?  Come on!  They were mostly gentle inclines in the end. When you grow up in Wales, your expectation of what a hill is is a little squiffy compared with others'.  Liverpool has merciful, friendly hills that don't want to see your legs shredded into a thousand tiny, hurty fibres, and for that, I am grateful to whatever deity is responsible for hills.  It's nice to have the odd incline to keep your brain from flat lining, but not so much when you feel like they're breaking the laws of physics and never actually coming back downhill.  I'm looking at you, Tenby Half Marathon!

*glare*

The finish line was awesome.  After three miles of the longest flat I have ever traversed, I somehow managed to find the energy to sprint through the resilient crowd who should have been given medals for clapping for over five hours straight, and into the Echo Arena, where I fell face first into my goody bag and pint.  

I still don't quite believe it's happened, because I'm not hurting as much as a tough CrossFit session would be hurting me, and I suspect that the two days of pizza and napping that followed the event had more to do with the Jager Bombs and wine that I happily chugged right after it.  Amy and I somehow had plenty of energy left for some Sunday night merriment (still wearing our medals, of course). I think that the slight soreness in my backside is more due to my showing off that I could still slut-drop after that kind of distance than as a result of the race.  Weird.  Adrenaline and the  musical stylings of Kesha have a curious numbing effect when combined.

The fact that I managed to do this insane thing has more to do with other people than myself.  If it weren't for the Run Like a Ninja course at Outcast Crossfit Swansea I was able to sign up to, and regular trips to Rosie the Magical Osteopath at Swansea Body Kinetics, I would never have made it to Liverpool, let alone the finish line.  Same goes for my nearest and dearest who put up with my months of blathering without once telling me to take my moaning elsewhere and take up a hobby that required less effort (despite my already having watching TV box sets, sleeping and eating in my list of passions).   If I could break off bits of my medal and chuck them at you like that bit with the tiara on Mean Girls ("A piece for Gretchen Wiener..."), I would.  But I can't.  So I'll just have to keep it for myself!

Wanna see the medal?  It's got glitter on it!

 You go, Glen Coco!

So... What the hell do I do now?!

Marathon Training Week 15/ Taper (or tapir) Time!

Morning!  

Iiiit's taper tiiiiime! Taper.  Not tapir, as I just misspelled it.  Tapirs are weird elephant-pig creatures that zoos keep in order to baffle the public.  There's something simultaneously cute and disturbing about those strange, melty faced beasts.  Kicking myself for not owning a picture of a tapir to put on here now.  Never occurred to me that I might need one.  You'll have to use a search engine of your choosing. 


Tapering, on the other hand, is reducing your mileage a couple of weeks before a big race.  I've read countless books on running marathons since I took up recreational bimbling as a hobby, hoping that I would gain the ability to run one via osmosis. In my reading, I've learned that people usually have a hard time cutting down the miles.  Probably because they've grown used to doing "what-the-fuck?!" length jaunts around their hometowns over several weeks and suddenly have to go back to sensible distances like what sane people do.

Well, I've had no problems in reducing mileage.  In fact, I think I might be a bit too good at it.  This week has been a big ole nightmare from start to finish.  On Monday, I was missing CrossFit profoundly and feeling a bit cocky (always a winning combination), so I had the not-the-idea-of-a-dumb-frick-at-all notion that I would be able to attend a WOD (work out of the day in sensible speak) that was incredibly squat-heavy, and still be okay to run for the rest of the week, despite my near total lack of prowess when it comes to weighted squats.

WRONG!!

Cue three days of the worst case of delayed muscle soreness I have ever experienced.  In normal cases where this happens to me, I am a bit of a wobbly mess when faced with a simple staircase and may have to lower myself onto the loo by placing my palms flat on the seat and wincing until I'm sat down, but this was a whole other level.  

Because of the weakness in my poor, battered pins, I teetered like a Weeble (Google it, millenials. They wobble...but they don't fall down! This is how we entertained ourselves before the internet) whenever it was required of me to just be stood up, and the basic act of walking made me look like a drunkard on a pair of the world's shortest stilts, sporting an aggressive facial twitch.  Not pretty. 

Also, I had/have a pretty nasty cold, which would have floored me even with all of my limbs functioning.  Colds are another thing that I have learned is common to experience towards the end of a marathon training plan, when your immune system finally gets a look in as your body starts to wind down. Luckily, my legs are now working, and I'm seeing the light at the end of the tunnel where I can run again without coughing my lungs out and jogging over them.  It's a sexy light, too.  Check this beauty out from one of my runs:

 

Phwoar.  Jealous much?

This morning, I had a revelation that makes me think I'm going to need a lot more underwear than normal this week.  It's dawned on me that at the time of writing this (midday-ish), at this time next week, I will be two whole hours into the Liverpool Rock 'n' Roll Marathon.  That's not even halfway for this stubborn tortoise.  I know I'm excited, but I'm having difficulty in accessing that emotion under the sudden onset mist of panic that has clouded my brain.  I feel like I'm in that part of Silent Hill where all the sirens go off and everything's going dark, and the baddie with the big cheese grater for a head is coming to get me.

I am terrified.  Terrified of two things:

1.  Not finishing

2.  Hating every second of it

Logically, I know that I won't hate every second of it.  There will be moments where I want to cry, tantrum and pray for unconsciousness, but without those moments, the elation, joy and sheer awe at just what the hell I'm doing will seem even more enhanced in comparison.  Those emotional peaks are pretty much exactly why I run, so I know I'll just have to take the bad bits with it.

It's the idea of not finishing that's sending me into a tailspin.  I can think of a billion reasons why I might not:

• Hating the experience so much that my body just sits down without my permission and refuses to get back up.
• Getting so hungry that I eat another runner and end up being arrested before I can finish.
• Taking a wrong turn and getting lost.
• Actually drowning as I forget I can't multitask and try to drink water and run at the same time.
• Suddenly morphing back into my pre-running self where running more than a few metres makes me want to keel over and immediately find consolatory ice cream.
• Falling down a man hole/tripping up/piano dropped on me from building/any other ridiculous scenario that results in me being horribly injured.
• Going so slowly that I can't finish inside the cut off time.
• Spontaneous human combustion.
• Remembering I suck at running up hills.
• Stampede of wildebeest like what happens to Mustafa in the Lion King.
• My feet fall off.
• My head falls off.
• My clothes fall off.

 I could go on for hours.  Deep, deep (DEEEEP) down, I know I have it in me to finish, because the thought of having wanged on about it for so long and then turning around and going "oh, no, I didn't do it in the end..." is about the worst thing I can imagine.  Also, after reading so much about it, I really want to have this transformative experience for myself.  I actually believe it will change how I feel about my abilities as a human in general.  I've never thought of myself as someone who could run marathons, which makes me want it a bazillion times more.  It's a club that I want to belong to!  

Still fucking nervous, though.  S'pose I could go for a run to calm myself down... Novel idea.

 
 

Marathon Training Week...14(?)/Effed Up Dreams

Well, it's not every day that you're told that your face is in a regional newspaper.That information can make you jump to all kinds of conclusions!  Luckily, my super secret double life as a criminal mastermind/evil super villain remains a closely guarded one, and I'm in there for nice reasons.  A couple of weeks ago, I drafted an article about the running routes I was discovering on my on-foot travels around Swansea and sent it to the news website Wales Online. Because sharing is caring and all that. They kindly accepted my runwaffle and published it on their website, much to my excitement.  

Click below if you fancy a nose.  The top of the article features a very pretty and not-sweaty-at-all runner who I secretly hope readers who don't know me assume is me.  Not-me "me" is rocking the fuck out of that crop top and ponytail.

Wales Online - A Runner's Guide to the Best Runs in Swansea

There was no mention of it leaping out of the interweb and into print in my communications with Wales online, so was quite a shock to find that the article has been renamed "Run Rebecca Run" and is now a two page feature in today's Western Mail.  Chuffed is not the word.  Seeing my name in print makes me crazy happy.  Lookit!! 

  Say whaaat?!

Of course, now that I'm a leading authority on running (and getting selfies into local newspapers), I reckon I'm going to suck it up and do the full marathon in Liverpool fo sho.  I'm feeling good about it now.  It'll hurt, but it's meant to.  I have no doubt that the experience is going to blow my fragile little mind.  I'm getting into taper territory as of next week, so I'll be reducing the mileage, which will allow for lots more time for numbing my fears with cheese and losing control of my bladder as I completely freak out about the task ahead of me.  Should be a relaxing time for myself and the poor bastards that see me every day.

Good luck, friends and family!  You can get through this.  I believe in you!

Running longer distances in training has been a lot of fun.  I've learned loads about myself.  For example, if I am tired and frustrated enough by the fact that "I've still got bloody FOUR miles to go and I'm HUNGRY NOW!!", I am not above loudly huffing "AGH, FUCK IT!!" at nothing and no one whilst out in public.  Oddly enough, it does make you feel better. I've also learned that it's at around the fifteen mile mark that I start to get insatiably snacky.  Still clinging to the fruitless hope that there will be a magical cake station at around that point in Liverpool.  That would be the dream.

If you live in Liverpool and intend to spectate on the day - Battenburg, please and thankyou.

Running aforementioned distances has also screwed with my sleeping patterns, because staving off naps for me is like trying to stop an oncoming train with a broom handle.  It's just not possible.  As a result of this, I've been having some really vivid and slightly screwy dreams.  Want to hear a few?

1.  A capella Cats

A and I return home (probably from one of our never ending "pops to the shop".  We never seem to have food in.  No idea why...)  to see all the neighbours outside their doors watching all of the neighborhood cats singing classic hit "Stand By Me" together in perfect harmony.  When they are done, there is much applause and elation.  So much so that someone sets a pre programmed fireworks display off.  As you do.

Oh, God, the blood.  There was so. Much. Blood.  The one tabby that was stuck to the Catherine Wheel will haunt me forever.  

Cheers, brain.

2.  The Roof, the Roof, the Roof is on Fire

Am at home enjoying daytime TV.  In this particular show, an interior designer surprises families by giving their homes a fancy, fancy make over.  The families are survivors of house fires, which is a really lovely idea.  Except in this one, the houses are mid collapse and a little bit still-on-fire.  The part that I was watching in the dream was where they were in the middle of "the big reveal".  The mother didn't like the olive green kitchen cupboards they were given, which is an odd thing to be focusing on when you're missing one entire outside wall, and your staircase is ablaze.  Some people seriously need to reframe their situations.  Sort it out, lady.


3.  Sugar, We're Going Down

A and I in an aeroplane, off on our hollibobs.  Hurrah!  

Lightening strikes one of the wings, causing it to snap off and sending us hurtling towards to ground at hundreds of miles an hour.  A is frozen in fear and refusing to hold my hand, which I find mildly irksome.  To placate myself, I eat some peanuts and hum "if you're happy and you know it" to myself in my head.  Turns out dream-me handles the whole plummeting towards an untimely demise thing in quite a chipper way.  Who'd have thought? 

Maybe we could learn something from that?  No matter how bad it gets, there's always snacks and a cheery sing-along to be had. Unless there are no snacks.  In which case, everything is fucked and the world is ending.  *shrug*
There have been WAY more dreams than that, but those three are the ones I recall the most clearly.  I certainly have a vivid imagination when I'm unconscious.  Small wonder I'm always so bloody knackered!  I'll be off, then.  I need a coffee and something to chew on.  T'raa!

Marathon Training Week 12/Magic shoes!

I ran an obscene amount of miles today.  Titillating, I know.  Definitely not as sexy as it sounds though.  Twenty (mother fridge-ing TWENTY!! 2-0!!) sweaty, sweary miles were covered by my very own feet today.  I grew them myself.

It was a surprising feat (haw haw feet/feat...no?  Okay), given recent roadblocks, i.e my disobedient, injury-addled body.  Naughty body.  As a result of today's little adventure, I am SO much more confident that I might actually be able to do the whole marathon distance come June.  Which is great news for you, patient readers, because I can then move onto topics other than injuries, mileage and the kinds of food I've been stuffing into my face.

Last night, you ask?  Maoams, victoria sponge, sandwiches, crisps.  Foodstuff of the elite.  Also snacks at a housewarming gathering I attended.  Would have been rude not to.  Heaven forbid I frighten some of my closest friends by appearing to eat in moderation like a sane person.  They might have grown concerned.  It wouldn't have been the Becky they know and love. 

By love, I mean feed.   

Today, the first ten miles was a breeze (albeit a mild one...like an elderly lady simultaneously blowing out candles and trying to keep her falsies in her mouth).  Can't say the same for the second ten (Ten two times! Ooh.  Possible cool/questionable nickname there), which was a muddle of sporadic walking and desperately clinging to a Spotify playlist heavy on the musical stylings of Wheatus and Alkaline Trio in a bid to retain just a scrap of my sanity.

 "Is my arse supposed to feel like it's on fire and about to fall off my body?!"

Also, look!  Another conveniently placed bench right on my last mile!  Thanks, bench gnomes!

Although I definitely wouldn't have called the experience "easy", it was a lot less painful than I anticipated.  The only hurtiness I endured was the usual "ow, my hamstrings. Ow my arse!" kind of aching that I've grown to expect from longer distances.  No injury-esque stabby feelings whatsoever.  It's a chuffing MIRACLE!  

I don't want to speak too soon, because for all I know,  I might wake up with the leg equivalent of lockjaw (lockleg?) tomorrow, but I believe this sudden U turn in stamina has come from a pair of trainers I got off of eBay this week.  After being taught to run on my forefoot and increase my cadence, my up-until-now beloved and battered Asics were starting to feel like a pair of squishy bricks - dragging my heels down and making my smack my feet on the floor with each step.  They're stability shoes, and heavy on the padding.  I was told they'd be the best match for me by a dude with a treadmill and a camera (running shop expert-type, not jogger specific perv.  I hope).  After today, I suspect that Mr Expert might've been just a little bit wrong.

I wouldn't encourage people to do the same thing as me, because I don't want them to hurt themselves based on my example (because I'm such a shining beacon of good habits and wellbeing the rest of the time), but I did my longest run ever today in a pair of more or less brand new shoes.  It was their fourth outing, because they only arrived on Tuesday, but hurting myself in new shoes felt like a better alternative to my usual trainers, which have started trying to kill me after just five minutes in them.  They've come close to succeeding many times.  It was a stupid idea, but I was very lucky that it went well!

 "Stellar work, feet/ghostly legs/magical shoes!"

The trainers I bought were Nike Free 5.0s, which were recommended to me during my stint in learning to run like what a Ninja does at Outcast.  Nike Frees are super bendy with minimal padding, following the barefoot running trend that's about at the moment.  And damn, them hippies is onto something!  No pain whatsoever when I run in them, because you can't slam your feet against the floor without properly hurting yourself.  Because of that, they force you to run with what feels like a more natural gait, and the biggest thing that surprised me was that it felt harder for me to get out of breath.  Probably because I wasn't wading along against a shit ton of padding with each step.  And it's weirdly pleasurable to actually know what the floor you're running on feels like.  I think I'm developing feelings for gravel.   And tarmac.  Mmm tarmac.

I need help.

Aaand that's it for this week!  I'm off to ride these endorphins all the way to the kettle for another cuppa...provided I can get back up out of this chair.  See you soon, unless I get a bad case of the aforementioned lockleg.  In which case, bring some WD40 to me, please.  And a sandwich.

 

(Half...?) Marathon Training Week 11/ Irish Face

Excuse me, for I am in a slightly unstable mood.  Hovering somewhere between giddy optimism and hateful melancholy.  I look like I'm doing Dylan Moran's "Irish face":

Dylan Moran: Irish Face

Second weekend running (pun definitely not intended.  I don't know if you can call what I've been doing "running".  Hmph) where I've set out for a monster run and been let down by my own stubborn body.  Cut an 18 miler down to 4 last week and abandoned a 19 miler for 10 (better, but still...) this weekend.  My right ankle, heel, knee and under..foot...area (?!!) took in turns to have a bit of a cry at me, while my creaky old left hip spent intermittent periods going

"Hmm..no..nope.  Not for me.  No, thankyou. Nope."

I started training late in the first place because of my gammy foot, and have had to skip and/or shorten way more runs than I'd have liked over the past few weeks.  After today's swear-fest, I was miserable.  I don't feel anywhere near fit enough to participate in the full distance, but

• I've told everyone and their pets that I'm going to be running a marathon, and I'm soft enough to care what people would think if I drop out, and vain enough to assume that they'd care about it.
• I agreed to do this with a friend, who I was meant to be doing the Cardiff Half with last year before I jibbed out on that one.  I hate letting people down.
• I stupidly named my blog Rebecca Writes and Runs , so wanging on about doing a marathon and then not doing it makes me feel like a big ole phony.
• The only thing I have on my "to do before I'm 30 list" (making it more of a lone item than an actual list) is "run a marathon".  It's all I've thought about since Christmas.

However, I want my first marathon to be an enjoyable experience.  Hating 70% of it because I'm an un-ready mess of twinges and throbby ligaments would be totally undermining everything I love about the activity.  So, on one of the many generous limp breaks I allowed myself today, I googled the Liverpool Rock 'N' Roll FAQ page, trying to find out whether I could defer my place for another year if the worst came to worst.  

I can't.

Buuuuuuuut, I can reduce my race to the half marathon distance, which I know for a fact I can do without too much swearing and dragging one lame leg behind me.  The awesome thing is that they allow you to change your preferred distance on the day of the race, meaning that I don't have to make a decision right away.  If it came to it (and if I'm honest with myself, with only 5 weeks to go, it's looking like opting for the friendlier distance is the most likely outcome), my day would still be pretty awesome.  I wouldn't be letting anyone down, I'd still get to participate at a fantastic event, and (most importantly) I'd still get a medal.  Silver linings and that.

So I'm going to continue training along the same schedule and do as much as my body allows, but now the pressure has been lifted off me, knowing that I have a back up plan.  I might not be able to do what I set out to do this year, but a couple of years ago, I couldn't run more than a mile or two, so a half is still something Past Becky would have been quaking in her lounge wear over.  Now, it's my "easy option". 

(Rock and) roll on, Liverpool!

Skin

Wrote this post in a notebook a little earlier on today while I was trying to hash out my annoyance with a particularly crazy-making flare-up of eczema that I can't seem to shift.  What started as a biro splurge ended up giving me a little more patience for my own body and the stellar job it's doing in not allowing me to collapse into a human bean bag with a face.  Not as much silliness as my posts are usually clogged with, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! 

I have eczema.  Eczema is the medical term given to angry-as-fuck blotches of skin that have taken to crawling.  When it’s especially pissed off (which for me is most of the time), it sends a hot knitting needle of itchy discomfort right into the middle of your brain your brain until you can no longer fight the urge to scratch it, which, after a brief moment of sweet relief, starts the whole bastard cycle over again. 

I have very little patience for my skin’s shit.  Why does it drive me insane with the need to scratch it until it bleeds and inevitably worsens? Why can’t it just get its shit together and behave how it’s supposed to?  The rest of my organs seem to manage it just fine.  Even my poor, bullied liver.

I think that my skin knows what it’s meant to do on some level.  It’s meant to stop my inside stuff from getting out, and all the outside stuff from getting in.  And it’s meant to keep me warm.  What I get is patches of fierce burning that thicken to the point where my “protective” dermal barrier is so tough that it splits and cracks, leaving itself and me vulnerable to infection.

My skin is over zealous.  Bit like me, really.  Eager to do the best it can, it shirks caution in favour of enthusiasm.  It tries too hard, and as a result does the opposite of what it set out to do in the first place.

I’ve been thinking that I need to give my skin a break.  It has a lot of crap to contend with.  It seems only natural that a person who's sensitive to both internal and external stimuli would have equally tumultuous skin. 

I live in a world where sound is constant.  Cloying.  The white noise of my own, usually comforting living room alone can sometimes be too much on a stressful day:

Kettle, football,TV, cat mewling, cars out in the street, neighbours playing music, washing machine spinning and thumping.  All of this competes with the “should I be talking? Sitting is bad for you, you know. I ate too much. I should be writing more. I have to work tomorrow. Work was hard today.  I’m itching. I’m tired.  I’m crazy” chatter in my own head.  All the while, Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Blogger and Google are all nagging at me from the animated brick in my fist.  On top of all this, I’m sinking coffee after coffee.  Nature’s famous relaxant.

It’s a wonder that this overly stimulating modern world hasn’t made festering, itchy lumps of us all.  I should be grateful that these raised and reddened bracelets circling my wrists don’t cover my whole fucking body.  My skin is doing the best it can to stay stuck to the person it’s stuck with.  Least I can do is be a little more understanding.

 

Thankyou, skin, you gross, red meat suit! =)

Marathon Training Week 9/ The Holy Bench

FORGIVE ME IF I SHOUT!!! I'm writing this post to the tuneful backdrop of the temporary tinnitus that I always get just before I get a cold.  I forget that no one existing outside of my own skull can hear the maddening whistling noise I'm hearing.  Sounds like a kettle boiling inside my face.  Maybe I'm secretly a teapot.  It would explain a lot.  

Anyway, HELLO WORLD, IT'S NICE TO SEE YOU!!

I'm not even going to give you a breakdown of last week's running, because what came before Sunday doesn't matter.  Fanfare, please...

...You'll have to verify whether or not there was a fanfare.  Because I CAN'T FECKING HEAR OWT!!! 

Oh, there was? 'Kay.  

On Sunday, I ran (and walked) seventeen miles.   Let me repeat that for you.  Seventeen. Miles.  On my legs and not on wheels.  Holy shit!  I can honestly say, all fucks previously given about my having to take walk breaks on most runs over a few miles have mysteriously gone poof.  Vanished.  When mileage gets to "what is actually wrong with you?  You have a driver's license!!" levels (anything over a half marathon in my eyes), it's hard to keep on caring how fast you got there.  Just actually doing it is a bizarre enough experience to make you forget.

I intended to run out and back, but found the thought of turning around halfway and returning just too depressing.  So I kept going.  All the way to the next county over, where my family fortunately live and were able to give me both bacon sandwiches and a lift home.  Hurrah lifts!  Hurrah bacon!  Here's some stuff that happened on that ridiculous day:

• Hills.  Lots of.

• Pubs.  Equally plentiful.  The temptation to flop down in a beer garden and sink a stranger's unguarded pint was intense.

• Smugness.  The further I got, the more people I smirked at.  I tried giving off a "haw haw, I've run all the way from Swansea and I'm not even tired.  I do this for fun!" vibe.  In reality, I think I instilled more pity than envy.  My "proud stride" was more like a pasty legged, Quasimodo-esque shuffle.  My smirk may have looked more like trapped wind.  Less Paula Radcliffe, more Farty Hunchback.  I should put that on my race bib.

• The poor corner shop keeper.  At about mile 13, I was out of water and STARVING, and so I burst my sweaty body through the shop of a tiny local establishment's door.  One member of staff was alone on the premises and was met by a manic, hyperventilating creature thrusting money and fistfuls of sweets at him.  Learned a lesson that day.  Pink Millions make for an awesome replacement to energy gels!  Also, pretty sure that one man in the Ammanford area may now believe that the zombie apocalypse is coming.  And it's wearing shorts.  

• Death trap.  Much as I enjoyed the daftness of traveling that kind of distance on my own steam (and lots and lots of refined sugar), my lack of planning nearly got me squashed.  Between Swansea and Ammanford, where I ended up, there is a big 60mph stretch of road with not even a sliver of pavement.  I've never known fear like it!  Kept envisioning self tripping on a twig and having my brains squished by a passing car.  Pop!  Plan ahead, kids!

• The Bench.  The timing of this bench's appearance was no coincidence.  The big, beardy man upstairs (God, not a pensioner I'm stowing away in the attic.  Note to self: must feed  Clive) must have witnessed my achy wobbling and though "Ew.  That needs to stop right now."  My Garmin beeped 17 (even its beep sounded more to me like an incredulous "...BEEP??") and immediately to my left was THIS wooden slatted throne.  Angels sang.  Clouds parted.  My buttocks planted.  Oh, what a feeling. 

 

Hark, the Herald Angels...sit.

The most exciting thing I saw all week was a nondescript bench.  Beat that, world!!  Only nine more miles and I'll have done a marathon. 

Nine more.

Just nine.  Only nine.  Oh my Gahd.  I have to run nine fucking more miles?!! Who signs up for this shit?? Oh, yeah.  Numpty over here.  Clever girl.

In other news, I dunna review for events website After Dark.  Read it if you fancy.  It's more interesting than a picture of a bench.  Promise!

Feeling Invncbl: A Race Review

Have an awesome bank holiday, UK readers!  Don't know about you, but I'm already feeling an itch that only a beer garden can scratch...