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*
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)*
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.
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