Spring Clean/How To Be Injured

Welcome, welcome.  You may have noticed that I've done a bit of spring cleaning here today.  Winter cleaning?  Not very spring-y outside.  Currently watching snow fall from an eerily quiet house and starting to believe I've gone completely deaf.

*loudly claps*

No, I'm good. 

Now that we've cleared that up...I tweaked my blog title from Rebecca Writes & Runs to Rebecca Writes and Runs (a bit); Not because I'm going off recreational shuffling (far from it.  After 3 months of walking...like a goddamn muggle, I'm gagging to get back out there again).  It's to stop myself from having a mental breakdown.

I've got a structurally bollocksed right leg.  If it was made up of scaffolding, I think it would be made of brittle rubber and bound loosely together with Cheese String.  Because of this and my clever decision to keep running on it while it hurt, I've managed to lollop myself into an injury which is taking BLOODY AGES to fix.  No idea when I'll be able to pound pavements again.  I will be able to eventually, but I need to do some work on cheese string leg first and actually let myself heal.  

I've spent the last few months getting treatment (Swansea Body Kinetics), not running and assuming that tomorrow will be the day where I wake up with a fully functioning, pain free foot and leg.  Blind optimism and no patience got me nowhere.  I've been ignoring my frustration for weeks now, and it came to a head where I lost all sense of perspective and cried into my fried egg the other morning because it's just so UNFAIR!! I'm a runner and I go to the gym lots now - it's what WHO I AM!! 

Becky.  Mate.  It's not.  Maybe it's time to remember you had a personality before you started moving about more than you used to.  Maybe.  I think.

You're not suddenly not-a-person because you have to sit down a little more for a while.  Calm.  The fuck.  Down.  So...yeah...name change!  Less pressure to write about the running I'm not currently able to do = less weeping into my breakfast over a problem that isn't really a problem in the grand scheme of "problems you could have." Time for a list, then!

How To Be Injured

1.  Perspective
Have you actually lost a limb?  Are you suddenly homeless?  Is there no food in your fridge?  Do your friends and/or family no longer care about you?  Do you find yourself unable to hold down the day job?  Have they cancelled New Girl or Modern Family?  

No?

Then man the fuck up and develop a little patience!

2.  Stop Googling your injury
"I'll just have a quick search...tendons...plantar fasciitis...leg...Oh my God.  I'm going to have this problem forever! I'm going to have to live in a weird boot for the rest of my life, or get leg splints like Forest Gump....I'll never walk again!"

*walks perfectly normally to fridge to find some food items to cry into*

3.  Adapt
And by "adapt", I don't mean "go to Crossfit 5 times a week and do all of the movements that might still make the problem worse, because it's okay, I'm not running!"  I also don't mean  "adapt to a sedentary life on the sofa where you well up every time you see a pair of trainers on the telly."

4.  Don't overdo your stretches
Yeah...I've gone from having a sore foot, to a sore foot and entire leg that alternately feels like it's a bit on fire and slightly numb.  Gentle stretching means gentle stretching.  You are not made of melty toffee.  

You would like some melty toffee.

5.  P.M.A
Pinch my arse. No..positive mental attitude.  Remember that you will get better eventually, and just accept that you've got to make some alterations for now.  Allow yourself to feel frustrated sometimes, because it's natural. Don't swallow down your feelings, British style, because they will vom themselves back up in a wet explosion of drama and snotty tears that you could do without.  Grab a coffee and chuck a sitcom on while we wait this mild inconvenience out.  

Namaste.*

*Apologies if I used that in completely the wrong context.  I was hoping it would make me sound all wise and zen.  Did it work?  No?  Sorry.

 

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.

Life Things

Whew, that was a long accidental hiatus! Didn't realise how long it's been since my last blurt at the people who live in my computer. Too many Life Things have happened to me at once.  I can only handle one Life Thing at a time, and even then I need a ring binder of lists to keep me from cry laughing into a fistful of cheese.

1.  Hoose

A and I are packing our belongings, uprooting our lives and upping sticks... to the house directly behind ours.  It's actually attached to ours.  And it's literally the mirror image of the house I'm currently furiously typing away in.  

Differences: 

• It has a garden for the imaginary dog I nag A daily for.  The hours I work are too long for it to be fair on Future Dog, but it doesn't stop me from dreaming.
• You can see the sea from it! And horses. And grass. And rainbows. And... more grass!  Essentially Swansea in a nutshell. 
• It's decorated so much nicer.  Wallpaper and curtains and shit! Like what grown ups have!  I've managed to live in this shoe box for nearly four years and have successfully avoided making it look like anything other than a student hovel with a cat in it.
• The landlords are much friendlier and more relaxed.  We won't have to hide the WalterKat, devourer of human flesh (see below), and they are refreshingly supportive of Mission Get-Becky-a-Puppy.  Shame A isn't quite so on board with my desire to acquire another household fuzzy to bully into loving me.
  
  
  "Hold still while I gum you to death, human subordinate!"
   
  2. Jerb
   
   I got a new jobby!  I'll be moving from my position as a call centre lackey and going back to being and all around office bod.  Disclaimer: This is going to sound sarcastic, but bear in mind that you're reading the words of someone who gets lady boners at displays fresh new notebooks in supermarkets. Mmm.  Was going to make a joke about Back to School Season being sexy, but that would be wrong on so, so many levels.  I like stationary, not youths in education.  
   
  ...Shut up, Becky!!  God.
   
  I can't wait to get stuck back into admin! I bloody love forms and files and notepads and pens and being busy.  The job I'm in right now is plenty busy, but it's hard to avoid clock watching when you are literally sat down answering questions with very few breathers in between.  I need to be doing stuff with my hands as well as my brain, and it's in a smaller, more tight knit environment.  I miss working with a little office fambly.  Just hope my new carers (colleagues! My new colleagues!!  What is wrong with me today?!) take kindly to an eager-to-help stationary obsessive.  "Pick me, pick me!  I brought pens in eighty colours!"
   
  3.  Ow + Ew
   
  I must have a long distance race coming up, because I have a case of both man flu (complete with death rattle cough and a face that feels like it's taken a punch) and the ouchies.  I got a bit too good at running away from Zombies on Zombies! Run! And have since been shuffling like one of the undead since I resurrected my marathon training ankle/foot injury.  I have the Cardiff Half Marathon to "run" next week, and have trained for it by doing next to sweet chuff all for a month.  Should be a breeze.  Pray for me.
  4. Fun
  
  
  Seen two bands (more if you count the support acts) live since you've seen me last.  I know. Cultured Woman of the World, me.  I've also discovered that I have a natural talent (for want of a better word) for beer pong, but that's another story for another time.  I don't want to go into detail.  I just wanted to segway that into my post to brag about it (suck it, Phillip!!)
  
  
  Anyway, bands:
  
  
  Foos!!!! There waaas....Royal Blood, Iggy Pop, cameo from Roger Taylor off of Queen and that bloke off of Led Zeppelin, a throne with Dave Grohl on it (!!!), Pat Smear constantly grinning like he'd been caught doing something naughty and chain smoking, Taylor Hawkins singing, two hours of dancing and screaming, "Break a Leg" merch in homage to Mr Grohl's recent "stage dive", smiles, a LONG drive home from Milton Keynes... etc etc.  No big deal, like. NBDee...
   
  Wheatus!!  This was my fourth or fifth time seeing these guys.  My sister and I couldn't get tickets to see them in Swansea and so we traveled up to Bristol to see them play on a bar/boat hybrid called Thekla (pretty cool, no?).  This was also the fourth or fifth missed opportunity I had and blew to speak to Brendan Brown (lead singer).  The band always make themselves accessible to their fans, and every single time, I chicken out of saying "Hi!" and opt for awkwardly staring anywhere but at any band member when they're nearby enough to chat to.
   
  Wheatus were the first band that I decided all by myself that I liked aged 13. First album I bought, first single, first gig (Radio One's Big Sunday in Morfa, back when Morfa was literally all fields and not shops..."Oy remember when this was aaaaall fields!").  I wore the bucket hat.  I coveted the glasses.  I recorded their telly performances on video.. Jesus wept, I'm old!  Anyways, because they basically shaped my taste in music (they have a lot to answer for.  Oof!), I experience abject panic and terror whenever I get within greeting distance of a band member.  Wussy arse.  Anyhoo, the band performed with pure joy as per usual - it's quite rare that you see a band who clearly would still be doing it if no one was paying to see them.  Maybe if I see them a few hundred more times I might grow a pair and say "sup?"  For now I shall continue to do what I do best and stalk from afar, sniffing my notebooks and window shopping on Gumtree for puppies.
  
  
  I leave you with this beauty from Gabrielle Sterbenz, who supported the band and is my new favourite person to listen to when I want to pretend I'm the star of an early noughties chick flick.  Byee!
  
  
  
  
   Gabrielle Sterbenz - The Breakup
   
  
  
   
    
  
  
  
  

Ready, Steady, Go! Marathon Training Week 1

This first week's report brought to you by... a hangover and nausea brought on by eating a family sized bag of vegetable crisps in one sitting.  Nausea from crisps only.  Hangover may have something to do with the many, many drinks I had last night to celebrate a friend's engagement.  Ow.  Start as you mean to go on and all that!  I'm sure Mo Farrah starts every serious training regime by getting pissed and trying to explain to a whole room of people why they HAVE to watch Parks and Recreation, because it will change their lives and can I have another sausage roll, please?

So I might have mentioned that I signed up to a marathon.  Once or twice...a minute since I signed up.  

Signed up to what, Becky?

Oh, just a MARATHON!!  On the 14th June, I'm going to be plodding/crawling/prancing 26.2 miles around Liverpool at the Liverpool Rock 'n' Roll marathon.  There's going to be a band at every mile, a festival at the end, and a pretty badass looking medal.  I NEEDS me that medal.  As a compulsive documenter-er..ist(?!) of my own every move (current status: pyjama clad, queasy), I obviously need to plaster weekly updates of my training all over the internet.  

I am crossing everything (including my eyes.  Makes typing Difficult.  Haw haw.  Christ, I'm tired) that I can get through all 16 weeks without losing a limb/having to drop out.  Nervous as chuff right now, because I only got the go-ahead to start running - carefully - again on Thursday, following some ankle ligament stuff that stopped me hopping and skipping about my day with my usual vigor for six whole sodding weeks.  It was terrible.  I've nearly run out of episodes of Parks & Recreation to watch.  What am I going to do when Leslie Knope is no longer in my life?  Who will guide me?  My own moral compass? Pfft!

Anyway, what I was going to say is that I'll be over the moon if get to actually do this awesome thing I've been gagging get did for a while now.  My ankle still isn't exactly my best friend.  The playful scamp keeps pretending that everything's alright and I'm better, and then springing surprise aches and pains on me.  I would say it keeps me on my toes, but that would be a lie.  Because I have to sit down when it happens.  Silver lining is that I'm now unbelievably grateful that I can even do a modest shuffle. Even a sort-of jog is better than no running at all, regardless of how well-stocked Netflix currently is.  Netflix should pay me for advertising it in more or less every single blog post.

Netflix Netflix Netflix.  Can I have an account for free now, please?

...Netflix.

So, training this week consisted of avoiding the plan I've chosen entirely, and just hoping for the best that my ankle will hold out. Up until Thursday, Rosie the osteopath (get me going to a specialist for my sports injury...that I did whilst being sporty!), who I met through CrossFit (so sporty) had prescribed me a healthy mix of no running and picking things up with my crap foot to build up strength.  The latter has actually been quite fun.  Turns out I've got pretty nimble monkey toes (dextrous as opposed to hairy).  I'll do quite well when the zombies come and well all have to start living in trees.  Also, it is now a personal goal of mine to be able to pick up a towel with my toes and fling it up high enough for it to land on my head.  It's important to have things to aim for in this life.  I'll let you know how I get on.

Couple of sessions in, and I'm finally on the mend.  Rosie (off of Swansea Body Kinetics if you're interested and/or if your limbs need tinkering with like mine do) has actual magical powers, and could tell immediately what was causing my mystery pain just from observing me standing awkwardly in my pants.  She's like Mystic Meg, except instead of a crystal ball, she can tell your future from looking at your weird body parts.  I have one hip higher than the other, which is making one of my arches collapse a bit.  My igor-like wonkiness (I might be exaggerating.  Slightly) aside, she's done a great job in speeding up my recovery, meaning I could manage a slow 3 miles on Friday that was almost free of pain.  Huzzah!

Rather than writing week 1 off as a crap one, because I was only able to complete one run and a couple of CrossFit sessions, I'm thinking more along the lines of  

"Best week ever! I managed to do a whole run!"  Was way more than I was expecting I'd be able to accomplish last week.  Here's to 15 more weeks that I expect to be tough, challenging, and a buggerload of fun!  Liverpool, I'm coming for you!  Very slowly and carefully.  Fuck yeah!!

...Now has anyone seen where I left the paracetamol?  My thoughts are starting to hurt again.

 

Oh!  Also this happened a week or so ago.  My nan decided that for her 70th birthday, she wanted her first tattoo, and that all the women in our immediate family (her, mum, my two sisters and I) should get the same one.  Not a big deal or anything, but my nana is way cooler than your nana.  So there.

 

Why I Need Running

I'm going insane.  A few weeks ago, I went out on a 12 mile run. All good bar a slightly achy lower calf, but I persevered.  The longer the distances I cover, the more soreness I experience, and it comes and goes as I plod along.  Sometimes I find it entertaining to guess where the ache is going to move next as I'm running.  I assume it's my body's way of keeping me amused.  All part and parcel of the experience.  Trouble is, my slightly achy calf never went away and subsequently spread to my ankle and under my heel, and the soreness has been plaguing me ever since. 

What's driving me nuts is the fact that it's screwing with my head by playing hide and seek with me.  No soreness at all as I go about my business.  Didn't even hurt when the nice physio lady stuck her knuckles into my leg and gross bare feet to see where the pain was coming from.  Whatever Ouch Demon is inhabiting my right leg only comes out if I run or walk for longer than half an hour or so.  Then it has me limping until I watch at least three episodes of Parks and Recreation on Netflix.  Yes, it is very important to the Ouch Demon that I appease it with Netflix.  Only Netflix will do.

I'm now about a week and a bit into the Physio-Lady-prescribed fortnight of inactivity, and I am a few head spins short of going full Exorcist on my own ass.  I didn't realise how much I've come to rely on running since I took up the activity just under two years ago.  Without exercise, the term "emotionally unstable" doesn't quite cut it.  Think Batman's Joker, but with PMS and an insatiable sweet tooth. 

The silver lining of being able to do sod all for two weeks is that I've developed a deeper appreciation for physical activity, regardless of my lack of speed and natural prowess.  And I've had PLENTY of time to think about it (translate: "wallow in self pity over fried food").  Here is a short, non extensive summary of why I need running in my life.  I don't know how helpful it is to anyone reading this, but I intend to refer back to it whenever I'm umming and ahhing over leaving the house just because it's "yucky" out.  Here goes:

1.  It's a reset button for the days where I wake up in dustbin mode and am not satisfied until I've eaten every processed, plasticky, cavity-inducing bits of "food" I can get my mitts on.

2.  It makes me a nicer person to be around.  Without running, I have too little patience to deal with my own shit, let alone other peoples'.

3.  Instead of gaining an hour or two a day during which I'd normally be plonking one foot in front of the other, I've been losing time by regularly falling into tiny comas called "naps".  I've always been a sporadic napper, but this week is just getting ridiculous.  All I have to be is "not stood up" to fall into a deep trance. The less I move, the more tired I feel.  The fuck, body?!

4.  Emotionally and logically, without the opportunity to sweat out my stress, I am like a volcano that only needs a feather to land on it for it to erupt.  I am far more likely this week to weep openly at a discarded sock on the floor, where normally, I'd be happily burrowed away under a pile of un-ironed laundry, documenting my miles on my Garmin instead.

5.  Sitting down for too long at a time makes my butt hurt.

Bottom line is, at rest, I am a crazy person.  Running is the only way to burn off the excess.  Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to go shave my eyebrows off and draw on the walls in crayon until I'm allowed to wear my trainers and feel human again.

Do an extra mile for me, friends! Sniffle.

Weekend Roundup: Sucky Faces, Superman & Foot Fluff

This weekend went a little differently to normal. The highlight of my Saturday was purchasing the very first vacuum cleaner I've ever bought myself - a Henry Hoover. One of the most grown-up purchases I've ever made, and I insisted that I needed it to have a face on it. Henry and I are getting along famously. He's nothing short of fricking awesome with his majestic, impressively sucky nose. I have hoovered the house twice in as many days, which is more times than I did aaaall last month! Maybe everything I dislike doing should have a big ole smiley face on it to up the novelty factor and make me do it. Can you put a smiley face on mornings?

Today, after vacuuming the house for the second time and settling myself down in front of the Xbox to gleefully sap all the productivity from my day off like sucking poising from a snake bite, I received a text from A. He needed a lift to A&E after training for his football (soccer) coaching course had gone a bit tits up for him. A tackle had left him unable to walk on one of his feet.

Got to the hospital where A was urged to bounce like a human pogo stick to the doctor's room to be prodded, poked, x rayed and sodomised (I don't know what they do in those rooms. Just hazarding a guess).

I'm fortunate in that I've rarely had to sit in the accident and emergency section of a hospital. And so on the rare occasions when I do have to go, I fully expect to be met with a gory scene of spraying blood and bawling adults rolling around on the floor in agony as their limbs dangle from their bodies, held on only by thin strips of flesh...Like a hammed up world war movie scene. Not so. Just a group of well behaved people politely obeying the unspoken, unwritten waiting room rule of "Thou shalt not speak....but though shalt quietly cough from time to time to prove that there is actually something wrong with you and that you deserve to be seen next".

I was in that waiting room for a good hour or so (quite speedy compared to the usual bellyaching you hear about the NHS....Politics, motherbadger! Go team NHS!) on my tod, and here is what I saw:

- Woman on crutches wearing a Superman hoody. Unsure if the hoody was intentionally ironic. Made me smile either way.

- Small child of unknown diagnosis (she had a bit of a puffy eye...allergic reaction?)torturing her littler brother by shouting "Iiiii'm infecteeeed!!" and running after him as he frantically tried to flee her diseased clutches.

- Teenager proudly showing off what looked like a large dog bite to a modest crowd of "oooh"ing people.

- Other teenage girl of a curvier stature in bum flashing denim hotpants and those fake-suspenders-type tights making the gaggle of pensioners present gasp and giggle like toddlers watching You've Been Framed (british clip show mostly featuring people falling over and accidentally flashing their pants - popular before we found Youtube and cat videos). "You can see her bottom, Doris!"

A eventually called me over to the waiting room he'd been wheeled to, and I got to see the INSIDE OF HIS FOOT WHERE ALL THE BONES ARE! I haven't seen many x-rays in my time either... and, and, I got to watch them put the plaster on his foot! Nurse practitioner declared that there is a little knobble on the x-ray that looks unusual and "a bit fluffy" (direct quote) and that we'll have to go back in and get it checked on again tomorrow to see if it's actually broken.

Next on the agenda for our Sunday adventure fun times was to rescue A's Volkswagen Golf from the leisure centre car park it was sitting abandoned in. As the only one of us with two functioning ankles, I had to drive A's car. To give you a background of my driving experience, it took me a year after passing my test to stop squealing like a pig whenever I hit a bump in the road, and every car I have owned was and is the power equivalent of a hair dryer...and not even a fancy, expensive hair dryer. In cars, instead of horse power, I opt for donkey power.

Ass power, if you will.

Compared with my car, A's Golf has the power of an army of asses, and I never want to drive it again, as I may inadvertently kill someone else or myself. You might have noticed that I have included less swear words in this post than normal...this is because in a fifteen minute drive, I've used up an entire week's quota of F-bombs and S...grenades (..?). A girl racer I will never be.

Anyhoo, home now, along with A and his fluffy foot. Any footballers out there, take heed - tackle correctly, or risk being the reason someone loses their footballing career to foot fluff. No one wants to be that guy.

*solemn head shake*

Here's a photo of the injured bit of the patient's anatomy. Please leave messages of sympathy, well-wishing or condolences for A's foot in the comments box below (please do! The attention might distract him for a moment so that I don't have to pick things up for him for a while. I'm trying to play on Tumblr. Cheers!)

Hope your weekend was smashing, darlings!

I Can't Walk

More on that bombshell tomorrow.