Tuesday 31 March 2009

I remembered to remember and took two ladyfinger bananas to work for my afternoon snack, mostly to avoid yesterday's perishing-by-6pm debacle but mostly because I can't believe that something you can buy in the supermarket can be called a ladyfinger.

I bribed myself by saying that if I ran my 20 at 8 then I could go home after 30 minutes, but I was secretly keeping from myself that after the run I reckoned I could have a little go on the elliptical and maybe do some walking. Big fail that one - I underestimated my own ability to overestimate my own abilities.

I took a couple of minutes to find my pace, feeling a bit wonky and slapdash as I went. Once I settled in again I enjoyed the pace and could see, half reflected in the windows in front of me, that I actually looked like I was running. Ten minutes in I was having the usual mental whine, but was pretty strict with myself and I powered on remembering how easy 10 at 8 (9 at 8 plus 1 at 10 really) was the other day.

By about 12 or 13 minutes I had agreed to stop at 15. My breathing was shallow and hard, and I could really feel myself getting to the end. I was disappointed and felt let down, as I'd been so sure that 20 would be totally do-able. My legs felt fine; it was just the effort of continuing, the breathing, and the pain down my left scapula (I've learnt to run through minor stitches, thank God).

So at about 14 minutes I was all prepared to stop. I'd run a bit less than 2.5km (including my three minute walking warmup) which was pretty dashing and was feeling terribly cross and annoyed with myself.

But I hadn't counted on the Gunners. Sweet Child O' Mine came on my iPod, and it's what I usually pick to round off the last few minutes - and here it was. I was damned if I let Axl down and turned him off. Thanks Mr Rose.

I made the 20 but was unpleasantly surprised at how difficult I found it. I had fully expected to be able to run for 25, and was going to stop at an easy 20 so that I was encouraged for next time. Not so - I was really run out after 20 minutes and what was worse was that I finished the run without any of the happy hormones or positive self-talk that I usually end up with. I felt flat and cross and I grumpily walked for a cranky 15 to finish off. My 20 minute run and 5 minutes of warm up/cool down time led me to just over 3kms - not good at all if that's as far as I can make it at this slow pace.

I'm happy that I did what I said I would - 20 at 8 - and that I am definitely wanting to run at 8 as my standard pace - but I'm really disheartened about how difficult I found it. I'll try to try once more this week and on Saturday when I have a gym date with my dad, but I will really be looking for improvement soon to encourage me on.

I've also decided not to sign up for the Run Melbourne 5km. It would require some real commitment and I'm just not willing to take on any more commitments whatsoever under Operation Simplify My Life. If I'm on track beforehand and there's room to sign up I might do it, but I won't be training for it specifically and I won't consider it a finite goal. So there!

Monday 30 March 2009 (2)

Reminder to self: eat banana in afternoon. That way you won't feel so famished by 6pm that you couldn't possibly go to the gym because you'd dry retch.

Alarm set for tomorrow morning to do that 20 at 8. Bananas at the ready.

Monday 30 March 2009

There's obviously been changes afoot at Chez Rach. Today I'm feeling strangely flat and alnmost teary - definitely a rare occurrence for iron-eyes Miss T - but it's making me look forward immensely to my run. My usual coping strategy involves going straight home and devouring whatver is sweet/salty/fatty/carby/near to hand, but today I want the hormonal adrenalin surge that sweeps through at the end (especially when I crank Sweet Child O' Mine) and makes me shiver.

The aim is for 20 at 8, and hopefully that'll blast out the cobwebs and set things back where they should be.

Saturday 28 March 2009

I pretended I was 'training' today and worked (read: "worked") on speed and technique.

I wanted to see how 8km/hr felt; during my 40 minute run last Wednesday I moved from 7 to 7.5 for only a couple of minutes but felt it more intensely that I would have imagined, so I really wanted to start afresh and get a feel for a faster pace.

8 felt great (oh rhyme! oh fine!). The pace felt manageable and my gait was natural and more run-y that the bizarre waddle-jog I do at 7. I could feel that I'm not quite fit enough for any extended period of time at 8 though, but I felt comfortable that within a few weeks it could be a really good pace for me. I felt like I was really running, not duck-waddling.

I spent 9 minutes at 8 and then thought I'd just have a leedle weedle look-see at 10. The guy next to me was managing at 10 with a funny sort of fast trot so I was sure that a minute for me would be a nice attempt at interval training.

10 hurt me; I looked forward to the end of the 60 seconds and felt my usually-extraordinarily-non-asthmatic-lungs tighten. I stopped at the end of that minute really breathing hard and uncomfortably. In fact, while at about 9 minutes at 8 I was pretty sure I could make it to 20 minutes, with the addition of the 1 at 10 I was only pretty sure that I could make it to hop off the tready.

I spent the rest of the session on the elliptical and walking on the tready, working on moving my toes and hips in and trying to gain some more balance on the elliptical. I would hold my hips into position whilst working, which isolated the legs rather than letting me cheat with my hip-swinging power gains, and encouraged a rotation of the hip socket forward.

I stretched out at the end with the long cylindrical foam tube that when rolled slowly over my glutes is the sweetest pain possible. After using it with David on Thursday night to start breaking up the gluteal fascia that has tightened as a part of my duck-waddling and feeling the bruise-like pain all yesterday, I toughed it out and fully expect to be totally butt-sore tomorrow. Awesome.

A heart rate monitor is on the horizon, and this week I'd like to run for 20 at 8, as well as perhaps a 35/40 at 7.5.

To run, to run

I'm Rachel. I want to learn to run.

I'm turning 29 this year and never, ever, whatsoever in my whole life have I ever been a runner. I was accepted by default in to the cross country team at primary school when I was in Grade 4 - there were as many places on the team as there were ten year old girls trying out - and at the one and only race I entered I finished about second last. I walked quite a lot, and then I stopped to help a girl who had injured herself. She came last (I may not be very competitive, but damned if I was going to be beaten by a girl with a twisted ankle!).

Through periods of fit and unfit I have still never run. A couple of years ago, mid-bout of exercise obsession, I was as fit as I've ever been. I was at the gym twice a day. I was eating like an angel. But ten minutes was all I could manage before I fell gasping and sweating and swearing off the tready. An hour on the cross-trainer: love it. I could go all day on a walk. Backing up Combat with Pump? No wuckers darl. But no running.

So a runner I have never been. It's by bete noire, my antithesis, my equal and opposite reaction, my nemesis, my leastest favouritest exercise in the whole wide world.

A few months ago I was warming up before a Pump class (Oh how I love Pump! I love the strain; I love the pain; I love to feel tough and rough and I love that it's mostly women, all lifting weights and kicking arse), and spent ten minutes on the tready beside Buzz, my fitter-than-me-but-don't-get-a-big-head-please boyfriend. He ran a bit and I, about to introduce him to his first Pump class and determined to keep my superior edge, ran a bit too. I kept the tready at 7, and wonder of wonders - I could do it. I managed ten minutes before we had to go, but for the days following I turned and turned on one of my most deeply held beliefs about myself - that I can't run. But I did. I ran for ten. I ran easily. It may have been a jog, but it was feet off the ground.

I followed that with 25 on the tready, and a 35 minute run outside (up hills! down hills!) with Ian, the personal trainer I have when my usual guy, David, is away doing spectacular adventure-ish things. There was a short hiatus as I questioned whether I wanted to keep going, and dropped the idea altogether because I am at heart a lazy, lazy girl - but a couple of weeks ago I did an easy 15 at 7 ad felt great; backed it up with 30 at 7 last week; surprised myself with a bragging 40 at 7 during the week; and then decided to crack it out.

I'm not sure why; I'm not driven by the need to succeed, and I don't have a perverse desire to prove myself wrong. I just think I want to.

So for the immediate term, I want minutes on the board. I want to know how long I can go, and I want to do it inside on a tready so that I know - know - when I get on that thing that I can do it. And I want a bit of speed - 7 is the speed at which I ran for 40 and I can just about walk at that - so I want just a bit more acceleration going on.

My friend Nickii has also started to run, and is planning to do the 5km Run Melbourne race on 28 June. I'm pretty confident I could do it, but I am still activating the Simplify My Life Plan which involves excising commitments wherever possible, so I'm reluctant to commit in case I find it just another thing I feel I have to do. We'll see - I'm finding that my resistance to pressure is rapidly increasing and I'm more and more intolerant of any intrusions on to my time. That said - I'd love to run with Nic. I'm not sure where I'll go with this - I think for the moment it's a maybe-goal.

Some complicating factors: while I don't want to whine or find excuses, I am a ducky-walker. My feet turn out like a ballerina and to point them to a normal position feels weird and strange and icky. My turnout comes from the hips, which are extra stretchy and flexible so when I run I am almost swaying side to side and using the extra angles of movement in my hips to throw myself forward. I look ridiculous. And it hurts.

My trainer, David, and I are beginning to work on releasing my tight glutes (that's my butt! Yeah I said it!) and strengthening the hip adductors to help turn me in a bit, and I'm actively trying to get used to moving in that positions - and if you think it's not hard, you try walking with your toes out and tell me how you feel. I'm hoping that as I release some muscles and tighten up some others I'll be able to work on getting a more effective and sustainable gait going; one which doesn't involve me waddling about and looking like a middle-aged woman going for the bus.

The upshot is that I don't really think that anyone at all will find my sure-to-be-dreary blow-by-blow accounts of each gym session in the slightest bit interesting (except you, thanks Mum), but as I write, I'm going to turn something I find hard - the run - into something I find relieving - the write - and hopefully in 12 months I'll just be so embarrassed by my paltry beginner efforts that I'll delete this blog entirely and pretend that half-marathons are a breeze.