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.
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.
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