No good deed goes unpunished

On Friday, I volunteered to marshal for my running club. It was hosting a 5k race in Hyde Park and my role involved standing in a fluorescent bin liner, ensuring that all the runners were heading in the right direction. I find these events incredibly moving. In fact, watching people of all ages and abilities really push themselves makes me teary-eyed. Thankfully, I had my sunglasses to hide behind. Nobody wants to hit 4k and find a weeping marshal. Suffice to say, I was happy to retire to the cafe for a post-run lemonade and a large blueberry muffin.

But little did I know I was about to be ambushed. My friend had decided to sign up for a Saturday hill running session. This has never ever appealed to me and when she and the coach of said session asked if I'd like to join, I was emphatic in my refusal. However, somehow - and I'm still not sure how this happened - by the end of my blueberry muffin, we'd arranged a time to meet. I suspect some form of Derren Brown mind-trick was employed.

So, early on Saturday morning, when I would usually be in bed - reading the papers and listening to the radio - I was instead on Hampstead Heath. And it was lovely. The sun was out, fellow 'athletes' were exercising, and looking down over London you got an air of possibility and perspective that gave the moment a slightly reflective quality.

That was before we embarked on 2 hours of sprinting up and down hills, bleep tests and haring about like chickens with our heads cut off. I can genuinely say I have never been so worn out in my life.

I think the last time I properly sprinted was back in 1985 when I inadvertently entered every event on sports day. Yesterday, it was a revelation to discover that running really really fast is really good fun. Even if it left me unable to breathe. Or speak. This was just as well as coach had forbidden me from saying anything negative about myself. The punishment would be press-ups for me and my fellow hill runners (both of them). As a result, I was pretty much mute for the rest of the session.

But I survived. And was even able to muster the energy to go swimming at the ladies' bathing pond later on in the day. Though my heavy limbs did mean I had to spend a little more time than usual clinging onto the slimy safety rings.

(Stats: Difficult to measure. Apparently we ran 4.5 miles in total, but that was in bursts of varying lengths. If we go by aching limbs, the pace was Usain Bolt-esque)

(Pic: Blue skies on the heath.)

Back in the club

Returned to running club last night. It was good to get back into the swing of things. As usual, Hyde Park boasted its own unique microclimate. It may be snowing in Covent Garden, but it's always hot in Hyde Park. Or that could just be the result of my running labours. Either way, it was nice to see the familiar sites of the hugging bears fountain and the Peter Pan statues. I also have a new inspiration. Last November, when I embarked upon my failed cross-country career, there was a girl who was of a similar speed to me. Since then, she has run the London marathon and become the fittest person alive. Now she can easily maintain an 8 - 8 and a half minute/mile pace, leaving me way behind (literally and metaphorically). This is just the kick up the nether regions I needed and it's motivated my search for a suitable half-marathon. And by suitable, I mean flat.

(Stats: 4.18 miles; 40.14 minutes; 9.37 minute/mile. Quite pleased.)

...but the rabbit is running for his life

Last night, I experienced a timely reminder of why running is good for you. I saw a man being chased. Seconds later he was on the floor and his attacker was, for want of a better phrase, kicking ten tonnes of sh*t out of him. I was midway through a 999 call when a fellow bystander shouted that the police were on their way and the assailant ran off. Thankfully, the victim was able to get up. And I made my way home, still unsure as to whether this had actually happened or whether I had just been watching too much CSI of late. Quite possibly both are true.

Nevertheless, it was an abject lesson in why running can, quite literally, save your life. Not just from a spare tyre and type 2 diabetes, but from bears and lions and bad people who want to kick your head in. Thankfully, I've never been pursued by any of those things. And (fingers crossed) never will. But should that day come, I would like to think I'd have a good go at fleeing. Flight is definitely my survival instinct of choice. I don't like fighting.

Which is why, when I woke up this morning I went for a run. The first one since the half-marathon 5 weeks ago. And it was great. My knees hurt, my hips hurt, my feet hurt. But it was a pleasure. It's quite overcast out, but surprisingly warm and I'm currently relishing my beetroot face. It's not been that colour for a while. Except when I fell asleep in the sun.

I think I'm going to spend today looking for another half to sign up for. If my speed needs a boost, then I need only remember that man being chased down the road. As they say, the fox is running for his dinner...

(New stats: 4.34 miles; 44.36 minutes; 10.16 minute/mile. Not bad for the first time in 5 weeks, though not sure I'd outrun the fox at that pace.)

Core instability

It turns out that being forbidden from exercising was just the motivation I needed to start exercising again. And so it was that I found myself at the local leisure centre in the company of a group of women (and one man) in pursuit of better posture and a stronger core. As this was not an aerobic class and more about toning, I didn't think it qualified as proper exercise, therefore not really contravening doctor's orders.

In fact, most of the class involved sitting on, lifting up or bending over a Swiss exercise ball. Before we began, our teacher made the point that our knees should be neither higher nor lower than our hips when sitting on the ball. Looking around I realized I was the only one whose ball was half-inflated, which resulted in my knees being somewhere up around my ears. Thankfully, my neighbour was having the opposite problem and was perched precariously high up on hers. 'As our balls don't fit, why don't we swap?' I suggested. She agreed, while I stifled a bout of the giggles. You can't be reared on a diet of Carry On films and let that kind of innuendo pass you by. Judging by her non-reaction, I suspect she was not a fellow connoisseur.

The class continued without further incident and was proving quite a nice segue back into activity. That was until we had to roll right on top of our balls (snigger) and assume the press-up position. As soon as my head was lower than my body, I experienced an instant pounding headache that felt like my frontal lobe was going to explode. I even had to sit back down and hold my eyes as I thought they were going to fall out. Suffice to say, I didn't do any more press-ups.

Thankfully, once I sat up straight and the blood returned to the rest of my body, the pounding subsided and I felt fine. The teacher asked how it went. I have to say that, apart from the bit when I thought my head was going to fall off, I really enjoyed it. Finding stuff to do while I can't run may turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Though I must remember not to do anything that involves my head being between my legs. Or anyone else's for that matter.

Labyrinthwhatus?

I am painfully aware that it has been nearly one month since my last run. In fact, I haven't set foot in my trainers since the half. I thought I was suffering from some kind of running ennui, having reached my goal. And notice I use the word 'reached' not 'achieved'. However, the ennui has a name. Labyrinthitis.

For the past 5 or 6 weeks, I've had varying degrees of dizziness. In fact, I've fallen over a few times. And some of those times I was sober. It had occurred pre-race, but I ignored it. I did, however, write a small essay on the back of my race number with a liturgy of ailments. Had I actually keeled over, I fear I'd have passed away before the first-aider had finished reading.

Finally, I went to the doctor. He said I'm fighting some form of bug, which has left me with a wretched sore throat and affected my inner ear. Hence, the labyrinthitis. It upsets your sense of balance, which explains why I frequently feel like I'm going up and down in a lift. Apparently, I'm not to exercise for a while, which is fine because just wandering up and down to the tube station knocks me out.

So, this leaves me with a bit of space to plan my next half-marathon, which I'm hoping to do in October. This time I will have a different strategy, i.e. I will have a strategy. I just have to decide what that is.