98% perspiration, 2% bonkersness

It seems that this working full time AND training for a long distance triathlon/marathon/half marathon/anything that involves running that I have (stupidly?) signed up for is a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.

This week I managed a little bike ride and a little run and that was it.  And felt bad and pathetic.  But, wonder of wonders, just as I was feeling my worsest and patheticist, I got a lovely e-mail from my mother. I got it half way through a hand of poker, and I was so flummoxed that my poker face confused absolutely everyone (including myself) and I won a huge pot.  Fistpump!

Anyway, so that I can remember in future years, I've included this e-mail (minus the completely bonkers bits - my mum is a bit "special").  I hope she doesn't mind.  Or ever find out!

Dear Issi 

I am so proud of you.    Every morning when I wake up and think of you I offer a prayer for you and I am 98% so proud of your strength and all of your achievements.  I feel so proud of you Only 2% is a thought that I hope you are not expecting too much of yourself.  Not pushing yourself too hard AND CERTAINLY NOT GOING ANYWHERE (DRESSED OR UNDRESSED) NEAR THE WINTER SEA.

You were so very ill when you were born we were lucky you did not die.  I used to pray so hard that you would not die in your childhood which was always a very strong possibility.  But look at you now!  A miracle!

I know you will get bad times and of course you will feel depressed and ill.  It is a horrible price for such a miracle that you are still with us.  And you know, you are so very loved.  I always so longed to cuddle you but I was scared because you were so fragile.  But now every day I close my eyes and imagine that I am cuddling you very tightly. and it is ok.

About the 98% As the day goes on I find the 2% seems to take over my brain and I worry so much that you are not spoiling yourself a little and you are not confident enough to realise what a wonderful, inspiring person you are.

Lots of love and prayers 

Mum xxxx

A perfect 10

(Draft) 
But I wear a 12.  Although CS decided to buy me some work trousers. How kind of him!  In size 14.  What a bastard!  He had some serious making-up to do if he was ever going to get to see the contents of those tried-on trousers in the near future.  OK, they fitted perfectly but that's not the point.

I'm actually 10 whole kilos over my ideal race-weight.  I'm not really sure how that happened, as I was probably drunk at the time.  Ah, I might have answered my own question.  Anyway, that's not the point either.

The Brooks 10k is a local race that's held in November every year, and involves running, well, 10k, up and down the Brighton & Hove seafront.  I've had a bit of a history with this event.  I've signed up for it a record five times, but only actually managed to run it once.  Here's a potted history;

1. 2010 - I got hit by a truck six weeks beforehand and broke three bones in my back.  I can't believe I asked my physio if I could still run it whilst lying immobile, trying (but failing) to pee into one of those upside down cardboard hat things they optimistically hand out in hospital. 
2. 2011 - I moved house.  Oh and left a husband.
3. 2012 - SUCCESS!  Me'n'Sis had a ball!
4. 2013 - A hastily arranged family get-together.  Apparently I had to get my priorities right.
5. 2014 - A hastily arranged trip to St Lucia.  I got my priorities right.  <insert link>

I gave my place to a friend on the condition that he ran a PB in my name.  I got the automated text saying that I'd run the 10k in a Brooks-PB-breaking time (13 seconds faster than in 2012!) whilst lying on the beach eating breakfast and drinking rum punch.  Fistpump!  But sorry, that's not the point either.

I will get there in the end, honest. (That's what I tell myself every time I run 10k)

This week I managed to catch up with said friend, and congratulated him on giving me a PB.  He looked very guilty.

I take it all back.....

Only last week I was complaining about having to do all this run training for blinking half marathons, and worse.  But a week is a long time in IssiLand.  Since then I've been ill (again), confined to bed for three days (again), and therefore unable to do much of that hopping jumping and skipping stuff.  On the bright side, my knee injury hasn't caused me any pain, but to be fair that's because I haven't actually used it.

But all my lovely friends, the ones who inspire, encourage and/or bully me are posting on FB about all the brilliant mileage they've been racking up, with huge smiley faces that look a lot like those creepy manic grinning emoticons, and, well, I'm jealous.

So today I promise myself that I will no longer moan about run training.  Out loud, at least.

I haven't got any relevant pictures of my training this week, so here's a couple of golden oldies of the kittens

Steve, doing the washing.

Fiona, not doing the washing.

Is it really time to do all that horrible run training again ALREADY?

Right, now that I've got that Christmas malarkey out of the way, and I've seen everyone else start on their own half or full marathon training sessions, it's about time I got my arse off the sofa and...... go to a sports massage (giggle) therapist to find an excuse why I'm not running around like a blue arsed fly.

And bless her, she came up with the goods.  I have CMP!  Nope, I had to Google it too.  It's where the cartilage in your knee does a double act of simultaneously swelling up and disappearing.  And your knee creaks like a cracking walnut.  Diagnosis - less running.  Ooh, I could have kissed her.

So in the meantime, this week I have been mainly...  Um...  Running.  I'm not entirely sure how that happened.  OK, it's a busy parkrun week, with one on New Years day and another on the usual Saturday, but then I voluntarily got up for a crack of dawn 5 mile run today (Sunday).  Even the cats were stunned.  Or maybe annoyed that I hadn't fed them first.

Jacko beating me across the line at Preston Park parkrun.
I'm 44.  I have diabetes.  And asthma
He's 72.  He has diabetes.  And a pacemaker.
I'll get him next time.  (Except I didn't!)