Mojo

Mojo. It's a funny old thing really. Often you can have it without realising; you are just in the zone, achieving, setting the world alight with your achievements. Then at other times you are mojoless (is that even a word?!!), and lack enthusiasm for your usual passions, and when you do make the effort you find yourself lacking. So far this year I have been completely without mojo for running. Training sessions were met with about as much enthusiasm as a person would show at the prospect of cuddling a starving lion. I went through the motions, but my heart wasn't there. In gym classes I kept an eye on the clock, on runs - which had been demoted to short affairs rather than my previous mini marathons - I could scarcely get past a shuffle. And always at the back of my mind was the question of how easy would it be to defer my place in the London Marathon, or just pull out and give up the dream entirely. Things were pretty grim.

I could prattle along and hypothesise about why I was feeling so apathetic, but really the answer is one word only: anorexia. So tightly caught in it's snare again I had no energy, physical or mental, to expend any on training or even normal daily activities. Every time I ran I rebuked myself at having restricted so badly in the preceding days, as my vision was continually swimming and full of black stars as I felt increasingly dizzy. My body felt like a car might if it was fuelled on coke; spluttering and without any oomph. So every run I'd vow to eat better when I got back home so next time it would be different. But as soon as I was home the gremlin on my shoulder would insist that I didn't really need food, and so nothing ever improved.

Last Sunday night I was discussing the forthcoming training week with my trainer, TT, as Monday marked the first day in my 16 week plan in the lead up to VLM. He said something to me which really got my back up for reasons I still don't really understand, but that had a profound effect on my actions for the rest of the week. He was looking at my food diary, and said how he would expect to see an upward trend as my training became more intense. My anorexic brain went grr, but my healthy brain went, hang on he does have a point here. So I began to increase my calories. Only from 500 to 800 a day, but it was an increase and one I could cope with doing.

Fast forward to today, and I went out for my usual Sunday long run with worries that it'll be a dismal failure and I would end up walking the whole thing. I did 15k! 15!!! It felt AMAZING!!! Although it had only been a relatively small increase in food intake I felt strong, my legs were powerful, bounding over puddles and thundering along paths, and I felt like I was back where I should be.

One of the many lovely paths in Wollaton Park

Last Sunday evening I doubted my ability to ever be able to run again. This Sunday evening my legs are deliciously achy, I'm super tired, but I still have a goofy smile on my face because I ran 15km this morning and you know what? My body has been incredibly forgiving to me as to let me use it like this when I've not been looking after it properly for so long. And my mojo? It's back in triplicate! So my learning point from this week is that, no matter how hard it is and how it makes me feel, I need to keep fuelling my body if I am to continue training and continue on my path to run London. It's never easy, and those closest to me know how much I suffer and struggle every time I eat, but the high from not eating and losing weight is so pale in comparison to the euphoria of a really good run. I just need to remember that at every mealtime every day.

As a final note I would like to remember my beautiful golden retriever Kiwi, whom I had to put down on Thursday. She was more than a pet, she was a faithful companion during years of illness when I was very poorly, and she brought joy to everyone who knew her. Rest in Peace Kiwi dog.

Kiwi