We're going on a deer hunt

So today was Sunday, which only has one meaning for me: day of the long slow run. This is normally my favourite part of the week. I love the freedom of being able to set out of the front door, immerse myself with music on my iPod, and know that the next few hours are dictated by me and me alone. Larry is really supportive and takes full charge of the children to allow me this precious time to put miles in my legs and peace in my head, a thing which I am really grateful for. I always spend Sunday afternoons with that deliciously achy feeling in my legs and my lungs, usually wearing a thick jumper to counteract the post long run chills I get, and always wearing my RMR compression socks. This has been my life for a while, and this is how I enjoy spending the last day of each weekend.

Today sucked.

For a starter, I had a MAJOR distraction to even get out of the house.

Meet Barney, the newest member of our family. He is an 8 week old Golden Doodle; his mum is a poodle and his dad is a golden retriever. Larry and I picked him up yesterday and he is the cutest little thing I have seen for a long time. As I write this he is snuggled on my lap, occasionally pawing me to remind me he's there. It was tempting to stay in for puppy snuggles this morning, but I don't think my body would appreciate that on April 26th, so reluctantly I left the little guy for a couple of hours.

Another problem I faced is that I've come out with an URTI (upper respiratory tract infection), or as most people would call it, a viral chest infection. Now there is a saying in the running world that if it's below the neck don't train, but if it's above the neck you're good to go. So technically I was in the no training zone, but I didn't have a fever, I wasn't coughing like a lunatic, and I wasn't so ill that I couldn't go about my usual day to day activities. My lungs just had that viral feeling to them and I felt lousy. So me being me, I ignored common parlance and headed on out.

Larry was taking the children to the park, and seeing as the pavements were covered with ice, I decided to change my route and head on over to Wollaton Park, so could walk with them to the little park behind our house. Now I know Larry freely gives me reign to go on my long runs, and he never begrudges me doing so, I have always found it difficult tearing myself away from my family to go off alone. Walking out today, in front of me I saw the boys racing ahead on their scooters, and looking back I saw this picture. Larry helping Jessica on the scooter that she is still far too young for but is desperate to use anyway. And for that moment I felt a pang in my heart, it's hard to describe really but watching my whole family going off in one direction while I separate myself and go in a different direction, sometimes that's really hard. In a macabre kind of way it's like seeing how my family would exist if I was no longer there.

But regardless of sentiment I trotted off to what is fast becoming my favourite running haunt: Wollaton Deer Park. Mentally I was up for it, my legs were calling for me to break into a run and set them free, my lungs said sod off. I struggled on because it's not unusual for breathing to be difficult during the first few km, but every minute I persevered it felt more and more like I was breathing through drinking straws and it HURT.  

Exercise-induced asthma I can handle.

Cold weather exacerbated asthma I can handle.

Infection exacerbated asthma I can handle.

Combination of all 3? No chance.

I tried to take it slower, no improvement. I tried to sprint through it in the hope that my rebellious "I don't care that you're protesting" stance against my lungs would work, but still no improvement. So I walked to a bench, sat on it and had a good cry. I was so frustrated that yet again my body was limiting what I can do, and aware that time was ticking and I wasn't actually getting anywhere, which made me feel even more sorry for myself. And so my pity party for one was in full swing. 

At that point I sent out an SOS text to a friend from NWR club, called Larry and had a good moan to him, and vented at TT with a complaint about my thoughtless body wrecking my lovely Sunday run, ending, I believe, with the words:

"F*ck

This

Sh*t"

(Sorry TT)

Because at that point I really believed that. All over my FB feed I see people regaling their amazing running achievements, and I have the passion and determination to train to be my best, but I'm continually getting held back because my body isn't fuelled enough, or is tired, or is ill.

My running friend, Diane, told me what I needed to hear, that I could do it, that even walk/running it was fine, and to get off my backside and just do it. So I did. And just over an hour later I had finished and clocked up 12k. Sure, they weren't consistent; I can usually run better than that, further and faster, but I didn't give up when I could barely breathe and when all of me just wanted to give up and go home. 

Giving up would be so easy. It's always easier not to bother, to take the easy road, to spend time with my family and save a lot of money from PT expenses and race fees and that running kit I just have to have! But I can't remember a single time in my life when I've taken the easy option. When I was 16 and had severe M.E., was completely bed bound and had to be put on and off a commode by my mum because I couldn't stand, let alone walk to go to the bathroom....it would've been easier resigning myself to that life rather than fighting and fighting to get better. Fast forward 10 years and I had a bleed in my brain caused by my severely anorexic body not holding me up, and falling fractured my skull causing a lot of damage. I had what you call expressive dysphasia, meaning I could understand what was being said to me but I could not make myself understood back. In essence I had to learn to talk again. My mum still has a copy of the first text I sent her after that. I remember sending it. It took ages and ages for what was only about 20 words, and it makes very little sense, but I fought until I got full command of my speech back....and some might say there's no shutting me up now! Then the big one. Turning about a lifetime of anorexia, getting my deathly ill body with a BMI of around 10 to accept food and regain weight and strength, whilst trying to keep my head straight and not lapse back into what was a default for me for decades. And I made it. Just. Having been told that kidney disease, infertility from anorexia and pelvic infections after being attack would render me highly unlikely to ever carry a baby to term, if I conceived one in the first place, Larry and I were blessed with three beautiful children.

So when I look back at the major hurdles I have overcome during my life, it makes me wonder, is a marathon really that big a deal? It's 26.2 miles, about 5 hours of running/walking/hobbling....surely after everything I have fought for to date, surely I can manage to run 26.2 miles? I'm really beginning to appreciate that, for me certainly, this marathon is more about my psychological fitness than my physical fitness. I feel mentally so tired after everything that has been going on recently, and I think this is partly translating itself into my performance. But also, my self esteem is very fragile. I need to hear that I can do it, I need to be buoyed by other people's opinions of me to keep me going. But on 26th April, it will be me and the streets of London. I will be running the London Marathon for myself, and myself alone. I think I'm going to need to make peace with myself before then.

Oh and as for the deer hunt reference in the title, I traversed the whole of Wollaton Park this morning and not once did I see a deer. I have no idea where they are hiding but I'm going to make it a mission to find them the next time I run there!