Tag Archives: race

Teenage dreams

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I’m conscious that I may need to amend the rules of my writing challenge (but as I set them in the first place surely that’s my prerogative?), given that I wrote fiction every day a couple of weeks back and have written mainly blog posts this week. In times of change I find myself more drawn to blogging. I think it’s the teenager in me trying to document everything lest it be forgotten. But whatever the reason I’m enjoying it, so for now I’m going to carry on and hope you’ll humour me.

This morning I was up with the lark (well, comparatively so considering it’s a weekend) to prepare for the British Heart Foundation 10k race in Regent’s Park. I wasn’t worried about the distance – it being just a warm up compared to the 16 mile race I’m doing in two weekends’ time – but I was nervous about my time. Whilst I’m quite a steady long distance runner I’m no Speedy Gonzales, and I was worried I’d show myself up by finishing in over an hour.

The conditions were far from ideal; cold, foggy and muddy underfoot. Foolishly I’d left my gloves at home, and with the start of the race delayed – and my poor circulation kicking in – it soon became apparent this had been a major error.

Eventually we were off, and for the first couple of kilometres I settled into a comfortable pace. Then the course strayed from the path into thick patches of mud, and as I struggled to negotiate them I noticed that the tips of my fingers had turned an alarming shade of blue.

By the eighth kilometre I was determined to keep up the pace I’d set right to the end, but at the ninth I hit a wall and for a moment felt I couldn’t go on. Somehow I pushed through the final kilometre to the finish line, and was delighted to realise I’d finished in under 54 minutes – far exceeding my expectations.

This afternoon I (grudgingly) accompanied my boyfriend to Oxford Street to help him choose a suit for work. In Moss Bros we were served by a sweet boy who was, he told us, still at school but working in the shop every Saturday. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen, bless him, and he looked so awkward standing there, his gawky frame clothed in an ill-fitting suit. I know I sound patronising but it was so endearing the way he tried to engage me in adult conversation whilst my boyfriend was in the changing room.

On re-reading that last paragraph it occurs to me I’m already on the slippery slope to old age. Before I know it I’ll be spitting into hankies and wiping people’s faces. Come back teenage me, all is forgiven.

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What’s life without a challenge?

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In September last year I competed in my first Olympic distance triathlon, having tested the water with two sprint distance races in 2009 and 2010. To ensure I was fit enough to get round the course I joined a triathlon club. The first two sessions were so tough I cried, and it didn’t get much easier as the weeks went on.

By far the worst part of triathlon training for me was the swimming. As the fat kid who was always picked last for team sport at school, swimming was my arch nemesis. What could possibly be worse for a body conscious ten year old whose puppy fat stubbornly refused to disappear than shoving said fat into a tight, unflattering swimming costume and belly flopping into the pool in front of her classmates?

Fast forward twenty years and I still lack confidence in the water. Even after numerous lessons and triathlon club drill sessions I couldn’t shake the feeling I was the uncoordinated whale of the group, bringing up the rear behind the graceful, frolicking dolphins before me.

But nonetheless I fought my fear. And, whilst the mile long swim on race day felt like swimming the Channel itself rather than a lap of the Docklands, the fact is that I not only did it, I finished the race in a very respectable three hours and thirteen minutes.

Now I can’t say I’ve been back to the lido since the race (it has been winter!) but, just over three months down the line, I can feel the beginnings of that familiar fire in my belly; the seed of desire for another challenge.

When I think back to the pain of those 90 minute spin sessions, the stress of fitting training around work and social life and the general exhaustion that comes with taking on a massive sporting challenge as an addendum to normal life, I wonder if I’m mad to want to do it all again.

But then I think back to my chubby ten year old self and tell myself I’m doing it for HER-I’m making up for all the shame and embarrassment that she felt because she wasn’t good at sport in a school that valued being good at sport almost above being good at academia.

It may be time consuming, stressful and exhausting taking on extreme physical challenges, but it’s also exhilarating, motivating and a great way to keep fit.

And with this post I think I’ve just convinced myself to sign up for the sixteen mile run I’ve been deliberating over for the past few days. Here we go again…

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Okay, I’ll admit it, I didn’t come first. This was an opportunistic leap onto the winners’ podium post-race. But I was so elated in that moment that I may as well have won the race. It certainly lay a few childhood demons to rest.