Why walking is the new running

A recent news report claimed two thirds of Britons spend at least 20 hours each day sitting or lying down. For many this won’t come as a surprise, particularly not if you’re a stressed city worker use to shoehorning in lunchtime spin or circuits sessions to counteract your otherwise sedentary lifestyle. But what few perhaps consider where keeping active is concerned is that the options are not confined to either doing nothing or doing frantic short bursts of exercise. There is, in fact, a third way; and that way is walking.

If you read yesterday’s (somewhat’ self-indulgent) blog you’ll be aware I’m currently suffering from the Lurgy (aka the common cold). The worst thing about being poorly, to my mind, is the inability to exercise, and it was as I was mulling this over yesterday afternoon – feeling grumpy after having to cancel my attendance at Wednesday night running club – that it hit me. I may not be well enough to run, but what’s to stop me walking?

And so, instead of taking public transport to the charity networking event I was attending near Waterloo, I walked. It took half an hour and it was lovely. The fresh air cleared my head and I saw a vast array of interesting sights and sounds. I even witnessed four seasons in one day, as the song goes, with alternate sunshine, showers and blustery winds.

When I arrived at the event one of the girls expressed surprise when I said I’d walked. Despite living in London she claimed never to walk anywhere and always to take the tube. My initial reaction to this comment was a feeling of mild disdain-until it dawned on me that I was exactly the same. Whenever I have to get from A to B in London I check the tube map first, with the over ground train line a close second and the bus route a distant third. It rarely occurs to me to leave more time for my journey and walk instead. Why should it? As a Londoner my time is scarce enough.

But then I remembered a date I went on a couple of years ago with a boy who suggested meeting at the South Bank. When I arrived, rather than go for a drink he suggested we go for a walk. At first I found this suggestion somewhat odd – everyone knows a bit of alcohol in the system helps calm first date nerves – but as we walked I began to relax and enjoy the experience. We walked for a long time, sharing observations and chatting about our favourite things. It was both a charming and eye opening experience (and yes, we did have a drink – or three – at the end of the epic walk). The relationship never developed beyond that date, and my pledge to walk more also fell by the wayside – until, that is, yesterday.

Whilst vigorous cardiovascular exercise is if course important – and I say this with the authority of someone who will be doing their second half marathon in September – exercise doesn’t always have to be vigorous. In fact, as I discovered yesterday, it’s far better to walk if you’re feeling under the weather than to do nothing at all.

Often neglected in favour of its more popular sibling, running, walking is a more gentle form of exercise that’s good for the soul. Not only does it provide an opportunity to explore the place in which you live and observe the people in it (people watching has long been a favourite pastime of mine – a trait I get from my mum), it also offers space for quiet self-reflection and – for the more creative types amongst us – a prime opportunity for inspiration to strike.

In short, walking rocks – so why not get off the bus or tube a stop early on your way home this evening and give it a try?

Spring has sprung

It’s been a long old winter this year, one that’s greedily stretched its icy fingers all the way into April. Roads have been closed, leaving cars shrouded in snow looking like strangely shaped, grotesque and faceless snowmen. Homes have been without electricity and thousands of elderly and vulnerable people have been housebound and alone.

And all the while an overwhelming, cloying, crushing malaise has settled on the dwellers of London, this city I call home, as I’m sure it has across the many other towns and cities in our fair (or, let’s face it, not so fair in recent months) land. The kind of malaise that leaves you wondering with alarming regularity why you don’t just move somewhere with guaranteed sunshine and be done with all the greyness and the bitter cold once and for all.

But we Brits are a hardy bunch, and our impressive ability to moan is surpassed only by our ability to bear the weight of such an oppressive spell of poor weather. The lack of Vitamin D has no doubt been a factor in our collective mood this past few weeks, but deep down each and every one of us has been stoic in the face of the Big Freeze, purely because we knew it wouldn’t – couldn’t – last forever. We have been playing the waiting game.

And if today’s weather is anything to go by, that waiting game may soon be at an end. For when I stepped outside this morning for my run something felt different. There was still a slight chill in the air, granted, but as I ran I could feel the warmth of the glorious sunshine on my face and I just knew in my bones that winter was finally losing its war against spring. Clapham Common was full of runners, their gloves and hats stowed away at home for the first time this year, as were mine. Parents pushed prams lazily, without rushing or wincing in the biting wind. The collective malaise had lifted, at least temporarily, and in its wake were cheerful people blinking in the light like newborns, ready for whatever life saw fit to bring. 

Though we dream of jetting away from it all, we Brits are a hardy bunch.

Best foot forward

Tonight, after a day of attempting to eat healthily but still succumbing to several Reese’s peanut butter cups and a handful of Minstrels (what? I’m the new girl, I couldn’t possibly say no on day two; that way enemies lie), I decided enough was enough and hauled my super-sized arse (New York has a lot to answer for) to running club for my first run since the sixteen mile hell run a week and a half ago. I was dreading it, but as soon as I got there and saw some familiar faces I was – as always – fine. Despite talking the whole way (and taking on a sizeable hill) we even managed the 8k distance in a respectable 46 minutes.

Since I got back I’ve been ruminating on how great it is to be part of a club, which is ironic as at school I was always the fat kid who had no interest whatsoever in being part of anything remotely club-like, especially if it involved physical exercise. But the more I go to my running club the more I feel inspired to keep on going. Not only is it great motivation to know other people will be there and you won’t be exercising alone, my club is also free-and they provide juice, fig rolls and custard creams (also for free) at the end, which is obviously a huge bonus in my (and anyone’s?) books.

So now my first big run is behind me I have no intention of quitting running club; far from it. I’ve signed up for a half marathon in September so will soon be training again, and in the meantime I’ll continue to attend the club and keep my motivation as well as (hopefully) motivating others.

My other motive for continuing to attend running club is the cost. Much as I love being a member of a gym it’s pretty expensive in London, and now I’ve started a new job where I’ll be earning – in the short term at least – considerably less (not that you’d know it from my spending spree in NYC and today’s post-work shoe shopping binge) I’m not sure gym membership is a priority over, say, eating. Actually, I’m quite certain it’s not. So, for the time being as I concentrate on reducing my outgoings and paying off my now sizeable credit card debt I think I’ll keep up running as a reliable, sociable and free means of keeping fit. And I’ll also keep praying one day soon it might be warm enough to do it without being swaddled in ten layers of clothing…

Chasing dreams

Lottie was born different to most little girls. She knew this not because people regularly told her so (although they did), but rather because she could see with her own eyes. Not that she could ever understand why it mattered – apart from identical twins like Janey and Suki at nursery nobody looked exactly the same. And anyway, wasn’t there a famous phrase about variety being the spice of life?

As she grew up Lottie’s parents tried to manage her expectations of what she could achieve in life. She would never, they told her, be an athlete. But Lottie took exception to this. Why couldn’t she be an athlete? If she didn’t see her disability as insurmountable then why should anybody else?

For a while, during her early teens, Lottie towed the line. She concentrated on her grades at school and had a couple of boyfriends, pretending to have given up her wild ambition to be a sporting legend.

But behind the scenes she was as determined as ever. She found an academy and worked hard to win a scholarship. The day the letter came through her mother found her jumping for joy in the kitchen. Her jaw nearly hit the floor when Lottie explained what it meant.

“Running?” she’d said, a look of total incomprehension on her face.

“Yes Mum,” Lottie had replied. “Running.”

“But you don’t have….”

“Lower legs. No Mum, I don’t. But I do have these.” She pointed to her blades.

Her mother sighed and shook her head, and in that moment Lottie knew they’d crossed a boundary in their relationship that could never be uncrossed.

They couldn’t understand why she did it, given how hard she had to work at it, how much it took out of her.

But Lottie knew exactly why she did it.

She ran to chase her dreams.

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I’m ashamed to admit I can’t remember the name of this beautiful boy, who I met whilst volunteering at an orphanage in Tanzania in 2007. He was wheelchair-bound and required daily physio in the form of his fellow orphans and myself and my fellow volunteers following a set routine of arm and leg bending exercises. I never felt he was getting anywhere near the level of treatment he required, and he often looked as if he were in pain, but he never complained and always had a wide smile on his face. I felt so sad remembering him just now that I cried. I pray he’s somewhere happy and safe, receiving the care he so desperately needs.

Counting blessings

Following on from my last post about challenges, I’ve bitten the bullet and signed up for a sixteen mile (twenty five kilometre) run in just over nine weeks’ time. Having just done my first official ‘training run’ (6.5 kilometres on the treadmill-have you FELT the air temperature outside today? I’m not running in that!) I’m already having doubts that my body is up to the job. Just sitting down on the train home nearly caused total muscle paralysis, and I’m fairly sure I’ve torn something crucial in my left toe region. In short, so far it’s not looking good, but I’m determined not to fall at the first hurdle. This was only my second run in about five weeks so it’s hardly surprising my body’s taken great exception to being forced into long distance running without so much as a warning.

Speaking of events that have no warning, this morning brought the sad news that a helicopter had crashed into a crane near Vauxhall station, killing the pilot and one person on the ground. Twitter was awash with conspiracy theories postulating it was the English 9/11, but it seems quite clear it was a tragic accident and nothing more. Whatever the cause, it got me thinking about how suddenly life can change, how in an instant everything you knew has been turned on its head. The poor man who was killed on the ground was probably on his way to work, following the same well-trodden path he followed every other day. Only on this day he didn’t come home.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that today’s incident has made me think a lot about the importance of counting our blessings, of realising so many of the things we preoccupy ourselves with in life are, in reality, the least important things of all. What really matters is our families, friends and partners, the people we surround ourselves with who love us unconditionally, without whom we wouldn’t be the people that we are. Life is such a precious commodity, and yet it can be snuffed out in a second. If there’s one thing we can take from tragedies like today, surely it’s that we should make the most of every minute we are blessed to be alive?

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Thought this photo was particularly appropriate for this post, given that it’s of an offering to a Hindu god in a Bali homestead where I spent several happy days towards the end of my travels last year 🙂