I must also admit that in these quiet weeks, I've only been out for 2 or 3 runs.
However, since taking it slightly easier, the weight has really fallen off, despite eating rubbish and drinking a bit more. I'm now 13stone - that's 2 less than when I started writing this. I have to conclude that this is mainly down to the 40miles a week of walking I've managed to maintain since mid-March, as I've been far more consistent in this than with the running. In fact, I reckon the running started to shift it, and the walking's kept it going.
The strange thing is that when I wrote the last entry on this blog, having had a totally uncharacteristic mid-day nap and feeling completely wrung out after the Temple Newsam 10k, I was aware that something had changed. Since then I've tried to figure out just what happened, but there's simply no explanation other than it seems a switch was flicked in my head that said "That's enough now."
Until then, running was part of my routine - every other day, at least 3 times a week, I was out in the early morning putting in a few miles. On a running day, I would feel satisfied and pleased with myself for having achieved something, no matter how small and insignificant. On the rest days I would plan my next run, something a little longer maybe, or perhaps a little more demanding in hills or intensity. All the time, I was walking everywhere, and all the exercise meant that those feel-good hormones were pulsing around my system, giving me a little more confidence, a bit more of a chilled out approach to life and even a little extra reserve of patience in stressful situations. This is what I love about running - it's not how you feel when you're doing it, the effects are felt afterwards in so many ways.
Somehow, though, that switch that kept me going had flipped off. My morning would start with me waking up in bed, and the part of my brain that responds to the satisfaction of obeying routine would say "Are we going for a run, then?", and the whole of my body would reply with a straight, honest "No," and not even feel guilty about it. On the few occasions that I've been out, it's been a result of my body replying to my brain's question with a "Yeah alright then," which was definitely not its' former "Hell yeah! Off we go!" I surprised myself by managing the odd 5k, or a run down the canal for 4.5miles, knowing that practically all the way, my brain and body were arguing like the mother and daughter I wrote about before.
I had begun to worry. The urge had gone. Is this forever? Would I ever fall back in love with running again, or is this it? What would that mean for my 5 run challenge?
I did a few calculations about the other times I've taken up and forsaken running. When I first started to do fun-runs and fundraisers, it was as a motivator to lose weight after hitting what I then considered to be an obscene weight, which I believed I should never, ever allow myself to return to or go above ever again - and that was 13 and a half stone. I got down to what I think of as my ideal, healthy running weight of 11 and a half stone (I actually went as low as 10stone 12pounds, but I looked like a skeletal horse) within a few months, then at the end of that season, I developed plantar fasciitis. I stopped running then, and by the time the good weather had returned, I had started a business, and was too busy running that to get out first thing in the morning. I came to the conclusion that the switch has flicked itself OFF a few times in the past, but I've had things which prevented me from noticing it, or reasons to ignore it.
I know when the switch is in the ON position. It's usually in the early New Year that I notice that the sight of other runners engenders that swelling feeling of mixed envy and pride, and thoughts of being part of a running event put a lump in my throat, and then I look at myself, realise I need to lose some weight and talk to myself about it for a while before one day, quite unexpectedly, I wake up, put my running gear on and find myself out making dragons breath on a cold and frosty morning, and feeling awesome. It's probably fair to say the switch is probably something that will flick on and off at intervals for as long as I live -Dad says his switch is still ON, and it's terrible for him because he really can't run any more. That's a peculiar torture, and it worries me I might have to live with it.
A few days ago I decided that I needed to focus again, to have something to train for (which is why I decided to do 5 runs throughout the season), and that I would start running again next week, the start of August. One last weekend of lounging, I thought. That'll give me time to sort out this weird knee thing that's started in the last few days (a randomly occasional sharp pain behind my kneecap, as if it's bending too far forward), and see off the groin thing, which has been improving no end since taking it a bit easier. I had 3 beers last night, and a late night in front of the telly - surefire non-running behaviour. And then this morning, I woke up at 7am, and realised that I was going for a run, no decision about it.
33minutes. 4.5k. dead easy. I totally deserved my fat breakfast of french toast and fried mushrooms with a massive cup of tea. After a shower, I've logged on and registered for the Abbey Dash on the 20th November- the end of season run that is the other emotional run for me. This is the 10k that I've seen going up Kirkstall Road each year and felt the urge, the envy, the pride, and the unexpected tears welling up about taking part in. I'll finally do it this year.
Perhaps the switch flicked ON again over night. Or maybe I just like getting out on a sunny morning. I don't really care. It was a lovely run, and it was all mine.
