Saturday 7 February 2015

15 days until Brighton Half Marathon.

Two weeks tomorrow... that's it. 14 days and a few hours until I am due to stand on the start line on the first of the big ones.

I've been asked several times recently how my training is going. The simple answer is: it's not. It's going nowhere, as am I. Great South Run was only a few months ago and I was in a similar position then, a great big grey cloud of misery hanging around, raining question marks down on my ability to not just finish the race, but to start it too. My toddler-esque self would quite like to have a bit of a tantrum and shout "It's. Not. Fair" while stamping my foot, crossing my arms and pouting my bottom lip so low I would risk tripping over it.

The IT band problem isn't going away as quickly or as easily as I would like it to. The physio for my knee isn't as easy to do as my ankle was. The stretches are harder and I still need to combine heat and ice on my knee; it is much easier to dunk an ankle in a bucket of cold water! The pain afterwards is horrible. Nothing seems to make it better, and the stairs have become Mt. Everest. However, I have seen improvement in the amount of time I can run for, going from 20 minutes (just) 2 weeks ago to an hour today.

The biggest difference this time is how I am coping with having an injury at this stage of training. I feel defeated before I've been overcome, I feel like giving in, and yet at the same time I want to keep going and not be beaten by a stupid injury. Such a conflict of emotions, which is exhausting in itself. The last few weeks have been challenging; E's hospital appt with the ENT consultant wasn't a pleasant one, Husband has been off work all week with bursitis of his hip and has been limited by pain and a hobble, thrown in on top of tired children who have been working hard at school and are more than ready for half term holidays. I've lost my coping mechanism and as much as I've wanted to go out and run away the stresses I haven't been able to.

There have been many tears. Tears of anger, frustration and resentment. I'm seeing many people celebrating their running successes (and rightly so) and while I am proud of them, I feel the ugly green-eyed monster raising in me. Instead of being inspired to go on, I want to crawl into my bed and hide away from the world. Where I see their courage and achievements, I also see my fear and failure. The latter two are much, much bigger.

While I was running today, I started with hope. I'm on my third pair of running shoes in less than a year, and it would seem that these ones don't irritate the old-lady bunions. This is good; it addresses the source of the IT band inflaming. It was freezing cold but I didn't feel the iciness. I felt the freedom of being out in the bright sunshine, despite the frost on the ground. When the pain struck just before 3 miles I had already decided I would cope with it. The Body Vs Mind battle was on; I could be stronger than the pain. It soon took over though, and I began to believe I was going to have to abandon the run and phone home to be rescued. The positive, warm feeling of hope dissipated, fractured by the searing pain up into my hip. I thought of E, how she felt when the most normal of noises made her cower, and cry in pain. How she felt when the carnival approached and all she felt was fear. How she felt when she wanted to tell me something but didn't have the words to say it. I put my head down, gritted my teeth and carried on.

Who knows if the pain settled because psychologically I was managing it, or if the slower pace made it manageable, but I carried on. I smiled at passers by with a false confidence. Maybe if I could convince them that I was invincible, then maybe I could convince myself too. I passed by several opportunities to turn home; the feeling of being free and out was worth the discomfort in my leg.

As I jogged up the hill to home, I could see the silhouettes of two familiar figures at the end of my drive. A proud but concerned husband holding up a jiggling two year old calling me on. Their faces becoming clearer as I grew closer, filling my heart with love and pride. I had made it.

As the day progressed, my knee objected louder and louder to the morning run. My head wants to go for 10 miles tomorrow, my knee is belly-chuckling at such a ridiculous plan. The question mark over the half marathon looms larger and darker as the pain intensifies and now I need to decide. Head down, teeth gritted and deal with it, take the risk that 13.2 miles in two weeks could seriously negate my chances of being a part of the marathon, or stand back and watch the successes of others?

I need a crystal ball.



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