The Twattiness of the Short Distance Runner (me)

It seems that spring is when I'm moved to blog.  I'm not even going to insult you by pretending that I'll blog more frequently this year, or big myself up by pretending you've been desperate for another one in the last year and six days, so no apology either.

I did do a big thing, yesterday, though.

I Did Jogging!

I know.  Not a jogger, I.

However, whenever I have a week or so off from teaching Zumba, even if I don't go bonkers on Easter eggs (I can take 'em or leave 'em - thank god there isn't a worldwide cheese festival where people give each other whole Stiltons and Bries.  I'd fucking DIE), I seem to put on a good half a stone, which on my smaller-than-you'd-think-cos-I-usually-wear-heels frame is a whole chunk of lard.

Plus, if people are coming to you and paying you to help them get fit, you ought to make an effort to look the part.  Not drinking Belgium's stock of rosé over the Easter break may have helped with this extra tonnage.  Also not filling my Dad's fridge with more filet Américain (it's raw beef - I don't know why it's called filet Américain.  I don't think you can get it in America.  It's similar to steak tartare, though) than a woman should be allowed to eat in a month, and then accidentally having a forkful every time I filled the bottomless glass of rosé from the box in the fridge may have made some contribution, too.

However, whatever the reason, I got back from my long weekend feeling like a proper little Bunter, and resolved to Do Something About It.  Usually, it's a quick gain/quick loss, and I'm happy to let the extra half stone trickle off over the ensuing two weeks.  I don't know why this wasn't the case this time.  I'm getting old.  It's harder to shift extra pounds and I just wanted it off quickly, so I thought I'd give this running malarkey a bash.

Anyone who has ever discussed running with me will know my views on it.

In brief, most people who start running do so with no idea what they're doing.  They just grab a pair of trainers and hit the tarmac.  The trainers are probably also well past their run-by date.

Everyone thinks they can run.  Our bodies are designed to do it, right?  I mean, it's just running, right?  Wrong.  More people injure themselves running than almost any other sport, because they just go and do it.  They also stretch before they've warmed up, causing little tiny tears in cold, stiff muscles, and don't stretch afterwards.  And they whack all their impact through their heels, because their trainers allow them to do that, whereas our bodies are not actually designed to run like this.

Look, if you're hating me right now, don't.  If you know what you're doing and you enjoy it, keep at it.  I raise my hat at you.  If you're following a sensible programme, wearing good trainers and non-chaffing trousers, like a bit of barefoot running technique and have a sports bra which stops you from taking your own eye out crossing roads - go for it.  Plus, you know, swings and roundabouts, horses for courses, freedom of etceteras.

Yeah, I don't know what possessed me to give it a go, either.  But yesterday morning, off I set, with Sev in tow, for a gentle jog.  I figured I'd manage about three minutes and collapse in a heap, like I always did at school but I had forgotten that a) I smoked about 40 a day at school and b) my cardio-vascular fitness is a lot better than when I was a teenager, thanks to four years of teaching Zumba.  Although you'd think five-times-a-week ballet as a teenager would have helped, but it seems that was more endurance than... anyway - I digress.

To my somewhat smug pleasure, I managed four miles without pause, and, while sweaty at the end of it, wasn't unduly out of breath.  I wasn't very fast, but then that wasn't my aim.  And to my surprise, I quite enjoyed it - I certainly got a massive sense of achievement out of it.  I could have gone further, but I'd done a 'there and back' type walk, and run out of route.

This morning, I set out to jog again.  I managed half the distance of yesterday and pulled up with a small nagging ache in my sacroiliac area, which I suspect may be called something like Jogger's Arse.

I'd probably run though this if I didn't fear that I'd make it worse and put myself out of teaching altogether, for the foreseeable future, and we'd all die in penury on the streets.  I don't know if running through it would make it worse or better, and I will never know because that's IT!  I'm not running any more.  I was right.  It's not for me.

And it turns out I'm exactly the kind of git I always swore I wouldn't be.  TOTALLY inexperienced, hitting the tarmac, injured within 24 hours.

Twat.