Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Public Service Announcement - Girls, Check Your Straps!

I'm running a half marathon on Sunday.

It's not my A race for this year. It's just one to see how I'm tracking with my marathon training. Sure, I'd like to run strong and well but I'm not expecting anything spectacular. Just a solid hit-out.

But something happened yesterday that almost put paid to my participation. A near disaster caused by a tiny piece of purple plastic.

Most of you women out there will know what this is. The hook on the end of my running bra's strap. Usually not seen like this because it's hooked into the loop on the back strap. Yesterday, though it made its bid for freedom. Luckily it happened at home but it occurred to me afterwards that I was only 30 minutes out from having a wardrobe malfunction while pounding the pavements.

I'm sure you'd like to know how this would have prevented me from running on Sunday. And I've given it a lot of thought - because I spend a lot of time by myself and have hours to create all manner of doomsday scenarios. And I came up with two highly-probables.

The first I've extrapolated from my times trying to steer a canoe while paddling with a friend. If there's any imbalance in the boat it tends to go round and round and round in endless circles. If that strap had gone while I was out running I might still be in New Farm Park as we speak circling the same drink fountain. I don't do well going round and round in circles as my last ride in an amusement park would attest to. 

Why wouldn't I just stop, you ask? I'm a runner - I don't stop until I get to where I was going. Relentless forward motion is my motto. 

The second and the worst scenario would have, at the very least, put me in hospital and, at the worst, had me six feet under. 

Those bra straps are placed at some considerable strain keeping everything rounded up and held in tight. If one of them went it could have flung up and hit me in the eye because, at that precise moment, I'd been looking over my shoulder to respond to the comment that one of my running companions had made about my age - not a flattering comment, I might add. Luckily I was wearing my big girl panties and could brush it aside with a comment on his lack of hair. 

Anyway the plastic hook in my eye might have caused me to be temporarily sight impaired. Even more so than usual. Causing me to stumble. But because there'd been such a sudden and catastrophic change in my centre of gravity on one side and because I'm no longer as nimble as I once was I would not have been able to regain my footing. Head meets concrete. Intracranial bleed. Brain surgery and an uncertain outcome. Definitely no Sunday half marathon.

So I'm eternally grateful that the bra strap didn't go until I was about to head into the shower. And I thought it was a timely reminder for us all (or all of us who wear sports bars with convertible straps) to check that they're still firmly attached.

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Domestic Disturbances

My husband and I had a fight the other day.

We don't fight a lot. In fact it's really, really rare. We both are keep-the-peace type people. And I've always believed that what has been said in the heat of the moment can never be unsaid so raised voices are not common at our address.

But things had been building up. Too much togetherness from my husband's one month (and yes, I know there's still ten days to go before that month is up) and a lot of family pressures from an on-going situation had us almost come to blows. Over some chicken.

That's right. The stupid piece of hay that broke the camel's back was a pan of chicken that we were going to have for dinner. But, being a woman, I still contend that I was right.

I'd put the pan of chicken on to brown and had walked into the laundry a few metres away to fold some washing when Iven asked if I wanted him to stir it. I said no because I wanted the chicken to brown. I walked back into the kitchen to find Iven stirring the chicken and that's when it started.

I asked what he was doing and he said he was just flattening the mound down. I asked why even ask me what I want if he's not going to listen to the answer. He asserted that he wasn't stirring - just evening things out.

I do want to state at this point that I had a good dose of PMS and I'm pretty sure I'm menopausal. Or at the very least peri-menopausal. But those unpredictable hormone levels don't necessarily make me irrational. They just reduce my ability to keep a lid on whatever's seething under the surface. And when your husband's been underfoot for a couple of weeks while you've been super-busy there is a lot of stuff seething under the surface.

Sentences were thrown about like knives. "What about No don't you get?!!" Things escalated from there. The volume was turned up and the neighbours got to hear all our personal flaws. Except that Iven is really craptastic at fighting and didn't seem to be able to find any for me. Things like "You're always so perfect!" and "You don't do anything wrong" - well, he might have said them with a bitter tone but I took them as a compliment.

It was such an unsatisfactory fight that it petered away within a couple of minutes, in which time my chicken got nicely browned on the bottom because he'd stopped stirring it!

Peace has returned to Chez Donaldson and I now have come up with a tactic to prevent further recurrences of our verbal throw-downs. Henceforth I will not be cooking dinner until he's taken the wolf pack out on its walk. And if he doesn't want to walk the dogs, he doesn't get to eat.

Sunday, April 12, 2015

Only 12 Weeks To Go

Only twelve weeks to go till the Gold Coast marathon.

I say 'only' a little facetiously because 12 weeks is still a pretty long time and it feels like I'm only just starting to up my weekly kilometres.

I hit 28k for my Saturday long run last week. Actually it was 28.5k - all those extra 500m's count don't they? It's a little daunting knowing that that will be my shortest Saturday run (minus the couple of half marathons I have scheduled) for the next couple of months. It's lucky that I actually really enjoy doing them.

For most of you this would seem really strange. How is it possible to enjoy something that involves you getting up before 4am in the morning, running for two and a half, three or three and a half hours, the very real chance of blisters, chafing or black toenails and the desperate need to spend the rest of the day either eating or sleeping? It's a strange and wonderful paradox.

I was actually pondering that precise question on Saturday morning when I woke up at 3:10am. My alarm was set for 3:45 but I'm a bit of an over-achiever. It would have been so, so easy to switch the alarm off but I'd arranged to meet a couple of people at 4:30am and it would be mean to not turn up at that hour.

And that  was the only time that morning when I had any regrets or negative thoughts about the run. The morning was crisp and cool. The roads were quiet and dark. We ran through them like we owned them. Then the skies gradually lightened as dawn broke. There's a little bit of magic for the runner who is out at that hour. The stillness, the peace, the beauty, the birdsong. So worth pushing through the lure of the warm bed and a few extra hours sleep to give yourself the best gift.

We ran and talked. Or didn't talk - especially up Dornoch Terrace. We stopped for water, to go to the loo and for more water and then we'd get going again. For 28.5 kilometres. For over two and a half hours. And by the end my feet were tired. My shoulders were tired. My legs were tired. But I felt really, really satisfied.

Another good session at the end of a week of good sessions.

Not every week will be like this. I know that. I'm going to get tired and cranky. I'm going to need to miss sessions and that will frustrate me so the weeks that go right I'm going to appreciate. Just like I appreciate this strangely beautiful smile.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Smiling Not Snarling

Is that not the most beautiful smile in the world?!!

This is what greets us every time we come home. And no, it's not a snarl. That's a fair-dinkum Dalmatian smile.

Happy Friday!

Monday, April 6, 2015

Easter 2015

Easter's been and gone.

Sad face! Not because the chocolate has all been eaten. Because it hasn't. No, the sad face is because #1 son has to go back home to Melbourne today. And we won't get to see him until June. I miss him when he's away. And I miss his skill-set. It's kind of cool to have a live-in physiotherapist when you're an ageing runner.

Actually this was the first time I've actually used my powers of manipulation to get a consult out of him. I've been having a few little niggles and thinking that I should get them seen to but just hadn't gotten around to it.Then last week I realised that 20+ years of cooking, cleaning, washing and support, to say nothing of a 12 hour labour, might get me a little free advice.

He was very good about it. Even though he probably, internally sighed  - it's never fun to have to work on your holidays. He poked and prodded and tested and then declared that my left hip was pitifully week. Yes, he used the word pitifully.

The test that deemed my left hip so pitiful was a simple one. I just had to lie on my left side with my lower leg on a foam roller (around mid-calf level). Then I had to lift my hips off the floor so I was in a side plank position from my shoulder to my calf. Then I raised my top leg a bout 8 inches and had to hold that position for 15 seconds. I think I managed only 8 before my hips started sagging. By 15 they were touching the floor. Pitiful!

So to correct my imbalance, and the cause of all the little niggles on my left side, I have to do that exercise 6 times twice a day with the aim of getting up to a 20 second hold. I'll be ecstatic when I finally get to 15!

The Easter weekend wasn't all about running though. We actually planned stuff this year. We often just lie around the house for the 4 days and I usually have to get a bit of work done. That's paid work - not housework.

Friday started with a long run with the squad and a mini-breakfast. Then it was off to a maxi-breakfast with my family. I'm really glad I'd done 23k to pre-pay that eat-fest.

My Mum and sisters.
Saturday was a drive to the mountains for a walk in the clean, fresh air. There were supposed to be showers all day but we managed to get our walk done between them. And the previous day's rain had made for a spectacular waterfall. Serena and I were the only ones to get leeches this time. It was a lovely way to spend the day (minus the leeches of course).

Pretty pleased with his ability to attract birds.

Some of the O'Reilly's locals.

The Brains Trust trying to work out how to get us back to civilization.

Sunday started with a later-than-usual 12k then a trip to the beach with two of the dogs. Ricky loved it! Toby was a little scared of the big waves. For a water dog he really goes against type. He did suck it up in the end and go in but I think it was because he didn't like being shown up by his younger 'brother'.

A day at the beach always makes me feel like this too

And Monday was all about catching up before the work week really gets started. A bit of baking, a bit of washing a bit of work (I don't think I'll ever get through an entire Easter weekend without just a bit of work) and a bit of napping on the couch.

Such a pity that the weekend was over so soon.

Sunday, March 29, 2015

Jeepers Creepers

It's still been warm and there's still mozzies around at night so each night I'm going to bed cocooned in a mozzie net. It's nice to know I can have a hot flush in the middle of the night and not be attacked by a swarm of those noisy blood-suckers.

But the other night the mozzie net did the opposite to what it's supposed to. Instead of keeping the baddies out, it locked them in with me. Kind of like a white-collar criminal in with an axe murderer.

It must have been around 4:00am when I roused briefly to have a debate in my head over whether I should bite the bullet and go to the loo or whether I should trust my ageing urinary sphincter for another couple of hours. Common sense prevailed over optimism. It was when I'd returned to bed and settled down to (hopefully) a couple of extra hours of sleep cause I didn't have to get up early to run, that I felt it. Something ran over my hand.

Shudder. Goose bumps. And a creeping feeling of dread.

It was dark so I couldn't see what the culprit was. And there was no point in turning on the light because I'd flicked that sucker so hard that it was hiding somewhere peaceful to lick its wounds. Then I realised in my still sleep-dazed but increasingly adrenalin-fuelled state that whatever it was was still trapped within the confines of the mozzie net.

A moth would have been the best option. Followed by a cockroach. I could cope fine with a cockroach crawling on my hand as long as I didn't have to see it. I'd be less fine with one of those rhinoceros beetles that we get - not since one latched on to me and drew blood. And even lesser fine if it was a spider. I'm not the sort of person who runs out of a room when I see a spider but neither do I enjoy them creeping over any part of my anatomy in the dark.

I tucked every exposed bit of my body under the sheet so only the smallest bit of my face was exposed but any more sleep was just not going to happen. Of course, once it was light enough to see there was no trace of the creepy critter who'd stolen my sleep-in.

So the next night I was extra-careful to block off all entry opportunities to my sleeping quarters. That net was firmly tucked in and I was sure there was nothing trapped within its confines. I had another morning with no running ahead so that meant no alarm and the rare opportunity to sleep till I woke up naturally. Bliss!

And again at 4:00am I was in that semi-awake state having the same old debate that ended up in the same result. And once again I tried to settle back down to a couple of hours more sleep when I felt it. The ticklish scurry of something over my hand.

But this time, when I did that whole jerky, hysterical flicking of my hand I managed to work out what the culprit was.

Not a spider - thank goodness. Or a beetle, cockroach or moth.

It was the tissue that I keep tucked half under my pillow. Fluttering in the breeze from the fan.

Yeah, I felt pretty stupid.

And for those of you wondering how I managed to have two mornings off running while I'm smack-bang in the middle of training for a marathon. I gave myself those morning off. With Coach Chris's blessing of course. I'd just started to get a few warning signs that I wasn't recovering from my sessions. The elevated heart rate, leg fatigue, headaches. I've been here before and ignored the signs and it hasn't ended well.

So this time I decided to nip it in the bud. Just take a couple of extra days to get my body back on track before knuckling back down. It was just what I needed and I could tell how much fresher I felt when I ran 25k on Saturday. What I found especially interesting was the data from my watch. Both runs were done at the same pace and on pretty much the same course. The weather was fairly similar but my average heart rate was 10 beats slower in the second run.

Objective achieved.

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Thanks For Rubbing It In

Since my last post it's been lovely to have so many women rub their handy-in-the-kitchen husbands in my face. I've been told of partners who do all the cooking and shopping. Ones who cook roasts while their better half is out running races. Barbecue kings and others that like to dabble in desserts. I even had one of my favourite running partners (male) come up to me on the warm up on Tuesday to regale me with tales of his home-made pasta. No longer one of my favourites Elio!

So it's official. My better half is a kitchen dud! Just as well there are other rooms in our house that he can redeem himself in. And for those who have their minds in the gutter, I was actually referring to the toilet. He's a dab hand with that toilet brush!

I probably should have known that he was never going to make the short-list of Masterchef from the first time that I tasted his mother's cooking. After all most men develop their palates from their mother's cooking. And his mother was a dreadful cook.

There is no malice in that statement. It's just God's honest truth. She has been the only person that I've ever known who's managed to get boiled beans greasy.

The main aim for food in his household was to not waste any of it so it took years to convince him that he shouldn't eat mouldy bread, jam or cheese. And that leftovers were probably better left after a fortnight. His mother had taught him well to clear his plate and be grateful for everything. So, despite my complaints about having to take sole responsibility in the kitchen, I know I'm cooking for an appreciative audience.

And there are always side-benefits to being the chief cook. I get to choose what the menu is so I get to cook what I want to eat. And if I want to eat chicken and rice three nights in a row then so be it. If you want to complain about the lack of variety well you're quite welcome to borrow the frilly apron and take charge.

And in other news, this came in the mail on Monday.

Not second place like it had showed when the results were announced initially but I'm still happy with the result. Another medal to add to the collection - and the fact that it's not just a finishers medal makes it even more special.