tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7701047681237144712024-03-14T11:49:04.239-07:00Run-ning AmokCharhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.comBlogger874125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-79002335645964518192017-02-12T17:54:00.001-08:002017-02-12T17:54:59.881-08:00Resisting The Urge For MischiefSometimes it's hard to resist being naughty.<br />
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I'm not talking about really naughty. I'm just talking about mischievous. So you can have a little laugh. Because life gets too serious and we should always look for every opportunity to have a little laugh.<br />
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Just yesterday an opportunity presented itself that was so hard to resist that I didn't even bother. And the opportunity arrived in the form of a Snapchat video from the son of a close friend. A very innocent Snapchat of his girlfriend and him heading somewhere in a car.<br />
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"Where are we going?" I asked. At this stage I didn't know how off-target the conversation was going to get. Innocent video - innocent question.<br />
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"To a baptism" came the response.<br />
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Quite a few minutes of silence followed until another ping on my phone with a photo of a very ornate church interior. A lot like the interior of a Greek or Russian Orthodox church.<br />
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"Is it some kind of Orthodox church?" I asked. Again - innocent curiosity.<br />
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"I don't know. Haha. All the different kinds of Christian churches look the same to me. But a lot of the churches here in Denmark look like this."<br />
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"Just looked a bit Russian or Greek orthodox with those pictures. Yeah, there's too damned many different kinds of churches. Hmm - hope you don't get struck by lightening by reading the work 'damned' in church"<br />
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It was around here that the evil little voice in my head told me that I had an opportunity here.<br />
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"Thanks for that. But we don't have many lightning storms here so I should be okay"<br />
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So he's in church. Not particularly invested in the ceremony. Checking on his phone whenever it vibrates. If I say something a little outrageous and inappropriate I might be able to get him to laugh. Or at least stifle a laugh.<br />
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"God can create lightning just by rubbing two sticks together. So you'd better think good thoughts. And not fart out loud. Silent farts, however, are acceptable."<br />
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When this turned up on the next ping I knew I'd succeeded. <br />
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Oops. My bad! But really if you have the opportunity to make someone laugh at the wrong moment in the wrong place on the opposite side of the world where there can be no direct ramifications, who wouldn't?!!Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-57511393884418584272017-01-18T14:18:00.001-08:002017-01-18T14:18:20.488-08:00Bastard? I Thought You Said Mustard!!Conversation from the senior citizen's home.<div>
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Me : Would you like me to get you more yoghurt while I'm shopping tomorrow? </div>
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Him : Umm. No thanks.</div>
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Me : Custard?</div>
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Him (makes an exasperated huffy noise)</div>
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Me : What's wrong?</div>
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Him : You called me Bastard!!</div>
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Me : (in an overly-loud, voice) CUSTARD! I SAID CUSTARD!!!</div>
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This is what life's become post-children. Weird, misunderstood conversations of dessert choices. Both rejected because of the effect on sensitive, non-lactose digesting bowels. And that's exactly where the topic turned after the Bastard incident. To farts, bowel motions and coprophagic dogs. I'm pretty sure there are homes out there where conversations run to Global Warming, Politics, the Economy, Ballet, Opera and Literature but that will never be a home I live in. </div>
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I was still giggling about my conversation with my husband The Saucepan Man (apologies Enid Blyton) the next morning when I met my posse for a run so I filled them in on the pillow talk that happens at Chez Donaldson. They were as amused as I was so to brighten their dull and boring work days I took a photo of the bastard in the refrigerator cabinet at the supermarket and posted it on Facebook.</div>
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And while I was looking closer at all of the different varieties of Bastard they have on offer I discovered something. Something that will potentially change the lives of the residents at the afore-mentioned senior citizens' home forever. There is now a Zymil Bastard!!! That's right - a low lactose bastard for all of us oldies with dodgy digestive systems. Hallelujah! </div>
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I'm excited. Iven's excited. But the dogs are the most excited. They are going to be blamed for so many less farts. </div>
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Who would have thought that miscommunication could change the lives of so many in such a positive way?!!</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-10318236881433197192017-01-02T19:52:00.000-08:002017-01-02T19:52:31.785-08:00I Need a New CarI need a new car.<br />
<br />
People often use the word 'need' instead of 'want' and I've been known to do this myself. But not in this case. There's a very valid reason why I need a new car.<br />
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It's not because there's anything actually wrong with my current car. I LOVE my little Suzuki Swift. I've had it for coming up to 12 years and it's never given me a single problem. Yeah the battery's needed replacing. A couple of times. The tyres have been replaced too. More than a couple of times. But that might be an indictment on how I take corners more than 'they don't make tyres like they used to'. And just the other day my Katie Noonan CD got stuck in the CD player because its ejector doesn't have the oomph that it used to - but neither do I so I don't hold it against my favourite mode of transportation.<br />
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I love its colour. I love the little trail of paw prints that go up the back and onto the roof. I love the way it zips around roundabouts without having to slow down (yeah, I know - my bad about the tyres). I don't even mind that it smells a little of dog when it's wet. Or when I've got a back seat full of my furry family.</div>
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So why do I NEED a new car if I love my current one and it's driving perfectly well? Because I need a new car key of course. </div>
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And why do I need a new car key? It's not because I've lost mine. Or the spare. I know exactly where both of them are. But I don't like to use the spare because it doesn't open the door remotely and because I've forgotten which way to turn the key to unlock the door and I hate feeling stupid every time I turn it the wrong way first. Clearly the spare is only for extreme emergencies. </div>
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So that leaves the good key. Which, as of this morning, leaves me feeling a bit icky every time I touch it. Because this morning that key was involved in a very unfortunate incident.</div>
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I was at my first speed session of 2017. Running 600m reps with 400m recoveries. Easing into the new year and, not wanting to boast (okay, maybe wanting to boast just a little), my speed had suffered the least out of the participants present. Woohoo! Winner, winner, chicken dinner!! Not that it's a competition - except on the days when I'm in front. Or maybe I should say 'day' because by next week I'll be at the back of the pack again.</div>
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I got to the fifth rep and had that familiar feeling. That querulous intestine - fart or poop? The immediate answer was fart. But that was closely followed by the other option. Damn! Luckily I could get through rep #6 where there was a convenient toilet just around 20m away. 'Just' wasn't the right word for it though when I finished the rep. I have IBS and there was some urgency at this stage. Enough urgency that when I got to the loo I only had just enough time to wrestle my sweaty, sticky tights to the minimal clearance as to avoid embarrassment. </div>
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Phew! All good. Except that I'd lost my lead in the non-race that is speed session. Time to get back to finish the last two reps.</div>
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I pulled up my tights and heard something disturbing. An extra plop in the toilet. WTF? </div>
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My mind immediately went to the wristwatch that I'd misplaced yesterday. Had it somehow become tangled in the tights when I put them on? Was it now gradually sinking down into the murky depths? I like that watch. It was a gift from Iven. But I was prepared to sacrifice it to the sewerage gods because ... yuck!</div>
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I looked down into the bowl and the item wasn't as gold as I was expecting. (No seriously I do not believe that I poop out valuable metals. I'm talking about the watch). There was a lot of black. And a lot of confusion. Until I realised that it wasn't my missing watch. It was the car key that I needed to get me home after the session. </div>
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Let us never speak of what happened next. Needless to say there's been a generous use of soap every time I think of what I had to do. I know I've put my hand up cows bums in the past but that was always with a glove on.</div>
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So that's why I need a new car. My hands aren't coping with the amount of washing that they've had to endure every time I look at, touch or think about my car key.</div>
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But the good news is that it still works. Well done Suzuki! You've made a poop-proof key. AND I found my watch.</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-16325704984811885712016-12-21T14:38:00.002-08:002016-12-21T14:38:22.867-08:00Empty Nesting In A Not-So -Empty NestThe end of 2016 is staring me right in the face. Well it is when I go to the toilet and shut the door because that's where we keep the calendar. Not that shutting the door is compulsory any more. Stuff has happened here. Major stuff! Stuff which means that I can be a bit laissez faire about the whole toilet door decision.<br />
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Our last chicken has flown the coop. After almost 30 years of having buffers in the house to stop Iven and I from sitting silently across from each other twiddling our thumbs and wondering what to talk about. Actually that hasn't even happened because Iven's flown the coop as well. But just for a week to visit his Mum. The thumb-twiddling fun starts tomorrow.<br />
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Admittedly I knew it was coming. I just didn't know how it was going to be timed. #1 son, the last hold-out, was going to be moving out when his fiancée moved back to Brisbane in January. But then her aunt decided to lend them her house while she went and grey-nomadded it around Australia for 6 months.<br />
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In the meanwhile Iven needed to pop down to Gunnedah and mum-sit for the week and in my <strike>excitement</strike> devastation I decided that I couldn't face cooking meals because I'd obviously be too busy pining for my lost love. Okay, it was more like I was taking a holiday from one of my most hated chores for the first time in ummmm almost 30 years.<br />
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To make this decision official and avoid any meal-expectation-disappointment for #1 son, I made the announcement on Friday.<br />
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"Sam, because Dad's going to be away next week I've decided I'm not going to cook dinners all week."<br />
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He looked at me dead in the eye and said "That's okay cause I'm moving out tomorrow"<br />
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I've been wondering ever since if I'd stopped cooking earlier would the mass exodus have happened sooner? Hmmm. Then I started wondering would I be lonely. A whole week alone! Not even a year ago we would sometimes have eight people in our house. It was getting pretty squeezy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_KcHLAgZSzexAuT5ZoB4Y_CNJsZSlaxUDg9ygQa-ijkKrdfFb9Y7JCVzyhJXevEJC8vB4dCOG3AH1Q7WH80PUkjWiEsk5fOAQ2B_gKnMpvX0VrP0ZtY09lR6w07-n4ogBXYfcAf8eIk/s1600/2016-11-30+10.30.43.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_KcHLAgZSzexAuT5ZoB4Y_CNJsZSlaxUDg9ygQa-ijkKrdfFb9Y7JCVzyhJXevEJC8vB4dCOG3AH1Q7WH80PUkjWiEsk5fOAQ2B_gKnMpvX0VrP0ZtY09lR6w07-n4ogBXYfcAf8eIk/s400/2016-11-30+10.30.43.png" width="221" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Can't be sad about everyone leaving when you've got this smile to brighten your day.</span></td></tr>
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So it's been a very quiet week at Chez Donaldson. All except for the wolf pack, who Iven has trained to maliciously come whine at my door at 4:00am every morning. Nice one Hon - I've had all week to plan my revenge.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGtnr02R46gy9xgNLsjUb2bzfjHicno-bXmHB0oXbLg5fNDD8U8jJGYkH63UXdPmtgXeH8dffyehOf84Vb-Zx7S5lalJxE8bEhKAdnenAwJpeIUYU6s_N80dr_9xCkRECfJoR_y7LefE/s1600/2016-11-08+07.07.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGtnr02R46gy9xgNLsjUb2bzfjHicno-bXmHB0oXbLg5fNDD8U8jJGYkH63UXdPmtgXeH8dffyehOf84Vb-Zx7S5lalJxE8bEhKAdnenAwJpeIUYU6s_N80dr_9xCkRECfJoR_y7LefE/s320/2016-11-08+07.07.15.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Of course we won't wake you at 4:00am. </span></td></tr>
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The 4:00am waking up calls have been a little annoying on run days when my alarm is set for 4:30. Believe me that extra thirty minutes of sleep makes a hell of a difference. And it was especially annoying on Wednesday morning when I'd been woken up at 2:11 (yes I checked my clock) by the toads in my neighbours pool having sexy-sexy time. Man, those suckers are loud. And they have endurance!<br />
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But today was rest day so the wolf pack was really considerate and woke me up at 3:58 am. So I got up, opened the back door, fed them (no point in putting it off or they'd have been at me again by 5:00 am) and crawled back into bed for just a few more minutes or even hours if I could manage it. And one by one all three of the dogs snuck into the bedroom to assuage their need for human company.<br />
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Ricky is always the neediest. He's 26 kilos of black and white over-enthusiasm. His version of sneaking into the bedroom involved a two metre long jump from the doorway onto the bed, lots of face-licking and tail-wagging. Bubbles, the geriatric mini fox terrier, just waddled in, fairly unnoticed and leapt what is her equivalent of a 'tall building in a single bound' onto the end of the bed. Toby was actually the only one who snuck. And he does it because Ricky intimidates him - as do flapping pieces of plastic when we're out walking, little old ladies who want to pat him and most other dogs that he's never met before.<br />
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Ricky doesn't like Toby getting any of the pats so he did his best to keep Toby away from my outstretched hand by cutting him off at the past and humping him. It's a very effective way of stopping forward progress - having a Dalmatian put you in a death lock and hammer away at you. Not that I'd know personally because Ricky's affections don't generally extend any further than poor long-suffering Tobes.<br />
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Ricky also has great endurance. Probably because the Dalmatian was bred to be a carriage dog - to run alongside carriages way back when there actually were carriages and dogs were allowed to run on the road. He has about as much endurance as a pair of toads going at it in our neighbour's swimming pool at 2:11 in the morning. Toby was starting to look distressed and his knees were starting to buckle under all the enthusiasm when all of a sudden there was a Christmas miracle.<br />
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I farted. Quite loudly. Hopefully loudly enough to wake the neighbours who encourage rampant nocturnal amphibian copulation in their backyard without considering the sleep patterns of their fence-sharers. But definitely loudly enough and with such unusual tone (I blame the berries and cherries I've been eating over the last couple of days) that Ricky did a spectacular dismount and went off in search of the source of the incredible noise.<br />
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I know, I'm ashamed of me too. But it was really funny. And that's been the tone of my week. You don't ever need to feel lonely when you've got a devoted wolf pack to keep you company.Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-34848569439226718922016-11-16T14:23:00.000-08:002016-12-04T13:02:16.174-08:00Survival InstinctsI nearly died yesterday.<br />
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No joke. I'm serious. Deadly serious. (See what I did there?) Luckily I didn't or else you wouldn't get to read the tale of how I almost died.<br />
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Why I almost died has its origins way back a couple of weeks to the week after I ran Melbourne Half Marathon. Oh yeah, I ran Melbourne Half Marathon about a month ago.<br />
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It was fun but extremely windy with lots of flies. Came home with another NY qualifier and a 6th in my AG but no sub 1:40. Also came home with a virus that really took hold about a week later. URT infection, fevers and a nasty cough that's taken a while to shake.<br />
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Roll on a couple of weeks and I'm still occasionally coughing and it's the coughing that nearly killed me yesterday. The coughing and the lovely salad roll on a toasted bun that I had for lunch. An unfortunate timing of a coughing fit when I had a mouthful of chicken, avocado, cucumber, tomato and a very crusty piece of bread that I hadn't quite chewed enough. The cough took me by surprise. A quick inhalation and that very crusty piece of bread lodged at the back of my throat and I couldn't breathe.<br />
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Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!<br />
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I'm not going to apologise for my language because I was terrified. Totally alone - except for the wolf pack (that are untrained in first aid procedures). Not able to speak because I couldn't breathe. I couldn't ring 000 because I couldn't talk and anyway, by the time they arrived I probably would have already carked it. Or at least have a severe brain injury from oxygen deprivation.<br />
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I don't think I've ever been more scared - apart from the time that I almost choked on a two cent piece when I was quite young. But then there were people to run to. My Dad picked me up and hung me upside down and whacked my back and the coin dislodged. Yesterday my Dad wasn't there and even if he was I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be able to hang me upside down any more. I'm pretty sure he can't lift me up either. Things have changed since I was 6 or 7.<br />
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It's weird the things that go through your head when you're potentially taking your last breaths. There was no 'my life flashed before my eyes' moments. It was all about survival. What can I do to breathe again? The instinct to survive is incredibly strong.<br />
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I remembered reading in the Readers Digest about someone doing the Heimlich Manoeuvre to himself so that's what I did. A hard punch to my stomach. Not easy to be effective when you're doing it to yourself. The angle is all wrong. And let's face it - my upper body strength is really crap. I'm an endurance athlete not a strength one.<br />
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Then I found a chair to try to do it against (and just a side note here - a swivelling desk chair on wheels on a slippery floor is probably not a good option). Again not immediately effective but between the punch in the stomach and the chair procedure and the frantic gasping for breath, the very crusty piece of bread dislodged and I could breathe freely again.<br />
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It took a good twenty minutes for my heart rate to settle while I contemplated what could have been. Iven walking in after work to find me on the floor of the workroom. An autopsy. Ughh, I'd rather go to my grave without being sliced up unless it's to use my organs for a good cause - and really, who wouldn't want my heart? It's pretty damned strong. My liver's been barely touched by alcohol but I can't guarantee the same about liver flukes or other parasites that like to wander through viscera from my vet days. Then a quiet and dignified memorial service where all attendees were required to wear bright, fun activewear in keeping with the Run Amok ethos.<br />
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Then I googled 'what to do when you're choking and alone' and I'd been pretty right with what I'd tried but I found something that may have been even better which I want to share today. Just in case any of you find yourself with a very crusty piece of bread lodged at the back of your throat.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Iz8M0UTkvSU" width="560"></iframe><br />
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Watch it! Embed it in your brain. Make your family members watch it. One day it might save your life.Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-88440694330010631182016-09-23T00:26:00.001-07:002016-09-23T00:26:53.164-07:00Fancy Meeting You HereHave you ever have something weird happen to you in a race?<br />
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I'm not talking about farting, burping, wetting yourself, pooping, or vomiting. They're all pretty normal activities for a race. I'm talking more about something that leaves you thinking 'can't believe that happened'.<br />
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Something weird happened to me in last week's half marathon. Yeah, I know - you didn't know I was running a half marathon. Yes, I've been an absent blogger. Again. Because life. Because busy. Because stuff. Excuses, excuses, excuses.<br />
<br />
So just to catch you up, I ran a half marathon last weekend. In Sydney. It was originally going to be a marathon but I just wasn't feeling the training love and lots of my friends were doing the half so the full became a half. No regrets. Just a fun weekend in Sydney. A well-needed long weekend of no jobs and no responsibility and no stress of worrying about running 42.2k.<br />
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Just a little side-note here - #2 son and girlfriend coincidentally chose last weekend to move into a unit. And because of the Sydney trip we managed to miss out on having to haul furniture. Mostly. Except for the fridge that arrived on Friday before keys were in possession and when no one except little old me was around to help lug it up two flights of stairs. There was a near-death crushing accident because I'm not so coordinated at pulling extremely heavy white goods while walking backwards up steps. But I lived to tell the tale and so, fortunately, did the fridge.<br />
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Anyway, back to the race. And the weird thing that happened. I was running along thinking the usual things that I think in a race - Am I running too fast? Am I going to die? This is not fun. I'm going to have ice cream afterwards. How can they call this course flatter with all these hills? Shake it off, shake it off. Oh no - not another 16k of Tay-Tay. Think of another song. Shake it off, shake it off. Ooh look at those cute tights. Is that rain? - when I heard a voice next to me.<br />
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"Hey, you live in Howitt St don't you?"<br />
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A woman that I'd never seen before was right next to me. A woman who freakily knew which street I live in.<br />
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"Yep"<br />
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"I live up the road in the blue house. I see you out running all the time. Love your tights."<br />
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Okay, so a neighbour not a stalker - phew. And a neighbour with pretty damn good taste in tights. And a neighbour who's training for Melbourne marathon and was doing Sydney as a bit of a hit-out.<br />
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She ran off (a neighbour who's faster than me) then when she got about 30 metres away she turned around and ran back.<br />
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"That was rude of me. My name's Kerrie"<br />
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"Charmaine"<br />
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And she was off again. Leaving me a little bemused. I'd finally met the lady in the blue house but in another city in the middle of a race.<br />
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So has anything like this happened to any of you?<br />
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-45952076300772731652016-08-22T18:40:00.000-07:002016-08-22T23:44:31.218-07:00Not Dead!Not dead!<br />
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I know you were probably wondering. And secretly suspecting Iven of something nefarious. Because it's the quiet ones that you can never trust.<br />
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I've just been busy. With life. Business. Running. Racing. Caking. Attending weddings. Taking dogs to the emergency vets and getting yelled at by psycho personal trainers for parking in their spot. You know. The usual.<br />
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In the time since I last wrote anything here I've done two races.<br />
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One was the River Run 100. Just part of a relay team - not the whole 100 solo. Not that crazy! And the other was the Brisbane Half Marathon which went pretty much how I expected it to go. Not super-fast because, hills. But totally respectable as far as finishing time's concerned.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Is it weird that I checked out the guy's finishing time to see if I beat him? (Yeah - I totally chicked him)</span></td></tr>
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My tights business seems to be gathering a little bit of momentum. Mostly because of the advertising I'm getting through Intraining - a local business that stocks my label. And because of the exposure they've given the tights at a couple of race expos. I've also been lucky enough to get them in Sportsfirst at Toombul and Kenmore and the tights have been selling at both places. I get such a buzz to be in a race and see someone I don't know wearing my tights.<br />
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The caking was for a friend's sister's baby shower. Guess what sex she's having?!!<br />
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And for my sister's wedding. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sxbeYWKDO5Jwt2W04BjoJN6ymqbISfp8MqSnHv3hK5jYJwKXMvip5CnfQu2SEef2a2XrD-vwXkh9r_DRzE_nXrjNE3mmkQB_L6_OQnpBD9-I-omBI7RO_UzXPpyf2MXv9xEhyphenhyphenHexYr4/s1600/2016-08-12+13.27.48-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4sxbeYWKDO5Jwt2W04BjoJN6ymqbISfp8MqSnHv3hK5jYJwKXMvip5CnfQu2SEef2a2XrD-vwXkh9r_DRzE_nXrjNE3mmkQB_L6_OQnpBD9-I-omBI7RO_UzXPpyf2MXv9xEhyphenhyphenHexYr4/s320/2016-08-12+13.27.48-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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She makes a pretty stunning bride. And he scrubs up pretty well too.<br />
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As does my mob. Love all of these to bits!</div>
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That was all the fun stuff from the last month. Now for the not-so-fun.</div>
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Ricky got blocked up again. And by blocked up I mean he couldn't pee properly. Urinary urolithiasis is the medical term - aka bladder stones. It's a fairly common problem with Dalmatians. They lack an enzyme to break down protein properly. They get crystals in their urine and the crystals can become stones which can block up their urethras. Ouch! </div>
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Poor Ricky was trying to pee but not very much was coming out so we had to take him to the vet. She unblocked him but strongly recommended that he have an ultrasound to see what was happening inside. The ultrasound results were ominous so we booked him in to have surgery.There just happened to be a public holiday that week so he was booked in for Thursday and of course he got blocked up again on Wednesday - the public holiday. </div>
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We had to rush him to an emergency vet clinic in Woolloongabba across town. So stressful! We arrived at the clinic and parked out the side in a parking spot that was designated for another business. It was a public holiday and the street looked totally deserted apart from the vet clinic so I assumed that the parking spot wouldn't be needed. </div>
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I was wrong.</div>
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A woman came out from the 'boutique' fitness centre that the park belonged to and asked us to move our car. We said 'no problem' but when my husband walked towards the road to check out where to move the car to she totally lost the plot and started yelling at us, threatening to have us towed. We tried to explain to her that yes, we were going to move it but she wouldn't let up. It made what was an already stressful situation so much more so. And apparently we're not the first people that she's done this to. The receptionist at the clinic told us that she's made a lot of their clients cry and they now report her to the city council. My tip for Brisbane locals is to give the 'boutique' gym on Balaclava St in Woollongabba a big swerve. No one needs that bad energy in their lives.</div>
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The vet was able to unblock Ricky again. Thank goodness. And first thing Thursday morning he was back at our local vets to have these nasty not-so-little things flushed out of his bladder.</div>
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The cone of shame made for a very frustrated Dalmatian for ten days. Actually it was a double cone of shame because the first cone wasn't quite long enough to stop a very flexible dog from creating a sore right next to his suture line. He needed lots of cuddles and tummy rubs.</div>
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You've never seen a more excited dog than when we finally removed the stitches and the cones on Sunday. The celebrations were exuberant ... and R-rated.</div>
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So now we've got to try to prevent it from happening again. He's on a special diet and on gout medication (because it's basically the same issue). And we have to try to get his urine to a neutral pH instead of the acid pH that it was. This basically means that for ten minutes a day I'm chasing a very suspicious Ricky around the garden with a kidney dish begging him to pee.</div>
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My life is so glamorous!</div>
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-9487356901866933772016-07-20T18:46:00.001-07:002016-07-20T18:46:30.925-07:00A Pokemon Go Cautionary TaleAnyone else been swept up in the Pokemon Go craze?<br />
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My sons were really into Pokemon when they were young. I knew all about Ash and Misty and Team Rocket and Pikachu and Pokeballs. And then time passed and they grew up and I forgot. Until a couple of weeks ago. All of a sudden they were talking about it again.<br />
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I had some vivid deja vu moments. My sons were going on hunts to catch Pokemon. But not imaginary ones any more. Real, virtual Pokemon. And they sounded like they were having fun. Good, clean, healthy fun. So I hopped on board.<br />
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Took me no time to catch my first Pokemon. A Charmander for Charmaine. Couldn't have been more perfect. I was hooked. The excitement of the chase. The collecting. The comparing (do you have a Vaporeon with a combat power of 933 because I do?). Hatching eggs by walking - or running - as long as you put them in an incubator first. And laughing with my Pokemon-chasing posse about the nay-sayers. Nothing wrong with a little bit of silly, childish fun. And certainly nothing wrong with a fully grown, 53 year old woman living in a virtual world for a few minutes a day.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">I might need to keep my eye out for the symptoms of Lyssa Virus after Iven's close encounter.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Not even a cheeky Clefairy can wake a tired Dalmatian</span></td></tr>
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But in the last couple of days I found out that there is a dark side to living the Pokemon Life. My health and well-being have been challenged. Twice.<br />
<br />
The first was Monday night. My middle son and I decided we'd take the dogs for a walk around UQ after work. For a bit of exercise for us and the dogs and some quality time hunting Pokemon. Oh and bonding. Let's not forget bonding.<br />
<br />
The dogs were soooo excited to be having a walk in a new and interesting-smelling place. Especially once we got to the duck pond. Duck poo is like Old Spice to the discerning dog nose. Toby was a sniffing machine which was a little inconvenient as I was deep in Psyduck territory. I'd missed catching one the day before so I was determined to add one to my Pokedex.<br />
<br />
The phone vibrated in my hand and there it was - the elusive Psyduck. Right near Josh and Ricky. I tapped on him and got ready to aim and fire off a Pokeball. Or two. Or even three if it took that many. And while I was in that distracted state Toby took his opportunity. He'd spotted a little cluster of real ducks down at the water's edge and he was on his own duck hunt. With me attached.<br />
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Did you know that it's really hard to stop a determined 32k retriever who has a bit of momentum and the smell of duck up his nostrils? The ducks took flight into the water thinking that would stop Toby but retrievers are water dogs and he wasn't planning on stopping. It was only my significant weight advantage and my equal determination not to go swimming in the university duck pond in the middle of winter that stopped us. Right at the water's edge. Heart racing. Breathless. With the sound of my son's laughter ringing in my ears.</div>
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But I caught my Psyduck. So it was definitely worth it.</div>
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So I survived my first negative Pokemon experience without any real disaster. Number two happened just a couple of days later. </div>
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Wednesday I turned up at the morning run just not feeling the love. I was supposed to do a 16k with a 10k tempo portion. I'd had an ordinary speed session the day before and just felt off for the rest of the day and I wasn't feeling much better after a night's sleep so I pulled the pin on the tempo bit and just ran what-should-have-been-easy-but-felt-way-harder pace and when it turned out to be a kilometre short I didn't worry.</div>
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We had our usual coffee and my stomach churned. I went home and had breakfast and it churned some more. Worked for a few hours then had lunch and my stomach churned so much that I threw up. A couple of times. Ughh! I'd caught the virus that had struck Josh down the day before. The same Josh that I'd shared the Pokemon walk and a car ride in close quarters with on Monday just before he got sick. </div>
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Strike two Pokemon Go!</div>
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But again, this experience had its silver lining. I'm a couple of kilos lighter today. So winning! And while I was feeling so disgustingly nauseated last night and not able to go out in the real world to hunt for virtual monsters, I used a lure and caught a Jigglypuff. When life gives you lemons it doesn't hurt to make lemonade.</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-35371596233910219072016-07-13T15:24:00.000-07:002016-07-13T15:24:00.321-07:00HalfI just added another half marathon to the list I keep in my phone. Of half marathons I've run in.<br />
<br />
It's probably a strange list to have in a phone but if I had it on a piece of paper and put the paper somewhere safe I'd probably forget where I put it. Because, yep memory is an issue at my age. And the whole reason that I want a list of races that I've run is because of my memory. I don't want to forget any of them. Not a single one.<br />
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I've done 23 now. Not a huge number in the scheme of things but not a small number either. And, considering number 2 was going to be my last ever, quite a big number really.<br />
<br />
Number 2 was going to be my last because it was awful. Horrible. Painful. Miserable. And disappointing. And it wasn't like I hadn't trained hard for it. I'd done nearly all of the training sessions I'd been set. I'd battled through a case of ITBS and come through. And I'd run a pretty okay-for-a-newbie-runner half a few months before. That one I'd finished in 2:01 and I knew I could run under 2 hours. In fact I was so determined that I put too much pressure on myself and totally fell apart on the morning of the race. Spent a lot of time in the bathroom throwing up and barely made the start line. In fact the thing that got me to the start line was the fact that I'd paid for the race and money was tight back then so I didn't want to waste it. I ran 10k of the race then had to walk most of the rest of the way. Pride and getting the t shirt and medal I'd paid for were the only things that kept me going.<br />
<br />
That race is still my PW time - 2:20. And I swore I would never do another. Not under any circumstances. Ever!<br />
<br />
Then I joined a running group and it was one of those 'lie with dogs - rise with fleas' kinda things. Spend enough time around people who think that doing a half marathon is a good idea and you end up warming to the idea. So I did another. And another. And another. And now there's 23 entries to my list. 23 times that I've trained for weeks to get to a starting line. 23 times I've had to quash doubts and fears and believe that I can do it. 23 times that I've had to ignore the voices in my head that have told me to stop because it's hard and it hurts. 23 times that I've seen that 21k marker and known that I've done it. I've beaten the Beast-this time anyway. And 23 times that I've felt the elation of finishing and the incredible sense of achievement - which is why I keep on signing up for races.<br />
<br />
I have my next half in just a couple of weeks. And then I'm really not certain about the rest of my racing year. I've signed up for Sydney marathon in September but I'm tossing up with dropping back to the half for a couple of reasons. I've got a minor toe issue. A tendinopathy of the<br />
extensor-something-or-other-scientificky-sounding of my big toe. I don't think running's making it worse but it's not making it better and I'm not quite sure how it'll hold up to the stupid long runs ahead.<br />
<br />
And then there's the whole sub 1:40 thing that didn't happen at the Gold Coast. I don't think I'll get it in the Brisbane half because it's a hillier course than Gold Coast and I truly suck at hills. Sydney is supposed to be flatter this year and I've run some good times there on the old, slightly hilly course in the past. And then, if I don't hit the time in Sydney there's always Melbourne a month later. And Melbourne is a pretty flat course. I'm not the fastest recoverer from marathons in the world so there's no way I could attempt a pb if I ran the Sydney full.<br />
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So I have a quandary. And I'm vacillating on the best option. And I really should decide sooner rather than later. What would you do?<br />
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-42376291438417445712016-07-03T15:54:00.000-07:002016-07-03T15:54:36.978-07:00The Elusive 1:40 Half MarathonEverything had gone well leading into Gold Coast half marathon. Training had gone well. Tapering had gone well. And my headspace was, well - fabulous, as was my outfit. I knew what I had to do. I knew it'd be tough. But I was going to give it a good shot. And not beat myself up if I didn't reach my goal. I even had a personal pacer/mobile cheersquad of one, Elio, to keep me company when the going got tough. It was as good a time as any to go for my sub 1:40.<br />
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Sunday saw me on the start line with 8781 other runners huddled in the pre-dawn cold. Perfect weather conditions. A good starting spot - not too close but not too far back and just in front of the official 1:40 pacer. Pondering whether I should have braved the horrendously long toilet queue for one last nervous wee but knowing it was too late so best stop thinking about my bladder because I'm sure I really didn't need to go again. Well, almost sure.<br />
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And while I was pondering the vagaries of my bladder the time had ticked down and we were off. My bladder could wait. There were bigger issues at hand. My magic number was 4:44 and I had to hit that 21.1 times before I could stop.<br />
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Kilometre 1 - 5:01. Lots of traffic. No room to just run. Keep moving. It'll clear soon.<br />
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Kilometre 2 - 4:40. Right where I need to be. Running strong but not too hard.<br />
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Kilometre 3 - 4:40. Lock in this pace and try to stick it a few more times.<br />
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Kilometre 4 - 4:38. Oops a little fast. Didn't mean to get any in the 30s but on the up-side the first kilometres deficit is nearly gone. Slow down a bit next kilometre. Don't want to crash and burn too soon. Actually, don't want to crash and burn at all.<br />
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Kilometre 5 - 4:36. Oops again. But seriously, slow down!<br />
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Kilometre 6 - 4:42. Yep, that's more like it. Don't think about how far you have to go. Just keep running. Those kilometre markers are ticking down nicely and you're feeling strong.<br />
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Kilometre 7 - 4:40<br />
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Kilometre 8 - 4:42. Another oops but this time it was almost a trip on a speed bump. Traffic calming measures aren't great for racing. Especially for runners who are economical with their vertical oscillation. A little bit of excitement for a moment but good recovery.<br />
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Kilometre 9 - 4:40<br />
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Kilometre 10 - 4:44. Bang on the magic number finally and almost halfway done. Still feeling okay - tired but not too tired. There's still a few good kilometres in me yet.<br />
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Kilometre 11 - 4:40. Yay, we're over halfway. On our way back to the start. This is just like my tempo runs on tired legs. I can do this.<br />
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Kilometre 12 - 4:54. Damned traffic calming speed bumps! One second I'm running along and the next second I'm flying. Then the next second I'm flat out on the road. Like a felled tree. I've never been a graceful faller. Elio retrieved my visor and helped me up. Did a mental checklist of moving parts on the run. A couple of sore spots, shoulder and the side of my calf, and a nice trickle of blood down my forearm but nothing to stop me running. Only lost a little time. My race is not over yet.<br />
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Kilometre 13 - 4:46. The running's feeling tougher now. That fall and the adrenalin rush knocked the stuffing out of me. Time to bring in the mental big guns. You want this. You can do it. More hard-core points if you can do it with visible blood.<br />
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Kilometre 14 - 4:43. 2/3 done. Only 7 to go. Just keep running. One k at a time. The quicker you do them, the sooner you can stop.<br />
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Kilometre 15 - 4:46. Glad I banked a bit before I fell over to cover the couple of extra seconds.<br />
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Kilometre 16 - 5:10. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. Where's a toilet?? That adrenalin rush did more than make my heart rate go up for a bit. And the man in the vest on the side of the road could only tell me that the closest loos were in the direction I was already going. The finish line is also in that direction. I hope he doesn't mean that far away because I'm not going to make 5k intact.<br />
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Kilometre 17 - 4:46. No loos but taking the foot off the accelerator seemed to help a bit. Maybe I will get to the line without shaming myself. Still not giving up. There's still a glimmer of hope. I think. Maybe. If I can just keep pushing.<br />
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Kilometre 18 - 4:47. Only 3k more. Passing the people who passed me when I stopped to ask for toilet directions. Keep running, keep running!<br />
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Kilometre 19 - 5:01. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. Does no one know where a toilet is?? Everyone I ask has no idea. Real hard core runner poop themselves in races and just splash water on themselves at the next water stop and tell everyone they're cooling their thighs. I don't think Elio would appreciate me being hard core seeing as we'll be sharing a car afterwards. But I do have a pair of tracky-daks in my bag and we are parked near a shopping centre so maybe I could buy some new undies and it'd be all good. What am I thinking? Look for a toilet!!<br />
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Kilometre 20 - 5:54. Found the toilet! Hallelujah. No way am I going to get my sub 1:40 but at least I'm not going to shame myself.<br />
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Kilometre 21 - 4:47. So much easier to run. So, so, so much easier to run.<br />
The last .3 to the finish line - 1:14. And done!<br />
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1:42:42.<br />
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So the elusive sub 1:40 is still dangling just out of reach. But this race showed me that it's within my capabilities. Just have to watch those speed bumps. And lift my feet. And memorise the toilet stops.Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-90567503630444639852016-06-16T18:27:00.001-07:002016-06-16T18:27:32.126-07:00Training The BrainTwo weeks till Gold Coast marathon and I'm ready to taper.<br />
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I've been training so, so hard for this one. For the last couple of weeks anyway. Since I surprised myself at Noosa and realised that a sub-1:40 was possible. Remotely possible. If I gave it my best shot. Work hard for a few weeks and just see what happened on the day.<br />
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Working hard hasn't meant changing things too much. Speed is still speed and it will always be done as hard as I can on the day. Friday will still be my recovery run - and I'm needing that more than ever. Saturday's long run is still a long run. Done at long run pace. Except maybe the last couple of k where I might push the pace just a little. It's the Wednesday runs that have changed.<br />
<br />
Wednesday runs have been reinstated to tempo status. They were tempo runs last year but once summer hit they just became another longish run. But now that it's cool and I have a goal in mind, they've become a little bit faster. Actually, a lot bit faster.<br />
<br />
These were the runs that I'm certain that made the difference to my running last year. The ones that taught me to trust my body again. The ones that retrained my brain to cope with discomfort for longer. So it was an obvious step to bring them back. But, man, they're hard work!! I'm doing 16k total and at least 10 of those will be at tempo pace - which for me is the pace that I'd like to run come GC half marathon.<br />
<br />
This week's tempo run was particularly hard. We'd done 500m reps the day before and that had been a solid session. That'll happen when you're chasing the fast boys. And believe me - they were fast on Tuesday! Then I'd gone home and done my strength work. Speed session + strength work = very tired legs. It was raining on Wednesday when I woke up and I almost pulled the pin. I almost convinced myself that my legs were too tired and I really needed the rest day but the nagging voice in my head made me look at the weather radar. Damn, the rain wasn't going to last much more than a few minutes and I couldn't risk being called soft by my running posse so I went.<br />
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We did the first 4k easy and then I got the prod to get moving. Ughh. Wasn't feeling it at all. I just wanted to run with the group at that nice, easy, comfortable pace instead of having to push on alone. Out on my own. Out of my comfort zone.<br />
<br />
But I did it and I was so glad that I did. Because I will be feeling tired and heavy-legged in the latter parts of the GC race. I will want to mentally quit - and if I mentally quit, I generally quit physically as well. I will wonder why the hell I even wanted to set myself a stupid goal in the first place. And when I do feel all the feelings I'll be able to remind myself about this run. About how I could still push to do what I'd set myself to do even though I was tired and hurting and didn't want to do it.<br />
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Training seems like it's a purely physical exercise but it's so much more than that. Training the brain is just as important as training the body. If you think you can't then you won't. But if you think you can, you might surprise yourself with what your body can do.<br />
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These tempo sessions are doing just that. As I run them I'm practising things I'll need come race day. Things like ignoring negative thoughts. Concentrating on where I am and what I have to do now rather than anticipating how I'm going to be 3, 5 or 10k from now. Finding out what self-talk works for me. 'Feeling strong' worked for me on Wednesday so I might stick with it and use an expletive every so often - just for effect.<br />
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Roll on Gold Coast Half. I'm as well prepared as I've ever been before a half marathon. Just have to turn up on the day and see what happens.<br />
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-18290152209304673162016-06-09T17:54:00.000-07:002016-06-09T17:54:04.546-07:00Failures, Foundation Garments and Fanciful GoalsLast weekend was the City to South race. And because the course was going so close to my house I decided that it might be nice to get out and cheer on the <strike>suckers</strike> dedicated athletes who'd decided to run it.<br />
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Last weekend was also when I found out that I truly suck as a cheerer/spectator/photographer.<br />
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It started off okay. Watching the frontrunners go through. Genteel clapping while clutching my takeaway cup of coffee. So very civilised. But then the runners started to come through thick and fast. I'd wanted to get shots of all my friends running but to do that I needed to spot them early enough to actually take aim and shoot. Here's how I went.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxBQNXjLc5sHBpoqPWewugzVnROnRuy6Jz4-z2zP__S9twTVH3g5uhe3-cAZb35PL_Xt9xOzr0sFZihpng78kCrxCc21Hp7s7ztJzht6uXG3Td_TXW7oTMTT7l_JvUUHZ6NYM-9uhNQI/s1600/2016-06-05+07.15.47.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbxBQNXjLc5sHBpoqPWewugzVnROnRuy6Jz4-z2zP__S9twTVH3g5uhe3-cAZb35PL_Xt9xOzr0sFZihpng78kCrxCc21Hp7s7ztJzht6uXG3Td_TXW7oTMTT7l_JvUUHZ6NYM-9uhNQI/s400/2016-06-05+07.15.47.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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I wanted a picture of Clare. The little dot at the pack of this group of men. She's wearing my Run Amok tights. You can tell, right?! So a fail there. But what's worse is that I know the runner on the right of the pic. Totally didn't see that he was there until an hour after the race when I was checking my photos. Sorry Rob, I don't know how I missed you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikq13gX-JwhNLT7aDbrtF473T1JWMBcKG2-wJMgDoo9SKE8R3565lrdX8iwOZIaix9RRle4eJ71ogDvtPlg4inVYRVRyWHAkPFFgMlalew-iU_YatSdfWCgj0zpmPw6Z5gIPRKGfxD9f0/s1600/2016-06-05+07.18.18+HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikq13gX-JwhNLT7aDbrtF473T1JWMBcKG2-wJMgDoo9SKE8R3565lrdX8iwOZIaix9RRle4eJ71ogDvtPlg4inVYRVRyWHAkPFFgMlalew-iU_YatSdfWCgj0zpmPw6Z5gIPRKGfxD9f0/s320/2016-06-05+07.18.18+HDR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Katie yelled at me and that's the only reason why I've even got a picture of her. I'd like to say I'd meant to take a photo of her great running form. But honestly I didn't.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N62LqewL_6l0lfGzQf-_p3yNEZ61LWxzRuS8DGJSgjZDMkiHWvASJLrmWs69SK2Ie6Iq7HfXySMu1TEjq2DWRVJ6u0eFy3JSranBRl6x9TZhHPUa1i_NABiQQUfEpX-2o0ym2QvtIOE/s1600/2016-06-05+07.18.23-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-N62LqewL_6l0lfGzQf-_p3yNEZ61LWxzRuS8DGJSgjZDMkiHWvASJLrmWs69SK2Ie6Iq7HfXySMu1TEjq2DWRVJ6u0eFy3JSranBRl6x9TZhHPUa1i_NABiQQUfEpX-2o0ym2QvtIOE/s320/2016-06-05+07.18.23-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Youngie also gave me fair warning of his arrival. A good 50m of warning is what I need for a shot that shows the front of the face. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfAFiKKoeLf6fiRizmZU-gcnmaN7s37ije_xrm7wiQIwrd_PsbFVpYCM5ZJhhrc122RMO2fWLzRxuN28VzZOG7uFUxBguRZW5bmgiut8y4OsUUBp4S_0AdTs9AVtYcNiFqIVzmwN8qc8/s1600/2016-06-05+07.20.31.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyfAFiKKoeLf6fiRizmZU-gcnmaN7s37ije_xrm7wiQIwrd_PsbFVpYCM5ZJhhrc122RMO2fWLzRxuN28VzZOG7uFUxBguRZW5bmgiut8y4OsUUBp4S_0AdTs9AVtYcNiFqIVzmwN8qc8/s320/2016-06-05+07.20.31.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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See - Elio didn't give me 50m of warning. Only got the side of his face.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_oG9tixeZuf-bbNujJCunHmzrfIJaqRnzXugNL_VCvlCeWlvjMkVu4gbZ6G_EuPt9y7slE4rbvHDCYMiYpF7uiV0zcY1k683bqDuXxupMiZA_6q5sYALETAzqU3I8LYV42vBp3WsdKQ/s1600/2016-06-05+07.28.54+HDR-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_oG9tixeZuf-bbNujJCunHmzrfIJaqRnzXugNL_VCvlCeWlvjMkVu4gbZ6G_EuPt9y7slE4rbvHDCYMiYpF7uiV0zcY1k683bqDuXxupMiZA_6q5sYALETAzqU3I8LYV42vBp3WsdKQ/s320/2016-06-05+07.28.54+HDR-2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Didn't zoom in on Heather so I missed another opportunity to get a good Run Amok photo. But at least you can see her. Which is more than I can say for Sue.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHfEm3X3Lk1SRBSeYB5J9HYKSPQ7_pFfKPmE68EfveB6d-IJp2ZUE3L3-eVuxdXhf0pl478EH4l5mm4EhGIFDGgELRi-mPfYDtTzY1h1rH6BSiJHdfey2ONDyYQMznXpAR1vuTUsjquc/s1600/2016-06-05+07.29.22-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPHfEm3X3Lk1SRBSeYB5J9HYKSPQ7_pFfKPmE68EfveB6d-IJp2ZUE3L3-eVuxdXhf0pl478EH4l5mm4EhGIFDGgELRi-mPfYDtTzY1h1rH6BSiJHdfey2ONDyYQMznXpAR1vuTUsjquc/s320/2016-06-05+07.29.22-1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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Poor Sue - that's her foot just visible to the right. </div>
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And finally another butt shot. This time of Mellie. Seemed appropriate to finish the morning on that note.</div>
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But it wasn't only my photos that failed. My brain had a little processing issue - fairly normal for a person of my vintage but really inconvenient when you're trying to cheer people on by name. There were no less than ten people whose names I remembered only once they were well out of earshot. I'm sorry. And I'd apologise to all of you individually but I've already forgotten who you are. Sorry for that too.</div>
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But, luckily, my brain is the only thing that's failed me this week. My body seems to be working just fine - at least as far as running's concerned. We did a 3k time trial at speed and I've managed to improve from my January time by 12 seconds. This could be because it's a lot cooler. Or it could be because I've been training diligently and consistently since then. OR it could be because I bought a new running bra. Which promised up to 50% less bounce. Less bounce = less turbulence created while running = greater speed. At least it does in my head.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEeCdpScpgZNiCy5Wk7Ylv2SYZlKPkL36tq0FlbFvb5NnRMjS0usLnpyUJ-NEme-FmvExnKYOx81GBeXtPuMqSV2RQ5-yy1AwQIsNNNN1nbBH9fuKzFEMSAwKWZt-jrzedcetJ4vUpQA/s1600/2016-06-10+10.13.09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSEeCdpScpgZNiCy5Wk7Ylv2SYZlKPkL36tq0FlbFvb5NnRMjS0usLnpyUJ-NEme-FmvExnKYOx81GBeXtPuMqSV2RQ5-yy1AwQIsNNNN1nbBH9fuKzFEMSAwKWZt-jrzedcetJ4vUpQA/s320/2016-06-10+10.13.09.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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I only bought the high impact bra but apparently Berlei make a bra for extreme impact. What on earth does extreme impact involve? Running into a brick wall while doing your best Usain Bolt impersonation??</div>
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I'll definitely be wearing that bra come Gold Coast half marathon. I'm going to need as much help as I can get to achieve what's been festering in my head ever since I ran Noosa half. My big audacious goal for this race is to go sub-100. </div>
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There it is. I've said it out loud. That would have freaked me out a year or so ago - to lay it on the line like that. But today it doesn't worry me. I might make it. I might not. If I don't, the world will still keep turning. People won't turn away from me in horror because I'm a failure. And I'll get to try again another day. </div>
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-91846063023288148142016-05-30T16:27:00.002-07:002016-05-30T22:56:18.916-07:00Noosa Half MarathonIf I only had one word to describe my race on Sunday that word would have to be satisfying.<br />
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I had no real goals or expectations leading into the race. I just wanted to go sub 1:47 because it's a New York qualifier. And I wanted to be able to walk away from the race knowing that I hadn't given up mentally at all during the race. Because I feel like I had given myself permission to ease up in every race that I'd run this year. Not proud of that - but it is what it is.<br />
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I raced in Noosa last year and ended up shocking myself with a 2 minute PB. There's nothing like a PB to make you feel warmly towards a course. It's pretty flat. And it's in a lovely part of Queensland. Didn't take much to convince Iven that it was a good idea. Iven also thought carb-loading was a good idea. The bit about him not actually running didn't really factor into it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSlTjM5c5apwsgyK7BDskzoi-Rw303J2INtzH0a4s0zsf3Fa_OmYi15iZgbYt_pYXTVL0hFrBCpNpOJkRGYxImoKqFEyKiBdHsh1MRRQ7mKQ0EsdpUqlkumnOncD31OOVpoma86tPoZk/s1600/2016-05-28+12.58.50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbSlTjM5c5apwsgyK7BDskzoi-Rw303J2INtzH0a4s0zsf3Fa_OmYi15iZgbYt_pYXTVL0hFrBCpNpOJkRGYxImoKqFEyKiBdHsh1MRRQ7mKQ0EsdpUqlkumnOncD31OOVpoma86tPoZk/s320/2016-05-28+12.58.50.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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The race started at 6:30 Sunday morning and I'd organised to meet my posse at 5:45. Enough time to check out the loos, go for a short warm up jog up Hasting Street and pose for a couple of pre-race pics. Ten minutes to start time and we wove through the runners lining up to get a decent starting position. Just a short wait and we were off.</div>
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I didn't really have a plan apart from holding it together mentally. No pace goal apart from staying under 5:00 minute k's. The 1:40 pacer balloon ran up past me in the first kilometre and stayed just in front of me for some distance. The temptation was to stick with him but I was pretty sure I wasn't in 1:40 shape so I suppressed the urge to kick it up a half a notch. It was way too early and I wanted to stay strong till the end. </div>
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I've given up racing with music most of the time. So it was just me with my thoughts. And a few hundred other runners. Trying to stay relaxed but strong. Trying to keep my head conversation positive. Not a hard task in the first couple of kilometres. But telling yourself that you're feeling strong when you've only run 4k is a whole different ballgame to believing it at 17k. </div>
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I couldn't spend the entire 21.1k telling myself I was feeling strong so I looked for distractions. Like the dead possum in the middle of the road on the way out. Pretty sure it was a ringtail. The dead possum on the way back was more likely a brushtail and probably hadn't been dead quite as long. CSI Noosa - the animal episode. A moment of silence for remembrance - not that I actually knew either of them - but it seemed like the right thing to do and I didn't have anything more pressing at that moment. Apart from running and breathing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77lUCNxbGmTil5OjM3ZfQ9Aq9BKZtYeZJiToyMmKqijW-Z5XnYZ4o0wmWvbjNiopSD83eN7s4kNIn31ku1Hw2elO8guWajj9FDlCpDm9enTnajZwQ4_USeX5GPVF6RaNWZye0LR07S6U/s1600/2_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_000519-1278174.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh77lUCNxbGmTil5OjM3ZfQ9Aq9BKZtYeZJiToyMmKqijW-Z5XnYZ4o0wmWvbjNiopSD83eN7s4kNIn31ku1Hw2elO8guWajj9FDlCpDm9enTnajZwQ4_USeX5GPVF6RaNWZye0LR07S6U/s320/2_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_000519-1278174.JPG" width="213" /></a><br />
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Noosa is a double loop course. I'd run through the 10k marker at 48:30-something and I was happy with that. By the 11k marker we were heading back out again. I was still feeling fairly strong. Surprisingly strong. But my 'surrender' point is always about 3/4 of the way through any race and that was still a while off so I wasn't congratulating myself yet. I've had the wheel fall off my cart too many times not to know that it's not over until you press stop on your Garmin.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAJjMxZrjUFg87xwRlsjXivIlRjPlwRvGA1oQeVuV8tsee8YUegyGcu9nvom3Nvt66aoItwntYV0TYgIPnLPAnfuS4mxfC-aDIaHs-pX6mE6yUNjnYpeLNMX8Tl2L_tTQZX5h6RkFoi0/s1600/20_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_013570-1278192.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGAJjMxZrjUFg87xwRlsjXivIlRjPlwRvGA1oQeVuV8tsee8YUegyGcu9nvom3Nvt66aoItwntYV0TYgIPnLPAnfuS4mxfC-aDIaHs-pX6mE6yUNjnYpeLNMX8Tl2L_tTQZX5h6RkFoi0/s320/20_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_013570-1278192.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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I was running around the 4:50 mark. With a few high 4:40s thrown in for fun. I wasn't watching my watch except to look down whenever it beeped to see that I was still under the magical 5:00 mark. I had no idea of cumulative time but I knew I'd go under my 1:47. Way under my 1:47. Probably under 1:45. I just had to keep pushing as hard as I already was. </div>
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The far turnaround point was a welcome sight. Just a little over 5k to run. That's like running back to Southbank from New Farm Park - just without the water stop under the Storey Bridge or in the Botanical Gardens. Trying to chase down Jodi and Andrew. Less than 25 minutes more of pain. Or should I say discomfort because that's less negative.</div>
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I started to count down around this point. And, paradoxically, my paces were starting to count up - just a little. I was working really hard now and it was hurting but there was no way I was giving up now. I wanted to see how close I could run to last year's time even though I was convinced that I wasn't quite in the same running shape. </div>
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Three kilometres to go. That's just like a three k time trial. Yep, they suck and I hate them but I can run 3k hard if I have to. Generally not after I've already run 18 k - but no excuses. Damn, a photographer and I've got no one to hide behind. Do I want to look like I'm dying? Hell, no. Let's make it look like it's fun. Let's fool the masses into thinking that they too will have a great time if they run hard for over 90 minutes.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJYs1SEsINa-ycANfqhFlZ-L6byWSO4-ldP6mnlMa51AyuajUgrxyG8Y8XHdJGC8R7Xk5QfzPuaid1TjY18NGFhMWuh_2fYo6AeFhEvS3qakHl5VqvRhtzaV7AzLR0ul2fTD3s_D4uTQ/s1600/27_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_015651-1278199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUJYs1SEsINa-ycANfqhFlZ-L6byWSO4-ldP6mnlMa51AyuajUgrxyG8Y8XHdJGC8R7Xk5QfzPuaid1TjY18NGFhMWuh_2fYo6AeFhEvS3qakHl5VqvRhtzaV7AzLR0ul2fTD3s_D4uTQ/s320/27_m-100720995-DIGITAL_HIGHRES-1616_015651-1278199.JPG" width="213" /></a></div>
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Two k to go and I started to feel an embryonic stitch. Oh crap - not now. Breathe out hard. Push against the diaphragm. Yep, that helped for just a couple of minutes and then it was back. Whatever. Just have to suck it up and make the best of it. No one ever died from a stitch. That I know of.</div>
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And then there was just one kilometre to go. I still had no idea of my overall time and I didn't really care. I was tired, I had a stitch but I was still giving it all I had. I could hear the loudspeaker. Getting closer. Iven cheering me in. The finishing arch. Sprinting (okay not actually sprinting - just pushing it up a gear). And then I could finally stop my watch.</div>
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1:40:37. Only 8s slower than last year. Maybe I'm in better running shape than I thought I was. At least my head is in good running shape - if that makes any sense. I didn't wave the white flag once. No retreat, no surrender!</div>
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Seriously nothing beats the feeling of achieving better than you'd believed yourself capable of. Except maybe seeing your friend smash her PB. Awesome run Jess! And then meeting a celebrity vet who turns out to be as nice as he seems to be on TV. Dr Chris was pretty impressed with how fresh we looked after running a half marathon. Probably didn't quite smell as fresh as we looked but the man spends his days smelling poo, pus, farts, wee and vomit so I'm guessing his nose might be forgiving when it comes to sweat.</div>
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So that's half marathon #22 done and dusted. #23 happens in just over four weeks time and I've got goals for this next one. Goals that I'll pretend aren't goals because I don't like the pressure of goals. A few more weeks of solid training and we'll see just how close I can get.<br />
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-37296194592905181862016-05-18T14:58:00.000-07:002016-05-18T14:58:02.209-07:00Moments Of ClarityI had a moment out on my run yesterday. A moment of stunning clarity.<br />
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I will not be able to do this forever.<br />
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No, I'm not sick. Not injured. Not psychic. Just 53 and realistic. And I know realistically that something, someday will most likely happen and I will have to give up running before I die. Unless I die while I'm out on a run - which really doesn't seem like that bad a way to go.<br />
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It'll be a sad day when that happens. No more early morning alarms (hmm, maybe that bit's not so sad). No more taking in the morning as the sun comes up. No more feeling the freedom and joy of running fast. No more laughing until I pee myself just a little at something that someone's said (which really doesn't happen very often - honestly). No more post-run coffee. No more feeling the satisfaction of having worked out before most of the city is even awake.<br />
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But rather than dwell on what I'd be losing, I looked clearly at what I had. There. At that moment. Right in front of me. A magical crisp, clear morning. A flat mirror-like river that still looked pretty with the lights of the city reflected in it. The Story Bridge lit up like a rainbow.<br />
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Friends around me. Feeling strong. Running strong. Without any niggles or pains. An undeniable feeling of contentment. Of satisfaction. Of joy - probably endorphin related. </div>
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So I took a mental picture to tuck away in my head with the other mental pictures of special moments. I'll bring it out and look at it when I can no longer do what I can do now (assuming that dementia hasn't hit) and try to remember the gratitude I felt on this day. Not focus on the loss but focus on how lucky I've been to find a passion that endured.</div>
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Yep, yesterday's run was one of the best.</div>
Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-38304073758142449422016-05-15T18:29:00.002-07:002016-05-16T11:47:01.295-07:00My Tip For A More Youthful AppearanceI freaked out some of my running friends last week.<br />
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Back story is that I've been kind of slack lately. I haven't been bothered with a few of the things that most women bother about. Personal grooming things. Hair cuts to be perfectly honest. It just seems like too much effort to try to fit it in when I've got other things occupying my brain space. So my hair is starting to get longer.</div>
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But longer, to a runner can be a bit annoying. For a while a cap was enough to keep it from bugging me on the run. But it grew past the length that even a cap could control and those long scraggly bits at the back of my neck were really starting to piss me off so I did something radical. I put it up in the littlest ponytail ever. </div>
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Actually it's two ponytails because some of the top stuff is still too short to reach around the back of my unusually large head. It's not stylish or pretty but it's really practical and my hair is no longer pissing me off. And once my friends got used to it (took a full run and a whole coffee conversation) it was pronounced to make me look more youthful.</div>
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I was a bit dubious. Until I saw this clip from My Big Fat Greek Wedding 2</div>
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A tight ponytail can have some advantages. Good-bye jowls and wrinkles.</div>
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Just have to work out the right amount of tightness to get the youthful appearance without the too-tight headache.</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-64217863806862069282016-05-08T19:17:00.002-07:002016-05-08T19:17:31.026-07:00Ambivalent Racing - Mother's Day Classic '16 I know. I've been MIA for the past few weeks. I blame it on the public holidays and the facts that I can't blog when there's people hanging around and my computer is in the kitchen so there's always people hanging around. And it could be that there's nothing blog-worthy that's been happening in my life. Just running, working, sleeping and eating.<br />
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But then this weekend happened.<br />
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It started as all good weekends do. Meeting at 5 am for a nice 22k trot around the river. An entertaining 22k trot around the river due to the higher than average amount of public nudity on display. A few half naked blokes and a girl who'd decided that clothes are for losers and she is not a loser. Just as well it's been a very extended summer so their sensitive bits didn't shrivel up and drop off.<br />
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Saturday was also the day that I got to use the birthday voucher for a massage that I was given. Talk about being spoilt. It was the fanciest massage I've ever had. Such a beautiful day spa. And a very competent masseuse. The only downside to the whole thing was having to hold in a fart for the full hour. My boys still don't believe that I did it but I actually do have better control and decorum than they ever believed possible.<br />
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I'd registered for the Mother's Day Classic again this year and that was on Sunday. I kinda didn't really want to do it. I'd run Friday. I'd run Saturday. My Sunday was looking like it was going to be a big one and adding a race was only going to make it bigger. But I'd paid for it and I'm a bit of a tight-wad so I posted up something on Instagram to make me accountable and I set my alarm once again for an early morning.<br />
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I'd roped Iven in for job of chauffeur, bag-holder, photographer and post-race coffee companion. I only had to mention coffee and he was in - he's easily manipulated. He did a great job finding a good car park and walking me to the loos and the start line. I was still extremely ambivalent about running the event. But when you're dressed in your running clothes with a race bib on your chest standing on the start line you've really backed yourself into a corner. Of course I was going to run. And of course I was going to run hard. It's what I do in a race. It was going to be an interesting exercise in keeping it all together mentally when I wasn't altogether there mentally in the first place.<br />
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The Mother's Day Classic is an interesting event. Sooooo many non-runners do it and that means that there's sooooo many people who have no idea about race etiquette. Like not wheeling your pram up to the start line of the 8k run when you're there for the 4k walk. And not letting your entire family of four little kids stand in front of the elites. So little common sense on display. What hope is there for humanity?!!<br />
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We had to endure another really bad warm up session. Again - no common sense!!. Don't encourage us to all crowd together and then make us do windmills with our arms. That is not going to end well. And no choreographed sideways movements. We're runners - not dancers. Someone is going to go the wrong way.<br />
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And then finally we got to run. And because I'd snagged myself an awesome start position I could run freely from the start. Not always the best thing for a runner who has a very poor but optimistic ability to pace. I also didn't warm up. Part of my ambivalence. Not a smart move. By 500m I was in oxygen debt and I only hoped that it meant I was running fast-ish. First k - 4:32. Fast-ish. I'd earned my discomfort.<br />
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Kilometre 2 felt a little better. My body was getting over the initial shock of moving fast. That little lady who'd shot past me in the first k must have had an even worse ability to pace than me. Who'd have thought it was possible? I was reeling her in. Good for my ego cause she looked older than me. 4:36. Only 6k to go. Surely I can hold on for 6 more k??<br />
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Passed my nemesis in the third kilometre and then saw the boy with the bandaged thumb I'd been chatting to before the race. Wondered why his thumb was bandaged until I passed him and then he was forgotten. Wished I'd brought music to distract me from what was happening to my body. The beep of my watch once a kilometre wasn't cutting it. 4:40. Oops slowing down.<br />
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I know this route so well. We run it almost every week. Sometimes twice a week. I knew there was a rise coming up. Let's call it a hill to make me feel better. Keep pushing. Stupid hills! And we got to run just far enough that the turnaround was past the bottom of the hill and I was going to have to run it again. I remembered my mantra - we don't train so races won't hurt, we train so we can cope with the pain. Kinda wish that training meant that it wouldn't hurt. 4:45. I'm starting to see a trend here and it's not good. But hey, over half way. Less than 20 minutes more and then the hurt will stop.<br />
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Getting to the halfway point gave me a little lease on life. Picked it up for the next k and managed to nudge in under 4:40 again. 4:37. Three more k at that pace?? Maybe? Probably not!<br />
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From there it was a matter of encouraging myself to just run the kilometre I was in. And that was fine for the first 200m of each kilometre. Then I'd remember that a kilometre was quite a long way. And there were more little inclines and maybe I need to preserve some energy just to make it to the finish line. 4:50, 4:51.<br />
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Only 1k to go. Time to start trying to pick off runners ahead. But I wasn't the only one playing that game. I passed a couple of runners but more passed me. Que sera. Saw a few photographers and could barely raise a smile but I managed one for Iven who yelled at me from under a bridge - the man is part-troll.<br />
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My watch beeped the final kilometre just before I crossed the line. 4:43. Done!! Cumulative time - 38:02. Not so bad. Or at least I believed that until I saw last year's time which was almost a minute faster. Whatever - I don't think I could have run any harder. Maybe age is catching up with my times.<br />
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I found Iven at my meeting spot and we headed off for our coffee. Got the message that I'd placed first in my age group over my soy cap and raisin toast. Sometimes it's just about turning up - not speed.<br />
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Not sure if I'll run this one again. I might give it a break for a year or so and then see how I feel. Or I might have forgotten my ambivalence by next year. Only time will tell.<br />
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-51337776692218591912016-04-19T19:04:00.000-07:002016-04-19T19:04:14.282-07:00Racing With FriendsI had a revelation on Saturday night.<br />
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I was reclining on the chaise watching the Broncos flog the Bulldogs and counting up votes for which outfit I was going to wear in the following day's race when I realised that I had zero anxiety about racing. No little flutters when I thought of the race. Nothing at all. Racing has become a non-event. I have finally got to a point in my life that something that I choose to do, pay to do, love to do, doesn't fill me with so much stress that I'm taking prescription drugs and spewing into the toilet.<br />
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Hallelujah! I'm slightly less crazy than I used to be.<br />
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I was actually excited about the event. Not the running part necessarily because running hard hurts and if I like pain that makes me a masochist and masochists are crazy so that would have me sliding back up the crazy scale. Running hard makes me feel satisfied. Like I've achieved something. Which I have. I've achieved ignoring the voice in my head that says to stop because it's hurting.<br />
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The excitement was because I was getting to do the event with a car full of friends. Yeah, road trip!<br />
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It was an early start on Sunday. 4am alarm. Trawling the streets of Bardon to find the right number in the right street then picking up a couple of dodgy looking characters over in Highgate Hill. We got to C-Bus Stadium in Robina in plenty of time, made use of the facilities and then just hung out until the races started. I used the facilities twice because (a) I needed to, (b) there was no queuing, (c) I am and over achiever and (d) three babies. I would do this race again and again because of the toilets. Plenty of them! Real toilets - not portaloos!! </div>
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The half marathon started at 6:30 and we waved Jess off. Then Ian and I contemplated a warm-up and while we were contemplating heard the call for the 10k runners to line up. Oops. Decision made for us. There were less than 600 in the race so we were close to the start line. A little waiting and then we were off.</div>
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Or kind of off. There were a fair few runners ahead of me who'd done a pretty ordinary job of working out where they should be in the pack. Slow, slow runners up near the front. But I was feeling pretty Zen about the race so I decided it wasn't a bad thing to not run too fast in the first kilometre, like I sometimes have a tendency to do, so I didn't mentally taser any of them. </div>
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The first kilometre ticked over and then the hill loomed in front of us. I remembered the hill from last year when I did the half marathon. It's short and sharp so it was just a matter of sucking it up and sucking the big ones in then enjoying the downhill on the other side. And once that was over with it was a fairly flattish run to the 5k turnaround. </div>
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I can't say it's a terribly scenic course. Kind of a pity to have a race down at the Gold Coast and not see any of the beaches. But then we wouldn't get those awesome toilets at the start so I guess that's the trade-off. There was nothing to distract me from the pain of running hard except the thoughts in my head and the other runners. There was one runner in particular that I'd noticed at the beginning. Hard to miss because he would have been at least 6'5" in a red singlet. He'd been just ahead of me in the first couple of kilometres then had pulled away but once I'd passed the 6k mark I could see him up ahead of me. And I was starting to close the gap.</div>
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Kilometre 7 came and the gap was getting really small but I had this vivid memory flash from last year. My memory's pretty crap these days so to remember something so vividly means that it was pretty significant. There was big pain ahead. In the form of three longish (for me) inclines and then the climb to the traffic lights. I just wanted to slow down. To save myself for what lay ahead. But I've mentally given up in races before and I hate the regret afterwards so I told myself to suck it up and keep putting in the effort. The hills would slow me down a little but it's effort that counts. </div>
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The first bump wasn't too bad. Then the second bump came and I managed that okay. The third one bit hard and I was hurting when I hit the top. Then there wasn't the normal downhill to recover. It was flat until I reached the last hill. But at this point there was only 2k to go and, miraculously I'd passed my giant in red so all I had to do now was stay ahead and see what I had left.</div>
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Soon we were running through the 1k race. It was like I'd gone from running with giants to running with dwarfs. Time to keep my wits about me. Little people have no idea about running in a straight line so I tried to keep a wide berth. I found it a bit inspiring to see these future runners giving it their all and I loved the wisdom of the mother who told her daughter that if her brain told her that she couldn't do it then she wouldn't be able to but if her brain told her she could do it she would. I made my brain use that message all the way back to the finish. </div>
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And then it was over. I stopped my watch. 48:12. Not too bad considering the hills. The work was done. Now it was time to kick back and relax. Wait for Jess to finish her half. Enjoy that post race euphoria and wait for the results.</div>
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I'm still confused about the time difference between my watch and the official time. But whatever. </div>
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Nice to get the age group win but honestly the best part of the whole day was the time spent with my posse. Support, encouragement and laughing till your cheeks hurt.<br />
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When can we do it again?<br />
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-10487920329370816952016-04-10T15:24:00.002-07:002016-04-10T15:24:57.616-07:00Just Walking The DogThe weekend was looking full of possibility on Friday. #1 son was visiting his fiancée at the coast. #2 son was off to Singapore for a long weekend. Iven and I were going to have the house to ourselves. Bliss!<br />
<br />
And then Iven came home from work. With the flu. Real flu. He's a man - so it's real man flu. Not just a cold that miraculously is called flu because he's a man.<br />
<br />
This was serious. Not the flu part. He'll probably be sick for the best part of a week and then be fine. And the fact that he collapsed in the hall on the way back from a toilet visit was most likely due to his normal hypotension on top of the virus. Nothing to get too alarmed over - even though being woken from a dead sleep at 4:00am by your husband collapsing in the hall is a little alarming at the time.<br />
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The serious part was that all my weekend plans dematerialise in a blink of an eye and I was looking down the barrel of having to take on Iven's hardest chore. Walking that black and white devil disguised as a cute dog.<br />
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Iven takes all three of the wolf pack for a daily walk. Well, almost daily. Sometimes life gets in the way and it just doesn't happen. Two out of the three of them are beautiful on the leash. They just trot along obediently and occasionally pull you up when they find something interesting to sniff.<br />
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Not the hellhound. He must have heard me mention that Dalmatians were originally bred to be carriage dogs and thought I meant that they pulled the carriage rather than ran alongside it. He's been in training to pull carriages ever since. Ricky gets a leash on and once he's out of the gate he's a dog on a mission.<br />
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I decided that I couldn't possibly take all three dogs on Saturday so Bubbles would have to stay home. She's like 115 in dog years so a restful evening was probably a nice change. I had just under my own weight of dog-power on the lead and we were taking no prisoners. I have never walked up hills that fast. Down hills were even more terrifying. Down hills with a scrub turkey in the distance were an unimaginable horror that I had to face. Twice.<br />
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There was swearing. Lots of swearing. Boatloads of scurvy sailors' worth of swearing. Out of fear. And anger. I made it home in one piece and swore (with a lot of the words I'd been using on the walk) that I'd never take that #### $!@$ dog for another walk in his lifetime - which I was hoping would be very short.<br />
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But then this happened.<br />
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He looked so cute and adorable that I forgave him. And tried to work out a better way to walk him. That didn't involve a taser - because I don't have one.</div>
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So I came up with a plan. I would take Ricky for a little run. Alone. Surely I could manage 25 kilos of stupid on a leash?</div>
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And the answer to that question was probably. If there had been no other dog-walkers out at the same time as me. But there were a lot of dog walkers out at the same time as me so the honest answer is really no. Ricky can see another dog at 200 paces and, being the sociable beast that he is, he wants a meet and greet asap.</div>
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Again it was a terrifying flight of potential disaster. And I do mean flight because my feet hardly touched the ground. My internal dialogue was mostly every swear word that I knew and a few I made up to suit the occasion. I can't even promise that my internal dialogue stayed internal. A few of the expletives may have slipped out under moments of extreme duress. </div>
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But again, I survived. Only to get home and have to repeat the process with the two patient pooches who'd been waiting at home for their turn. Another four and a half kilometres but this time at a much more pleasant pace.</div>
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Today I'm sore all over. I'd guessed that my shoulders would be sore but I'm pleasantly surprised that my core got a work out too. Maybe I could market Ricky as the perfect all-over body workout and hire him out as a personal trainer.</div>
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I'm hoping Iven recovers quickly. Really, really quickly. </div>
Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-36581782982205525982016-04-03T15:25:00.001-07:002016-04-03T15:25:45.786-07:00Why Do I Do It?Some days I wonder why I do it to myself.<br />
<br />
This running thing that I'm so obsessed with. Some days I'm just not feeling the love. Some days I'm tired and cranky and just so 53.<br />
<br />
Most 53 year old women lounge around in bed until their hot flash alarm system gets them up. And most 53 year old women don't pretend they're Paula Radcliffe or Kara Goucher (or their slower half-sisters) and run speed sessions that have me wanting to go to bed for the rest of the day - except that I can't go back to bed because there's that pesky little thing called work.<br />
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This was kind of how I was feeling on Saturday morning in the short 5 minutes that I had between waking up and knowing that I had to get up to get to the run on time. I was tired. It had been one of those nights. Where I toss and turn and can't fall asleep but then realise that I have fallen asleep probably half an hour before the alarm is supposed to go off. I'd been stupidly tired the day before. For no good reason that I could think of. I'm just thinking it's a little gift that menopause is bestowing on me.<br />
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But the thing was that there were only a couple of us running and I didn't want to deprive anyone of my scintillating conversational skills that are at their peak at 5:00am when I've hardly slept. So I pulled on my big girl panties made of the funky rainbow zebra fabric and tried not to think about the two and a half hours of running that I was going to do.<br />
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In my head I allowed myself to pull the pin at any stage where I just wasn't feeling it. I could turn around early. It could be a 10k-er for all I cared. I could surely do 10k. Or if I warmed into it I could just do the first 20k and then call it quits. Craig only had a 20k on his program so I could stop when he did. Jess wouldn't mind running the last 30 or so minutes by herself.<br />
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But something happened on the run. That fatigue that I'd been feeling the day before just seemed to slip away. We ran, we talked, we listened, we watched the sun rise, we saw other runners and cyclists and walkers doing what we were doing and I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Running along the river with my people. Enjoying the best part of the day.<br />
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Running isn't just running. It's not just about getting fit or losing weight. Running is experiencing life. Breathing in the freshest morning air. Seeing those little things that can surprise and delight. It's sharing laughs and dreams and those things that are hurting you inside but hurt less when you get to share them with people who have sweat and strived and gasped alongside you kilometre after kilometre.<br />
<br />
I finished the entire run on Saturday. All two and half hours. And it was probably the best two and a half hours of the week. Closely followed by the hour and a half tempo running on Wednesday morning and the hour recovery run on Friday and that hour on Tuesday that we were running 1k reps at South Bank. Not necessarily in that order.<br />
<br />
Yes, they were all runs but the thing that made them so good was the people. My tribe. So now I think about it, I am not doing it to myself - we are doing it together. We may each have different goals but we're there supporting each other. Helping each other achieve them.<br />
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That's why I get up out of bed when I'm tired and it's dark and my bed's warm. And that's why I'll be doing it for as long as I possibly can.<br />
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-54687583901631978022016-03-28T19:03:00.000-07:002016-03-28T19:03:10.592-07:00Shock, Horror, Shame!I had a blinding moment of horror on Saturday.<br />
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The day had started okay. 4:15am alarm. Two and a half hour run that I really wasn't into at the beginning but got past and ended up enjoying. Coffee and toast with the crew. Some grocery shopping. A normal, run-of-the-mill, unspectacular kind of Saturday.<br />
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And then it happened. The horrific part. When we were driving back home.<br />
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I'd stiffened up after the two and a half hour run and all the sitting at breakfast and in the car and I just thought I'd do a little bit of stretching while Iven chauffeured me home. So I had a fighting chance of getting out of the car at the other end - let alone get up the stairs.<br />
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I lifted my left leg onto my right knee and something caught my eye. I think it was the angle of the light as the sun came through the windscreen. Because at home in the dingy light, I'd never seen what I saw. A very long - and by very long I'm talking about a good inch - hair on the back of my thigh.<br />
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I assumed it was one of the dogs and tried to brush it off. But it didn't budge. So I grabbed it and pulled. Ouch! Nope, definitely not one of the dog's.<br />
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And then I inspected a little further. It was not the only one!!! And I will never get a job as a contortionist because that closer inspection was really, really tricky.<br />
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I changed sides and sure enough this cosmetic disaster was not confined to just my left leg. Shock, horror, shame!<br />
<br />
Iven assured me that he'd never seen any long black hairs on the back of my legs. But he thinks I don't have any wrinkles. Or flabby bits. That's the beauty of being married to someone who's a little older. Their eyesight fades just as time is wreaking havoc on your body.<br />
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I spent the rest of the trip home plucking out the offending hairs. And the damned things are just like spiders. If you don't get a good grip on them when you pull they just shrivel up into tight little Shirley Temple ringlets. Nowhere near as impressive as they were. Not that I'm wanting anyone to be impressed with the pelt on the back of my legs.<br />
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So I feel I must take this opportunity to apologise to anyone who may have caught sight of this offence against humanity. I've plucked out the worst of them now. And I'll try to keep on top of things. Every Saturday on the way home from getting the groceries when the light is at just the right angle. At least until it gets cooler and I can finally wear capris again.<br />
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-19397620086109438552016-03-23T15:10:00.005-07:002016-03-23T15:10:56.315-07:00What's In A Name?When I was growing up my Mother told me that lying was wrong. Lying never leads to good. Lies are like scars to the soul. Liars never prosper. Or is that cheaters?<br />
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I'm not a very good liar. I don't do it very often so I'm not practised at it. If I do lie it's generally to do with business stuff - 'the fabric was out of stock' (I forgot to order it) - or keep the peace stuff - 'no of course I'm not upset that you left your washing on the floor.' Little, inconsequential lies that don't really hurt anyone.<br />
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The other day I got a reminder why lying is bad. And I didn't really even lie. Except by omission.<br />
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We were having our painting done and I introduced myself to our painter, Neil. His memory for names must be as good as mine because I became Chantelle instead of Charmaine. I felt bad about correcting him. Figured that it didn't matter because he'd paint the house and be gone. I could be Chantelle just for Neil. No harm, no foul.<br />
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No, it wasn't role-playing, Bob. Bob's one of my running friends who suggested I was enjoying my new persona with a warped sense of gratification. I may have created a whole personality profile for Chantelle including the private jet that whisks her away to exotic locations to run events. And the Swedish masseuse, Sven, who accompanies me on these running junkets. But that's only because I have a vivid imagination. Only yesterday I was parking next to an impeccably clean car (unlike my own) at the shopping centre and saw fingerprints on the dark tinted window of the back seat. Instead of assuming that the car was owned by a family with kids, I assumed that the car was owned by a psychopathic killer who'd abducted a teenage girl. See - vivid imagination.<br />
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I did Google Chantelle Donaldson just out of curiosity. Turns out that she's an academic at Auburn Montgomery University in Alabama. She's in the field of Communication and the Dramatic Arts. A far cry from Charmaine Donaldson from Miami whose criminal profile includes petty theft and failure to appear. Maybe a name change isn't such a bad idea.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vCWTCBYHdGeNGIWVHmGaZ9OGGvIjB2qfGfbmcPIv2AkJwjpERPdfbwBv5ruVXikLDCNnqB2lBMz3zuy3Bw5St1FO5Gh_na_uhtnCmTJAEb1Ozieyz_kUu4RlzRA_JMy2-tpX0f0YC-8/s1600/2010000503.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8vCWTCBYHdGeNGIWVHmGaZ9OGGvIjB2qfGfbmcPIv2AkJwjpERPdfbwBv5ruVXikLDCNnqB2lBMz3zuy3Bw5St1FO5Gh_na_uhtnCmTJAEb1Ozieyz_kUu4RlzRA_JMy2-tpX0f0YC-8/s200/2010000503.jpg" width="147" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Charmaine</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Chantelle</span></td></tr>
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Anyway Neil finished the painting on Wednesday. He came down to my workroom to say he was done. He also said that if there was anything he'd missed or if it needed touching up after we'd had the flooring laid that he'd come back. I took his phone number and he left.<br />
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When I finished work later on I went up to see the finished job and yes, there are some things that he's missed. Just a couple of spots have the wrong trim colour. And he's left behind a paintbrush. So now I'm left with a huge dilemma. How am I supposed to make the phone call? When I go to introduce myself do I use my real name (which he won't recognise) or do I continue to perpetrate the myth of Chantelle? It's such a tough decision for me that I've almost decided to paint the trims myself. With Neil's paintbrush. And I really hate painting.<br />
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Or I could just get Iven to make the call.<br />
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<br />Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-49243530337904648392016-03-20T15:05:00.000-07:002016-03-20T15:05:07.494-07:00The Exodus Has StartedMy baby's left home.<br />
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I'm torn between crying and celebrating.<br />
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It's a bitter-sweet moment when your kid packs his bag and wishes you adieu. All the memories of my little Lukey came flooding back. The nights spent rocking him with his endless earaches. Trying to get the grease off him after he spent a couple of quiet hours trying to figure out how Daddy's bike worked. Listening to him giggle while he was reading his favourite Judy Blume Superfudge books. The frantic morning drives to try to get to the City Cat on time so he didn't have to catch the bus - because he didn't like riding the bus in the mornings. That time we took him out to dinner only to have him throw up all over the floor at the dessert place because he really didn't have any more room in his stomach. Ahhh - precious memories.<br />
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He and his girlfriend Becky took a 12 week trip to Europe last year and since they've come home it's been increasingly hard for them switching between her parents' and our places. They needed somewhere to call their own and they managed to find somewhere fairly quickly.<br />
<br />
When your kid tells you that they're going to move out you start to hope that all the things you've tried to teach them over the years have clicked. That they'll be able to feed themselves - and I'm not talking about just buying takeaway. That they'll pay their bills on time. That if something unexpected or unusual happens they'll be able to cope. That you've done your job right and they'll be able to muddle their way through adulting just the way we did.<br />
<br />
And they seemed to be doing great. Sorting out the lease. Organising electricity and internet. Buying a fridge and washing machine. Working out a budget.<br />
<br />
They moved just a couple of days before we took our road trip to Port Macquarie and Saturday I finally got to see their place for the first time. Yeah - ten days after they'd moved out. And I'm trying to placate that voice in my head that's been telling me I'm a bad mother for leaving it so long by reminding it that I baked brownies for them to have a little piece of home in their new home.<br />
<br />
It's a lovely unit. Not too small. Two bedrooms. A fairly new kitchen. Nice bathroom. A little patio to sit and watch the sun go down at the end of the day.<br />
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We got the grand tour and I checked it all out. Checked out the fridge to make sure it wasn't just filled with beer and wine - that there was at least some food. And there was. Checked out the walk-in wardrobe. More space there than my wardrobe. Checked out how much storage room they had by opening up the linen closet and found this ...<br />
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Enough toilet paper to deal with a Norovirus outbreak on 10 day cruise.</div>
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Yeah, they're going to do just fine.</div>
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And in other news, my friends organised to have a special run on Saturday in honour of my birthday. All the girls and one of the boys wore their Run Amok tights and photos were taken for promos. My favourite was the jumping one. It embodies the ethos of Run Amok. Fun, crazy and joyful.</div>
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But what you can't see here is what happened a split second later. Let's just say I didn't stick the landing. Could have been because my legs were tired from the 20k run we'd just finished. Or because these 53 year old legs don't have the stickability that their 10 year old version had. Or it might just be because I'm a klutz. Luckily nothing was hurt except my pride. At my age it could have been a broken hip and that would really have screwed my running plans for the year.</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-27491549483914681392016-03-14T15:42:00.001-07:002016-03-14T15:42:48.566-07:00Port Macquarie Half Marathon (Or How I Spent My 53rd Birthday)It seemed like a good idea to run a half marathon on my 53rd birthday when I decided to enter a few months ago. A gift to myself. A weekend away with Iven and Ian. And by March the weather should be cooler, right?<br />
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And then race week came and all of a sudden it didn't seem like such a good idea any more. Eight hours drive there. Summer temperatures and humidity. Busy, busy, busy with work. Feeling really sick on Thursday and Friday. Running a half marathon was a really crappy idea. A stupid, stupid decision. Who'd ever want to do something like that on their birthday??<br />
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My head was all over the place on the drive to Port Macquarie on Friday. I could just pull out and enjoy a weekend away. I could try to change events. Maybe do just the 10k. Or even the 5k. Or I could start the half and pull out if I wasn't feeling it. It was a 3 lap course so if I pulled out I wouldn't have to walk very far. Too many options. And I had to make a decision at some stage. So I did - I decided that I'd defer the decision till the next day when we went to pick up our race kits.<br />
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Saturday morning I was starting to feel more like myself. So when we went to pick up our bibs I'd decided that I'd give the half a go. DNS-ing was still on the table as was DNF-ing. Decision made and I'd live with it. At least my brain could stop arguing with itself over the best option. And I got to spend the day carb-loading - so there was that positive.<br />
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Sunday morning hadn't dawned before my alarm went off at 4:45am. The race started at 7:00 NSW time but I'd stubbornly refused to put my watch forward. Ian and I were both ready by 5:40 for the short walk to the start line. We got there with 10 minutes to spare and sussed out the competition.<br />
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The half had the smallest field. Not quite 250. It was a relaxed, friendly atmosphere in the starting area. People just milling around - no need to jostle for position. A brief word from the race director, that really wasn't brief and that no one could hear clearly apart from when he asked if we could hear, a hunt for the hooter and then we were off.<br />
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I made a couple of mistakes in this race and the first was not having a clear plan for pacing. Because I'd been so ambivalent about the event I'd decided to wing it. Definitely not a great plan in a longer race. Running how I felt meant that I took it out a bit hard. 4:49 for my first k. 4:48 for the second and 4:46 for the third. I could keep that up for 18 more kilometres couldn't I? My competitive brain said yes and stop thinking so much. My rational brain said slow down - it's hot and a couple of days ago you weren't well so don't be too ambitious. My rational brain won that little debate and my pace slowed. But only marginally - 4:51, 4:51,4:51, 4:55. First lap was done. Only two to go.<br />
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At the start line I'd guessed at who I was racing. And one of those ladies had passed me in the first lap. Second lap I started to reel her in a bit. And by the first turn around on that lap I'd passed her. I hadn't seen any other elderly female runners up ahead so I guessed that I might be #1 in my category. All I had to do was hold on for another 11k. Ughh! It was getting hotter by the minute and there wasn't much shade on the course. Had a couple of snakes for fuel - but had them a couple of kilometres late and got left with sticky hands. Used my next water stop water to wash my hands and only had a little sip left to hydrate. Silly, silly silly. Stop thinking. Keep running. 4:51, 4:58, 4:58, 4:53, 4:53, 4:58, 5:07.<br />
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Second lap done and so was I. It was hot. It hurt. I wasn't having fun. And I didn't even have any music in my head. I think it was being drowned out with all the negative chatter happening up there. 2k up to the turnaround - 5:06, 5:07. Still ahead of my nemesis. 2k back down to the starting area - 5:05, 5:18. Only three k to go but that three k seemed like an awfully long way. The naysayers in my head kept telling me to walk. And I told myself that I could but only if my nemesis passed me. But until then I had to keep running. 5:08.<br />
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Just two kilometres. Anyone can run two kilometres. I can run two kilometres. Except that I don't really want to. The water stop was coming up and I did something that I haven't done in a very long time. I stopped. And walked. And drank an entire cup of water. It tasted sooooo good. That's when I realised that I was probably really dehydrated and those goosebumps I'd had a couple of times in the last few kilometres might not just be because of the sea breeze. I ran to the turnaround and then walked through the water stop again. 5:40. Who cares. It's my birthday and I'm 53 and if I want to walk through a water stop twice then I'm going to.<br />
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The last kilometre was spent reassuring myself that it wasn't failure to have walked just a little. I needed to redefine my idea of success. Running a half marathon at 53 is success. Running it without pooping or wetting yourself at 53 - incredible success. Without vomiting - success beyond my wildest dreams. Hell, getting out of bed some days is success. So walking a little bit is no big deal.<br />
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That last k went by quicker. 5:05. And all of a sudden I was able to see the finish arch. I made a final surge to the line and stopped my watch. 1:45:31.<br />
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My time wasn't even that bad - considering that I'd walked a little.<br />
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Ian had also run a great time 1:38:something. He'd died a little in the back end and we decided that it was the heat.<br />
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Iven had also run. A 5k. And a PB. Go Ive!!<br />
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A pretty successful day out. And success like that needs to be celebrated. With ice cream. For breakfast. My birthday, my rules, don't judge.<br />
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I found out on the long eight hour drive home that it really had been a pretty successful day. I'd won my age group. And, for the first time ever, I'll be getting prize money. $65 which, after the entry fee is taken out, will leave me with $5. Not enough to give up my day job but I'm not complaining. </div>
Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-71032138221877009342016-03-06T13:47:00.000-08:002016-03-06T13:47:31.540-08:00The PB That Wasn'tMy stopped watch said 22:14.<br />
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Really?? Just over 22 minutes? A new 5k PB at my age? That's freaking awesome!!!<br />
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I was elated and amazed.<br />
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The day before I'd hardly been able to get off the couch. I'd run a pretty cruisey 12k long run (tapering for next weekend's half marathon) but within hours had felt achey, shivery, exhausted. And disappointed because I'd wanted to see what I could do at the International Womens Day 5k. Saturday afternoon I didn't even know if I'd be able to run it, let alone race it.<br />
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But Sunday morning I felt okay. Decided that it was a 24 hr bug and I'd be fine to run. I still might not be able to race it like I'd wanted but at least I'd get around the course without collapsing. So I dressed in my pinkest clothes, drove into the city and met up with my friends. A quick photo and a kilometre warm up then we made our way to the start line.<br />
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We got a great position. Last year I'd hung back and paid the price on the bridge when I got stuck between people who were already walking. That mistake wasn't going to be repeated this year. Apart from the two ladies who were talking about hoping to get under 30 mins - obviously had no idea that if you are hoping to get the cut-off for the group then you shouldn't be at the front - you could tell we were surrounded by serious runners. Some waiting, some formalities, a quick warmup to blaring music (now I remember why Firework was my earworm for this race) and we were off. </div>
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The first bit of the race is over the Victoria Bridge. It's basically a little hill so I wasn't surprised that I was breathing heavily quickly. I got to run fairly freely until just before the crest of the bridge where there was a group of schoolgirls just trotting along and I had to slow till I could get a break to pass. I didn't look at my watch. Had no idea of the pace - until my watch beeped and I realised that it was probably way too fast and I might be in a world of hurt before too long. First kilometre 4:13</div>
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Kilometre 2 also had a hill in it. I'd tried to slow my pace enough so I was still running a pretty good pace but so I wouldn't have to walk before the top. We'd done this hill in speed session on a stinking hot day not long after Melbourne marathon so it doesn't hold great memories for me. I kept reminding myself that there was a downhill on the other side and that got me to the top. The downhill felt great and we got to check out what was for sale in the markets that lined the course. 4:34 - that's a bit more like it.</div>
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I don't like it when I'm starting to wish that the race was over even before the halfway mark. The voices were starting up in my head and there was a particularly disputatious one that was arguing against the feeble voice of my inner cheerleader. It had nothing good to say. No words of encouragement. It was all about death, pain and the stupidity of old women who don't know how to pace themselves well even though they've been running for decades. Luckily I can multi-task and could still manage to push on despite having to try to devise arguments to rebut the sound reasoning of my inner nay-sayer. Kilometre 3 - 4:40 which actually happened to be the pace I'd intended to target.</div>
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Kilometre 4 is the Goodwill Bridge kilometre and I'll be quite frank when I say that there was not a lot of goodwill in my feelings towards having to cross it. I'd run it just the day before with Jodi in an imaginary race against a girl that had passed us a little earlier. We'd been triumphant on Saturday. Sunday it was just a death march. I had nothing left to push any harder so when a couple of friends passed me all I could do was wave them on their way. Having a downhill didn't even help. 4:50.</div>
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It was such a relief to know that the last hill was done and the rest of the course was flat. I run at Southbank all the time so I knew that section of the run intimately. The tree we meet at for speed. The 'beach'. Our 500m mark just past the building that juts out. The rainforesty section. Then there's the Wheel of Brisbane , veer left up a little slope, through the arch and it was over. Stop the watch. 22:14!! Worth every second of the pain.</div>
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The elation lasted for possibly a minute until someone asked if I'd gotten a short reading on the course. 4:82k was on my watch. Poo, poo, poo. Not a pb. Not an anything really. Still we all crowded on to the podium because we're all winners!</div>
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It was weird not knowing how to feel about the race. But I did feel pretty excited that a pair of my tights won overall. Well done Clare Geraghty - you make my tights look good.</div>
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And then there was this. Made me feel a bit less ambivalent.</div>
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Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-770104768123714471.post-321927341424665552016-03-02T13:50:00.001-08:002016-03-02T13:50:43.052-08:00I'm Not Dying Today.Just a normal Tuesday morning. Get up at 4:30 am. Eat a banana. Drink a glass of water. Get changed into running gear. Answer a call of nature. And then it became not a normal Tuesday morning.<br />
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I looked down into the toilet bowl. Everyone looks down don't they? I'm not weird or anything am I? Anyway what I saw was disturbing. As well as the normal toilet stuff that you'd find there was blood. Clearly visible blood on the porcelain. And not just a little bit.<br />
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Activate full hypochondriac mode. I had to be dying. My best guess was cancer. That annoying discomfort that I often get in the evening can't have been my super-sized uterus like my GP and the gynaecologist assured me. It was probably intestinal cancer. And it had probably eroded through to the blood supply and that's why I was currently haemorrhaging into the toilet bowl.<br />
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Funny though that I felt okay for having a terminal case of self-diagnosed intestinal cancer.<br />
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A little voice in my head told me that I could be wrong (although I'm rarely wrong when it comes to hysterical self-diagnoses). That there may be other causes for the blood. Like a giant haemorrhoid that had ruptured. Like a fibroid that had degenerated and rotted to its blood supply - yeah I'd need a hysterectomy for that one but it's better than cancer. Like it wasn't my blood at all and might be the result of all the beetroot that Sam likes to eat.<br />
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But honestly I couldn't shake the thought that it was the big C. Surgery, chemo, baldness. Probably only had months left.<br />
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So what did I do? Climb back into bed and ring the doctor for an emergency appointment? Of course not. I got into the car and went to speed session. One does not have to contemplate ones own painful demise when one is running.<br />
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I didn't think about it at all once we'd gotten started. Can't think about the mundane stuff of life when your head is filled with reps and goal paces and arguments over whether you can stop early or if you'll get to the end without throwing up.<br />
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I did think about it once I got back into the car. And all the way home. And until Iven turned up home from work even before it had started. Because he was peeing blood. Urinary tract infection as it turns out. Antibiotics, lots of fluids, a bit of rest and he'll be fine.<br />
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So I guess I'll be around for a little bit longer.Charhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13819714901550763235noreply@blogger.com10