Deformed and belligerent

Poole promenade

Promenade performance

Today seems as good a day as any to reflect on a rather chequered weekend’s running. Outside, there’s a typically British August deluge. Inside, the atmosphere is studious, if vaguely morose.

I’ve been studying my marathon training schedule. Last weekend I did the mileage it dictated, but have been suffering for it ever since. I did not manage the dictated speed.

The good news is that at Hillyfields parkrun I managed to improve on my time (by a measly 20 seconds), but, psychologically, it does me good to see 23 instead of 24. I am still way off my 2015 PB, but I am heading in the right direction.

On Sunday I donned new trainers, convincing myself that brand new cushioning would banish all pain from niggling Achilles and bulgy heel, or what I can now refer to as Haglund’s Deformity, having done a bit of swotting up on the subject. (I think I prefer bulgy heel, and who was Haglund?). I jogged the couple of miles from my sister’s home to the promenade at Sandbanks, and ran a further eight all along the promenade to Christchurch and beyond. Then I ran back.

This neck of the woods is perfect for the long low run. It’s a flat, long, car-free thoroughfare populated only by runners, cyclists and dogwalkers at this time of the morning. There’s the sea for dipping inflamed bulgy deformities (ooer missus) and drinking water taps and loos all the way along for the many tourists and beach-hut tenants.

Runners training for a big race can keep an even pace, and check, nervily, on just how comfortable one’s chosen speed feels (ok, it’s easy to run 8:22 for a few miles, but can I really imagine running a perfect set of 26?)

The answer, as things stand, is big, bleak, NO. The bulgy deformity of which I have spoken made its presence felt big time, necessitating weepy stops at miles 5, 10 and 15 and a face contorted with pain and misery until mile 20. After that, I spend a lot of time with various items from the freezer tied to my heel, swallow some ibuprofen, elevate the offending foot and, in the afternoon, brave the wind-whipped briny with my rather hardier sister.

Bulgy deformity then proceeded to preclude speed session yesterday, so I spent some time on the cross trainer, sweatily.

And today I did pool running.

But hey! It’s ok, because guess what “Researchers have shown” (as they frequently do) that just a teeny tiny minute of exerting yourself is indeed the elixir of life.

Sigh. This turned up on my Twitter feed:

‘Scientists found that women who did “brief bursts” of high-intensity, weight-bearing activity – like a medium-paced run for pre-menopausal women, or a slow jog for post-menopausal women – had better bone health. Good bone health has a number of important health perks, including a reduced risk of osteoporosis and fractures in older age.

Using the national and international health resource, UK Biobank, the University of Exeter and University of Leicester researchers looked at data on more than 2,500 women. They concluded that women who did 60 to 120 seconds of high-intensity, weight-bearing activity per day had 4 percent better bone health than those who did less than a minute.’

[it’s from Treehugger daily news]

Well that’s just dandy. However, a minute a day is hardly going to help this old bird in thrall to her sub 3:40 schedule. And another reason it makes me so cross is the implicit suggestion that a woman no longer in need of her monthly box of Tampax must needs only jog, and slowly at that. As I have written with some warmth before, there is no need to imply that post menopausal means feeble.

I know that I will get slower with age, and this current injury is not helping my speed, but my days of only needing a minute of slow jogging are, I hope, I some way away.


We all scream

blog ice cream

Coffee with, er, extra cream and sugar



‘I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream’

Ancient Dinka proverb.


That’s a coffee ice cream in the picture. I ate it on the run, when I’d severely miscalculated how long it would take me to get to my free sports massage at my current happy place, the North London School of Massage and hadn’t left enough time to have the coffee and bagel I promised myself in Dalston. It was a sanity-saver and no mistake, as after 14 miles on a measly bowl of Crunchy Nut I was beginning to feel wobbly.

Lapping up my overpriced cornet (this was bought from a posh gelateria – I expect it calls itself artisan, although I was too faint with hunger to check – in Stoke Newington) and continuing on my way I pondered all the times ice cream has cheered, sustained, energised and generally made life look better. And then I remembered what a useless vegan I am.

If there’s one thing that keeps me out of Vegan Runners it’s my weakness for ice cream. That’s quite childish, isn’t it? Most failed vegans bang on about missing cheese, then talk themselves into very rare goat’s varieties or obscure types like Cornish Yarg, because the milk that goes to make them (we all persuade ourselves) is freely given with pleasure by cheerful beasts with pretty names.

For me, it’s the ice cream. I love it, and though I stick with Swedish Glace and Alpro dairy-free varieties at home, my resolve collapses like a 99 cornet left out in the sun at the prospect of a lovely overpriced Loseley tub at the theatre, or a gorgeous, melting New Forest cone at the beach hut.

On one 20-miler, during which I’d arranged to take a lunch break at a friend’s house and she, on some kind of diet (yeah, not a runner) fed me pea soup and NO bread, I had to make an emergency refuel at McDonalds…

…then found I only had a pound coin on me. I bought a very synthetic ice-cream cornet for 79p and enjoyed it immensely.

When I worked for a year in Sudan, I used to go to the market and take refreshment at the ‘Scream’ stall. That’s what the chaps who manned the blenders called their concoction, a whizz-up of whatever fruit was to hand (often bananas), ice and dried milk. Great drums of dried milk and energy biscuits were often delivered to our village as part of foreign aid packages …they found their way onto the sparsely stocked market stalls, but the Scream merchants made great use of the freeze-dried white stuff. The resultant frothy, fruity, ice-cold blender goblet of goodness would have been a massive boon if I’d been a runner in Sudan. As it was, I moved pretty slowly in those days, on a big clunky bicycle or in my big clunky Birkenstocks. I was too weakened by heat and ever-present dysentery to do much else.

These days my ice-cream habit make me feel guilty, especially when, like last week, I find myself in the company of an ice-cream refusenik, whose body is a temple. This woman, one of the better athletes in my running club, has been off sugar for a month and looks radiant. She runs fast (eats cheese) and lifts weights. She’s often first woman in my local parkrun and, yes, I am quite jealous of her.

I’m thinking about forgoing sugar in the weeks up to the Berlin Marathon (24 September), when a sentence in Runner’s World speaks to me.

‘Aim to eat healthily 90% of the time it says….whole grains, lean protein, healthy fats…The other 10% of the time? Enjoy your favourite treats.’

So an ice-cream Sundays, after The Long Run? That might just work. Apart from feeling guilty about the cows.

Oh, and no more Crunchy Nut. There’s no way I can justify that addiction.

Farmer’s Walk, or Pick the Ruddy Thing Up!


Assembly League July…running a little easier


Like many urban runners, I try to avoid busy pavements, crowded concourses or wherever I am likely to irritate other pedestrians. But even when I’m not running, my own irritation levels reach crisis point when, hurrying through city streets, I get stuck behind meanderers. In my head, I’m screeching at the slow moving wall of humanity in front of me:

‘Don’t stroll three abreast at snail’s pace!’


‘Stop looking at your sodding phone!’

and, lastly, and perhaps most harshly

‘Pick the ruddy thing up!’

That last imperative is what this blog’s all about. Wheelie suitcases. The kind that are, apparently, compulsory on ‘The Apprentice’ and, increasingly in all walks of real life. I’d have them banned. Unless the user can cite an actual injury, old age or illness that necessitates their having their luggage trundling along behind them. Then they’d have to have a special licence that they show the inspectors I have just dreamed up.

Obviously this will never happen, and obviously I am intolerant and quite possibly unhinged. But everyone who has ever fallen headlong over a wheelie while trying to run for a train might have a shred of sympathy for my cause. Why are able-bodied people now incapable of picking up their cases?

What makes this sudden universal inability to lift weights in normal life I even more laughable when you consider the posturing that goes on in the gym, where people are apparently proud to show the world what heavy things they can lift.

There’s even a weight training exercise called the Farmer’s Walk, which, in fact, I was advised to practise years ago when I consulted trainer to the stars Rob Blair for some help with the pain I was suffering from a herniated disk. It’s all fine now, the back. I think it’s because I carry my own suitcases.

The Farmer’s Walk is a fine exercise for engaging many different muscle groups. It helps to stabilise your core as you work to stay erect while being pulled down by the heavy weights you’re carrying. You’re improving your grip strength in wrists and hands (and after 50, you need to work on this). Your upper back helps the shoulders and chest stop sagging, the legs are propelling you forward with the weight and your heart beats faster with all the effort. That’s ‘cardio’ to people who think that ‘exercise’ is somehow unrelated to daily life. A full workout! You can either do this with a couple of 10kg dumbbells in the gym….

Or you can pick up a couple of suitcases and walk across the airport arrival/departure lounge.

Or you can carry full shopping bags from a local store.

Or you can use your body to transport sacks loaded up for the charity shop.

Last week I was contacted by a new MeetUp group called The Carry Crew. They told me:

‘We’re not a running club. We aren’t training for a 5k, 10k or marathon. We don’t know our PB times. We love carrying heavy objects for distance. It makes us stronger! What does The Carry Crew do? We meet at Firs Farm N21 on Saturday mornings at 08:30 and walk a lap (roughly 1 mile) while carrying weights and other random objects. Simple not easy.’

I do hope members of this crew also pick up their own sodding suitcases.

Today I learned Giles Coren is man after my own heart – in this respect at least. In his Times column he redefined a few well-known terms for those readers who are sceptical about Wikipedia. Here’s his definition of ‘suitcase’; it was a bit sexist so I changed it where I could:

‘A box with handles for transporting clothes, which an adult with any sense of personal dignity carries in [his or her] hand, rather than wheeling along like a little old [lady/man] on [her/his] way to the pound shop.’


The future of work

Ronnie runs June 2017


Can it be that my regular dose of the much-vaunted runner’s high makes me believe in a green-tinted utopia?

Possibly, but in these scary and frankly unstable (whatever Mrs May say) days leading up to the election I would rather be researching modern utopias than impending dystopia, which is why the Green Party manifesto is the only one I really want to read and believe.

The case for a universal basic income, which Caroline Lucas explained neatly a year or so ago, makes a welcome second appearance in the manifesto, and would suit me down to the ground.

As a self-employed writer and editor, my career hit the buffers during the credit crunch, when the work dried up, and the little work I could find was paying me roughly 60% less (sometimes I was offered no money at all, just expenses) than I was paid pre-crunch.

So I did that retraining thing, working as an assistant in a school sixth form for a few years, while keeping on writing about running and fitness, then took the plunge and secured myself a (very mature) student loan to qualify as a personal trainer. I reckoned that working to inspire people to love what you love would be a job made in heaven.

(although some people really HATE running, and come to me for personal training with nebulous goals to lose a bit of weight and become ‘more toned’ while insisting they don’t want to use the most obvious means to do so, but that’s another story).

My coaches on the personal training course told me I could earn fantastic money as a personal trainer – particularly if I trained rich people for seven hours a day and charged them the going central London rate of £50/hour.

The only problem being I’m not very good at asking people for money, and I cannot charge Lewisham folk that much, and training others for seven hours a day means I can’t do much of my own training.

So I work far less often, charge less, but still pay the bills with my coaching work and a little bit of writing and reviewing and ducking and diving. And it’s do-able, provided my trips to Berlin to see grandson Charlie Catford (and the odd overseas marathon!) are my only luxury.

If I were paid the basic income, though, I would train people and charge nothing. I would volunteer more for my athletics club. I would work at FoodCycle and other local community concerns, like the people who wander the River Ravensbourne in waders pulling out shopping trolleys and old computers. And I would lead more walking/running/fitness groups to improve participants’ mental health. In short, I would make sure I really earned my basic wage.

Yes, I suppose it is all a bit idealistic. And a superannuated Pollyanna like me probably has no business greenwashing in her blog like this, when so many young people cannot get on the housing ladder and feel obliged to work as account managers for ghastly big corporations for £40k/year so that they can save for a deposit. I would love to see a pilot scheme for the universal basic income launch in this country, though (there’s one ongoing in Finland, I believe), and see if it would reduce the stress borne of applying for benefits and justifying your need to do so. Would carers feel better able to care? Would charitable organisations benefit from a new influx of volunteers keen to do something worthwhile, not just toiling for a wage packet?

It would be fascinating to see outdated attitudes to work/life balance and the toll such attitudes take on mental health be properly addressed by a political party, but I live in a safe Labour seat, and though the Labour party considered the universal basic income, they didn’t run with it.

I’m happy to report though, that our Labour candidate Heidi Alexander, does run with us, giving up half an hour of her precious time to Hillyfields parkrun once in a while, and I can only hope she feels the runner’s high when she does so.

My own last brush with that high came at last Thursday’s Assembly League 5k in Battersea Park, which I enjoyed greatly (as is evident from the picture), even though my time suggested rather more leisurely running than the energy I expended.

It was a cheap night out: cycled there, cycled back, paid £1 for my race entry and dined on a pint of ale and a packet of ready salted. My basic income can definitely cover a great night out like that.


Cool runnings – or how to look a complete tit in your local leisure centre

Ronnie squats

 Marathon Gran in contemplative mode



If that looks ridiculous, you should see me in the swimming pool.

I stay in the deep end. Round my waist is a bulky blue foam belt. I am upright, my shoulders and upper arms working erratically. My face is red. Whether that is through exertion or embarrassment is a moot point. It’s my weekly pool running session and, as usual, I am getting a few quizzical looks from my more horizontal companions in the slow lane.

My blue foam fashion accessory is called an AquaJogger® buoyancy belt. I feel slightly idiotic, bobbing about like an infant in waterwings, but if this is the way to mimic a track session without putting weight on my damaged ankle, I will train like an idiot.

Physiotherapist to the stars (of Kent AC) Paul O’Hara at Back on Track lent me the Aquajogger. He’d seen me looking even more of a tit than usual, bouncing on a trampette during a Team 6 training session and doubtless felt sorry for me.

I’ve read many times that Jo Pavey incorporates pool running into her training regime. It confirms my suspicions that huge success in distance running comes not only from faultless physical conditioning but also the will to grit teeth and do something incredibly boring because you know it’s good for you. Ms Pavey’s physical and mental grit and endurance makes me look like Homer Simpson. But at least I’m giving people a good laugh.

If any readers out there want to know more about pool running (sure you do!) these are the points to note:

  • Adopt an upright, slightly leaning forward position with chest lifted.
  • Your shoulders should be above the hips
  • Brace the tummy muscles a bit (I do that always when in a swimsuit, especially when I catch a glimpse of my rapidly rounding post menopausal midsection in the changing room mirrors)
  • Squeeze buttocks and tuck ‘em in that pelvic tilty, Pilates way
  • Stay in the deep end, otherwise you’ve missed the point a bit

Try to do intervals. Try to do 180 strides in a minute. This is a good way of preventing boredom. I watch the clock count down each minute and do alternate bursts of 180 strides/minute and 100 strides/minute for 30 minutes total. Then I get out of the pool, remove my blue belt and enjoy the freedom of lying on my belly and attempting to front crawl (but mostly giving into breast stroke) for as many lengths as time allows.

And my ankle? It doesn’t hurt so much, and I have been back to the rack for a few painfully slow, wheezy sessions. I am sill waiting for the MRI to tell me what is really afoot (see what I did there?). The Achilles area is often swollen and painful the day after a run. I am doing many heel raises. I’ve done a parkrun (my time was 2 minutes and 20 seconds slower than my PB). I feel as if I will never run totally easy again, but time is of the essence. I’m 54 for pity’s sake, I cannot spend these years waiting not to ache. I am going to ache, so I may as well get on and run.

The Berlin marathon is in 18 weeks. I have time to build up my training cautiously. There’s no point being wet about it.


The doctor will sort you now

SortedAny committed couch potato gathering evidence for a treatise on the evils of exercise need look no further than our running group’s WhatsApp chat in the weeks before a marathon. Taken at face value, our graphic descriptions of runners’ trots, nipple chafes, urine leakage and wall-hitting are enough to convince the ‘running sucks’ brigade of the wisdom of a life more sedentary.

It’s true that embarrassing incidents involving poo, wee, blood, sweat and tears form a rich, if pungent, seam of wincingly frank confessional material in my writing about running. I’ve learned to suppress embarrassment in this regard, but I contend that being completely honest about barriers to exercise will help people to transcend them and move on, move more (and move their bowels a couple of hours ahead of a big race…)

This is also the spirit in which Dr Juliet McGrattan, GP, sports coach and marathon runner, wrote her new book, Sorted: The Active Woman’s Guide to Health. She’s a doctor, so you can trust her not to shy away from bodily functions, but still, any book that has ‘fanny farts’ as a topic of discussion gets a thumbs up from me.

McGrattan has, true to her word, sorted all the barriers to exercise that women cite when excusing themselves from PE, from menarche to menopause. Rolling up her sleeves and washing her hands thoroughly, she gives her readers a full pelvic examination – suggesting ways of coping with heavy or dysmenorrhoeal flow, the chafing of sanitary towels or the grumbling ache of period pain – then moves on to childbearing and attendant issues, not least the business of dealing with the ultimate issue when trying to train post natally. (And no, it’s not all about trying to attain beach-ready bodies weeks after the happy event).

The good doctor then turns her attention to the perimenopausal woman and her elder sisters, gently persuading us that although weight gain and fatigue are an all-too-common symptom of this time of our lives, it does not have to be inevitable.

There’s no hectoring in her well-researched and informative writing. Each chapter starts with a chatty, easy-to-absorb biology lesson, then moves on to the types of exercise people can try to alleviate their symptoms. There are also chapters on common injuries and other health problems, as well as moods, motivation and medication. Opinions and advice are sought from clinical specialists in all of the fields discussed: psychologists, diabetes doctors, surgeons, cardiologist and specialists in respiratory medicine all give second opinions.

Then there are the women’s stories: funny, frank and encouraging all. There’s the woman who discovered the hard way what a rectocele is (go on, look it up, then make a mental note not to do too much too soon after parturition). Then there’s the student athlete who has to plan her training around her IBS. Another, aged 60, is training for a one-mile open-water swim following a hip replacement. Even well-known good sports get a word in, including television presenter Carol Smillie, who cheerfully writes about a particularly gory occasion in peri-menopause when she felt her ‘insides literally fall out.’

The message is that, though it may not always be pretty, keeping active is always the better option than opting to do nothing at all (and the statistics are provided to back it up). Even osteoarthritis – commonly, and mistakenly, called the ‘wear and tear arthritis’, responds better to exercise than rest. Getting active doesn’t wear down arthritic joints further, as Arthritis Research UK concurs.

It is, of course, not a new message. The Exercise Works campaign has been banging the same drum for years now, but Doctor McGrattan has a lovely, reassuring manner way with her; it’s just like bagging an appointment with your favourite GP (we all know how hard that is) and having as long as you like to talk about the stuff you wouldn’t even share with your partner.

‘Pooing your pants with excitement and fear happens at any age.’ she writes, comfortingly. And suddenly, those barriers to exercise seem surmountable.

Sorted: The Active Woman’s Guide to Health is published by Bloomsbury, £16.99

Why the long face?

Greenwich horses

Horses from Woolwich Barracks are quite an uplifting sight on a March morning in Greenwich Park

Sometimes the relentless cheeriness of my twitter feed, especially the happy bunnies I tend to follow (parkrun buddies, running club comrades, nature writers, gardeners, treehuggers and vegans) can catch me on the raw. I’m sure I’m not the only one who excuses herself from the twitter party when life isn’t going so well.

A series of half-arsed attempts at training runs, in the mistaken belief that a lack of pain when jogging along with clients or taking part in a spinning class means that I can pick up my pace and distance, have ended in (near) tears. Unmistakeable Achilles/calf pain kicks in after a few miles, and is now accompanied by non-specific knee crunching and glute pain. I am just one big pain.

So I volunteer at parkrun (instead of running) and to be a bag lady at the London Marathon (checking in runners’ belongings on the baggage trucks). I excuse myself from pacer duties at one half marathon and wonder if I can race another (one of my favourites, the Paddock Wood Half, it’s on 2 April).

I try to keep cheerful, but found myself wobbly lipped as a bade my excited and deliriously happy daughter farewell as she shoulders her rucksack en route to Ho Chi Minh City to stay with friends. And I clench my jaw as I read on twitter that today is the International Day of Happiness.

Not if you’re an injured empty nester who relies on running endorphins to get to her happy place, it isn’t.