Hangover + run = FML

I learnt an important (and some would say obvious) lesson today: never run with a hangover.

It's been a busy week. Normally my social diary is pathetically empty and I have to resort to diarising things like "Tesco shop" or "X Factor" to fill the blank spaces. But for once I've been busy with actual fun outings. So indulge me if it sounds like a whitewhine. "Oh, my social life is so hectic. No one has problems like me."

I've had things on for four evenings in a row - two dinners, a night out at Book Slam (amazing - especially David Nicholls) and, last night, an evening in the pub. Where we saw Emma Watson, who is very pretty indeed in real life.

Anyway. I have been drinking every night and I was really starting to feel it yesterday. I nonetheless got through half a bottle of Shiraz and a vodka tonic and my hangover kicked in at about 10pm. I slept terribly. I woke up several times with a dry mouth and pounding heart. My stomach hurts. My head hurts. You booze, you lose.

And if you try and do a long run after said boozing, you especially lose. I did my longest run to date today - ended up being 6.96 miles (hurrah!) but my god it was painful. And it took a whopping 1hr 35 mins. That is as long as your average feature film. There are probably people somewhere in the world who can get an actual marathon done in that time.

It really was a physical and emotional battle. Even the sight of several cute dogs, usually a demiquaver of cheer in the relentless double semibreve of a long run, did nothing to help lift my spirits. All I could think of was getting home and sitting down with a soothing cup of tea and morphine drip.

The last mile was a joke. The only point at which I managed a proper speed during that mile was when I spotted an odious little creep of a letting agent that I was unlucky enough to have to deal with recently. I took momentary pleasure in the fact that he is growing a moustache, presumably for Movember, and it looks crap. Like someone has spread PVA glue on his top lip and flicked some pubic hairs at it. Anyway, I made that hilarious observation (to myself) then I pegged it in case he recognised me. Once he was out of sight I slumped back into leg-dragging, whimpering inertia.

The point is, I did it, it was NOT FUN, but let's draw a line under it and hope things improve.

Incidentally, I did an hour of yoga when I got home and it felt totally brilliant. I think it's the way forward. It certainly helps with the calf muscle of doom. Will blog about that again another time.

Woof

Things have been going a bit better again since my last post. I did a very slow and ginger 2 miles (23 mins) on the treadmill on Tuesday and stretched loads afterwards, then let myself have another few days off. I was almost starting to feel back to normal again with not a single ache or pain.

This encouraged me to do 5.3 miles on Sunday, and I'm really glad I did. It took me just over an hour and I ran from home to Battersea Park, did a loop of the park and then home again. It was a weird and gorgeous run. It was really cold and foggy and dark, even at 10am, and the park was pretty empty except for a few other runners and people walking their dogs.

My multi-marathon-running friend has a deep-seated loathing for dogs (which I don't share - I love them and am a perpetual wannabe dognapper) because of the way they like to catch you up and run at your heels. Someone sent me this video the other day, which really made me laugh:

Look at him go!

Having been briefly pursued by a frisky wolfhound (not Fenton) in the park on Sunday, I'm starting to see why she's not keen. I still love em though. One day, when I live in a house with a garden and have some free time (2047), I will own my very own dog and then no doubt I'll be the one you see running after it in the park shouting "JESUS CHRIST!".

The Spectator

I haven't been able to run for a whole week now. After my 4-mile one a week ago today, my right leg seized up somewhat. I've had quite a lot of pain around both my ankles and the back of my right knee in particular.

Various friends recommended that I rest up, so I gave myself a week off. Things have definitely improved. Not quite back to normal yet, but getting there.

I'm going to try a gentle run on the treadmill tomorrow. According to the training plan I should be tackling a 5-miler, but we'll see how it goes. I'll have to do loads of stretching afterwards and maybe whack some ice on my knee if it's bad. We have an in-house physio at work who I can visit if it all gets a bit too much.

In other news, I went to watch my boyfriend run Survival of the Fittest on Saturday. Some pics are below.

It's a 10k run, taking place in and around Battersea Power Station. You have to do various un-fun obstacles along the course, like hauling yourself along scaffolding monkey bars, jumping hay bales and wading through skips full of icy cold muddy water.

It looked horrific. The poor people running it were obviously clinically insane, because all of them were smiling and laughing as they went round, rather than weeping, shaking and faking injury like any normal person would do.

J did it in 54 minutes which seems ridiculously, unfeasibly fast to me. He was in the top 15%, which I guess means most people do it in a more manageable time.

Once he'd crossed the finished line, I made him come with me to the discounted running gear tent, where I celebrated his fantastic achievement by forcing him to wait for me, wrapped in his foil blanket, while I selected some new sporty leggings and a top.

Just need to actually manage another run now!

Moving on up

The house move is over. Hurrah! The new flat is lovely, as is my new flatmate, and I'm very relieved to have the move over and done with. It is quite a novelty not to have to sleep with earplugs in. I have gone from busy A road lined with glass noise-reflecting office blocks, to quiet square with no through traffic. On my first morning I awoke to hear actual birdsong coming from the tree outside my window. Talk about living the dream.

The move itself was all a bit more stressful than anticipated (let's just say the 3 seater sofa currently sitting on the pavement outside my house most definitely doesn't fit through my front door) so I didn't get round to doing my long run until yesterday.

I did 4 miles ish (no internet at home so couldn't map it accurately) in 50 minutes. I ran from home up to Vauxhall tube station then along the river to Battersea Power station, then home via Larkhall Park. I still had to do a fair bit of walking, but it's definitely getting easier. It was lovely and cold. I wore red and pink striped woolly gloves, which had the double effect of looking ridiculous and keeping me too hot. I need to get some proper ones. And some leggings which aren't made of, essentially, plastic, and therefore wick the sweat away from me rather than clingfilming it to my clammy calves.

I went for lunch today with my friend who is a proper runner and is also doing the London marathon next year. I told him about the ankle pain I'm getting a bit on my right hand side, and he said he thinks I'm (a) not stretching enough and (b) doing too much, too soon. This seems a fair comment. I am stretching like an Olympic gymnast after each run, but I think my training plan may be a bit .... ambitious. For this stage in proceedings, anyway.

So I'm going to stick with the long run programme - i.e., going up by 1 mile every Sunday - and will try and maintain two short runs during the week. But I might keep my grand Fartlek interval training plans on hold until a bit further along.

Farewell to London Bridge

I've managed two runs this week. One on the treadmill on Monday - 3 miles in 37 minutes, and one outside today - 2.8 miles in 30 minutes.

It's been a bit of a busy week. I'm moving house tomorrow. I'm leaving London Bridge, where I've lived for the last four and a bit years. I'm not going far, just 15 mins down the road really. I'm moving to a gorgeous flat, with a very cool friend, and I'm so excited about that.

But I am sad to leave too. I've been really happy here. I love Borough Market, I love the little local park with its gorgeous flowerbeds and Victorian gravestones, and the excellent local library, not to mention the amazing selection of local pubs (The Gladstone, the Market Porter and the Roebuck are my favourites, if you're wondering). I've been here for the vast majority of my time in London. But it's time for a change, and after all, this neighbourhood isn't going anywhere, so I can always come back and visit. Who knows, one day I might win the Euromillions jackpot, which would just about buy me a 2-bed flat round here.

Anyway, I woke up this morning and resolved to go for one final run. It was pouring with rain at that point and I resigned myself to getting wet, but actually by the time I went out the weather had really cleared up and it was a glorious, fresh, cold, sunny run.

I accidentally took a short cut too. Whoops!

I was supposed to do my postponed first interval training session on Wednesday but didn't make it, again. Our gorgeous family cat Jessie had to be put to sleep that morning (aged 18, which I know is a good innings, yaddah yaddah, but it was still horrible) and quite frankly all I wanted to do was go home and have a glass of wine and a bath and a massive cry. I actually think it did me good to have three rest days in a row as I felt on really good running form today. My right calf, which has been bothering me a bit, definitely felt much looser.

Anyway, I'm now sitting here surrounded by crap that I need to bag and box up so that it can be moved tomorrow. And I've got a double bed being delivered in an hour and nowhere to put it. So I'd better crack on. Next run is 4 miles on Sunday, by which time I'll be in the new flat! Hurrah.

But for now - farewell London Bridge. It's been great.