By Stephie, on Saturday 28th April, 2012 at 09:03 am
Buy New Running Shoes
I’ve been coveting these for some time, rationalising their benefits in my mind.
Vivobarefoot Evo running shoes
Running ‘barefoot’, that’s running in shoes that aim to give you as much sensory feedback as if you were actually barefoot, is very attractive for a number of reasons, the greatest benefit being that there’s scientific research to suggest that barefoot runners suffer with far fewer injuries. I’m up for that.
I prefer to wander around with nothing on my feet as much as possible anyway, just because it feels so good. I’m one of the female anomalies of the modern age that doesn’t actually rival Imelda Marcos in the shoe department…did I just hear a sharp intake of breath? I’m afraid it’s true; I have fairly monogamous relationships with my shoes: buy a pair, wear them until they fall apart, buy a new pair, wear them until they fall apart, buy a new pair…
But as of late I’ve been divorcing shoes like Elizabeth Taylor divorced her husbands. I’m 100% convinced that the achilles tendonitis I’ve had for months is the direct result of over padded, over cushioned, over supported shoes. I can’t understand why you’d design a running shoe with a heel cup that’s so rigid your foot can’t naturally flex, and when it tries to it’s punished with what feels like a punch and a serious squeeze in the achilles.
Until late I only ever ran in cheap shoes, mostly designed for fitness classes in the gym, and I never had any injuries. These sort of shoes were flexible without too much cushioning and certainly didn’t have a rigid heel cup, or much of a heel to sole drop. Then one day I thought I ought to get some ‘decent’ shoes specifically for running. That is, decent as promoted by god knows how many sports companies. And then the trouble began. I was told to heel strike and on came shin splints, knee pain, then calf tears, then tendonitis…basically lower leg injuries caused by the impact of heel striking and rigid shoes. So I ditched them and have been walking barefoot (literally) on the treadmill at the gym for the last month,
Then last week I was talking to a coach at the running club, bemoaning my lack of fitness as I’ve not been able to run for months on end. He said I could start all over again. And I thought, yes, and go right back to basics. And stay there.
So I got new shoes.
Barefoot running shoes. I’ve barely taken them off since I’ve had them. The furthest I’ve run is about 2 miles or so (I know I shouldn’t have!), but I did manage an 8 mile walk on just about the wettest day we had all week!
April showers?!
I took the same out and back route to the beach that I made the week before (see the last post) and I couldn’t believe the difference: I had no pain whatsoever. By the last half mile my ankles were certainly aching, but I wasn’t hobbling and limping like last week.
Ok Vivobarefoot, you got me: you can stamp my forehead ‘converted’. Now ankles, hurry up and heal properly so we can get back to one of the important things in life: running.
By Stephie, on Monday 16th April, 2012 at 17:13 pm
So I can’t run. And for a runner it’s like the worse thing in the world. Gone is that adrenaline rush and the endorphin buzz that you thrive on. Gone is the feeling of freedom and deep satisfaction. Gone are my friends, running off into the distance somewhere while I stand and watch. Instead, depression seeps in. Slowly at first, but as the weeks wear on with no sign of improvement, hope withers away and the depression sits heavily alongside frustration and disappointment.
I can’t cycle. Well, only in moderation. Swimming is painful. So that leaves walking. On Friday I decided to see how far I could go before the pain got too much to bear. After just 10 minutes my ankle was aching. It didn’t bode well, but I pushed on, glad to be outside and moving. I had an eight mile out and back route planned. Not far, compared to the distances I’ve been running.
A welcome bit of grass verge beside the main road, with St Agnes Beacon in the distance.
I set off on the main road. There’s no pavement and for 2 miles I felt like I was dicing with death, a target for every tourist to aim at. It’s half term, the Easter break, and they’re driving on the roads with their top-boxes on, blasé and unaware, ignorant of the fact that here in Cornwall, there’ll be walkers, cyclists, horse-riders sharing the roads. I wondered if I’d make it to the beach, my destination, or whether I’d be swatted and squashed like an annoying fly at the first opportunity. Probably the latter.
I was glad to turn off and head down a winding country lane through the hamlet of Mingoose. Such a brilliant name! And not a car in sight. It was like walking back in time: rambling stone cottages and farmhouses, an old chapel (below) now a home, a large manse with manicured gardens, fields lined with willows, trees filled with chaffinches…I was in a world of my own. Feeling good I tried a jog, just a few steps. Won’t be doing that again ’til I’m ‘cured’, aaargh!
Who wouldn't want to while away a few minutes sitting amongst the bluebells and primroses?
A track soon bears off from the lane, wending its way a mile or so downhill to the beach. It varied from mud to stoney ground under foot, the smells were fantastic – pure bliss. When I got down to the beach the light was fading and the tide was right out. I did a bit of big billowy cloud gazing before I turned round and headed back.
Low tide.
Amazing light and incredible clouds
Heading back meant one thing: Uphill. Which made my ankles ache even more. By the time I’d covered about 6 miles, I’d slowed right down and my right ankle was painful. I hobbled and limped the last few miles home – when did 2 miles get to be soooo long?! I could have sat down on the road side and wept, but I didn’t fancy making the tourists’ lives too easy!
Back up the footpath through Chapel Combe and home.
So, I can’t run. But what can I do? I can’t walk far obviously, but I reckon I could cover 5 miles or so without too much pain. Although I love it, it’s not very aerobically satisfying. I need something lung busting, and so far, I just haven’t found anything I can do to satisfy that without putting stress on my ankles. As I said earlier, aaaaargh! I’ve been going to the gym, doing some resistance work, but pleeeease if you’ve got any ideas of what I can do to get myself into a bit of a sweat let me know!
In the mean time I’m off to a seminar thing on barefoot running this evening – sounds like the best way forward to me and I want to find out more before I start running again. Will be back soon to tell you all about it.
By Stephie, on Wednesday 4th April, 2012 at 02:43 am
Achilles Tendonitis. It’s painful and it means I can’t run. Well, it means I shouldn’t run. And since the big race about 6 weeks ago, I’ve probably done less than 20 miles. Until Sunday that is. Nothing was going to stop me running The 5 Tors 10 mile moorland race. Not even pain. I wasn’t just anxious about the pain though, but the drop in my general level of fitness and the ability to even cover 10 miles, since the furthest I’d managed in the last few weeks was a measly 5 miles. My usual plan of late is to walk when I have to, so I decided that would be the order of the day.
I packed my bag the night before so that I could fall out of bed in the morning half an hour before having to leave. Sunday morning came though and I cut it a bit fine crawling out of the pit with just 20 minutes to go. I shoved on some porridge, got dressed while it was burning, brewed coffee while it was cooling, then wondered why I didn’t have something healthy in the fridge like a punnet of blueberries to put on top and drowned it in Tate and Lyle’s finest instead. No time to drink the coffee so I decanted it to a travel mug to drink on the way.
In the car to Minions on Bodmin Moor I could relax: a friend was driving. Too much banter to catch up on sleep though, but if I was feeling at all drowsy, there was always the surprisingly icy wind to wake me up when we got out of the car on the moor. It was a shock to the system; the full sunshine and clear blue skies belied the wind chill.
Bodmin Moor is an extraordinary place, wild and windswept and usually hidden by swirling fog. It’s an open expanse of exposed hills and rocky outcrops, bogs and stranding stones. You wouldn’t think anyone could ever have lived in this harsh environment, but there’s evidence all over the place, from ancient Iron Age hill forts and stone circles to more modern intrusions like quarries, mine engine houses and stone tramway tracks. There are isolated farmsteads, sheep and wild ponies scattered about, but you can wander for hours and not see a soul. When we arrived, the village of Minions was waking up to an influx of 200 odd runners for the annual fell race, aptly being held on April Fool’s day this year!
Tor: a rocky pinnacle; a peak of a bare or rocky mountain or hill (Dictionary.com)
5 Tors. It’s what this race is all about. The first in a new series of trail races in Cornwall wouldn’t be good for poorly ankles. Not good at all.
The race started at 10.30 and my ankles were stiff and tight from the off. The first climb, Sharp Tor, soon loomed large and as everyone headed off up the hill, I ouched and aaaarghed my way up, picking out the least painful path I could find between the rocks. Stuff it, I thought, looking out at the fantastic crystal clear views, I’m just going to take my time and take photos. Decision made. It was a good one because the first four tors come in quick succession and my ankles became more sore and painful with each one. Then I had the brainwave of taking a photo from each tor, a kind of ‘I was here’ marking of territory. And a distraction from the pain (and possible damage) I was inflicting on myself.
1. The view from Sharp Tor.
The views from the craggy summits were spectacular and when you’re only worried about getting round without ending up with your leg in a cast you can stop for a few minutes to drink it all in.
2. Runners from a rival club (Falmouth) heading up Bearah Tor.
3. Impressive boulders on the top of Kilmar Tor.
4. Stowes Hill race marshals, doing a brilliant job on such a windy day
After Stowes hill the paths and tracks are on fairly level terrain through rough tussocks and bogs (not too wet this time – I only managed to dunk my feet a few times!), giving me time to get into a comfortable rhythm and take in the impressive Iron Age forts and old mine workings along the way. The wildness is awe inspiring, but I was grateful for the orange stakes piercing the ground along otherwise unmarked routes as I found myself running alone much of the way. The peace and birdsong were occasionally punctuated with disturbing armed forces gun fire, training off in the distance somewhere, making me feel all the more exposed. This is when you become profusely grateful for the smiling marshals en route! The mountain rescue service were on hand too, which was reassuring since I’d come completely unprepared: no water (there were 2 water stations on the course though), no foil blanket, no first aid kit, no map or compass and no whistle, save for a plastic one lent to me at the start line. It had come from a Christmas cracker and didn’t make enough noise to wake up a caterpillar!
5. View from the final hill, Tregarrick Tor. (Wish I could live in that house!)
After the 5th and final tor there was an exceptionally steep downhill section and I ran down as fast as my ankles could bear, like a child, arms flying everywhere and a big smile on my face. This is the stuff dreams are made of. Seriously. It is. At the bottom of the hill it was onto tarmac along the side of a popular lake and I was wincing with every jarring step.
Sibleyback Lake
As I rounded the Lake I knew I wasn’t far from home and I managed the final few miles back on trails with a limp and a hobble, knowing I was well over the two hours I initially thought I could make it in. Still, I was determined I wouldn’t be last and making sure the handful of people behind me stayed there I pushed on until I stumbled through the finishing funnel. Even with painful ankles 10 miles seemed to fly by and I couldn’t believe it was over already. Maybe it’s true, I thought, your level of endurance doesn’t actually diminish as quickly as you’d think, even though my level of aerobic fitness didn’t feel so good as it did a month ago.
One of the best thing about races, other than being in the natural environment, is the people, the friends you run with – or meet up with at the start and finish line if you’re as slow as me… So I met up with a few friends for a warming coffee at the tiny village cafe, where we sat in the sun watching sheep graze and swapping notes, where I could rest my feet and tend my unexpected sunburn. Where I could mourn the fact that I’m likely to have to sit out for at least another two weeks before I can head to a physio for treatment. It can’t come fast enough.
By Stephie, on Saturday 25th February, 2012 at 20:20 pm
On the odd occasion I’ve had the opportunity to do something a bit ‘extraordinary’ or challenging, something that might take months of preparation, I’ve generally read a book that I hoped would fire up my enthusiasm and excitement for the challenge ahead. When I trekked the Inca Trail to Macchu Picchu I read The White Rock: An Exploration of the Inca Heartland by Hugh Thompson. It’s a wonderful, richly textured book (unlike the dry title might suggest) that helped build the anticipation of my journey. Finishing each page or chapter was like crossing off a day on the calendar in the lead up to my departure. To me, the book and my journey are inextricably linked. (The author has a great website btw.)
I think it’s likely I’ll always associate Feet in the Clouds: A Story of Fell Running and Obsession,by Richard Askwith, with training for my first marathon. It really made me feel the excitement of being out in wild places, lashed by foul weather and the adrenaline rush that keeps you going. The story feels really ‘English’ (even though he talks of the fells in Wales and Scotland as well in Europe), but that’s got something to do with the obsession with a relatively obscure and (to some!) insignificant ‘past-time’/sport; it’s not just the small number of people that take part, it happens mostly in a small area too, ie The North (especially Cumbria).
Fell running isn’t just about running up and down mountains, it’s about “mountaincraft”, knowing how to use a map and compass, knowing the environment intimately and being confident and self-reliant. Being driven. I want to be like that; this book makes me want to be like that even more. I think I need to find my compass again. And do some serious hill training…
The book’s filled with details of the heros of the sport and it makes them come alive, but I loved it best when Askwith described his own experiences on the hills; no matter how good you are yourself, you always understand the things he goes through from the hideous pain to the elation at crossing a finish line, more or less in tact. There’s a bit towards the end where, after a race in Borrowdale, he takes a dip:
” So I hobble down the lane to a stony track which leads in turn to a little knee-deep ford behind a field, crossed by stepping stones and hung about with old green trees. And here, for fully fifteen minutes, I lie down in the cool stream. Never have I felt such comfort: the smooth stones beneath, the gentle massaging of the current, the feel and the scent and taste of the sweetest fresh water. But the view, too, seems supernaturally perfect: dappled, liquid shadows in the foreground, and visible through a gap in the leaves, a line of green mountains shining beneath a clear blue sky. This I tell myself is England at it’s best. And I am immersed in it.”
Anyone who runs along the coastline will know just what he’s describing if you stand in the waves after a long run. I remember being just ankle deep in the surf at Chapel Porth, staring out at the horizon with rising cliffs either side of me, letting the ice-cold waves chill away the fatigue. Nothing beats the feeling of such a simple pleasure. Unless, of course, it’s the anticipation of the next run
By Stephie, on Thursday 23rd February, 2012 at 17:47 pm
Home. Been sleeping. 27.6 miles, more than 7 hours and 2nd from last. Embarrassing? No. My name’s on the list – and there were about 7 DNFs. That’s the boring bit over with – as someone recently said “it’s about the journey, not the time it takes”, so what was my first marathon like? In one cliched word: awesome!
It was a very cold morning in Beesands with 20 mph winds – and heavy rain forecast for later in the day. I sheltered in the Endruancelife event marquee, looking around at all the lean and lithe runners around me. I was already wondering if I was out of my depth and the sea of muscly filled lycra did nothing to reassure me. At most of the races I’ve been to people are quite literally all shapes and sizes, and frankly you wonder how some of them ever manage to run at all (but they do – and, irritatingly, much faster than me). In the marquee at 8.30 that morning everyone appeared to be of a particular physical type: athletic. Pretending not to be intimidated by this I stuffed a couple of the free Cliff Bars on offer into my rucksack and headed back to the car with my ‘support crew’, Kim and his Auntie Linda and Uncle Stewart!
Before I knew it the pre-race instructions had been given, one visit to the portaloos taken and we were off. I shuffled to the back, but being at the back of only a hundred or so people felt uncomfortable – I’m not used to seeing the way ahead, only crowds. The start felt fast and by the time we came to the first steep hill, about 2 minutes away, I was already red faced. I hung on to the back of the group for a while, but the tightness in my achilles was already slowing me down on the hills and it wasn’t long before I realised I’d be running this race on my own.
The first 11 miles along the coast were difficult, people soon snaked off into the distance and I was yelping in pain on every tussock of grass or rock I trod on (lots). Soon I was asking myself if I could do this at all, then I was telling myself that if my ankle didn’t shut up I couldn’t. Interestingly though I never once asked myself why I was doing this! I made a decision: just walk when you have to, enjoy the incredible views and decide whether to go on or not at the first check-point (at around the 11 mile mark).
Clear views
The coastline in this part of Devon is especially rugged, the mud paths are red and the rocks often looked ochre. Every now and again I’d see glimpses of white sandy beaches being washed by the waves and kestrels hovering. It was just beautiful. Then, as I turned around a headland, suddenly I couldn’t see a thing. My eyes filled with water and continually streamed as I was battered by the full on head-wind, literally being blown off my feet at one point. My nose was streaming just as much as my eyes. Then the rain started to come in. I kept reminding myself of Josie and something a running club friend had said “you’ve got a true grit and determination which many people don’t have”. Eventually I turned under a canopy of trees, where the path was soft and gentler on the ankles and the wind dissipated.
One of the 'easier' parts of the coastal path
It was a relief to see the check point, but I was anxious that they’d tell me I couldn’t go on as I was taking so long. Reassured after a couple of cups of water and a 10 minute discussion with the marshals, I decided to try and make it to the next checkpoint as it was only 5 miles away.
As I headed on up a long bridle-path all the anxiety just dropped away. I plugged myself in to my ipod for the first time that day and enjoyed the softer, rain soaked paths under foot and the feel of the rain and wind on my face. Inexplicably life got much easier from here on in and I enjoyed every single minute of it. I had no more ‘can I do this?’ moments, no more ‘someone turn off the damn wind’ moments and finally seemed to settle into a rhythm that went with the flow.
The rain was coming in hard, ice cold and horizontal, painful. Visibility had gone and I seemed to be shrouded in mist, but it was probably just the haze of the rain.
Horizon gone - and I couldn't keep steady in the winds!
Glorious! Another muddy track
Being alone on the course with no one in sight, trudging through appalling weather and with so many miles still ahead of me, you might expect morale to fall through my boots, but it didn’t. I was in a world of my own, calm, determined, in control (?!), but as I neared the next checkpoint my anxiety rose again, would they tell me this time I couldn’t go on?
Passing The Pigs Nose at around 14 miles
As I came towards the village of East Prawle someone stopped and asked if I wanted a lift – no thanks! They pulled in next to the check point on the village green where a poor marshal looked soaked to the skin and freezing cold. She handed me a cup of water.
Out of nowhere I heard “come on Steph!!!”. My support crew had arrived, with beaming smiles, words of encouragement and one very big hug from Kim.
After another lengthy discussion with the marshal about whether I should continue, I declined her offer of a lift back and decided to head on to the next check point 9 miles ahead. My support crew headed a few metres away for lunch by a glowing fire at The Pigs Nose. The least we dwell on that the better!
At some point in my lonesome journey, I think after East Prawle, there was a very steep, very muddy field to go down. Hundreds of people had been down it before me and I could see their slide marks in the mud. It would probably have been easier to ski down than walk.
I’m always falling over and I like mud, so it was no surprise I was soon on my backside, laughing my head off like a child as I slid down. Then I realised there were two walkers sitting and eating a picnic, sheltering close to a bush. Needless to say they had full view
Up a narrow steep track I was passed by a couple of the Ultra runners as they neared the end of their 35 mile race, when I still had about 8 miles to go! I was, as ever, in awe; in my dreams I’d like to be just like them, strong, lean, tough and able to go on for miles and miles. (I’d better cut out the chocolate then…) I reached another check point where the marshal was frozen solid and sheltering from the heavy rain in the lee of his van. He directed the Ultras to the right, telling them they only had a mile and a half to go. After mucking about with water and getting more reassurance I went straight ahead, alone into the gloom.
“Do you know where the check point is?” a voice asked. I had no idea where I was (so was really grateful for the well signed route!) and told the man in the orange top I didn’t think it could be that far away. We jogged on together. I could hardly believe I’d caught someone up and that he appeared ready to hang around and chat with me. He was called Steve. He had an impressive marathon history. He’d done four last weekend. Yes. Four. Last weekend. He has a goal to be in the 100 marathon club, and expects to be close towards the end of the year. He completed 40 odd last year. I may have had to scrape my jaw up from the mud at this point.
I didn’t notice when, but the path had levelled out and we were running alongside a still lake under trees, protected from the worst of the weather for a while. Up at the next check point there was the first mileage sign I’d seen all day “congratulations 25 miles!”. The support crew were there, sat nice and dry in the car, cheering! Steve and I headed off knowing there was only one more steep cliff to climb before the finish and then the sun seemed to come out. Steve could feel a blister coming on, so I went on ahead along a sandy, gravelly path beside the lake before I reached a flight of steps that would take me up to the cliff path. I can’t quite believe it, but I was still really enjoying myself, and when I saw this I couldn’t help laughing…
As if!
Over the top I could see the marquee and the finish line, but it was obvious there weren’t too many people around by now. Jogging along the sea front I was greeted by my support crew and a few marshals as I got close to the finish, encouraging me across the line. Kim suggested I should crawl across for a photo finish, but I was happy with this one thanks!
Woohoo!
We waited for Steve to cross the line while the marshals were packing up inside the marquee, then we collected a great spot prize: a t-shirt with Never, Never Never Give Up on the back – perfect!
It was an amazing run, obviously I wasn’t racing (chance would be a fine thing!), but there’s something deeply satisfying knowing that you have got the determination to carry on when so many others would have given up, if they’d even started in the first place. It makes you feel like you can do anything. Someone must have known that because when I finally got back home to Cornwall (and could stay awake for more than 5 minutes) I signed up for a 32 mile race on the South Cornwall coast this August!!!! Well, what’s another 4 miles or so?!
Won't be hanging these up for a while!
Saturday confirmed for me that I want to run trails, not roads; that I want to run longer distances (10m+), not shorter; that I need to improve (substantially!) and avoid injuries! It also showed me how supportive people are from the marshals and other runners, to family and friends. So I’d like to give a big thank you to Endruancelife, Linda, Stewart and Kim, everyone that sponsored me and especially all you amazing people that sent me kind and encouraging messages – thank you!
By Stephie, on Saturday 18th February, 2012 at 08:00 am
This is it.
You could be reading this as I run across cliffs and fields, knee deep in mud, cold and exhausted. You could be eating breakfast or lunch as I suck gunge through a plastic packet and fluids through a plastic tube. It’s not real food and it doesn’t feel or taste like it. You could have your feet up, cosy in fluffy slippers. I could be sat in wet grass lifting my feet with painful and swollen ankles, blistered toes in cold, wet socks, wondering how they’ll ever bear my weight again. Maybe you’re looking at your watch wondering what to do next as I’m looking at mine wondering when the agony will end. Maybe you’re wondering why you’re doing this and not that, and maybe I’m wondering the same.
I don’t know how I’ll feel, but I’m expecting pain like never before and just hoping my mind is strong enough to block it all out. Relentless, beautiful, battering, exhilarating…life changing. I know I won’t get that at home.
I think it’s likely I’ll always associate 
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