As of today, Lakesman is 10 weeks away. That’s far enough away not to stress too much, but in contrast, is close enough to start having LakesmanMares and sporadic meltdowns about how shit I am at 2/3 disciplines.
Totally normal. Right?
Things are going as I would have expected them to go, knowing myself: with the usual niggles rearing their heads and sleep completely escaping me! Despite being 100% fucking shattered all the fucking time.
Thanks to the amazing* Scottish weather, my bike confidence has been at an all-time low. Sure, I’ve turbo’d myself into oblivion but that does not an ironman make. Winter has been hella long, this year. With deep snow and biting cold winds. Not exactly road-biking weather for the fledgling ironman who doesn’t want to risk a broken collarbone or worse, a broken bike.
So where am I at, fitness wise?
Well. I have had several tiny meltdowns about this over the last few weeks. Culminating in having an ugly cry in Bannatyne’s changing room after a particularly grotesque run where I literally thought my legs were just going to stop working. (I know. I am such a chilled person, this may come as a shock…).
After a very tough week, I decided to take a rest and cut training right back for 7 days. Usually this is all I need. But no. Body wanted MORE rest. (MOOAAAR?) So I kept things light and now I feel like I might be ready to get going again. Maybe. After this donut and nap.
As I snivvled in a changing room, I was reminded that this is not supposed to feel easy. It is meant to hurt. It is normal to feel so tired you might actually nap standing up. If it was easy, everyone would do it!
I picked myself up, blew my nose on my compression sleeves and got dressed. No one even suspected I’d been crying either because I still had that post-run glow**.
Pre-bike anxiety seems to be A Thing for me. I was awake at 4am this Sunday. I wasn’t due to head out until about 8am. So this was somewhat frustrating seeing as I am permanently fucking shattered, mate. I got up at 6, ate porridge with Nutella, drank a pint of water and set off just before 8am. Chamois-buttered up (I have my first ever saddle sore. We are not ok with this) and dressed in my finest Endura kit.
I went off exploring some local bike-friendly routes. Quiet lanes, NO HEADWIND (this will be the only time ever that there is no headwind. Excuse me while I jump for fucking joy about this) and 100km of quiet, fun biking.
Swimming has taken a wee back seat over the last week as I wrestled with an existing injury that strikes whenever I’m at a low ebb. Nice how my body likes to rub salt in it’s own wounds…. However overall, it’s been going…. swimmingly….. soz.
Aside from one particularly unsavoury encounter in Livingston’s Bannatyne’s at 6am, where I was asked to leave a lane before I’d even finished fucking about with my goggles because the bloke presumed I’d be swimming “Granny Breasktroke”. Well. I sure showed that prick. By catching him from a whole length behind within 2 lengths of him slating me. He soon learned not to judge a swimmer by their pink Speedo cap….. fucktard.
Running is…. well it’s running. I’ve been heading out with a colleague at lunchtime, which has helped my pacing. Laura is speedy AF so it’s great training for me as I hate running so I rarely push myself. This has all improved my CV fitness and I’m definitely seeing the benefit on my longer weekend runs. Even if my legs feel as though they are actually going to buckle.
I have been examining my training logs from past races, as well. My biggest Month in prep for Aberfeldy in 2015 was 870km. In March, I travelled 840km. And I’m nowhere near peaking yet! So really, my body is capable of more than it ever has been. And that is simply incredible.
I’m not doing this all for myself though, I’m doing this to raise awareness and vital cash for Lymfund. If you’d like to support me as I struggle through the next mental phase of training, I’d be super grateful for your donations. As would Lymfund, who need your help to provide critical treatment for people living with Lymphoedema and Lipodema.
“Run from Glenfarclas to Glenfiddich, pick up stamps along the way and get single malt samples at the end. Love running and whisky? Time to cross the streams”
The inaugural Dramathon had instant appeal with its Speyside setting and whisky-based incentives. A group of friends were signing up for it and I managed to secure a spot, despite being skint AF at the time, thanks to my fairy racemother Miriam.
As a startup event run by Durty Events, it was a pretty laid back affair from sign up right up until the finish line.
There was zero communication from the organisers until a couple of weeks prior to the event. Too much is annoying but too little can be worrying! Anyway. With two weeks to go, the participants guide was released.
I chuckled at the line: “course distances are approximate and intended as a guideline for you to estimate the nature of the event. Please don’t be surprised if we have limited interest in ‘what your garmin said'”
I’ll come back to that later…
In March, we got a new member of our team at work. Sarah and I immediately became mates and she was really interested in all my marathon chat. Unfortunately Dramathon had no places, but she was able to get on a waiting list and then I got a text one evening saying she had 24 hours to decide if she wanted a place. As she’s a total legend, she jumped at the chance! I had a marathon buddy and it was going to be SO much fun.
Despite training individually for this event, we decided a few weeks beforehand that we’d run it together. I’d keep pace for as long as possible and then we’d see how we got on from there. I’ve never done an event anything other than solo, but I was looking forward to having my friend with me to keep me focused during the dark moments.
A big bonus for this Marathon was that it fell on a Saturday. Having a full day to recover before returning to work is a definite plus for me! Sarah’s mother-in-law very kindly offered us her cottage on the Glenlivet Estate for the weekend. This stunning, cosy house would be our base for the weekend and was no further than 30 minutes in the car from the start and finish. Her lovely man joined us and became our chauffeur. I was extremely grateful! We were joined by my London Sherpa Michelle and hubby Jonny who were also running. Along with half the contents of Tesco in Perth, we had the ingredients for an absolutely amazing weekend!
Sarah and I decided we’d head up on Friday afternoon, via the stunning Glenshee, so that we could register and get settled and have a relaxed evening. The drive was breathtaking as ever, with Scotland giving us her best Autumnal realness.
Registration at Glenfarclas Distillery was quick and easy. We were fitted with our “Dibbers” at reg (which soon became extremely annoying). And we headed back to the cottage for pasta, Bridesmaids, Friends and flatlays.
Daniel arrived at the cottage around 6pm and Michelle and Jonny joined us after a challenging drive around 10pm. Some chilled catching up and last minute prep and we all went to bed for a restless night.
The 6am alarm was grim but I’ve had worse. Forcing porridge down was equally horrid and the rain battering the windows was filling us all with a sense of impending doom. Daniel and Sarah tried to reassure us that the Braes has it’s own microclimate, but I was beginning to dread the event. 26 miles in the pouring rain did not make me feel warm and fuzzy inside.
Daniel drove us to the finish line at the Glenfiddich distillery where we’d be getting buses to the start at Glenfarclas. We managed to get Michelle and Jonny registered and catch the rest of the Painless Performance crew. A big cuddle from Jonathan Pain resulted in the first hilarious moment of the day. I’d overfilled one of my soft-flasks in my race vest which promptly began to leak. “WHAT THE FUCK. I’M LACTATING” was my reaction which resulted in some concerned glances from passers by.
One big flaw in Durty Events plan was only having 4 portaloos for over 200 people. It was an entirely harrowing pre race pee experience. Boke. Not to worry, we thought, there will be more loos once we get off the buses at Glenfarclass…
Nope. Another 4. So we queued for 25 minutes, freezing to our cores, and JUST made the start before the piper set us off.
At 10am, we were let loose on the Speyside countryside. The race winds uphill on tarmac for around 1km before switching onto rough twintrack on a gradual downhill until you reach Ballindalloch castle.
I’ll just put this out there now: I am not very experienced in the trail-running department. I am also inherently clumsy as fuck. This meant I wasn’t able to fully appreciate the Scottish mountain views because I was otherwise occupied with trying not to fall arse-over-tit into a muddy puddle.
After dibbing out and in as we crossed the A85, we were soon jogging past Ballindalloch distillery and it’s beautiful new building. We hit the first aid station. I had a pretty well-rehearsed nutrition plan but the lure of chocolate chip cookies was too much. This was Class A catering from Durty Events. We crunched our cookies happily and continued on to the next road crossing and dibbing point.
The first section of the route is pretty undulating. Nothing too scary considering you’re running in Speyside, but my hip had already started to protest.
Trail presents different challenges to road running. Road running has greater impact on my joints, but trail involves more stabilisation and my ankles and knees were struggling to keep me vertical.
Sarah and I ran together and were keeping a pretty steady rhythm by now. The undulating hills had been replaced by slippy, slidy ex-railway line.
Sarah’s stitch subsided about 7 miles in and we were approaching Tamdhu and an aid station.
They had brownies. BROWNIES. *throws nutrition strategy into the River Spey*
I risked shitting myself and horsed a brownie. Winning. At. Endurance.
We continued on our railway adventure and soon passed Michelle and Jonny. Jonny had run into cramp issues and they were having to walk. This would prove to be a race-ending cramp for the lovely Jonny, who made it to 14 miles before retiring.
As we passed a distance I can’t remember, we made it to a relay cross-over point. The guy we’d been running near for a while told us there were no more hills.
If I ever see you again, relay man, I will KILL you.
After Tamdhu distillery, we were directed up a gentle tarmac hill, to a GIANT MUDDY CLIMB. It was brutal. It could have been worse but it was tough considering we thought we were pretty much avoiding hills for the remainder of the race. We wound up past Cardhu distillery and then back down towards the railway line again. The downhill was where I hit my first wall. At about 12 miles I held back tears as shockwaves shot through my shins and hips. The cobbled, steep downhill twintrack was very difficult to navigate at a decent pace. And it HURT. Sarah’s knees were killing her and we were getting tired already. Stupid hills. Stupid marathon. Stupid idea.
We made a deal to start a run/walk strategy once we made the “half way” checkpoint at 25km. We stopped here to gather our thoughts, eat some more cookies and stretch our aching legs. 4mins run, 1 min walk would start from here. We then negotiated the extremely slippy, boggy path for another mile or so before we could really get moving properly again.
By Aberlour, Sarah was deep in a dark place and I was hurting really badly. I was in agony and just wanted to get to the end. We exchanged “words” and got back onto the route to continue the long slog to the finish line. It was at this point that we were passed by Miriam, sister of Jonathan Pain and my fairy race godmother! She looked in fantastic shape. We also bumped into my buddy Chris who was suffering from a long season of MANY events including Craggy Island Tri and Glencoe Marathon. He was utterly broken. Some gentle abuse and encouragement and we were all on our way.
Me and Sarah now moved to marching. I was getting sore from walking (WTF) and my walk/run strategy was making Sarah queasy so I’d jog on a little and then walk until I could see her. I checked my phone and 112 messenger notifications later learned that Pete, Maria and Jonny had all pulled out of the race. I was so gutted for them. I was also hitting a wall BIG time. There were no mile markers and because the aid stations were sporadic, I was finding it really tough to work out where we were.
A quick call home for some words of encouragement and I was back in the zone. I waited for a bit at a gate to see if Sarah was close behind me. She wasn’t and I was worried. I knew she was fighting hard for this and I was struggling without her beside me so I jogged back to find her so we could finish this absolute monster together.
Eventually we hauled ourselves to the 35km checkpoint which was at about 32km and were told there was only 6km left to go.
I thought this was a Marathon?
Mixed feelings ensued. I mean, we couldn’t walk another fucking step. So we were quite delighted that the course was measuring short. But we didn’t want to get our hopes up in case the guy said miles. But we checked, like…. REALLY checked. “are you SURE it’s only 6km?????”
The “last 6km” is a very very gentle climb up another long, long LONG disused railway line. It was wooded and stunning but to be honest we just wanted to be fucking FINISHED.
There wasn’t another runner for miles in either direction so we were pretty convinced we were last and they’d have run out of medals and whisky.
The lack of mile markers was taking it’s toll psychologically and we were really hating every painful step.
We were passed by a woman called Kat who was from Perth and running with her hubby. She thought we were sisters and we chatted for a while before she continued on her way to the finish line…. wherever the fuck that was!
We trudged on at what felt like a good-paced march for at least 180 years until we started passing big corrugated buildings that looked (and smelled) like a whisky bottling facility. Was this Glenfiddich? Literally who the fuck knows.
I had my phone out and was trying to get a location on google maps. We were close-ish. Maybe.
There was now a road parallel to the track and I clocked a sign for Glenfiddich but no distance indicator. We were still passing big buildings so it was clearly a large distillery.
The lack of distance markers was REALLY taking it’s toll now. We were so grumpy and tired and desperate to finish.
The only thing keeping me going was Sarah’s unbreakable determination. She fought through the depths of marathon-pain and was still going. We had to finish together.
We were guided by arrows onto a road with a sign! A SIGN! THANK FUCK FOR THAT THIS MUST BE GLENFIDDI—– The Balvenie? FUCK.
Now, if I’d properly studied the Participant guide, I’d have known that Glenfiddich is beside The Balvenie. Instead we had to wait until we found A Man who promised us the finish was 500m away. Did we believe him? No. But he PROMISED.
He wasn’t wrong. We had to try and run up a hill but we could see flags now. I took Sarah’s hand and she somehow found the legs to drag me over the line at a sprint.
I was SO happy to see that finish line and SO proud of my friend.
Sarah, who tragically lost her Grandpa and then her mum in the space of months last year, fought hard and properly rallied to finish that race. It’s determination like that which inspires me. Having the ability to kick the walls down is what makes an endurance athlete. While I encouraged her, I somehow encouraged myself. It was so so tough and lonely. I couldn’t have finished it without Sarah by my side.
Daniel scooped Sarah up and took her off to buy her a very fucking well earned beer. I spotted the team and hobbled over to say hello and dish out smelly cuddles. Michelle had breezed past us around 30km having chucked her ailing hubby on a bus back to the finish line. I painfully lowered myself to the ground (mistake) and was handed a beer by Daniel.
The Medal was in actual fact a chunk of whisky cask, which was a lovely touch. The beer was tremendous and me and Michelle cuddled up for a photo (I won’t show you the others…)
Our chauffeur drove his smelly passengers back to the house where we all hobbled inside for showers and food.
Bizarrely, I only managed a couple of slices of pizza and some salad before heading through to my sofa bed to hide under a duvet. My buddies all piled through to join me before long, and we spent the evening grazing on snacks, beer and watching Friends. It was a good day.
The miniatures in the goody bag are fantastic and it took all my willpower not to tuck in immediately.
Overall, The Dramathon is a superb event. The marshals were lovely and the course was stunning (when I wasn’t trying not to die).
There needs to be some improvements if they choose to run it in the same format next year, however:
More toilets at the start and at the race HQ. (like… at least 10)
more accurate information in the guide regarding the format of the event. We were told we’d collect stamps at each distillery. Then it was tokens. But on the day it was nothing? With no explanation.
We were told the week before the event that mandatory kit would be confirmed 2 days prior. We received no further update from the organisers. And weather forecasts can’t always be trusted.
The course measured a whopping 4km short. I appreciate completely that not every race will always measure accurately. That’s a given, especially on trail, but despite their disclaimer in the Participant guide, I feel like 4km is a big deficit for a race calling itself a “Full Marathon”. After I posted this on their page on Facebook, a girl who was marshalling posted a link to the map-my-run route which showed we’d missed a whole section around Ballindalloch golf course! The marshal and arrows at the edge had directed us straight to the distillery. We’d missed the loop without prior explanation and as yet, we’ve received no update as to why this decision was made.
To sum up, I’d recommend this if you fancy a challenge in a stunning part of the world’s most beautiful country. Make sure you sort your accommodation and DEFINITELY make sure it’s within a comfortable distance of the start/finish distilleries!
And finally, a huge, heartfelt thank you to my race buddy Sarah. You were beyond nails. You kept me laughing and our Friends and Rupaul quotes gave me LIFE. Shantay, you stay, my friend! Here’s to the best, most flattering photograph anyone has ever taken ever. #WinningAtChinning x
You see, my relationship with running has a chequered past. When I was wee, running was literally only away from stuff that I didn’t want to be near. As I grew up, I was forced (forced) by our education system , to partake in this absurd activity.
Cross Country PE. Reserved only for the most frosty of winter mornings. And also the words that reduced me to a quivering wreck and latterly resulted in me bribing my mum to write me excusal notes for most of 5th and 6th year.
When I did take part, a permanent stitch, a hatred of all physical activity and a general loathing of being outside and/or cold, ruined any possible enjoyment of the sport.
Fast forward 15 years and 15 year old Bean is rolling her eyes so hard she’s practically seeing out the back of her head.
And to be honest, running still sucks.
3 marathons. I’ve run THREE and number FOUR is in a matter of weeks. So why? If it sucks why do it?
Usually my approach to endurance is that if it’s not fun, why do it?
However. Running is such an important part of going long. It’s psychologically tough on me. Therefore each long run I do is designed to test my mental strength. Much like doing all the swimming.
Similarly to the mental toughness of the actual act of running, preparing for a run is also character building.
For example: on longer runs, I like to wear my 2XU compression socks. They may or may not help but I like how garish they are and they make me feel less like my calves will explode while I run. Because that happens.
Putting these on, however, is not an easy task. Imagine trying to wrestle a sweaty body into an already damp wetsuit. Then make the wetsuit two sizes two small and swap dexterous hands for a pair of fluffy mittens. Add some face-punching (your own hand and your own face…) and 18 minutes of swearing per calf and your only at the ankle.
Once the ordeal of getting dressed in all manner of compression gear is done, it’s just the running to do. Oh good. At least I’m warmed up. Right?
Now. I feel I should add that I like how running makes me feel afterwards:
Empowered, satisfied, strong.
I do not enjoy how it makes me feel during:
Shoogly. What’s that crunch? Oh it’s my hip. There’s another stone in my shoe. Why does my shoulder hurt? Why am I so shit at this? My shorts are giving me camel toe. I need to pee.
When I am asked “how was your run?” The reply is usually “GREAT! Apart from the part where I had to actually run. ”
My body is categorically not designed for running. Evolution has bestowed upon me a level of laziness that is satisfied only by getting off the sofa and walking to the fridge. It has also given me flat feet, a rotated pelvis (holla at me ladies), one leg significantly longer than the other, two tendons in my left hip joint that crunch together with every. fucking. excruciating. step, terrible posture and boobs that need to be strapped firmly down.
(I realise I’ve just painted the most epic picture of myself.)
Like most women affected by the rotated pelvis issue (it’s common AF), running any kind of distance results in real, proper pain that keeps me awake at night. So I also have to stretch. A lot. Which is boring and painful. And it usually results in me falling asleep on my yoga mat, or getting distracted by intagram stories. #FirstWorldProblems
I digress. The plan now is just to gently ease up the miles, and prepare mind and body. I have 5 weeks (I think?? I’ve stopped counting) until the marathon and in the words of RuPaul: “good luck. And don’t fuck it up”.
You may recall that back in June, I was supposed to swim 10km in Windermere. Unfortunately, Weather occurred so events were cancelled and although they allowed us to swim 1 mile, I still had a “burning desire” (see also: weird and fucking stupid desire) to swim that distance. So I entered the Great Scottish Swim 10k as a back up.
For the last two months I’ve trained hard while also convincing myself that GSS would be cancelled and OH WELL NEVER MIND I WON’T HAVE TO DO IT EVER.
No such luck.
I awoke at 3am on race morning with the familiar knot in my stomach and the even more familiar pre-race lack of appetite. I forced a crumpet down my neck and performed the standard last minute OCD checks on my kit. Everything present. Everything correct.
I had prepped an array of car snacks and a Sensible Breakfast of porridge and banana to “enjoy” en route and at 06:32 I parked up at Loch Lomond Shores and settled down to try and not vomit while eating the aforementioned porridge and banana. Somehow I managed. Even if I fluffed the swim, this was a great achievement.
I gathered my many belongings and trudged unwillingly towards the event site. The Loch was flat-calm. The rain was on and off and the air was still. The conditions were completely perfect and this was going to happen.
As I stood on the pier dry-heaving at the mammoth course laid out in front of me (the curvature of the earth actually prevents you from seeing the far buoys I promise), I spotted IronPugsley and his friend looking a tad more awake than I felt. It’s Dougie’s fault that I’d entered this stupid race in the first place. He was calm and confident. I was a wreck.
We wandered round to the changing tents which had moved from their usual spot (that’ll learn me for not checking the signs…) and went off to slip into something a little less comfortable and a little more rubbery.
I took my time, applying Body Glide liberally to any bits of skin that may or may not chafe. And some more just for luck. I prised myself into my Orca, got my hair in place and grabbed the rest of my stuff to head round to the start.
Kit wise, I had layered a tri-top over my swimming costume just for an extra layer. I’d not opted for gloves or booties. I knew I’d struggle with numb hands but the gloves were heavy and I’d just rather not have extra weight to drag about for 6.2 miles.
I found Dougie, Jan and Andy all suited and still ridiculously awake. Much mockery of D’s silicone “neck protector” (Soz but it looks like a sex toy) and other silly carry on. It wasn’t until Dougie asked me which colour goggles I’d gone for that I suddenly thought OH FUCK. GOGGLES. Thank FUCK I’d packed them. A half-sprint-half-barefoot-hobble-on-rocky-tarmac later, I had them firmly in my grasp. That was close. What a pisser that would’ve been.
Dougie introduced me to his pal that runs the Forth Swim. He tried to convince me to enter but I’m not 100% sold on swimming through human jobbies. We’ll see….
We were soon allowed into check in and went straight into the acclimatisation zone. Which sounds fancy but is actually just the boat-launch cordoned off with a lady shouting at you that they’re closing it soon.
By this point, I was a complete bag of nerves. The loch was 16 degrees but that’s not exactly a fucking bath and I was worrying about freezing to death. I went through my mantra in my head on repeat while everyone buzzed around me. (I like to have a quiet moment before a race kicks off):
Lap twice. Stop for gel. Lap twice. Stop for gel. Lap twice. Medal.
Kerri-Anne Payne was on hand to start us off and before I knew it I was saying goodlucks and goodbyes (thanks Andy for the hilariously awkward are-we-high-giving-oh-wait-fist-bump-nope-hug moment) and dipping into the loch with Dougie to start our 10km.
Shiiiiiiiiiit that’s cold.
Ok. Draft a bit. Swim a bit. Draft some more. Panic a bit. Breathing! Remember breathing! Breathing is so important. Lift your head to breathe. Perfect. Off we go.
I’d posted in an all-girl group I’m in on FB for some words of wisdom and the women were AMAZING. Their words went round in my head and Rach (off Twitter!) who is a swimming queen gave me some great breathing advice. I stuck to her words and soon found my rhythm.
The first lap passed in under 30 minutes and I was feeling great and full of energy. Just one more lap and then it’s BOAT SNACK TIME, I kept telling myself.
Lap two done and I clung to the side of a rib boat while a lovely man handed me water and a Cliff gel to chew/swallow (they are a fucking weird consistency. Sort of like thick snot. And also opaque yellow like snot. A lovely thought. You’re welcome.) I have to say, I was a little upset to learn that the “snack boat” didn’t have a buffet of pasta dishes and hot tea. Nope. Just jelly babies and gels. But at this point I’d have eaten roadkill if I thought it would have given me the beans to keep going…
Onto lap 3 which meant I would be HALF WAY!! I checked my watch. It was clear that either the course was going to come up short or Garmin was being a tad lazy. Not to worry. We battle on.
By now I am catching the subsequent wave. Picking through the slower swimmers definitely cost me time but I took a draft where I could get it and managed to avoid any painful kicks this year. I was passing caps from my own wave and nothing was sore or tired yet. WTF. Was I kicking ass at this?! I went through 5km at bang on 1hr30 (including gel stop). Yes. I was kicking ass at this.
Through laps 4 and 5, my index fingers on each hand had gone numb, I was fighting the onset of calf cramp and I was really suffering with lower back pain (which has all but completely fucked off lately so I was NOT happy about this!). My head started to tell me that I’d had quite about enough of this charade and it was time to find a kayak and die quietly.
At the end of Lap 4 I found the boat and “enjoyed” another “delicious” snotter/gel. Unfortunately, as I was clinging to the boat with my claw-hands and trying to stretch out my back, my leg became tangled in one of the buoy ropes. Not even a little bit tangled. Properly fucking caught. Like a sodding fish. I was snagged. This was going badly. I shouted to the boat dude who was about as confused as me as to how this had happened. Thankfully, the very nice man beside me swam under the boat to untangle my leg and I was able to continue. Amazingly, no cramp was sustained during the ordeal.
5 minutes lost to being a twat, I continued onto my penultimate lap to play Next Time Last Time.
Next Time I see this buoy it will be the Last Time. For a mile. A confusing mile, at that. My watch was showing that the course was 400-500m short. But my tired, water-logged brain as beginning to convince itself that we’d somehow missed a lap. I retraced every stroke and after *some* debating, I decided that this was 100% my 5th lap. No doubt. Stupid GPS.
Last lap time.
It was now that a Huubster appeared. A pink cap (2 mile swimmer I think ) and a £500 Huub Archimedes suit plus matching goggles. He appeared to my right and swam directly over me without stopping. He was not going in the right direction. Having been dooked unwillingly and by surprise, at 5 miles into a 6 mile race I needed to gather myself and swear at him loudly. A woman doing breastroke to my right checked I was ok before we laughed as she asked where the fuck he was going. Apparently £500 can by you an incredible wetsuit but not a sense of direction…
A weird thing began to happen: I started to have fun. For the first time LIKE EVER, my goggles had not fogged up at all. I was picking red caps off and passing swimmers like a proper fast swimmer. The TV chopper was over me the whole last lap. The noise was deafening. I was KICKING ASS AT THIS! My watch had me finishing well under 3 hours. Even with the shorter distance I’d be under Dougie’s (seemingly ridiculous) prediction of 3:05.
I AM A SWIMMING QUEEEEEEEEEEEN I shouted in my head.
The final buoy was in sight. I just had to swim past that, through the pointy buoys, under the gangtry and that was it finished! Let’s GOOOOOOO.
I gave the last 400m everything I had. My best technique, no kicks, strong, positive pulls, slight bend at the elbow with a straight arm exit from the water. Smooth, effortless gliding but with breathing that sounded like was seconds from death. Ignoring the fire in my shoulder muscles and the numb as fuck hands.
I reached the finish funnel and attempted to stand up. Wobbling and probably not smiling, I stumbled over the finish line to the ankle-beeper where the guy asked my name and it took me far too long to remember it.
I was done. It was finished. 2hours 53 minutes and 46 seconds.
That’s not just a little bit good, that is BRILLIANT.
As I staggered past chip-removal towards the goody bags and my warm clothes, a young lad shouted “YOU JUST DID THE 10k! YOU NEED TO GO THIS WAY CAUSE YOU GET A BETTER GOODIE BAG!!”
Oh YAS! I thought. FINALLY Great Swim have bowed to pressure and made a non-generic medal for the 10k swimmers. Gimme!!
This really did not impress the two-mile swimmer next to me who moaned a “that’s not fair!” At the lad before he gently but firmly suggested that if she wanted a 10k goodybag she could nip back in and swim another 4 miles. She declined…
As with every GSS I’ve done so far, the heavens had opened as I was dragging my carcass out of the loch. I padded painfully round to the sweaty changing tent, shivering violently and acutely aware that my arms were absolutely livid with me. I had to ask a stranger to unzip me. I then had to apologise to two other strangers who were freaked out by my squealing as my hand found my chafed neck. I borrowed a chair and used it to try and assist with dressing. This was more challenging than the fucking swim.
I did all this while shovelling pretzels into my face and downing water. I felt ok but I knew I’d soon bonk if I didn’t take salts and carbs on board.
Eventually I staggered to my car. Dougie and Jan were walking down the road and had both had as much fun as you can while swimming endurance distances. Dougie swam 10km in under 2:40. I mean really. Half man half fish.
Once in my car I asked a marshal to direct me to McDonald’s where I horsed a Big Mac meal and large milkshake before hitting the road. Somehow, I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. But my arms are all but useless now. Honestly I’ve typed this with my nose.
I am over the MOON. This was one hell of a challenge. Unsurprisingly, swimming 10km is not on many athletes radar as something they want to do. But I did it and I did it well and wildly over-achieved on my original target of 3:30.
Thank you, Great Swim for another fantastic event.
I am now a marathon swimmer! And I’m waiting for my certificate welcoming me to the Mermaid community.
Before I start this, I have an apology to make. I made a huge error in my previous blog. Catastrophic, in fact. I referred to my pal @ironpugsley as a mere four-time-marathoner, marathon swimmer, ultramarathoner, two-time Ironman and soon to be swim-runner. I neglected to mention Alcatraz Escapee. Sincere apologies for my devastating oversight, Ironman.
So…… Back to business.
140.6 miles. That’s the distance from my house in Not Fife almost to Wick. Which is basically the top of Scotland. Which is essentially the North Pole.
It’s a distance that, over the last 3 years, has become the epitome of Awesome to me. I idolise Ironmen and those who can push their bodies and their minds to complete a race of such a punishing distance.
I respect the distance. I aspire to be the level of Nails required to complete a race that encompasses everything I have come to admire about the sport of Triathlon.
Recently, with the inaugural Ironman 70.3 race in Edinburgh, it’s brought Triathlon newbies out in force. Let me just preface this slight rant by making the point that this is a very good thing. Triathlon is marvellous. It teaches you so much about yourself. Technically I am still a newbie, having only done a single tri.
Much like the fact that you wouldn’t swan into the office on the first day of a new job stating that you take your tea with just the right amount of milk and that the office temperature must always be no more or less than 21 degrees…. you wouldn’t call yourself an Ironman for finishing a 70.3. Would you? Oh, you would. Well. I’ve watched Grey’s Anatomy religiously for well over 7 years now, can I just go ahead and start practising medicine? Call me Dr Bean.
Ordinarily, something like this wouldn’t bother me so much. People call themselves stuff every day. But…… Sometimes, something just means too much to you to let the Internet tarnish that significance. Let me explain why I took offence to the remarks of a fool in a forum.
To me, there is currently no achievement that I want more than to be able to cross a finish line at the end of a 140.6 mile event. It’s a goal that will require sacrifice, commitment and the type of drive that’s taken me 3 years to realise I may actually possess.
In one Facebook group, I saw someone announcing that as of Sunday evening they would now be calling themselves an ironman.
What a fucking liberty.
The keyboard warriors destroyed them but it really stuck in my head. I managed not to engage, having already had The Debate with some good friends who had, despite the grotesque conditions, each done an incredible job at finishing the race.
Having sat on this for a week, I wanted to take a minute here to think about why that is such an audacious thing to do in my mind.
First let’s have a history lesson. John Collins et al held the inaugural Iron Distance race in Hawaii in 1978. It was a combination of the 2.4 mile Waikiki rough water swim, a 112 mile Round-the-Island bike race and the Honolulu marathon. It was a competition, following a booze fuelled debate amongst talented athletes in each individual discipline, to see who was toughest. Who could complete this gruelling race first? Surely he (or she) would be the epitome of athleticism.
John Collins famously said the words “whoever won that ought to be called Iron Man”. And so the race was born.
Note: not 70.3.
History lesson over, let’s take a step back and look at the bigger picture, shall we?
I must point out that I am not discrediting the toughness required to complete a 70.3 race. I’ve done one. It was hella tough. I trained my ass off and still hold that finish line feeling as one of my greatest memories and achievements. So if you’re sitting there sucking your teeth and calling me bitter, kindly swivel. Because I’ve been there. I know What’s required. I didn’t have an easy ride, either. Injury, illness and niggles all tried to derail me. I didn’t blag it (which you can do, if required) But I made it. In 6hrs43 mins. I did it. And it was phenomenal.
Unfortunately for my tired legs, it was never going to end there. As soon as I crossed that finish line and located the nearest Big Mac, I knew I had the bug. I’ve dreamed of doing a full iron-distance tri for years. I wanted more. I wanted to push harder. Go further. But I knew I couldn’t yet. I wasn’t ready.
To me, 140.6 miles is an unparalleled achievement. It may not be everyone’s cup of tea and, at the moment, I am receiving two reactions. 1) OH THATS AWESOME! And 2) Ummm, you’re gonna do what?
I hold it dear to my heart. I feel like it’s something I have to respect and do justice. I feel like, after being mentored by my IronBuddy that I owe it to the race to do the best I possibly can.
So to hear and see people throwing that Iron Title about defending their choice because Ironman is a global brand, just rubbed me up the wrong way. It didn’t start as a brand. It BECAME a brand. It is about so much more than a title. It’s about being so mentally robust that you can push your body past the point of pain and giving up. These races don’t allow outside assistance. You do that shit alone.
I can’t bear to see people devalue the status of being Iron. Being Iron is something to strive for. To aspire to. Not a term to be chucked about haphazardly.
I’m not one to take such grave offence at the remarks of keyboard warriors, especially those with no understanding of the history of the race they try to lay claim to. But this was different.
The fuss has died down now and hopefully the absence of Paul Kaye shouting “YOU ARE AN IRONMAN” at the finish line was enough to drive home the point that they are not now in fact an ironman.
The biggest issue I have with this whole ‘pavlova’ (hi, Tucker ❤️) is that they are detracting from the incredible achievement that is finishing a 70.3 mile race.
Don’t simultaneously stomp all over my dreams while crushing my sense of achievement, you pests.
In the mean time, I continue to fuel my excitement for the unbelievable challenges ahead. I’m inspired and focused and it feels amazing. It won’t last, so I’m making the most of it!
It’s been a week since I entered The Lakesman, and what a week it’s been. There is something wonderfully empowering about finally believing you’re capable of training for a 140.6 mile race.
I’m doing this. OMG.
It’s been a week of excitement, fear, negotiation (with myself) deep thought, planning, organising and surfing the net for higher spec bike components! (Any excuse, but the prospect of 1000’s of miles of training requires unquestionable use of n+1 and Stella needs to feel loved as well……)
Don’t worry, my friends. I shall not be breezing past you, as you sip your pint outside the pub, clad in cycling skins and a sperm hat with a disc wheel whirring away. No. I leave the marginal gains to the pro’s. I’m pretty down to earth with this stuff, but my faithful Stella has done many thousands of kilometres already. With a carbon fibre frame, she needs plenty of TLC. I’m also not the smallest of athletes so she needs good components to make up for my somewhat un-dainty frame.
It’s also been a week of reflection: I’ve come an awfully long way from the naive, clueless lass that decided to get fit by entering a sodding marathon. The fact that I’ve made it to the point where I feel I can commit to training for an event like Lakesman makes me feel incredibly proud. Even if the wheels fall off and I end up unable to do it, I know I made it this far.
So aside from bike browsing, welling up every 15 minutes at inspirational YouTube videos and also buying a very exciting new swimming costume which will likely make me look like a misshapen potato, I have been squirrelling away at excel spreadsheets, putting the bare bones of a training plan together. I am gonna be busy.
I’ve spent hours poring over race blogs, tips and life-hack posts to try and stand myself in good stead for the huge amount of adjustment this training is going to require.
My buddy @ironpugsley penned this blog just before tackling his second Ironman. It is the very best advice that I could have in my arsenal as I begin to start piecing together this massive puzzle. As a two-time Ironman, four-time marathon runner, ultra-runner and marathon swimmer, I can think of no one I’d rather take advice from when it comes to this stuff. Mostly because he’s a) a normal human with extraordinary grit, b) did these things while juggling normal life stuff and c) likes beer.
Every night this week I’ve gone to bed buzzing with ideas and excitement and apprehension. The race is a long way off in many ways, but not that far away in many other ways. I am relieved that I’ve got GSS and Dramathon to look forward to and occupy my legs and my mind. I just have to not get broken…
I’ve caught up with friends, started planning routes for rides and even found one which incorporates cake at my bestie’s house:
Check that view!
I’ve had fun inspiring/bullying new friends to take up endurance sports, setting challenges and generally mucking about on bikes beside lochs and up hills…
It’s been a much brighter few weeks.
It feels good to have finally taken the plunge and signed up to Lakesman. The last few months have felt tough. I’ve been all over the place inside my head. Huge highs and crushing lows and sustained periods of darkness had left me feeling empty, dulled and numb. Over the past few weeks my sparkle has started to return. I have a focus and I’ve regained my drive to not only tackle this next obstacle but have the most fun I possibly can in preparation.
It’s like someone has turned on a light. And I’m so ready to feel light again.
“To accomplish something extraordinary, one must have an extraordinary dream. A goal so high, a journey so demanding, that it’s achievement, to most, seems impossible….”
Daydreaming. We all do it. On a quiet afternoon in the office when the rain is running down the windows. When you’re stuck in traffic. Before you drift off to sleep. Sometimes when you can’t sleep…
Most people daydream of holidays, beaches and switching off their work emails.
Me? I dream of 4am alarms. Porridge that sits in your stomach like lead. Nausea. Nerves. Wobbly-bottom-lipped and misty eyed goodbyes and good-lucks with family. Ice cold lakes and clear lochs. Lycra. The whoosh of disc wheels. The quiet, metronomic ticking of a cassette. The quiet pad of feet on tarmac. Pain. Determination. Up to 16hrs 59 minutes of just….moving….forwards. A red carpet. A clock: I dream of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a marathon. I dream of 140.6 miles.
It’s not always been that way, believe me. Bean of Yesteryear would have daydreamed almost exclusively of hot beaches with unlimited ice cream and a device that changes your DVD for you so you don’t have to move.
What was it that sparked this apparent lapse in judgment, you ask? Was it a head injury? U OK hun?
Well… Around 3 years ago, a seed was planted in my head by a dear friend and accomplished endurance athlete. “You know you could become IronBean…. if you really want to….”
I watched endless YouTube videos of ironman races, Celtman, Norseman, Swissman, you flipping name it. I anxiously tracked friends as they tackled these unfathomable distances. I coveted that title of being “Iron”. Knowing just how much commitment and drive it takes to complete such a thing.
Oh, I wanted to be IronBean. But I knew that what was required would be too much, at that time. I trained for marathons, a 70.3 and various other events but training for those was extremely demanding. I could never commit the time and energy to training for an Iron Distance race….
…. could I…..?
In 2016, a new race was launched. The Lakesman. 140.6 miles of stunning Lake District route. I pored over race reports and excitedly waited for updates from twitter buddies who were racing there. And once I heard their stories and saw the pictures, I knew that would be my Iron Race.
I briefly considered saving up, selling organs and cars and sacrificing meals to pay for entry to a branded Ironman race, but swiftly laid those thoughts to rest on the realisation that it’s the DISTANCE I want to do. It’s fuck all to do with brand. And reading race reports for every conceivable brand or type of 140.6 event, I knew Lakesman’s atmosphere and ethos was 100% for me.
So I waited. I bided my time. I put in serious fucking groundwork and experimented with huge volume training weeks on swimming and running. I began to develop self belief. The kind of belief that says “if you worked hard at this you could do it.”
This couldn’t be a selfish choice though. I’d be sacrificing a lot of time. I’d need all the support I could get at home. I discussed this idea with Beardy and in his typically non-chalant way, he shrugged and offered his support. Probably somewhat relieved to be signing up to 6 months of total peace and quiet.
And then came the day the entries opened. I sat at my desk, bank card at the ready, anxiously refreshing their page. There are only 400 slots. And chatter on social media indicated that a large number of people were interested and looking to enter.
Please please please Let me get a spot…..
….. and I did.
So there we have it. June17th 2018. Lakesman day.
It’s going to be an epic adventure. I have the small matter of another marathon and a 10km swim to get done first before I can knuckle down and start a 30 week plan.
But it’s happening. I cannot wait.
This is not impulsive decision. I know, and have suspected for a while, that I am ready for this. 100%. In my head and my heart. My body will just have to accept it.
In a moment of madness, and perhaps hysteria, I entered the VLM 2017 Ballot the day it opened. I was still high on the buzz of finishing VLM2016 in one piece and being able to walk immediately afterwards. Of COURSE I’d do it again. Who WOULDN’T?
It’s SUCH a difficult ballot. People try for years to get in. People also enter knowing full well they don’t really want to do it or couldn’t commit to training for what is an incredibly tough challenge and then get in. Proper waste if they decide not to nut up. (The less we say about those gits the better…) So I’d basically decided I wasn’t getting in. I hadn’t opted to pay on application (because I’d recently lost my job) so I didn’t double my chances. I’d applied and been rejected for 2015 so I just assumed I wouldn’t get a place.
It wasn’t until the week before last when my pal reminded me the results were due out that I began to worry that I would get in. I have set my sights on a 10km swim in June and training for that will be tough enough. I remember how utterly killer marathon training is. Especially through winter. It’s bloody tough. You need proper balls.
Still. I wasn’t getting in.
Ok. Wow. Wasn’t expecting that. How amazing?! Was I going to pass on this opportunity? Was I fuck. London, Baby!!!!!! I’d already seen so many wasted ballot places that I was never EVER going to turn down this incredible event. Turn down the opportunity to run over Tower Bridge? Down Birdcage Walk? Turn down the opportunity to earn my third marathon medal? No. I was not passing up this chance.
Not only did I inexplicably get a place, but Michelle, fellow Team Painless athlete and mega bad-ass, FINALLY got in after five attempts. So we immediately booked our hotel and flights. I can’t believe that I’m sitting here, less than a week after receiving my magazine and paying for my place, with plane tickets and a hotel reservation for London next April.
Of course, now the all-too-familiar hard work begins. With a better base than ever. Training Peaks has me at my fittest EVER so lets flipping keep it that way, yeah?!
It’s going to be a helluva challenge to fit this in with swimming and strength work as well as having enough flexibility in my training plan to have FUN and take days off now and then.
So about 3 weeks ago, two of my colleagues, who are also mental, decided to convince me to enter the Spartan Sprint race in Edinburgh.
“It’s just a few obstacles and it’s only 6km” turned out to be the two biggest lies I’ve been told in my adult life.
The clues were in the waiver we all had to sign. There was an actual list of things that could kill you or “cause serious illness” such as “ingesting faeces”, “burns” and “animal bites and stings”. Oh tremendous.
On a cloudy Saturday, me and the guys headed to a wee farm just outside Edinburgh and realised we’d be running up a LOT of hills.
After a hilarious warmup and some burpees, we were let loose.
We realised pretty quickly that it was absolutely unquestionably not “only 6km.” Looking at strava routes recorded by people brave enough to use Garmins, it’s sitting between 8.5-10.5km. And 23 obstacles varying from jumping into neck-deep vats of slurry (“GUYS WTF IS THIS SURELY ITS NOT ACTUAL SHIT???” “Mate if it looks like shit and smells like shit… It’s probably shit!”) and carrying 30kg of gravel in a slippy bucket. Fucking brutal.
Lots and lots of climbing, scrambling and literally being dragged up a hill by Owen while shouting Eminem lyrics at each other.
My biggest moment of glory? Throwing a fucking spear at a fucking target and nailing it. Perfectly.
Low points? Getting Actual Shit in my mouth (currently awaiting the onset of diphtheria) Tearing holes in the Arse of my leggings and my back on barbed wire, ending up backwards exiting the barbed wire crawl while pissing myself laughing, getting stuck in a queue on the log carry because the obstacles were so tough to negotiate and everyone was having to take it slowly, having to lug 20-30kg of gravel up a HILL in a fucking bucket which about broke my back, failing a rope climb miserably and having to do 30 burpees. Losing the skin on my heel within the first 3 km.
High points? Rapping Eminem on the side of a Pentland hill, swimming in shit, lots and lots of jumping in freezing streams, getting mud wiped all over my face, throwing actual shit at my mate, helping fellow competitors over and under obstacles, climbing a rope ladder on top of a hill, letting gravity pull me down the hills, getting told where the “girls weights” were and shouting “NAH FUCK IT” while lifting a “boys weight” 40kg kettle bell right up to the top of the frame, Bossing some monkey bars, and finishing it all with my buddy. Who I managed to kick in the face. Soz.
Time is virtually irrelevant in a race like that. 2hrs 7 minutes for us with over 550m of elevation gain and 23 obstacles, a lot of walking and wading through thigh deep mud. And 20 minutes of that 2 hours was spent waiting for the log carry obstacle. I was 75th female out of 373 and 18th out of 82 30-34 year olds. Absolutely chuffed to bits with that and loved the whole experience (sort of).
Owen, former marine, was absolutely the person to get me round the course, giving me the best ways to complete the obstacles and not die. Although I nearly killed him afterwards when he told me he found it easy. I suppose anything is easier if you’re not being shot at!
I managed to get to the penultimate obstacle before throwing a teeny tiny strop. 3 angled wooden ramps angled backwards towards you so that you couldn’t get purchase on them to climb. My arms had literally nothing left. I just. Could. Not. Do it. I had to rely on leg-ups to get me over them and then again for the last 3 wooden walls. It was here I managed to pull myself up so severely that I have bruises in places I didn’t think it was possible to bruise…
The final wee jump was over ACTUAL FIRE! We crossed the line triumphant and while a wifey in a dry robe shouted “YOU. ARE. SPARTANS.” Bloody amazing. You’re handed the most outrageously chunky medal and some SiS stuff to refuel.
After the run, the need to shower was strong. This meant marching into a stream of FREEZING water with a bunch of men shouting “pass the soap, lads” and being watched by those sensible enough not to bother with the whole horrid affair.
The changing tent was a dark, harrowing place. I had to bin everything. Literally everything including my sports bra. It was a brutal retirement for my old, worn out Asics GT1000s. Trying to get my clothes back on to wet skin in a low-ceilinged, dark tent was an experience not for the faint hearted or impatient. I tell thee. I punched myself in the face a few times and there was actual mud in my belly button.
The whole event was bloody brilliant. It was ridiculously expensive when we first entered but you get a LOT for your cash. Free race photography (it remains to be seen how absolutely WRECKED I look in the photos), gels and water at two stations, incredible support from marshals, a bloody amazing medal and t shirt plus the whole thing is run seamlessly. We had a GREAT time.
What did I learn about myself? I’m tougher and stronger than I gave myself credit for. I’m a determined wee fucker when I want to be. And I CAN do difficult things if I really bloody grit my teeth.
I’ve also discovered that I adore the freedom of running off-piste. It’s inspired me to sort myself out with some decent trail shoes and find some hills to crawl up.
In the mean time, I can add SPARTAN to my title. 💪🏻
Ha! That got your attention… This *is* a product review. Hopefully a good one. And definitely not for boys. Soz.
A while back, I wrote a blog about boobs which prompted global* outcry and immediately millions** of women sought out a correctly fitting bra because of my blog. I know. I just change lives.
*very small Twitter based chat.
** about 7
It was therefore quite unexpected and lovely when the kind folks at Shockabsorber got in touch to ask if I’d review their Run Bra for them. I’ve never been asked to do that before. I was slightly hesitant due to accidentally clicking through to some very dull and uninformative review blogs over the years… But I do love this product…
Let us kick things off with a picture of said Run Bra:
I know what you’re thinking… But sorry, it’s not me in that picture. Because I categorically do not look attractive while running. Also I live in Scotland. I need 8 layers of thermals over my run bra.
First of all, let me remind you ladies, no matter your size, it is VITAL (shouty capitals for emphasis…) that you always wear a correctly fitted bra. *adopts geek voice* Especially when you are engaging in physical activities… Get yourselves fitted, by a trained fitter and try some bras out. Everyone is different and every brand has a different fit. This means that often trial and error is the best way.
A good fitter will measure you but use their eye and intuition to find you the ideal fit. It’s not always as simple as whipping out a measuring tape…
How do I know this, you ask? Because it’s my job. I was trained to fit bras at 16 and I’ve worked with every leading brand in the subsequent 12 years. So you can trust me, I knows my stuffs.
The Run Bra keeps The Girls strapped down and safe and is really very comfy. They don’t chafe or shift about and the fabric lining to the cups wicks sweat (boob sweat is the WORST) also, aesthetically, it gives you a nice shape without flattening you entirely. #BanTheShelfBoob
There is only one minor drawback to this bra: when you are in a rush, or not, or sweaty, or not, it is the single hardest thing to get on over your head. And you DEFINITELY need to put it on over your head. Because trying to fasten the upper clasp when it’s on is basically the equivalent of trying to fly an aircraft while cooking an 8 course meal.
Here’s a snap to show you the clasp…
I have spent many frustrated minutes in a swimming pool changing room cursing at it as it twists itself and sticks to my skin meaning my head is kind of caught and my arms are stuck out at odd angles.
However. PERSEVERE. Once it’s on its comfort-all-the-way. And your heart rate is up from all the swearing and hauling of stuff so hey! You’re warmed up!
The bra is unwired, which used to scare me because traditionally, unwired means that your boobs don’t get as much of a robust support. But actually it adds to the comfort and it means your Garmin HR strap (that’s a heart rate strap, not a row of Personnel managers, and other brands are available and probably work better…) will sit tucked under it slightly.
At the moment, the Shockabsorber Run bra is only available up to a DD cup. I’d like to see them push this up to the bigger cup sizes. If you are more generous-of-boob than this, check out Shockabsorber’s Active Classic D+ sports bra (up to a FF) or Panache Sport (it’s a formed cup and is available both wired and non-wired) which goes up to a GG. Price
Price wise, Shockabsorber are pretty competitive and are stocked by most online sports retailers and department stores. If you shop around you can get some pretty decent prices on the “core” colours (black and white) and on previous fashion colours. Best deals I’ve seen are from around £22 up to £35. I would always recommend you did invest in a decent brand like Shockabsorber.
There are arguments that the sports ‘houses’ like Nike and Adidas have sport at their core so really understand how the body moves. However, from actual proper wearer and fitter experience, stick with the lingerie specific brands.
One of the things which makes this product unique, is that the research conducted by Shockabsorber shows that your breasts actually move in a figure of 8 pattern when you are up and about which, if left unsupported, stretches and irreversibly damages the Cooper’s ligaments attaching the breast tissue to the muscle. Trust me when I say Nike and Adidas are purely trend driven. They look nice but when they are put to the test, if you’re any bigger than an AA cup you’re not getting ‘sturdy’ enough support.
Hahaha. Sturdy. Makes it sound like some kind of girdle. A boob girdle.
I’ve worn the Shockabsorber Run bra for weights, running, cycling, yoga and Pilates. The weird looking back panels are actually very comfy to lie on. You don’t notice them. They can twist though so make sure they’re in the right position once the bra is on.
This was also my bra of choice for the Aberfeldy Middle Distance triathlon. I opted to wear it under my tri suit beneath my wetsuit. It dried very fast and there is enough flex and arm room to prevent restrictions on the swim.
Then there’s the colours! I have owned black and white. But lingerie buying, generally, is quite a monochrome experience. I was delighted to receive the black/pink version above.
So! Overall, I’d emphasise the importance of a good, correct fit in your sports bras, girls. This is on of my favourites. But it might not be YOURS. So please go and try some and jump about like a loon in the fitting room (seriously. Make sure The Girls stay put) and find out what suits your shape and sport.