So What Next, IronBean?

The Aftermath

I don’t think anything could have prepared me for how I felt after Lakesman.

Newly crowned as IronBean, the initial buzz wore off fast and I was left feeling……. disappointed.

DISAPPOINTED?! I hear you ask…..

Yes. I’ve been racking my brains for two months and that is the best word I have in my vocabulary.

In the end, you can only race the race you’re given. I far surpassed my expectations on the swim, but the bike was my biggest downfall that day. Post-race diagnostics revealed that if I’d just kept adjusting the gear cable (which I was trying to do on the move) I would have restored almost full function on the rear mech. I half wish I didn’t discover this. But alas, I still managed to finish within cutoff. And the extra hour on the bike meant I had to cram far more nutrition in than planned, which scuppered my stomach for the run. I truly got my money’s worth. And finished in the dark, in heroes hour.

Dissection aside, I felt fidgety. I immediately wanted to look at other full distance races and go swimming and running and cycling. But I knew my body needed a rest. I gave it a week before trying anything, but, when I eventually tried Sport, it was as though the pool had been filled with molasses and my trainers had been filled with lead.

My body was wrecked.

I have read articles which discuss the toll an iron distance race takes on the body, even on a cellular level. I mean, I was out there, exercising, for 16 hours and 21 minutes. Now I’m no human biologist, but I’d wager that doing ANYTHING for 16 hours and 21 minutes that is not sleeping, is bad news for your organs and your muscles. But because I hadn’t done “very well” (by my own definition… and yes I know how stupid that sounds….) I didn’t think I deserved to feel fucked.

wanted to exercise. But I just had no desire to once I actually started. It felt awful.

So. I rested, right? I burned all my kit and just chilled the fuck out, yeah?

No. I entered the GSS 10 fucking kilometre swim.

*facepalm emoji*

Now I look back, I realise the bit that needed the most rest was my mind. Back when I trained on a hybrid plan, I pushed and pushed and PUSHED myself. Constantly. I’d usually end up broken. It has taken 2 long, hard years to re-learn how to listen to my body and to train holistically and mindfully. With this constant pushing and shoving going on in my head, I had neglected the fact that I am a normal person. With a stressful job.

But anyway. I had a BIG FUCK OFF SWIM to train for.

Ideal.

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My most favourite race pic ever – Thank you Eilidh McKibbin (c/o Endura)

Finding my Mojo

After a few weeks of dossing about, I knew I had to get back in the gym. I set about focusing on 2 strength sessions a week, plus 4 swims, maybe a jog and definitely a bike if I felt like it.

This approach seemed to work on a self-care level and I soon rediscovered my mojo, putting in some excellent swim times in the pool.

I started to feel like the athlete I deserve to call myself but don’t because carbs.

I also now had something I was really looking forward to. I was actually going to RACE! In Open Water! I had joined some pals and their team for Aberfeldy Middle Distance triathlon. I was their pet mermaid. And I was EXCITED.

It’s a competitive race, and it is the exact race where I fell in love with Triathlon back in 2014 while spectating. In 2015 I smashed any target I ever could have given myself. So getting to do the swim and then sit on my bum for the rest of the day, cheering on amazing people taking part in my favourite sport?

A THOUSAND YESSES TO THIS.

My swimming had been getting increasingly good, so I set a target of sub 35 minutes for the 1.2 mile swim. Fairly leisurely given my 1:08 split at Lakesman (still smug about that #secondlady) but quick enough considering I was tired after over a year of training.

The day before the middle distance, the weather was NOT kind. Swimmers at the Sprint Tri were DNFing left, right and centre.

I was nervous.

I can handle chop. But this sounded extreme and I was TIRED.

However, by some miracle, Loch Tay was flat-ass calm on the Sunday Morning. The race was ON.

I waded in, letting the icy waters of Loch Tay find my bum crack (always the worst bit) and moved to the front left of the field. With zero ceremony, the relay wave was released and I successfully avoided the stramash of legs and arms. I soon found my rhythm and my watch hit 500m. 7mins14s. Oh. That is VERY quick…. ok. Maybe too quick. Slow it down a bit. Just let the diesel engine you’ve built kick in and tick over, Bean….

2nd 500 – 7mins48s

I wasn’t out of breath. What the shit?

With less than 900m to go I thought “fuck it”. And just went for it. Strong, calm strokes. I had fully overtaken most of the previous Blue Wave and was now nestled firmly amongst the stronger swimmers in the leading pink wave. I hit the exit ramp at 31mins51s. I was absolutely BUZZING. A few hesitant seconds were spent in a confused state trying to locate my wetsuit zip but I was soon launching myself up the carpet to find Joe, our cyclist. Wetsuit stripped (apparently only flashed half a boob) and chip handed over, Joe was off in the pissing rain. And I was stood shivering in said pissing rain. In my swimming cossie. Dignity on the floor along with my limp wetsuit.

Ella and I eventually found each other and I slipped into the warmth of a DryRobe. I’d also managed to locate my flipflops to rescue my feet from the gravel before cheering the our rival teams swimmer out of the water, and their cyclist on his way.

Joe smashed out a 2hr41 bike split in atrocious conditions, 2 weeks before he heads to SA for the Ironman 70.3 World Champs. And then Ella provided the icing to the cake with a brilliant 2 hour half marathon (literally less than a month after a 100km ultra, FYI). Our transition times were unbelievable (under 2 mins for T1 and 35s for T2!!) and our total time was 5hrs16min. 4th mixed relay overall. Amazing.

I felt buoyed (swim joke LOLZ) by the success of our team and, with a week to go until GSS, started to look forward to my long swim.

TriSexuals

A bloody long way

10km. 10,000m. Shit.

Such a good idea at the time. At 4am on Saturday August 25th, it was 100% NOT a good idea.

Having arrived in Balloch too early as usual, a van pulled in in front of me, and my nerves evaporated immediately: The Lakesman Watersafety Team had arrived. I shit you not. And they’d parked in front of me.

If I have ever needed a reminder that I’m a badass, it was at that moment. And the Iron Gods delivered.

I forced down breakfast and took a wander to the start. The initial breeze soon died down and the loch looked inviting.

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Initial temperature readings had read 17 degrees C at the start of the week. But I know my Great Swims, now. And I knew that would be complete and utter bollocks.

On my wandering, I stumbled upon an Ironman who was swimming the 5k (with like no training…) and we got caught up and speculated about water temp. It had spent a few days hammering down with rain, so it was obviously going to be lower than 17.

“15.6” so wetsuits were optional.

The .6 was totally ambitious. But people still went for it in skins…. nails.

Acclimatisation proved my point. It was cold. Very cold. And I was about to be submerged for 3 hours. Ok, good.

My new Speedo wetsuit felt really good but I was nervous now. The neoprene is thinner across the chest and shoulders for better flexibility, and I was worried that I hadn’t worn an extra layer underneath like last year.

With very little time to worry, we set off.

The Big Yellow Bastard 

I always forget how vast the course is at GSS. It’s a mile lap but I’d be swimming it SIX times. To break it up and help me keep count (it never measures accurately and after 2 hours in cold water, YOU try doing distance maths…) I’d stop every 2nd lap for a gel.

To help pass the time, I named the buoys. First there was Pointy Bastard. The Giant Green Prick, then Big Yellow Bastard, then Smaller Orange Pleb, then Pink “Halfway” Bastard, then another Green Prick, then Yellow Fucker, then Turny Green Twat then it was back to the start again.

Big Yellow Bastard was so fucking far away from the start buoy that I wanted to cry every time I started a new lap.

Because I’d done this before, I was in complete denial about how hard it is. Fucking hell it’s SO hard.

I was keeping pace extremely steady, but consistent. I felt ok until about 4km when my left shoulder finally decided that I’ve done far too much swimming this year and gave up. I felt the pop and then the burning sensation spread through my deltoid. With the cold getting deeper into my soft tissues, my hands now felt like a cross between seal flippers and claws.

Tremendous.

I could have called it, rolled over and thrown my limp, claw hand up and hailed a water taxi back to shore, but I’d rather have my bloated corpse dredged from the murky depths of a loch. So I pushed on.

“THIS IS THE LAST RACE OF YOUR SEASON, BEAN. YOU DON’T NEED YOUR SHOULDERS ANYMORE. FUCK IT”

So I blocked out the (now agonising) pain and swam faster…. Go figure!

Before long (lie. it took fucking ages) I was playing “next time last time” and was accutely aware of the chafing on my neck, the pins and needles in my left flipper, the fact that my hands were now totally numb and that if I even THOUGHT about kicking, my hamstrings would immediately spasm and I would die right there. In the NOT 15.6 degree waters of Loch Lomond.

There was also now a significant chop to the water at the far end of the course. What I had initially believed was safety boat wake, were actual waves and I was having to fight cramp, a burst shoulder, the urge to cry AND a current. Oh joy.

Happily, the wind direction meant that as I turned into the final straight for the last fucking time I had a wee push to the end. And boy did I use it.

I am extremely proud of my training this year. Especially with swimming. I have really, truly focused my efforts on a solid swim fitness level. I don’t pansy about in the pool with IMs and breastroke warmups. I set targets, hone my technique on front crawl and spent 4-5 hours per week minimum tweaking my diesel engine to make it powerful. With all of this behind me, after 9000m I had enough left in the tank for a strong final 6-800m.

Looking at my watch, I was frustratingly close to last years 2hrs53 (which I had achieved after a solid summer of training sans ironman) and for my sanity I HAD to beat that time.

Happily, on a course measuring 2-300m longer than last year, I was a whole 4 minutes faster. Finishing in 2hrs49mins. 10th lady overall and I’d broken the 2hrs50min barrier.

After initial frustration that I hadn’t gone EVEN FASTER, I realised the magnitude of what I’ve done this year.

Consistency. So. Much. Consistency.

A 140.6 mile race. A sub 32min HIM swim. And now a sub 2:50 10,000m swim.

Achievement: Unlocked.

beabn

I have long maintained that the only way to get faster at swimming is to swim. I’ve often been laughed down by so-called “experts” who attempt to teach people about a sport they have never mastered themselves. But my consistency speaks for itself:

The above graphs make me super proud of my arms: 2015 training for HIM = 95809m. 2016 spent rehabbing injuries borne from INconsistency = 63561m.

2017. Where it clicked. and I started to FOCUS on consistency = 211,762m. And then 2018. Where, to date, I’ve swum over 247000m and constantly proved myself (and the haterz) wrong.

I love my sport.

Now that I know the key, I fully intend to apply this to cycling and running. I WILL go back to iron distance. The jury is out on another 10km swim though…….

On to the next chapter.

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Iron Ready?

I’m not sure how I thought I’d feel by now. Did I think I’d feel like an athlete? Did I think I’d look ripped and muscly? No and also no because Jam. And cheese. And bagels. And sausage suppers. But I definitely expected to feel different: Fitter, stronger, highly tuned. Less like a sofa dwelling carb-addict and more like Leanda Cave.

Alas, I’m much closer to the sofa than the Cave. Literally.

I guess I must be different than I was, though. Even with my gut and bingo wings. All the indicators suggest I am at my fitness peak. But I still feel like me. I still feel normal.

I’ve gone into taper feeling ready for it. Not totally wrecked but with plenty of niggles and a requirement for plentiful sleep and water. I made it to 82 miles of my last century ride before I lost my shit. This is progress!

I had a beer and managed to finish it for the first time in months! I’ve been eating well and trying not to overdo the carbs as I taper down my efforts.

I’ve also been driving myself, and my people, CRAZY with taper madness. It is a real thing and it is happening in my head ALL THE TIME.

If I thought Maranoia was a thing before, I was wrong. Try Iron Maranoia.

It’s 100% horrendous.

I’ve trained for a year, but I’ve prepared myself for THREE years for this challenge. Painstakingly ticking off bucket list stuff en route to hopefully one day becoming IronBean. And the job is barely finished. I have the actual work to do now.

I’m so close that I can touch it.

And yet I’m terrified.

I’m terrified of that which I have no control of: Bike mechanicals. Relentless headwinds. Torrential rain. Unbearable heat. Hungry Pike. Cramp.

I can control none of these so naturally it’s all that consumes me as I beg for last minute mechanical tutorials on repairing chains and dealing with snapped mechs.

I guess the thing that frightens me more than anything I’ve done so far, is that I might not finish. I could have A Disaster. This isn’t set in stone. You can’t wing 140.6 miles. If something goes tits up and it’s non repairable, it’s game over. You can walk a marathon or an ultra. You can breaststroke a 10km Swim. For me to feel home and dry, I have to get to the marathon. And even then, I’ll need ample time to finish the damned thing.

Just get to the run, girl. Then you’re on the home straight. Then it’s just a marathon.

Just. A. Marathon.

I have never had a good marathon. (Ssshhh. Nothing could be good after 112 miles on a bike. Not even sitting down is good. You’d rather be running.)

I’ve been waking up at 4am bathed in sweat panicking about why my bento box won’t sit right on my top tube, how much lube I should apply, what if the photographer gets my chins from the wrong angle, what if I forget to hit save on my Edge….. all crucial, of course.

The last few weeks have passed in a blur of busy work days and last minute Lakesman fretting. Somehow, I’m about to enter the final week of taper and pack for the Lake District. So….. I’m basically going to do this, then.

I’m watching my footing, wearing sensible shoes and glaring at anyone who dares to cough or sniff in my presence.

I’ve had shoulder issues and a gammy knee which, at 8am on Sunday was ABSOLUTELY DEFINITELY A MEDIAL MENISCAL TEAR OR AT THE VERY LEAST A TEAR IN MY MEDIAL COLLATERAL LIGAMENT OR OH FUCK WHAT IF ITS ARTHRITIS.

*hyperventilates*

Physio was booked for Sunday anyway, and Sarah reassured me that it was literally not even one of those things.

And relax, Bean. Do your stretches, Bean. Eat your protein and your fibre, Bean.

It’s all just come round so fast! (The exact opposite of how the event will go, just FYI)

Lakesman was a distant dream last June when I psyched myself up to register. Now it’s next fucking WEEK.

Next week. Shit the bed.

140.6 miles. Iron. My dream. My goal. THE goal. (Insert 18,000 ridiculous instagram hashtags here)

Shit.

Am I ready? Who the fuck knows. But it’s time to HTFU and find out!

Psychological Warfare

It’s been a funny old week. With less than a calendar month to go until Lakesman, the mind games have well and truly begun.

It started on Sunday night when we had to take my newly serviced bike apart to try and figure out what the fuck was causing the front derailleur not to shift. Diagnosis: fucked shifter.

Cue an almighty panic attack even by my own standards.

There is, of course, plenty of time to fix it. Beardy swiftly hopped on ebay and sourced replacement shifters while I continued to have meltdowns about every single thing I possibly could. I also have the luxury of owning several bikes (n+1 comes in handy, you know). So I tried to convince myself that if the worst came to the worst, I could do my last 100 miler in a weeks time on my cyclocross.

I have also noticed a tiny flaw in my shiny, hideously expensive new Garmin Fenix 5s. The back plate is squint. No problem, right? Garmin customer service is famously actually brilliant, and I got an email back within a few hours asking for photos. But they close for the weekend. So at the moment, my incredibly sophisticated bit of kit is not going near water until I’m sure there is no risk that the “waterproofness” has been compromised. This pragmatic approach is absolutely not what I was experiencing last night when I decided I may as well stop training because if it’s not on Strava, what even is the point.

Happily, I got back in open water this week, for my first loch swim since the 10km last year. It felt fantastic. Cold, of course, but importantly, I felt comfortable and confident in the water, easily smashing out 1:40/100m pace without feeling tired or breathless. Definite progress to be proud of!

Capture1

As my HR and Garmin stress score begins to settle back down to within reasonable limits, I find myself reflecting on another significant milestone that I reached this week.

Five years ago, I registered for an event. And this morning, I finally took part. I’ve trained hard for this day. Practised with kit, nutrition, hydration. Visualised the start and finish. Paced myself….

That’s right, kids. After 5 years, I finally ran my first parkrun.

Why hadn’t I done one before now? Well there’s a few reasons for that:

  1. I can’t “just run 5k” without trying to absolutely tear the arse out of it. This is not good news for this famously perma-injured runner. So I avoided parkrun during marathon prep (x4) as I didn’t want to risk disgruntling the underlying injuries I am plagued by.
  2. It always fell on long run day. I liked to keep my long runs on a Saturday so that I could either recover or bike on a Sunday. And, as per previous point, I try to avoid trying to run hard, which I seem to have to do over 5km, when I’m going long.
  3. I get hideous anxiety before anything that involves crowds of people. And parkrun’s near me are super busy. So I avoided them due to my fear of crowds.
  4.  Ignore all of the above. It literally took me 5 years to figure out how to log back into my Parkrun account to reprint my barcodes….

I’m SO glad I did it though. It was the first ever Lochore Parkrun and over 340 people descended on the Meedies to run. This made it really congested for the first 2km but the pack soon spread out.

I went out way too fast and at 5:19, my first km was too quick for me. I slowed it down, reminding myself that my actual A Race is in 4 weeks, and I could do without undoing all my hard injury-avoidance work! It was roasty feckin toasty. People were stopping to walk and puke. But my legs felt BRILLIANT!

I guess listening to your body does work?! Who would have thought it?!??!

I only noticed the camera thanks to the chap in front of me shouting “PHOTOGRAPHER” and was able to react in time.

Capture

I’m amazed that there is finally evidence that I can run without shuffling.

So there we have it. My first parkrun. I loved it, obviously. I even got within 30s of my fastest ever 5k time. 27:52 is not a shit time. Which makes me very happy as I didn’t feel totally dead afterwards!

It’s time to start my last big week of training now, and then I start my taper! It’s FINALLY HAPPENING!!!!!!!!!! I sincerely hope the stunning weather continues. But I’m not getting too cocky. Lakesman has been both gloriously hot and sunny, and extremely moist and windy. I’m definitely prepared for both!

Capture2

 

Build, Build, Build

Shit. Is. Getting. Real.

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.

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*not amazing. Not amazing at all.

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**.

 

**beetroot face.

 

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.

Mojo: Restored.

Lomonds from Drunzie
The Lomonds from Drunzie 

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.

Thank you x

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/ginnie-kennedy

Comparing Notes.

Despite leaving Higher Education 10 years ago this year, I can still vividly remember the immediate aftermath of an exam: relief that the studying, cramming, all-nighters and red-bull (yuck) binges were done, coupled with crippling anxiety because you and your mates compared answers to The Big Question and your answer was different to all of theirs….

Why did we DO that to ourselves???

I thought I’d left all that behind until I started endurance training.

Now that most us are in our build phases as we approach our various races and events, Facebook groups are awash with “I’ve done this, what does everyone think” and “OMG I’ve only done this should I be doing that?”. It all makes for anxious reading. Especially if you’re injured, ill or in my case…. just plain exhausted.

I try to ignore most “comparative” chat in relation to Lakesman, because my goal is mine and mine alone. I can’t wait to meet everyone and share in the enjoyment and pain of the day, but seeing someone’s 6 hour road ride when all I’ve managed is 2 hours on a turbo trainer (and those two hours were wholly shite) can very occasionally fill me with The Fear.

I try to stick to encouraging my fellow Lakesman trainees and not let their progress detract from my own, however small it is in comparison.

I’ve been letting the world in. I’ve been letting Thoughts pile up. Because of this, the last week has seen me experience a massive crisis of confidence.

I feel drastically under prepared. I am SO stressed. Learning a new role in a fast paced business environment is tough enough as it is without having life and training to contend with. Training for a full distance triathlon around a new job and life is enough to contend with.

WHAT AM I DOING.

I have felt so out of my depth, so I’m trying to remember what I’ve been telling myself for years:

When you enter an endurance event, be it a half marathon or MDS or a half iron or an ironman (small i, FYI), you are making a commitment not just to put the miles in and diligently tick them off, but to try and prepare your body and mind for what it’s going to experience on race day. Training is supposed to be difficult. You are supposed to ache and feel tired.

Training plans may just look like a checklist of miles to run (speaking from experience), but it’s about so much more than your legs. It’s not just about miles. It’s about nutrition. Energy management. Mental strength.

You might think you’re tough, but what are you gonna do at 24 miles into your marathon when the last 2 may as well be another 22 miles? What’s going to prepare you for pushing on?

That’s what’s scaring me at the moment.

I’ve been steadily preparing, but I lack so much confidence with my bike fitness that I can’t see past the doubt at the moment.

It’s very tough. After every single ride, be it turbo or road or trail, I’m left thinking “how the hell am I supposed to get through 180km”.

The weather has not been kind. This time last year, we’d had mild weather so I’d been able to cross train for the marathon with some decent long rides. This year, when I actually NEED to be out on the road, we’ve had 2ft of snow, sideways rain and generally shite weather. With my desire to get to the start line of Lakesman sans broken bones, I’ve been playing it safe on the turbo.

Today was three hours. Three. Hours. 

I am the most determined and stubborn person I know. So I know I can push through and do this. But the training is a lot.

I am trying to trust the plan. My plan. That I made. I’ve put a lot of faith in my own ability to know when to push through a barrier and when to stop and take stock. I designed The Plan to be the type that would push me out of my comfort zone. And it’s succeeding.

It’s so tough.

Of course, I’m motivated by more than just bragging rights and a medal. I’m doing this for charity.

Lymfund provide financial help to people who require critical treatment for Lymphoedema and Lipoedema.

There are two main types of Lymphoedema:

  • Primary: develops due to a faulty gene that affects the development of the lymphatic system. It can develop at any age.
  • Secondary: caused by damage to the lymphatic system through trauma such as surgery or injury, or through cancer treatment.

Lipoedema is often misdiagnosed as obesity. However, it can be an extremely painful condition, where the legs or buttocks are out of proportion with the rest of the body. It occurs almost exclusively in Women. It usually develops at times of hormonal change, prior to which, a person will have had a ‘normal’ body shape.

 

Both of these conditions can be treated using a technique called Manual Lymphatic Drainage (MLD). And I hope to raise £2000 to help MLDUK and Lymfund enable people to seek vital funding for their treatment, which will also include being taught how to perform self-massage to assist in the treatment of the condition.

My story is here:

https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/ginnie-kennedy

Thanks for reading x

Highly Strung Bean

This will come as a shock, I’m sure, but…. I am occasionally highly strung.

I know. New news, right?

I’ve been extremely quiet. Because I’ve been extremely busy. New (amazing) job and Lakesman training do not make for A Nice, Relaxing Time.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to blog, it’s just that I’ve had writers block. There are about 8 half-finished blogs in my drafts folder that have been discarded. I’m attributing this to the fact that I’m barely still for 5 minutes a day at the moment. My alarm goes off at 04:55 and I am back in bed at 21:30 to try and help my body rest. And maybe even my mind. (Massive fat chance of that. Ever.)

My body has coped remarkably well so far. The usual aches and pains and ridiculous bruises from falls off bikes and collisions with furniture and just general clumsiness have come and gone and come back again. I keep my Physio busy, that’s for sure.

Physically, I’m Just about coping. Psychologically, however, things are a little more challenging:

My (surprisingly) highly-strung nature means that I am, quite often, a total stress-head. I’ve tried my hardest to keep this under control, especially while I’ve been in transition between jobs and also up to my neck in Garmin data and Cadbury Mini Eggs. (hands down the best part of endurance training is how much I get to eat…) but sometimes…. SOMETIMES the actions of others make me stabby.

I have been spending a minimum of 3 hours a week immersed in a tepid chlorine bath.  This undoubtedly means that I will bump into others who share the same penchant for latex caps and various other gizmos and gadgets. I’ve been spending even longer out on my bike on the roads.

For the most part, my fellow splashers and motorists are considerate and we all co-exist in peaceful harmony. However. There are others.

At most pools, there are signs that cover the basics of lane etiquette. And the basics are not exactly hard to understand. So it beggars belief when people, or “choppers” to which they are more commonly referred, decide to brazenly ignore these guidelines that are not simply decreed by the Pool Gods for the hell of it. They are actually for the safety of all pool users.

So. What’s the cause of this rant?

I’ll give you some examples.

1. The Sideways Swimmer.

The Sideways Swimmer swims a very bizarre sideways crawl. Always in the fast lane, even when the other lane is completely empty. The Sideways Swimmer wears headphones. The Sideways Swimmer swims said weird crawl slower than my slowest breastroke. The Sideways Swimmer doesn’t give a single fuck if you have tapped her toes and cannot overtake as there is a third swimmer in the lane. No no. The Sideways Swimmer will push off just as you get to the wall.

The Sideways Swimmer is a prick.

2. Angry Men in Swimming Trunks

I grew up as a competitive swimmer. Which makes it hard to switch the Must Race Everyone programme off in my head each time I train in a pool.

But. Sometimes I get a really smug joy out of being faster than another swimmer. Especially when that swimmer is openly cross at me for being quicker.

It’s almost exclusively men that get cross with me. And I’m not being paranoid, here. I have been kicked in the arm, hand and leg by male swimmers who have taken a dislike to me tapping their foot or overtaking (safely) when they’ve ignored my foot tap.

I always make sure I take my rest at the same time as them too, just so they can see I’m not even out of breath….

(Oh Bean, you smug shit.)

But really. I love swimming. It’s my favourite and my therapy and it’s the one discipline I’m confident in. So I’ll take my little successes where I can get them.

3. Road Rage

I get extremely fed up while I am out on my bike on the roads. There is a huge amount of cyclist vs driver debate out there and I am seriously not getting into that shit here. But I will say this:

I am someone’s sister, daughter, partner and best friend. I am a motorist (a 10+ hour a week commuter, thank you). I am courteous. I do not cycle like a prick. So don’t handlebar me.

My pet hate is inconsiderate motorists. There really is no need to sit on my back wheel revving the tits off your Fiat Panda. If you need to get somewhere, give yourself plenty of time. I have Lakesman to train for and I give zero fucks if you’re in a rush to get to Sainsbury’s.

The majority of motorists on my local roads are used to cyclists and are largely courteous. But there is a minority of dangerous bastards who really should get off their arses and try cycling to calm them the shit down and reduce their level of impatience!

ANYWAY.

My current issue is with the bastard weather. I’ve been snowed in since Tuesday and it doesn’t look to be receding any time soon!

This weather has coincided with rest week, mercifully, which means I am able to work from home and chill out in the evening without stressing about getting to the gym or pool.

I’ve finally set up my just giving link, too!

You can donate here.

Hoping to escape for a run soon. But it doesn’t look good!

Iron-Spiration

“Some people want it to happen, some wish it would happen, others make it happen” – Michael Jordan

I’ve been relatively quiet, of late. After the slog of Marathon and 10k swim training, my mind needed a rest as much as my body. I let myself have some time to reflect and just do whatever the hell I wanted to do. I still went to the gym, got in the pool and hopped on my bike, but it was when I wanted to and literally just for fun and smiles. What a tonic that’s been. I now feel ready. Ready to tackle the 6.5 months of tough training that lies ahead of me. Ready to sacrifice and commit. Ready to put my money where my mouth is and make my iron-dreams happen.

All being well, on June 17th 2018, I will stand on the shore of Derwentwater with 140.6 miles of swimming, cycling and death-marching in front of me. I will need all the support and encouragement I can get, but I wanted to give myself added incentive to keep me going during the darkest hours of training and the longest hours of Lakesman.

As “Athletes” (I still struggle to call myself that…) we are lucky to be able to do what we do. None of this is ever pain or struggle free, but imagine living life with a condition that meant you physically couldn’t do the things you loved? Millions of people live with Chronic conditions. Some are well known, others are less heard of. And I want to raise awareness of two conditions in particular: Lymphoedema and Lipodema.

In 2016, I raised over £1000 for Lymfund and I decided to support them again for 2018. But what do they do? Who are they? And what exactly is Lympho-whatever or Lipo-something?

I decided to ask WonderWoman herself for some more information……….

 

Who are you and how do you know Bean?

“I am Lynora Kennedy,  The Mother of Bean.”

Aside from being a mummy, what is your day job?

“I am a Lymphoedema Therapist,  Manual Lymph Drainage Practitioner and Massage Therapist.  I also do Reflexology.  I have been a therapist for 40 years.”

What is Lymphoedema (and how on EARTH do you spell it)?

“Lymphoedema is a long-term (chronic) condition that causes swelling in the body’s tissues. It can affect any part of the body. It develops when the lymphatic system doesn’t work properly, or if the lymphatics have been interrupted by trauma, surgery or invasive treatment (radiotherapy).   The lymphatic system is a network of channels and nodes throughout the body that helps fight infection and remove excess fluid.”

What’s Lipoedema (and how do you spell this also?)

“Lipoedema is a long-term (chronic) condition where there’s an abnormal build-up of fat cells in the legs, thighs and buttocks, and sometimes in the arms. The condition usually only affects women, although in rare cases it can also affect men.  It can be a progressive and very painful condition, and is often mistakenly diagnosed as obesity.”

Are treatments available on the NHS?

“Lymphoedema and Lipoedema are known to the NHS, and whilst there are Lymphoedema Clinics in towns and cities around the UK, few NHS facilities can offer MLD (manual lymphatic drainage) as part of the management of the conditions.”

Where can people find out more information about these conditions and available treatment?

“Information about Lymphoedema can be found via the Lymphoedema Support Network http://www.lymphoedema.org/   and Lipoedema via Lipoedema UK  http://www.lipoedema.co.uk/

A national directory of Independent Lymphoedema Therapists can be found via MLDUK http://www.mlduk.org.uk/therapists/

Is there any financial support available for people seeking treatment?

“There is no financial support for those people seeking help from an Independent Therapist, except in very special circumstances via their GP or hospital consultant.

Lymfund will support applications from MLDUK registered therapists to treat individuals who are unable to fund themselves.”

What is treatment like for these conditions?

“Lymfund will pay for 10 treatments per patient.  Often the patient has received no care or treatment for their condition, and the 10 treatments given are enough to help teach the patient how to self-manage their condition,  reduce the oedema, and often, more importantly, relieve the pain that many patients suffer with these conditions.  The feedback from patients who have benefitted from funding via Lymfund, is incredibly positive.  One comment that occurs most is ‘these treatments have made me feel so much better and able to cope’.”

Why should people give your daughter their hard earned cash?

“To enable people to receive beneficial hands on care that they cannot access via mainstream facilities.”

Any words of advice for your daughter on her adventure?

“Don’t look back – just keep swimming. No, wait, that was Dory………… oh well – I’ll say it too!!!   Go Bean!”

What message would you have for people who think they may be suffering from these conditions but might be too worried to see their doctor:

“Talk to someone – contact anyone at the two organisations mentioned above – their helplines are manned by volunteer patients.”

So. Aside from raising awareness and (hopefully) some decent cash for a very deserving charity, why on EARTH am I doing The Lakesman?

Because of these two. My parents. They are such a massive inspiration to me. They support me and Lissie unconditionally and enthusiastically while simultaneously dealing with their own challenges both together and individually.

They have given me so much throughout my life, and they’ve always supported and encouraged me whatever I chose to do. So this one is going to be for them!

With it being so close to Christmas and the dreaded January blues, I’m going to hold off setting up a justgiving for now…. but in the new year I will start pestering you all with my charm in order to ply you for some of your hard earned cash on behalf of this truly deserving and brilliant cause.

x

The Dramathon

“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.

 

Looking south down Glenshee

 

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.

 

Pretzels as race nutrition are my new thing.

 

 

The annoying dibber that was pissing me off before we left registration.

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.

Me and Sarah pretending to be full of joy at the start.

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.

WHAT?

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

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The Reluctant Runner. 

Oh I know. I know. 

Reluctant? But you run marathons, guuurl. 

Yup. Still reluctant. 

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. 

Etc. 

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”. 

The Surprisingly Good Run

Well. What a 48 hours it’s been. With the GSS 10km on Saturday, I knew entering the Forth Road Bridge 10k the following day would be a big ask on my body. But if I ate well and rested after the swim, there’s no reason why a 10km run the following morning wouldn’t be achievable. I just had to let go of any time goals and enjoy running across such an iconic landmark. 

Of course, I was absolutely buzzing after the swim. A weird mix of feelings similar to that which I’ve experienced post marathon. I discovered that I had actually performed exceptionally well. Coming in at 51st overall in a male dominated race, but also coming in 4th in my age group and 9th female over all. 


I was completely blown away. I knew I was a competent swimmer, but I never race well. In any sport. I’m just average and I’ve always been completely ok with that. This is a hobby and a bit of “fun” for me. I train hard and as well as I can but generally I don’t take races too seriously over and above the obvious respect for the distance and the course, so to see results like this was wonderful. Confirmation that anything is, in fact, possible with a lot of hard work and some heavy determination. 

Post swim, Beardy BBQ’d our dinner and I slept the sleep of a tired swimmer. The following morning my stomach woke me up for more food. Toast and banana administered, we headed to North Queensferry for registration. 

We opted to park at the multi-storey and walk up the hill to the community centre. A decent warmup which we did twice as we decided to go back down the hill and deposit jumpers and bags in the car. This decision was based on the fact that neither of us fancied the 8,000,000 steps back up the hill after the run. It wasn’t until we were about to start that Beardy looked at his Garmin and told me that we’d already walked 8km. I was already starving. This was going to be tough. 

I have issues with blood sugar regulation after long or difficult runs. I bonk really badly and I started to feel nervous that I wasn’t going to be able to finish. 

However, I was hydrated and I knew that calorie wise, I’d eaten enough in the morning to see me through…. if you ignore the 10km swim the previous day. 

Being that the race starts in North Queensferry, you’d be stupid not to expect hills. The race starts downhill and then loops back up the steep hill past Gordon Brown’s hoose and then down down down into Inverkeithing. Throwing time-goals out the window, I wished Beardy good luck and wound my way through the deep-heat scented crowd to the 60 minutes and over pen. 

As we crossed the start line, those around me shot off down the hill at WAAAAAAY under 5mins/km. “Excellent”, I thought. “I will be last.” 

I had already made the decision to run based on feel with no pace goal and no HR strap. My body would decide the pace for this. So when the first km beeped in at 5:54 I thought “oh. This is interesting”. 

Up up up-hill, where I started to pass those who’d shot by me, most of them walking already, and then doooooown the steep descent into the arse-end of Inverkeithing. Weirdly, I wasn’t out of breath. 

I managed to completely miss Beardy at the out and back section by the docks, purely because I wasn’t expecting an out and back section so I was busy moaning to the guy next to me about this outrage. (Edinburgh Marathon’s out and back has forever scarred me) 

We turned back and headed for the bridge and 3 solid but steady kilometres of uphill. 

I’d be lying if I said I noticed much of the bridge. I was too busy admiring the Rail Bridge and looking under the roadway at the structure I drive over twice a day, every day. It’s really quite something. 

The weather was still. The sun was out and it was HOT if you didn’t catch whatever breeze there was. 

I was passing a lot of walkers now. I managed to smoke a British Military Fitness dude who was pissing me off with an annoying walk/sprint strategy and ignoring the pathway etiquette and blocking cyclists. 

Pretty soon, I was enjoying free speed from the downhill slope of the bridge towards shade and water. My splits were mostly inconsistent but sitting around 6min/km. Most bizarrely, I was feeling absolutely FINE (apart from the bit where all running is shit and I hate it). 

You dip down under the bridge where you’re given water. Most of it went over my head (I was BOILING) and then I clawed my way up the ridiculously steep incline to get to the other footpath. 

3km left. I was on course for 60 minutes. I was feeling good. 

Fuck it. Let’s do this. 

I shuffled my way over the bridge. The incline somehow feeling steeper on this side. I’d been using a woman from Rotherham Harriers to pace myself and soon started to catch her. By 8km I was overtaking a lot and my legs were still feeling amazingly fresh. And a 9km I put the hammer down. 

Jeez I gave that last km everything I had. I was flying. My watch said 4:35/km. sure, it’s downhill but that is quick for me. I glanced at my watch about 200m out from the finish funnel. 59:19. 

Fuck. Come on. 

I sprinted. (Guaranteed it did not look as fast as it felt). I “breezed” past about 5 people and crossed the line. My watch said 59.45. 

The official chip time? 59.59. That is the definition of “by a bawhair”. 

I walked through the funnel, high fiving Beardy who had run 48mins and was not expecting to see me so soon, and mid way through being congratulated by a man on my “tremendous” sprint finish, I puked.  

“Tremendous sprint! That was fantasti—–oh my…”

I puked at the side of the A90. Into a hedge. In front of hundreds of people. Hilariously while a girl apparently admired my Fenix watch. She was asking me about it as I came up for air before realising what she’d interrupted. 

This wasn’t my fastest 10k which I did on an almost entirely flat course. But it was my fastest 10k this YEAR. The morning after a marathon swim. 

Without HR data it’s difficult to tell how much I properly suffered but my body felt completely fine apart from the immediate requirement to evacuate my stomach. (It was empty anyway) 

We had somehow made the excellent life choice to do our weekly food shop on th  way home. My body became aware of its endeavours while I perused Aldi’s meat section and the minute I got home I HAD to nap. 

I am happy (and shocked) to report that the following day, I am unscathed. My shoulders are still not over the swim but my legs feel good! 

I’m sure this won’t last…. 

next stop? The Dramathon. Gulp.