Running to London....

It's amazing what an extra glass of wine will do to your ability to think sensibly at a dinner party.

We were at Simon and Gianna's place and had enjoyed lots of laughs, fantastic food, hilarious conversation and a few bottles of wine.  With our dogs snoozing under our feet and placing a deliciously-stinking cheese platter on the table, Simon said, "I've just got confirmation that I'm in for the London Marathon next year."

We - of course - drank to his health and willingness to run his FIFTH marathon in a decade. We drank again to his bravery and a third time to agreeing to meet him at the finish line in front of Liz and Phil's house at the end of the race. Following those three quick glassfuls, my brain had lost the ability to censor my mouth and I heard myself saying, "I'd like to run it too."

So, on the 5th of October last year, I decided that the best way to make a vague idea firm up into a public commitment was to post it on Facebook:

Kath Lockett

October 5, 2013 · 

This could rank up there with one of the dumbest things I've ever done (and it's a long list) but I've signed up to try to complete the London Marathon in April 2014. I'm aligned to a charity so that it not only benefits them but adds a big element of responsibility and risking public shame if I don't do my best - http://tinyurl.com/pcyttyn

Most of you know will know that I'm a plodding old treadmill runner who not only prefers the privacy of staying at home but also the vague attempts at keeping some of the cocoa-butter away from my thighs.  Sometimes, however, yearnings are harder to shove aside than a Lindor box, and this particular yearning to do a marathon was starting to become louder and more urgent. Youth had slid away long ago; family issues in Australia had been hurtful and disappointing; and working (mostly) from home meant that there was no excuse about not having the time to train.





















My little brother David - a marathon survivor and triathlon regular - gave me his timetable of runs, as did my best buddy Jill.  I also searched online to find other 'beginner marathon' lists, averaged them out and developed my own.  Maths, people. Not my favourite subject but useful when it comes to spreadsheets, diary planning and run scheduling.

Each run - the date and distance - was recorded in my little paper diary.  In green pen, so that it stood out among the blue and black appointments.  The aim was to have four entries in per week with the end total slowly increasing.  Every Sunday as I'd turn the page over, I'd (mostly) smile at the achievement.  




















Pointless? Possibly.  Vain? Definitely.  Lonely? Too bloody right!

As the treadmill moved from its locked-state of 6km slowly upwards, maths became even more important.  10.5 kilometres is one quarter of a marathon..... Fifteen kilometres is 5/14th of a marathon... How the hell would I be able to generate the stamina and willpower to run the remaining 9/14ths?  

Trust was key. My trust was placed entirely in the gathered wisdom of the all-holy running timetable, now reverently covered in a plastic slip to protect it from sweat stains.  Some easy runs, some scary long ones; some slightly shorter runs: all helped take the decision-making and potential for procrastination out of my hands. If the timetable had a particular number under a particular date, then that was all there was to it.

 

Music was vital.  Out on the roads, I'd never have anything clamped to my ears as it would be far too dangerous to not be able to hear oncoming traffic or the world around me.  But when I was staring at my bedroom wall from anywhere between 36 minutes and three-and-a-half hours, it was the songs that prevented my mind from convincing my body to stop and to instead stagger (and fart) along to the beat.

At any given time, there were three layers of blisters on various parts of my feet, but my toenails stayed on. This was NOT the case ten years earlier when I lost two of them during my one and only half-marathon attempt.  That was the same race that had me throwing up at the 15 kilometre mark and swearing never, ever to attempt anything further than a fun run every again......

By the time that half-marathon and twenty-something distances were reached before Christmas, the treadmill died.  It was still under a service agreement and was surprisingly (it's Switzerland, remember) affordable to get a new running belt and motor.  The mechanic was impressed: "It's not often we get a treadmill that's worn out before its warranty has ended."  My vanity level soared sky high until I realised that my stomach rolls were still very evident and still prone to unravelling each time I bent over to untie my shoes....

Despite my distaste and avoidance, it was time to do some 'street' runs.  These were more nerve-wracking than increasing the distances as I worried about looking and feeling vulnerable, uneven footpaths, crossing busy roads, dodging walkers, prams, snogging picnickers and the biggest dread of all - running uphill.

Love Chunks had a route that involved a nice run downhill towards the lake, then along the foreshore, through the park and up towards the Botanic Gardens.  

The horrific hill climb commenced as the track wound past the reindeer enclosure, making its presence more painfully felt when passing by the flamingos and spotting the rebel peacock strutting his stuff by the woodpile.

The hell increased many more times as I staggered my way past the World Meteorological Office to the UN headquarters, wheezing so loudly that tourists taking photos of the flags were given plenty of time to step aside and let the dying lady through.  

It was only eight kilometres back to home, but the height increased as it evilly turned left past the Korean embassy, along the side of the Hotel Intercontinental and a final nasty hill through Petit Saconnex before my stinging, sweat-filled eyes spotted our building in the distance.

We spent Christmas in New York and when booking I made sure that it had a treadmill that I could use....  The Caribbean cruise we went on after New Year's had an enormous gym and using a treadmill on lolling seas added an extra dimension of difficulty.

Love Chunks accompanied me on my first long street run.  He made an absolute mockery of my months of training when he not only ran his usual 8km, but then accompanied me on his bike for the second 8km and then ran the third 8km again on foot.  I was incredibly envious and more than a little insulted.  He was - and is - naturally fit and does ride his bike to work, jogs as often as he can and works out at the gym, but surely he should not have been able to bounce through a 24km session and still be able to cheerily chat to me with barely a wheeze throughout it all?  Cocky little git!

The week after, he was keen to do it again.  This time, he wasn't so lucky, pulling up with a very sore ankle after the second round.  I gulped my water and Gatorade and left for the third round.

"You could have waited for me," he sulked. "I was out there HELPING you."

It was my turn to flare up. "Nope, no way. I have worked my not-inconsiderable arse off for ages on my OWN doing this, and the training schedule is MY schedule. You either keep up or you don't."  I'd never be as fit or as thin or as fast as he was, but the plodding regularity meant that my joints and muscles were used to the distances and could handle it.  It was on that day - although not fun for either of us due to having that argument - that I knew I'd be able to do this.

My beloved running timetable worked and I managed four rounds of his 8km route on three separate occasions.  'Andrew' the peacock was less scared each time I passed by his hangout by the woodpile, progressing to standing in my way during the last lap.

Running 'in the thirties' is only recommended two or three times in marathon training, and even then, no more than 32km.  "Any longer than that and you're just trashing your body," Jill told me. 'Trashing' is a polite way of describing the bone-jarring, shattered feeling of knawing, clawing exhaustion that pounded in every cell of my body after those efforts. The entire day was given to running - and then recovering - from 'the thirties' that resulted in the sweat drying on my face and turning into finely powdered salt to moaning in the bath and wondering just how I was going to lift myself out of it.

Carbo loading used to be a week-long phenomenon back in the 1980s, but these days it is only recommended as a mere three day fest.  Despite this, it was particularly enjoyable to inhale spag bol for dinner on Thursday, leftovers for Friday lunch and bread/fondue entree followed by steak and chips for dinner.  

Apart from the off-putting sounds of my greedy eating, the week leading up to the marathon was a quiet one - only two x 3km runs.  On the other hand, the sweat levels were as high as any of the longer, harder runs.

My heart rate had reached 172-180 BPM and didn't go much lower in the week leading up to my flight to London when I wasn't running.  This was making me more nervous than my wedding day.....

Area avoided often

I'm participating again in River's Sunday Selections event that invites bloggers everywhere to post up photos they haven't yet published, consider linking them with a theme and write something about them.

...this will help me get over the fact that Love Chunks, Sapphire and myself had a bog-ordinary Burger King meal at a roadside stop near Rolle, Switzerland that cost us Seventy Seven Francs.  That's fancy eatin' money!

On with the meme.

A bit after 8:00am on weekdays and weekends, Milly and I trot happily over to Parc de Trembley to stretch our collective total of six legs.  All furry, if I'm to be brutally honest.  It's a slab of land with a busy street that carves it into two segments, one considerably larger than the other.

We owe a lot to this humble park as it allows Milly to run free and keep her post-arthritic body in better shape than when she was first diagnosed with two irreparably wonky back legs over six years ago.  A sniff of a squirrel or the opportunity to snuffle around bench seats has resulted in a sleekly fit dog who can jump up into the back of the car with ease when she was completely unable do so in Melbourne.

With a paddling pool, ornate flower beds, ponds, ancient trees and friendly gardeners who know us and greet us, we both feel as though we know this little part of Geneva like the back of our hands/paws.

And yet there is one section that neither of us want to enter.  That's probably a good thing, because the sign outside this section already forbids entry to dogs:

The sign always leaves me feeling slightly offended on Milly's behalf as she should NOT be compared to disgusting urinators, vandals, noise polluters or litterers.

Then again, she's a beautiful and intelligent beast who hasn't shown the slightest interest in venturing into what I can only call - wait for it - brace yourselves - Pedo Playground.....

These creepy 'animals' are presumably meant to be cheery creatures intended to invite children to climb on them, play on them and generally enjoy themselves, but I have never ever seen a child - or adult - in there.  It seemed long past time to break the rules stipulated by the sign and have a whizz, sorry, take Milly in for a closer look.  She'd protect me if she had to, I'm sure.....

With a shaking dog so close to my legs that we tripped up several times, we tentatively approached this yellow abomination; a filthy chunk of butter with a tangible sense of unwholesomeness about it.  Made by a angry person with an old box and no artistic skills or is there a more sordid meaning behind the nubbin for a tail and the demonic blue ears?

Smile or not, the purple 'up yours' horns did not conjure up any innocent joys of childhood.

And these....?  A creepy looking camel and a half submerged pervy pincered crab? No way!

F-words aren't usually my go-to words, but what the phark is this pink thing??  A par-boiled testicle??





















Milly whined several times as I nervously snapped away.  If this was supposed to be a dog with antennae for ears, porn star breasts for eyes and nose and a distinctly un-PG tongue lolling out lustily, it was a challenge getting her to pose next to 'it'.....

It was a relief for both of us to get the hell out of there.  A-poo-behind-a-bush-relief for Milly, and a thank-god-we-have-wine comfort for me.

That is, until the label revealed that it too wasn't offering real comfort....

But dear old LC did.

Me too, me too, ME TOO!

Now, my mate Pandora has run four half-marathons in two years and my awesome buddy Jill completed an entire marathon last year before suffering a serious brain injury after falling off her bike during the Jacob’s Creek Down-under 120km bike race, so they’re both fully fit, full-on, determinedly powerful women.

...and I feel a bit left out.

See, I’ve been running since making it my new year’s resolution back in 2001. It’s the only resolution I’ve stuck with as stopping being too noisy; picking at my finger nail skin until it bleeds; giving up sugar/chocolate/cake; and trying not to be jealous or too much of a ‘Me too Me too ME TOOOOOO!’ person have all failed before the day was out.

So, here’s my Me Too contribution.

My first run, on 1^st January 2001, was three laps around the second cricket oval at Trinity Gardens Primary School. Four hundred metres times three. I didn’t have the energy to jog the two blocks home afterwards. Walking and gasping my way back, an elderly Italian gent hosing his roses offered to spray me down too. I accepted.

September 2002 saw me run my first City to Bay fun-run in Adelaide – twelve kilometres. My training consisted of asking Love Chunks to drive around my self-designed running courses and measuring them on the car's odometer. 4km, 6km 8km and 12km which I ran regularly. I carried a water bottle in a bum bag for the 12km runs and could always tell what the Robern Menz factory were making that morning from the smell that wafted along Glynburn Road – mint for Crowns or sweet peaches for Fruchocs.

Time achieved – One hour, three minutes for 12 kilometres.

September 2003 – running was now ‘my’ thing and my four year old baby weight had finally gone. It was also the valuable alone time that didn't involve sitting on the toilet or sleeping with the aid of a sedative to figure out a few solutions and ideas. City to bay time – 58 minutes.

August 2004 – My twice-weekly six km runs and a weekly 12km run had swelled to a 6km, 12km and a 17km run by June. I was in my ridiculous workaholic career phase then and used to get up for a run at 5am in the dark. I figured that potential robbers and rapists were more likely to have headed home by then and, besides, they’d have to catch me..... All that and I had showered, dropped Sapphire off at daycare and be at my desk by 7:30am. But I was happy. Wasn't I?

Love Chunks and I had an argument the night before the race. He was (justifiably) concerned about the long hours I was putting in at work, my increased physical symptoms of stress and noticeable decline in energy, happiness and interest in life at home. I disagreed and we went to bed with it unresolved; both of us furious. The last thing he said was, “Oh and I’m NOT going to see you do your half-marathon tomorrow.”

Sunday morning arrived and I was at Pinky Flat by the Torrens River at 6.30am. We were bussed to Lockleys and froze in the darkness until the starter pistol fired at 7.30am.

I was sleep-deprived, lacked the appetite to eat anything before the race and felt utterly depressed. Instead of this being a physical achievement that would set me apart as not only an amazing career woman (already failing) and wife/mother (whump whow!), there’d be no-one to see me or even care if I was there.

By 14km I hadn’t stopped but also hadn’t bothered to check my time or distance. At 15km, I threw up on the bank of the river near the Convention Centre. I wanted to stay doubled over and lie on the cool, soft, unjudgmental grass but..... No. I’d trained too hard and on my bloody lonesome for this and wasn’t going to give up now. Wiping my mouth and sipping some water I started up again.

Soon after I heard Sapphire and LC call out from the other side of the bank. “Go Mum!” “Go Kath!”

They’d come! Just six more painful kilometres via tiring little hills up to the zoo and back with the whiff of gorilla poo in the air before staggering across the finish line in one hour, 52 minutes.

I cried with disappointment: I had estimated one hour, forty five but clearly hadn’t foreseen the technicolour yawn that had left smears of fragrant reminders on my leggings. As LC and Sapphire hugged my saturated, stinky self, my tears changed to those of pride. I’d done it!

That was as far as I had ever run and after having a complete and utter breakdown roughly seven months later I found myself on medication, seeing a psychiatrist, unemployed and exhausted. Clearly it was only going to be little runs for me from now on, in all senses of the word.

However, chocolate reviewing started and became rather serious and time-consuming. Unless I yearned to be the human embodiment of a Lindt ball I needed to do more than 6km trots three days a week.

From 2006 to 2010, give or take a busted Achilles, I’d do three 10km runs and two 8km power walks to counteract the effects of inhaling around 2-3 kilos of chocolate per week. Eventually however, my shins, Achilles (both legs), several toenails, two incredibly painful infected blisters, blood-soaked bras and a couple of severe colds saw me grudgingly accept the fact that my ageing body needed to be treated just a tad more delicately.

Which leads me to now. Geneva. Autumn with fog, rain and slippery footpaths due to the accumulation of wet and increasingly slimy leaves stuck to them.

Five kilometres from our apartment entry door and back.

First phase: Posing under the red light. I jog around 300 metres before being forced to wait until the little green man allows me to cross the road. Swiss lights are ultra careful – pedestrians get to cross without any cars from even the opposite direction allowed to drive as you walk. Nice in theory, but it can mean a five minute wait if you just miss your turn.

Wearing a baggy man’s t-shirt complemented by sticky bed hair and hairy white legs goose pimpled in the breeze means it’s a challenge to stand there pretending to be nonchalant when surrounded by several stylishly dressed women ready to totter across the road in stacked heels, designer leather and furs to work. They don’t bother to hide their stares - I’m a big alien – unkempt, unstylish and publicly prepared to be seen puffing. And not on a French cigarette.

Second phase: Gracious descent. Downhill for half a K, baby! What are my legs – springs, steel springs. And how fast can they run – as fast as a leopard! Oops, that’s unless it’s rubbish day when the mini street sweeper fights with the garbage truck for total ownership of the footpath and I’m forced to leap out into the bike lane and incur the wrath of surprised and then annoyed scooter owners....

....not to mention reaching bus stop Trembley and – without fail – involuntarily letting out a series of sharp and loud ‘Parp Parp Parp Parp’ farts as I run past a bunch of more well-dressed workers....

Third phase: Jogging up Jill Hill. This is in honour of my best friend, who is slowly recovering from a brain injury. This is the hardest spot in our local park – winding cruelly upwards with the cracked bitumen path peppered with chestnuts that could twist an ankle if stepped on. Not to mention skirting around little old ladies smoking like chimneys and ‘omitting’ to see the huge crap just done by their poodles.

Fourth phase: Suffering through Sapphire's Slope. I leave the park and jog back into the suburbs, winding further uphill past several large apartment blocks, a patisserie, Milly’s vet surgery, the most famous fondue house in the city and a primary school. I think of Sapphire and how she’s got through the worst of things with being bullied by an ex-friend in Melbourne and the uncertainties of starting high school at a new school in a new country. She’s happy, stimulated, busy, interested, funny and utterly lovely. My eyes sting as sweat mixes with moisturiser but I smile as well.

Mercedes and Beamer drivers with diplomatic licence plates stare at me blankly as I go by, usually wheezing in agony by this stage. Sophisticated couples and US-accented people having ‘work meetings’ are mildly entertained as I trot past their petite boulangerie, dripping sweat as I pass and trying not to slip on the pretty-but-dangerous cobblestones.

Fifth phase: (barely) Mastering Milly's mountain. Another bloody school up on top of the hill past the Red Cross and John 23 American church. I now think of my dog who would always choose to come running with me no matter how much her arthritis agonised her. Even now, four years after the diagnosis, there’s reproach in her eyes when I put on my sneakers and leave her behind.

Final phase: Kath's Cruise. Downhill for 400 metres all the way home. The apartment keys slide in my left hand, sticky from sweat. The second my feet touch the outdoor mat and the doors automatically slide open, I stop.

Hands on my knees, head down, gasping. A quick glance at my watch shows 26 minutes from start to finish. This is no great distance or time but when factors such as motivation, weather, laziness, time and dagginess are considered, I feel just as proud as I did in August 2004.

That brand new vomit smell

On Saturday morning, usually a day for sleeping in, Sapphire woke up early and excitedly. "It's today, isn't it?"

Love Chunks was smiling, the glint in his baby blues reflecting the emotions of his daughter.

I felt nauseaus and my Rexona, at 8am, was already letting me down.

In the fog and drizzle we took the numbers 14 and 17 trams past Plain Palais to the Peugeot dealership, paperwork in hand.

"Voila!" Marco whipped off a satin blue sheet covering our car. Our brand new car.

To all you European dwellers, I guess a Peugeot is what a Holden is to us Australians - no big deal. But to these particular Australians, it is an enormously huge deal.

Firstly, neither Love Chunks or myself - separately and together - have ever owned a brand new car. He and I both had cars from the early seventies during the 1980s and bought a nineties car that lasted all through the 2000s. We were both of the view that new was a waste of money, that you blew a couple of grand the second you drove it off the lot and, most of all, we simply couldn't afford one. Here though, with a UN-tax free deal and a good loan rate, we decided to live on the edge and go for it.

Secondly, the Peugeot is a manual, like most vehicles seem to be here. I learned how to drive on a manual (in 1985, or 'were TVs in just black and white then' according to my daughter's concept of ancient history) and my cars Rodney the 1971 Renault and Sucked Crunchie the 1973 burnt orange volvo were both manual drives. However during most of the nineties and all of the noughties I enjoyed the restful, no-use-for-the-left-hand carefree slackness of an automatic. Namely, Maggie the Magna, recently sold in May for the princely sum of $600.

Thirdly, it's a left hand drive designed to be driven on the utterly weirdly wrong - sorry, right - side of the road.

Fourthly, we don't have one of those fandangled Tom-Tom sat nav dooflanger thingies; merely LC's insistence that I direct us back home "but not through the city" using his iPad.

Five minutes later, we were stuck in the city; the wipers turning on every time LC turned a corner and my body slip-sliding around on the vinyl seats due to an unpalatable combination of sweat, anxiety and panic.

By the time we arrived home, Mr Migraine had set up residence behind my left eyeball and with an audible sigh of relief LC backed the car into our designated parking spot in the basement.

Sapphire had been uncharacteristically quiet during the unintendedly lengthy journey home but now decided it was the right moment to pipe up with, "Well, why don't we just leave it down here and just sit in it every now and then?"

I was all for it and spent the rest of the afternoon in bed, clutching at my head.

However today we were up early again. Geneva is quite literally dead on a Sunday with the original concept of the Sabbath taken very, very seriously. No clinking of glass bottles in the public recycling depots; no washing machines to be turned on in apartment blocks and no active gardening to be undertaken. In fact, technically all of those activities are illegal on a Sunday.

Unless church dominates your plans it seems as though you're expected to stay inside wearing felt slippers communicating only via sign language and mime for the entire day.

"It's the perfect time to get used to driving," LC decided.

Quite wisely, as it turned out. Very little traffic, drizzly weather that might have put some casual drivers off and us in no hurry to be any specific place at any specific time.

We drove around the entire boundary of Lac Leman - Switzerland, France and back again, with stops for coffee at a boulangerie and lunch at a tiny Port near Evian. The only actual Evian water tasted by any of us was in the puddles that Milly drank from as we walked.

"It drives so smoothly," LC observed.

"It's like you've always driven on the right hand side of the road, Dad," Sapphire said with genuine admiration.

"Wanna have a go, Kath?"

"NO no no no no no I'm not ready yet the car is too new, too shiny, too pretty, too dangerous I'll get us lost or put a big dent in it besides it's getting dark out and my head is still sore and No no no no no no no...."

"It's only two thirty-----"

"NO!"

Maybe tomorrow, on my own, I'll take it for an Old Lady Spin around the car park. Maybe.