This week I’ve been pretty busy so I’ve struggled to get out as much as I would have liked to.
I felt like I’d struggled on my last time out so wanted to get back to basics a little bit. Try not to do too much and just try to jog as much as possible for as long as possible.
Tuesday Me & Mr C went out. The Munchkin was at Nanny Maves so we decided just to go from our house to her house, which is 1.5 miles. I started off with a quick walk, just to warm up, for about 200 metres and then I started to jog. I made sure I concentrated on my breathing, long deep breath in to stretch the pea lungs and then slow breath out. I managed it, all the way, 1.5 miles. It’s not a fast paced jog but I jogged and I didn’t stop until we got to Maves house. I was so chuffed with myself when I got there, I felt like I could have gone further but didn’t want to push it on my back to basics plan. I felt good though for a change.
On Wednesday we got ready to go out again, we set off and to be honest I was just pissed off, for no other reason than the fact I was in a bad bloody mood. As a member of the female species it is my bloody prerogative to be in a foul mood for no reason, to start walking and then after 5 minutes to stop in the street turn around and walk back home leaving your other (and on this occasion better half) in the middle of the street totally dumbfounded. It is also then my prerogative to be bloody disappointed to have done that and feel really bad about it, sulk for the rest of the night, slam a few doors and kick my trainers across the room and tell Mr C that ‘I just couldn’t be arsed Okay!!’
Luckily, Me & Mr C were able to talk about how I was being a giant knob and we could (kind of) laugh about it the next day. Well he took the piss and I had to take it cause I had been a knob and I’m not afraid to admit this on the rare occasion it happens!
Friday we were both off work, so we decided to go out for a bit longer in the morning, daylight jogging is a novelty for me so I was looking forward to it. Not in a million years did I think I would ever look forward to exercise! We left the house and walked for a bit to warm up then we started jogging. I’m doing the whole breathing concentration thing as soon as I set off so I can get into a rhythm. Again it’s not a fast paced jog I’m trying my best to be steady so I can keep going for longer rather than be speedy but be knackered after 5 minutes. I’m doing ok, there’s a couple of occasions I felt like my lungs weren’t filling up enough. I think my lungs are like a deflated balloon you know when they go all wrinkly before you put them out of their misery, stick a pin in them but they don’t burst they just make this sad half fart sound and then you finally put their remains in the bin. I really had to try to get some air into them, passers-by may have been worried for my health, but I didn’t stop. I probably jogged about 1.5 miles, we got to a hill. I’m trying to get up the hill but my legs are killing me and the more my legs hurt the harder it is for me to control my breathing, the harder it is to control my breathing the more everywhere hurts, it’s a vicious circle. I slow to walking and try to maintain some speed, which is virtually impossible. Mr C gives me a minute or so to recharge and then we start jogging again, I got a few hundred metres but I’m back to walking. I just need to be able to get a bit of momentum back. After a little while I pick up the pace, I’m doing a bit better, it’s not so bad. Well that’s not true it is bad but I’m trying not to think about it too much cause as soon as that starts getting in my head I’m going to start believing it! We run along side the motorway where I’m getting a good lungful of exhaust fumes. Thankfully no smart arsed truckers beeped their horn, I need a wee and I may have wet myself. Soon my stumpy little legs would allow me to go no further, I needed to walk. I’m so mad at myself for slowing down. I really really wanted to keep going. I’m struggling with my breathing again. Mr C is still not out of breath which is a little annoying but not surprising, he works out hard. He keeps telling me positive things about me doing well and there not being far to go, it’s not making me feel that much better about myself but I appreciate the words. We’re jogging again, we’re nearly home, now not long, we just need to get to the end of the street and then there’s a turn. My legs will not jog any more. Mr C asks if I’m ok, I’m not. I just want to be able to keep going, I’m trying, really trying, it’s just not happening. I know I look a mess, my face is bright red and twisted with exhaustion, misery and pain. L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N is playing, I take my take my headphone out and mutter swear words at the chorus which I normally like. I’m so disappointed in myself. I do one good run out and then one that feels like a really shit one.
Mr C pointed out when I got home and caught my breath that although not constantly it was the furthest I’ve jogged. Maybe I’m putting too much pressure on myself and expecting miracles. I have to keep reminding myself that I’m not a runner so can’t expect to be able to run straight away, I am making progress and I’ve not been at this training lark that long. If you’d have told me a month ago that I would’ve been jogging frequently and looking forward to it even though it kills me every time I’d have choked on my family size bag of maltesers!
So the D word. I’ve mentioned in a previous post about me being a little (lot) on the plumper size of average. I don’t think this is helping. It’s like me being the size I should be, the size I picture myself as not the view I see in the mirror, and running whilst carrying a small child. Well no one would do that unless they were training to be in the armed forces, so I’m going to have to shed some of the many extra pounds I’m carrying. Which means I’m going to have to go on a Diet. I hate dieting, I hate the word Diet. It’s such a depressing word. When I hear someone say I’m on a diet I think BORING and then tuck into a giant slice of chocolate fudge cake with ice cream. I’ve successfully lost weight before by controlling what I eat and counting syns (slimming world) I love to eat everything that is bad for me, the stuff that’s half decent I love to eat a lot of and it’s coming up to the run up to Christmas will all the treats on offer. Whilst everyone is putting on the extra winter pounds for warmth I’ll be trying to lose them, it’s going to be a pain in my wobbly arse but I’m going to have to do it. If I’m less heavy my legs will have less weight to try to haul around 13 miles worth of half marathon and they may not be as sore as quick and I might be able to keep going for longer.
The D word starts on Monday, no point starting half way through the weekend. If you see me going to eat something that may be deemed unhealthy you have permission to take it off me and eat it yourself!
Unless it’s maltesers cause they’re virtually full of air!
One thought on “The D Word”
I will be following the ” If you see me going to eat something that may be deemed unhealthy you have permission to take it off me and eat it yourself” rule to the letter, believe me. Good luck!