Road to recovery

As I lay here in bed for the third day, I can’t help but long for the great outdoors, the freedom of running to my hearts content, and not miserably wallowing in self pity. I miss the mornings, the cold ones, rain slicing my face like razor blades, the lactic acid burning my muscles as I try to push ever further. I miss the feeling of accomplishment when I’ve finished a run, that feeling of utter satisfaction. Yet here I lay in bed, I am merely incapacitated as I try to recover from an inguinal repair.

How did I get this in the first place you may ask… well, I don’t really know. All I know is it came during the summer, I went to the doctor, then to the hospital then to surgery. For those not familiar with hernia’s, it basically your small intestine trying to bulge out through your abdominal wall, delightful, I know!!

I’m being cared for by my girlfriend, Aoife, and Ger, one of my  best friends. They tolerate me as I shuffle from point A to B, and are there with a helping hand if I ever need it. I am not one to enjoy others being put out to help me, but its comforting to know, when I need help, its close to hand. I have been making use of my time however; I have planned my races to full fitness, planned a fitness regime, tried to teach myself how to make android apps, so all is well. I have been looking into the Paris half and full marathons, both in the spring. I am going to try learn how to swim….again. Once I have received the all clear from the medical experts, I will try to start doing light weights again, to build up muscle I lost during this tedious process.

While the road to recovery might well be at least 6 weeks or more until I’m fully fit and healthy again, this little knock out has provided me with a stark realisation, how lucky we are to be fit and healthy. In my ward was a brilliantly cheerful lady, Betty, who was in for a small surgery to remove a tumor, who was stoutly upbeat despite her ailment. We as a people need to enjoy our health while it lasts, and not worry about petty insignificant differences. If someone is sick, go visit them, because when you are the one sick, you will appreciate every single person!!

The Runner – The Sadist

Sadist
– noun

1. Any enjoyment in being cruel
2. The enjoyment in inflicting pain or suffering on others

When people think of athletes, they see the external, focused individual, with one clear goal in mind, winning. One must ask, where does this sense of competitiveness come from?? How has this competitive streak been instilled in their minds if they mainly have to train in solitude??

The runner is an unusual individual. They get up early in the morning, when common sense and all logical human instinct would tell them to stay in bed. They run on their own and push themselves to their extreme limits day in and day out, without reward. Neighbours see them passing their windows as they eat their breakfast, trying to comprehend why someone would torture themselves for what seems like a pointless sport, yet the runner perseveres. When does the runner get the opportunity to compete before a race.

Runners, on occasion, get the opportunity to train with friends. When this happens, they have to take full advantage. Its not often, outside of races, they can see how far they have progressed, to see have all those early mornings actually paid off. It’s an opportunity which must be grabbed with both hands.

The evening is cold, bitterly so. The frost from the night before has not cleared all day. The clear evening sky does not offer much hope of more welcoming conditions. The runners look outside, and know that this is their chance for a trial run.

The runners can be compared to warriors of old; determined not to let their opponent have even the slightest advantage, the psychological sparring begins. Each taunts the other, comparing personal bests and achievements from mornings past. They prepare themselves for the race ahead. The reflective jackets are put on, laces tied, bottles of water in hand. They walk out and begin their warm ups. The sparring continues. They start off at a slow jog.

As they begin leaving the familiar surrounds of their neighbourhood for roads less traveled, they reassure each other that they are in fact both capable athletes. They exchange stories of near misses, personal bests, races where they felt they could have done better. This may seem like an end to the mind games, but it is merely the foreword to the debate. Each, knowing the tricks of old, try to lull their opponent into a false sense of security.

The first kilometer is completed in a slow pace of 5:30 minutes. Each are well aware that this pace is well below what they are capable of. The friendly chatter is soon finished when one runner turns to the other and says “How are you finding the pace?”. This is clearly a declaration of war. With this subtly cloaked inquiry, the pace suddenly picks up. They hold back from releasing their full potential, knowing that this energy is needed for the final sprint home, the winning and losing of the race.

The second kilometer comes and goes, as does the third. Each runner has by now loosened up. They are running free and have eased into a rhythm. Knowing their capabilities, and the distance that they are familiar with, they set the overall distance of the race to a comfortable 10k. By now they have determined what their pace needs to be increased to and when best to strike. They continue their stories, ensuring to let their opponent know that they have completed more testing trials.

They ease onto the 7th kilometer. Knowing the end is near, they pick up the pace almost in sync. The pace is now at 4:30min/km. They test each other, taking the lead by a few strides, each time their opponent responds, and counter strikes. This continues intermittently. One each strike, they turn to their opponent and ask in an almost sympathetic tone “is the pace okay?”. This is instantly rebutted in a positive tone, “oh, jaysus, I’m fine, you want to pick the pace up a bit, we’re getting close to home”. This is the first decisive blow to an ego.

On the start of the 8th kilometer, they enter their racing pace. The pace has increased to 3:50min/km. They begin to feel the ache of the lactic acid. The burn intensifies which each step. Determined not to let the other gain an advantage, they strive to ignore any pain as they cannot lose. They match each other, stride for stride. They welcome the familiarity of their neighbourhood. Passing the landmarks which they have passed every day, they use these as markers, letting them know when best to strike. One looks to their competitor and notices that they are beginning to struggle. This is their chance. It can be won here. Still with energy in reserves, this is a chance to give their failing adversary a false glimmer of hope. They increase the pace slightly, knowing now that every step feels like a sledgehammer against their muscles. The fitter knows how this feels, they too have shared this pain before. But this time is different, this is their chance to banish the memories of struggles past.

They enter the final kilometer. The pace is now at 3:30km/min. This is a struggle. The finish line is now in sight. The struggling foe now looks ready to collapse. Eager to enjoy the sprint for the line, the energetic runner offers genuine encouragement. They need to see their adversary get to the line, they need to have them see them win. They know that they are inflicting pain on their “friend”. They know how much this hurts, yet, nevertheless, they encourage them.

The final 50meters have arrived, and now the more prepared of the runners makes their dash for the line. They too have been hurting over the last kilometer, but had enough in reserves for this last gasp dash. Sprinting for the gate, they lose their breath. Their body requires more oxygen than the body is able to take in. A stitch explodes into existence with a force the runner believes to be akin to that of the big bang. They now begin to feel sympathy for their counterpart who they abandoned in search of this victory. With every joule of energy that remains in their now throbbing body, they make that last leap for the finish line. Just as the pain becomes intolerable, its over. They are relieved that its over. They must wait for a brief moment before their rival falls over the line.

Its over. They both have survived the final assault on their bodies. They praise each other, and the efforts that they have put in. The winner gloats over the lack of fitness and ability of their counterpart. The runner enjoyed both winning the race, and also the manner in which they won it. They watched on as their friend struggled to keep up, watched idly by as they began to succumb to the burn of lactic acid, yet took pleasure in the fact that they were able to resist slowing and had the ability to sprint home for the finish.

Yes, runners are sadists, but the loser, on another day, given the opportunity, will do the same.

 

The Runner – The Masochist

Masochism
– noun

1. gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed
on oneself, either as a result of one’s own actions or the actions of others, esp. the
tendency to seek this form of gratification.

2.
The act of turning one’s destructive tendencies inward or upon oneself.

How do you define someone who runs in solitude? What kind of pleasure must they get from this seemingly needless, pointless, aimless hobby? Why would they submit themselves to such arduous tasks? There seems to exist only one reasonable answer, they enjoy it.

It’s 6:30am. The darkness still appears to be in its prime. The warmth, comfort and security of bed, makes the idea of getting up almost impossible. The runner, shuns these pleasures, and instead chooses to get up. They get primed, hydrated and insulated. Armed with reflective jackets, they leave their humble abodes and take to to the roads, seeking some kind of self gratification. To others, these habits are grotesque. Others might consider, one day, I might do that, but inevitably find reasons not to.

It’s 7am, and the runner has left his home. The initial shock of the cold air rasping against his lungs, the pain of each breath taken in, makes the runner themselves, contemplate their decision to abandon their warm caring beds. Knowing that they are now too far gone to turn back, they continue.

The darkness heightens their sense of awareness of their surroundings, conscious that these roads possess various dangers. The runner is fully aware that at any moment, a car could speed along the road, caring not for the helpless runner out on their morning jog. Regardless, they continue.

After 10 minutes, their muscles begin to loosen up. The runner, still struggling with their breathing due to the harsh, unforgiving cold air, begins to find their rhythm. Each step feels easier than the last. The runner reassures themselves that their sacrifice will eventually pay dividends. There will arise an opportunity where they can showcase their new found fitness. Satisfied that the ends will justify the means, they struggle on.

Half an hour has passed, and the runner is halfway through their routine. Conscious that their pace must result in at least 10k during their hour of torture, they pick up the pace. It’s easier now; they have become acclimatised to their surroundings. The crusty rime of frost now begins to glisten on the road as the dawn begins to emerge. They comfort themselves now, knowing by the time most people are pressing snooze for the first time, they will have an intense workout completed.

On the run home, the runner’s mind is at ease. They can pass their neighbours homes, noticing that lights are slowly beginning to be turned on. As the idle are wiping the sleep from their eyes, the runner is wiping the sweat from their brow.

Each step is slowly being accompanied by a jolt of pain. The lactic acid has begun to take hold. This is the challenge the runner has been waiting for. Determined not to succumb to the pain, they push themselves harder. The pace has been increased from a brisk trot, to a spritely canter. The pain intensifies with each step. This separates the men from the boys. They are now entering the final few turns which lead to their home. The canter suddenly becomes a gallop. The pain is now excruciating. They drive for the finish. This last gasp effort will be worth it; at least that’s what they keep telling themselves. This is what separates the men from the boys. The small hill leading to their front gate suddenly becomes their Everest. As the gag reflex tries to take hold, the finish line is in sight, one final effort and the goal will be achieved. With all their energy which is left, a final intake of air is breathed in and the aching muscles are asked to put in one final effort. The finish line draws ever closer and just as their energy expires, they have completed their goal. A few minutes are taken to assess their achievement. Once done, a sudden sense of satisfaction is realized. They had pushed their bodies to the limit and were satisfied.

Many question their merits. What point to this numb self sacrifice? The athletics world is filled with many talented athletes, so their chances of winning a race are extremely limited. They do it because they know they can. They can push their bodies to their limit, feel the burning ache of cramp, and push on regardless. They compete in races, not for the winning or losing, but for the chance to compete on a platform against likeminded, like willed people.

How can one describe this kind of sport? Awards may not be won, people may not even remember or acknowledge the sacrifices they have made, unlike those who compete in many team sports. They push themselves through agony to prove to themselves that they can push themselves to the edge. For this reason, they are masochists. The definition holds true, “gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted  or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one’s   own actions or the actions of others, esp. the
tendency to seek this form of gratification”

The thoughts of an idle walker

Janathon is a concept that appealed to me instantly. A month of staying active and telling others about your conquests, no matter how benign. I have however, found myself struggling to find time, so far, to be quiet as active as I would like to be.

Today, I was up at 7:30am. Early as usual. My problem I have deduced, is that in being a student, I must work every god given hour to make as much money as possible. In so doing, I am missing out on precious time to go running. By the time evening comes, I am usually too fatigued to go running. When I got up, all I could think about was the fact I was falling behind in my goal.

I went downstairs, dejected. I knew that today would be like any other. Although I would be active all day, I would struggle to find time to go for a run. I plodded over to the cereal press, grabbed the packet of Flavahan’s Porridge Oatlets, and proceeded to make my breakfast. The microwave gave an annoyingly cheerful ping after 5 minutes to let me know my breakfast was ready. I slogged over to the microwave, clutched the bowl and made my way back to the table. When I was finished, my uncle drove me to the bus for work. Another thoroughly exciting day lay ahead…

Once on the bus, I put my iPhone on shuffle, and proceeded to let my mind drift away. Once I see an object, whether it be something as simple as a road, or the ruins of an old house, I can’t help but wonder of the story which it has to tell. What has happened on this road, or in that house, the list continues. Today, while gazing out the window of the new bus, I noticed an old farmhouse. This farmhouse was quiet big, and whoever owned it was quiet well off. However, time had not been kind to this building, or the grounds around it. It had been left to rack and ruin. This was not an after effect of our corrupt governments policies of late, this house has been unloved, uncared for, and abandoned for some time.

As the bus marched along the tarmacked road, the thought of the old house lingered in my mind. I imagined various different hypotheses on how this could have come to pass. There was no visible sign of fire, so that was ruled out. Even if the farmer had gone bankrupt, and the farm was sold, this house had an element of grandeur about it. There was more to this. The bus stopped for more passengers. I was distracted. Time to drift away again.

We drove into Thurles, one of Tipperary’s larger towns. There was a traffic jam. The urban planning council, for all their infinite wisdom, have never built a second bridge over the river Suir. This is by no means a river of insurmountable proportions. No, it is merely a little trickle which won’t be built over for some reason or another. The school rush takes no prisoners. No matter who you are or how much of a rush you may be in, you must wait in line like everyone else.

Eventually, we made it past the wall of school children, trudging their ways to another 9am start. The miserable morning was apt, given their holidays had just finished. I began to long for these simpler, worry free days. The days when  not having the latest CD or game for your Playstation was a disaster of monstrous proportions.

After numerous other day dreams, we made it to Roscrea. I got off the bus, knowing I had a 15 minute walk ahead of me. At this point, I knew how those school children felt. The day was dark and gloomy, and the prospect of fun today, was slim and none. I suddenly had the thought to turn on miCoach and log this insignificant distance. It would be something. A drop in the ocean yes, but at least I was logging my activity.

For those who have read my earlier post, where I clearly stated that I don’t believe that walking counts as exercise, I still don’t. It’s just that I needed to log something for today, no matter how small.

The road was wide, and unforgiving for walkers. This road had been made with one purpose in mind, to ferry passengers and freight from Point A to Point B. As I walked on the margin, lorries whizzed by, clearly urgent to get to wherever it is that they are going. Johnny Cash came on my iPhone. This I thought was somewhat strange given there are only 5 of his songs hidden within the other 2000 odd songs which were uploaded. I marched on.

I reached the door of work. I hadn’t pushed myself. It wasn’t even brisk enough to break a sweat. When all was said and done, I walked 0.92km in 8 minutes something. I am determined to get up in the morning and march on regardless. Lets hope my bed doesn’t try to convince me otherwise!!

The Morning Run

It has been no secret for many years, that I like my bed. It seems I have developed somewhat of a love affair with my bed. Every night, without fail (almost without fail…), I go to bed seeking warmth, security, and that reassuring hug from my duvet. Once in bed, I am but seconds from the land of nod. In the mornings, it grips me with its glowing heat, begging me to stay just a little longer, and to press snooze just one more time. I always give in.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to the sharp, severe sound of my alarm. My slumber had been untimely cut short. I cast an eye to my watch. Squinting, I could barely make out that it was 7am. The room was dark and cold. It had been a frosty night. The roads would undoubtedly be unforgiving. The bed urged me to press snooze just once, for old times sake. Knowing the task which lie before me, a morning run, I gave without much resistance. Ten minutes later, I dragged myself out as the sirens began to raise the alarm again.

I was up. That in itself was an achievement. I went about my normal morning routine, albeit earlier, much earlier. I went downstairs, still rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I turned on the light in the kitchen. Its gazey white glow startled me. I struggled to adjust to the new light levels. I made my breakfast, porridge as always, had my cup of tea, found my shoes, and prepared.

The evening before, I bought the Irish Runner magazine. It had a list of all the up coming races over the next few months. It was the annual, so it came with a chart, detailing how to warm up properly. I disregared both this and my normal warm up routine, such was my groggy state, I had forgot to do them.

Searching my pockets, I found my iPhone. I started miCoach, waited for the English accent to say “GPS Found” before starting my run. Almost without delay, GPS was found. I found my playlist, pressed start, and started running. A 5k run would be easy, I thought to myself, surely it being morning couldn’t effect me that much…surely…

I ran past the stables, past our tractor, which had seen better days, and past the roads on which I grew up. I almost know each bush individually at this stage. The large ash and oak tree’s overlooked the road, protecting it from the elements. I was blissfully unaware of this when starting my run. I had forgotten about the cold icy night that had just passed. I ran on, oblivious to the task conditions that lay ahead.

I ran past our neighbors houses on the outward leg of my journey. Looking at each, thinking, “they had the right idea, they must surely still be in bed. What am I doing??” I passed house after house, and all were quiet. There was some activity at the Ryan “Roche” household. Smoke bellowed from the chimney. The scent gushed into my nostrils, filling them with an unpleasant smell. The smoke made its way into my lungs. I continued running, hoping to escape the blanket the smoke had created on the countryside. After much effort, I escaped.

I continued past Barnane Stud. It was owned by the Beamish Family (the people who own Beamish Stout and other things, which I care much less about…). I thought about the summers in which I had helped harvest hay for Patrick Wynn-Jones, for wintering the horses at their stud farm. The memories were that of pain and hardship, not pleasant ones. I ran on.

The next sight on this morning tour was that of my primary school, Barnane National School. Memories from here were much more pleasant. This was where I started running, where I first competed in a cross country, where I learned how to play tennis, and most importantly, where I had developed my love for mathematics. Yes, I said mathematics!! Our teacher, Martin Ryan, always encouraged us to aim for as much as we can, and to strive to achieve it. He developed a mantra that there is no goal insurmountable. I still live by this mantra today, if your work hard enough at something, you shall reap the rewards.

After passing my school, I continued on. While passing fields, still belonging to Barnane Stud, I began to think of the friends who I hadn’t seen since my time at school. It was strange considering many of them still live in the locality. My time in Dublin at University had clearly isolated me from home. This will have to be rectified. At Cahill’s, I turned.

I realize that many of these names mean nothing to you as you read this, but in the coming days, as I run more, each name will have a story about them. To learn more, you’ll have to see my next post. LOST and Prison Break did this to great effect, surely I can do the same!!

On turning, and still not quiet sure how I managed this, I tweaked my achillies. It was not immediately painful, yet with each step, the pain manifested itself into something which gave me serious food for thought. Between my old primary school, and Barnane Stud, I stopped. I reached for my iPhone and stopped miCoach. I felt my achilles, trying to reassure myself it was nothing serious. This didn’t work. It was about now I remembered my warm up routine, and how I had almost entirely neglected to complete it. I strecthed out, hoping that I could cure myself. This gave some relief. I started miCoach again, and headed for home.

The pain was such, that I was afraid to run too fast. I ran past all my neighbors houses again and came to the bottom of the road which lead to our house. Dad and Gillian were leading the horses out before their morning excercise. The horses had enjoyed success of late on the track, and I had become slightly jealous. I was the only one who didn’t ride out, this gave me something to prove.

I got back home and back to the yard, glad that I had made it in one piece. My achilles didn’t hurt as bad, but the pain still existed. I took a few seconds to grab my breath. Concious of the fact I hadn’t warmed up properly, I decided it might be an idea to warm down, so I did. When inside, I dived into the cold bath mom had prepared for me. The cold water shocked my body. I endured the initial torture, convinced that it must be doing some good.

After this morning run, I had to go to work. 5.72km in 27:06, it was a morning run, and it was going to be the first of many,….I hope