From Couch to.................Couch

(Alternative title........My Lazy Arse)

So just how did I make my journey from the relatively comfy Ikea sofa in my lounge, to a physio couch in a small corner of the local rugby academy?

On 29 January I set off on my first run. Without a clue how I was meant to go about this. The only thing I knew was that if I was intending on only going as far as I could run, then I wouldn't need to bother taking my keys as I was going to be back home before the front door could slam behind me. Deciding that this wouldn't be worth the effort of fighting my way into my sports bra, instead I mapped out what seemed a reasonable little route of just shy of 3 miles with the intention of seeing how long it took me to complete it by a mix of running and walking. Which turned out to be 36 minutes.

my usually preferred footwear

It wasn't a pleasant 36 minutes by any stretch of the imagination, that much I remember. However, rather like a lot of traumatic events, my brain seems to have blanked a lot of the memory. The only pain I remember was an ache in my calves during the walking segments that would ease off once I started running. This didn't really come as a surprise, as a veteran stiletto wearer of over 2 decades, who had only recently started wearing more "sensible" footwear I knew of the pain that came with wearing flat shoes. But happily I didn't experience any other pain. This seemed great to me, but with hindsight, what should have been more disconcerting was that post-run I only ever felt any stiffness in my calves, everything else was absolutely pain free.

my run in the snow

Three times a week for three weeks I continued to "run" my 3-mile loop, eventually getting the time down to fractionally under 33 minutes. I'd often get home feeling sick and a bit dizzy, but I was generally enjoying it, particularly the more inclement the weather was. The run that still stands out as being the most fun was during a sudden snow-storm. If you'd seen me slipping and sliding, giggling to myself and sporting a massive grin, you wouldn't have believed you were looking at a girl who only a couple of months earlier nearly burst into tears when faced with traversing a patch of compacted ice on the morning commute. That was also the first run where a proper runner (no man is going to have the stones to wear head-to-toe lycra unless he a)has the body of an adonis, or b)knows he's damn good at whatever he's doing whilst he's wearing it) gave me a nod and a smile as he passed, and I confess it gave me a nice warm feeling of belonging, admittedly to group of people too stupid to realise that a cup of tea and central heating is more sensible option than risking hypothermia or broken limbs (yes ok, I am bigging this up just a little), but still...

However, I didn't have a sense of whether or not I was progressing as I should, or if I was doing what I needed to in order to improve. And to be honest, extreme weather aside, running the same route was getting a little dull, so I decided to cut the route down to a mile, increasing it once I could run the full distance.

I carried on with this for another three weeks but now I didn't seem to be making any improvement at all. Searching the internet for inspiration I found the Couch to 5K Plan, which seemed do-able, and would provide me with an indication of the rate at which I should expect to progress.

Reverting to running in 60-second time slots was frustrating and the constant watch-checking caused a few near-misses with lamposts, hedges and wheelie bins, but the plan seemed to be working and the first time I ran for a full 8 minutes was an epiphany. It felt amazing, and it was also the first time that I really thought that 5k was not an implausible dream. The next run went equally as well and I managed to run for a full 10 minutes (and made that first mile). I finally seemed to be getting somewhere.

Then it all fell apart....

The next run went badly from the start. I struggled to run the first three minutes. And it didn't get any better, eventually, for the first time, I gave up mid-run and walked home. I'd also managed to stand on a twig and jarred my heel, although it hadn't really bothered me at the time.

The next four or five runs hurt. A lot. My right foot hurt, my right achilles felt like it was gripped in a clamp, and my calves increasingly felt like clenched fists, eventually leaving me walking like a character from a Monty Python sketch. Eventually realising (admittedly with help from a friend, and the experience of hobbling round the local park in a fog of disappointed tears, to an audience of picnicking families) that I wasn't going to be able to run off a limp, and I made an appointment with a physio.

the blue really doesn't match with
the rest of my decor

Turns out my body is more like the pupils of your average comprehensive school than the cogs of a well-oiled machine. My calves are the over-eager annoying swots, desperately waving their arms and screaming "me, me" every time the teacher asks for a volunteer. Any bit of exertion and my calves are straight in there, taking the strain, whether they should be or not. My bum is the class hottie, stands around looking pretty, never actually having to do very much because there's plenty of adoring kids around to do their homework for them. My hamstrings are the hottie's little clique, don't do a great deal and can generally be found round the back of the science block having a crafty fag.

Combined with my tendency to tilt my hips to the right, this meant that my calves, in particular my right calf and foot, were taking all the strain of my running, eventually leading up to my right achilles having the tendon equivalent of a nervous breakdown. And the prescription? No running, a variety of exercises in increasingly bizarre positions to align my hips and bum correctly, and some instructions for standing and sitting generally (because despite nearly four decades of practice it turns out I am quite rubbish at it), oh....and throw away my much-loved barefoot trainers (I've hidden them, I'm not giving up on them just yet). Fingers crossed next week will be the week he tells me I can start running again.

So why am I persevering with all this when logic tells me I'm never going to be an olympic runner and it would just be cheaper and easier to give up? Well, initially as well as being a cheap way to stay in shape (my zumba and yoga routine had fallen apart through schedule changes), it was a means of getting out into the countyside. Years holidaying in the Lake District left me with the love of the outdoors but after splitting from the ex I found myself short of adverture companions, and whilst I enjoy walking, I feel strangely conspicuous walking in far-flung places alone - as well as it taking so damn long! With running I wouldn't have to rely on anyone else, the only person who could let me down is me (no trust issues here then!).

But during my brief months of running something changed. Now when I see a nice clear path or trail I start to feel a physical pressure in my chest and stomach - I just want to run. And feed me a bottle of wine and it doesn't matter if it's 1am and I'm wearing a short skirt and ballet pumps, I'm convinced I can run like Zola Budd...