I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto

A tornado hit Gothenburg yesterday morning and, with the exception of a brief interlude last night, the wind has been merciless since then.

I was swept away into the woods by it. The sky was heavy with clouds and the world was sepia coloured. Flags were fluttering violently against their poles, birds were flying backwards and I think I might have caught a glimpse of one of the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. I disregarded the obvious danger of getting a tree on my head and went to see a Wizard about giving me a new pair of legs.

Follow the yellow brick road

The trees provided shelter from the wind, and at times I even forgot that there was a storm outside the forest. It was very muddy; my new Kayanos were christened in several water puddles. They shall hereafter be called Dorothies. The illusion that the storm had moved on was shattered as soon as I ran on exposed ground. At one point, while running on the narrow path between a lake and a swamp, the wind hit me from two directions. AT THE SAME TIME.

When I emerged from the woods, the sun broke through the clouds and the world exploded with colour. I didn't get to see the Wizard, but I did get an invigorating hilly run.

Moonlighting as a poet

Monday morning

Oh how I'm yawning

The sky's on fire

Hope I don't tire

on my way home tonight

my legs are so light

It's not a drag,

it's in the bag.

Drained

I blame the full moon. I mean, look what it does to werewolves.

I've been tired pretty much all week. Despite this fact, I optimistically planned for a traditional Saturday long run. However, both J and I woke up early this morning, took a look at the frozen world outside the window and decided to go for a walk. I figured I could run afterwards so I put my running clothes on and we headed out to the lake.

The air was so crispy that every intake of breath was a joy. The first light had just illuminated the horizon. Autumn can be so beautiful when the sky is clear and there is no wind. The sun had just appeared behind the trees when we reached the lake, starting to warm up the forest. A thin layer of mist hung above the calm lake water.

After we rounded the lake, I was reluctant to leave the forest. Although my muscle seems to prefer even surfaces that only tarmac and city environment can offer, I still chose to run in the woods. I paid for it with exhaustion. The first 3-4 kilometres after I left J went well, but then my strength seemed to leave my body, my legs felt heavy and I ran awkwardly. Stubborn as I am, I still managed to plod all the way home, adding a total of 10 km in the cookie jar.

Tomorrow will be a rest day. Promise.

Let them eat cake

Yesterday's fiasco is but a faint memory. Today's run was a triumph. 10 mostly easy kilometres, taking detours, picking new streets to run in, flying up long, steep hills. Ok, that last one might be an exaggeration. But I did get to witness this sight:

Only speck of dirt on this perfect picture was my thigh muscle, which still hates my guts. I can assure you that the feeling is mutual. Speck of dirt is maybe the wrong description. Giant cow patty might be more like it.

And, because these 10 km put me at a calorie deficit, J surprised me with the most delicious looking chocolate cake, as a belated celebration of last Saturday's marathon. Drool.

Tough going

My head was the size of a small planet when I woke up this morning. My eyes felt swollen and ached. A cup of coffee fixed most of that, but a feeling that something is wrong persisted all through the day. Add to that the thousand knives that have been stabbing me in the stomach for over a week, and you probably have the reason why today's run home from work went as bad as it did.

I couldn't get any semblance of flow in my running. Breathing felt forced, as if I were running a lot faster than I actually was. The whole half hour it took to get home I kept wishing it felt easier, because it was such a gorgeous autumn day and my brain wanted me to keep running forever. Or at least until sundown.

I long for the day my thigh muscle shuts up and running feels easy again.

Good thing I didn't go into astrophysics

One important survival strategy during the marathon last Saturday was counting down. After the first half of the race, I started calculating how many kilometres I had left. It was very rewarding psychologically, because with each kilometre I ran, the less I had left. Compare that with counting upwards, that is how many kilometres I had accumulated in my tired legs. Had I done that, the (imagined) weight of 34, 35, 40 km would have crushed me.

I was also very optimistic. I've never been that good at maths, despite my fond, most likely false, memories of kicking ass at solving algebra equations when I was in high school. When I subtracted how many kilometres I had run from the total, I was left with a slightly wrong answer. Example: 29 km run meant I had 12 left. Was my miscalculation an unconscious effort to make the distance seem shorter, or was I too tired to count properly? Or do I simply suck at maths?

You can imagine my disappointment when I redid the calculation at 30 km and came up with the same – this time correct - answer.

Undeterred, I continued using my terrible maths skills. I tried to calculate my finishing time, a task even more complicated than subtraction. I had to take my average speed and multiply that with the amount of kilometres left, and then add that to my time so far. Advanced mathematics, suitable only for the likes of Einstein. The results were as encouraging as with my subtraction calculations. I could finish the marathon in under 4 hours 15 minutes! Then I would count again and suddenly it was hopeless to even try and get a sub 4.30. My adrenaline fuelled mind was spinning so fast, its neurons were short fusing. Then I picked up speed and managed to finish in under 4 hours and 15 minutes anyway.

Kids, always do your maths homework. You never know when you might need it.

 

In other news, I went for a morning run that was just delicious. No ache anywhere in my body, except for my thigh muscle. It was almost dawn when I left home, and a full moon was creeping down towards the horizon. Magic.

Alternative training. Well, not really.

What a beautiful morning it was. The air was so chilly that you just wanted to take really deep breaths and fill your lungs with oxygen till they burst. The sky was clear and rose-tinted near the horizon. Just beautiful.

Would it be superfluous to say that I wanted to go running? Like, duh?

But I was a good girl and rested. That's not to say I stayed indoors and ate chips all day, when the weather was so nice; first, I drove a colleague to the stable where she goes riding, because she's had an operation on her foot and can't drive. Once there I got to spend some time with horses, cats, dogs and rabbits, while my colleague caught up with her stable friends. I love animals. Except when they wake me up at 3 in the morning. Call it a selective kind of love. And I love this kind of life, in a rural environment, away from traffic and pollution and noise, surrounded by little creatures. Autumn is so much more vivid there, you just can't miss it. The smell of burning wood, the frost on the grass, the moss on the walls, the horse dung. Love it.

On our way back we saw a moose casually grazing on a field. Naturally we had to stop and take a photo.

When I dropped off my colleague, I went home and baked a Västerbottenpaj (matured cheese pie) with chanterelles. I was starving by this point. Yesterday I had to literally force myself to eat after the marathon, but today I had to force myself to stop eating my weight in food. Oh, and the pie was good, so that didn't help matters.

I'm feeling a bit peckish

So I haven't spend the morning on the sofa, like I thought I would have to do. My legs feel great, surprisingly. My thigh muscle is a bit grumpy but I don't think it's going to hold a grudge. My mood? Pretty good, thank you for asking. Still no elation, no pride. It's almost like a dream now. Did it really happen? Was it real?

Göteborg Marathon 2011

I went, I saw, I conquered. And, even though my thigh muscle never for a minute let me forget that I kept abusing it, it went so smoothly, so -do I dare say it without getting slapped by someone?- easy.

My somewhat realistic goal was just to get around. My hope was to do it in less than 4 hours 30 minutes. I didn't have a dream goal, because I didn't think anything else was realistic. I was wrong.

I started off easy, but realised immediately that the pace of 6.30 min/km that was necessary to get a 4.30 finish was just not going to happen. I never run at that pace, which makes it awkward to even try. I settled for a 6 min/km, my little-slower-than-usual long run pace. I fell behind people I thought were keeping the same speed as I did for a while, then ran past them if they slowed down. This strategy took me through the first half of the marathon. Then a lot of participants disappeared, as they were only doing half the distance.

The first half went by quickly, thanks to running into (pun not intended) several people I knew. Karin and Alexander, there as spectators, whooped and applauded enthusiastically. Hans accompanied me on his bike for a few kilometres keeping me entertained and distracted with some easy conversation. J cycled back and forth taking photos and helping me bear the weight on my shoulders. He just had to smile and I knew he was there with me.

I had now left the stadium for the second time and the stretch I'd dreaded the most was lying ahead of me. I put my earphones on. I had both fast and slow songs on my mp3 player, to help me along depending on my mood. Some real heart breakers were on first, and I was overwhelmed by emotion. I was doing it! It felt great! I was counting down kilometres and surprising myself with how few the remaining ones seemed. 15 kilometres? No problem. 13? 10? 6?? Why did I ever think that the other half would be more of a struggle than the first one?

I kept munching on my "runekakor" and washing the sticky bars down with water and coke from the stations. Which were the only places I had to walk, because I didn't want to spill coke all over my jacket. This steady intake of sugar seemed to do the trick and I never hit the infamous wall. I wasn't even close.

With a few kilometres left, an older gentleman came out of nowhere and whooshed past me. What the...?! How is this possible? This is a marathon! You're supposed to be knackered at the end of it, not pick up speed! So I did the only reasonable thing: I picked up speed too. The last three kilometres were run at 5.32, 5.20 and 5.07 respectively. Not lightning fast exactly, but fast for me.

I crossed the finish line strong, if a bit tired, with a big smile on my face. J was waiting for me, and I think he might have been even happier than I was. As soon as I stopped running, I stopped being able to move altogether. My feet hurt, my thigh hurt, my knees hurt, new previously unknown muscles hurt, but they were nothing in comparison with my shoulder that was screaming in pain. That was all fixed with a good stretch and cold shower afterwards.

So, first marathon race completed and I have the medal to prove it. But the eagerly awaited elation somehow failed to make an appearance. I wondered if it was post race numbness that was blocking my emotions, but no. Firstly because I was as lucid and present as I ever am, and secondly because, as several people have told me since the end of the race, I have done this before, just not in a race. So it wasn't a first.

Oh well. I'll just have to find a new challenge now.

Strategy

This is really happening, then. 4 hours left. My nostrils are snot-free, my stomach is calm (apart from the obligatory pre-race butterflies) and my thigh muscle is...hey, look, a Dodo!

I can do it. I can't do it. If I just concentrate on my music, I'll make it. Oh crap, I haven't done any long runs since the beginning of September. But if I just want it bad enough, I can make it happen. But what if I have to drop out? Yes I can. No I can't. Yes-I-CAN.

Allowing doubt to enter my head is the worst possible thing to do right now. Objectively speaking, my preparations could have been better. It's too late for that now, though. What I do have now is my brain. The brain that has got me through much tougher challenges, and in much tougher conditions. The brain that has helped me to keep my cool, the one that has spotted out curse words in my face, military style, to keep me going. The brain that needs this medal and the disillusionment it brings so badly, in order to move my limits a bit further.

I'm spreading my wings, but will I fly?

My mental strategy is to ignore the first half marathon. I've done the distance a million times before, I know I can do it. The race starts afterwards. Seeing as I have to run up and down the same stretch of cycle path 4 times, it will be the third time around that's going to pose the biggest problems, I believe. Leaving the stadium while a lot of half-marathoners are crossing the finish line, and probably being, if not the last, then among the last people to turn away is going to be emotionally taxing. Knowing that I have 2 more hours of running ahead of me, alone. So, I will try to draw my strength from the fact that I feel safe even with kilometres 20 to 30. Try to pretend that I haven't just run a half marathon.

After about 30 km, I will hopefully be on my way back. The notorious wall will be looming. Now I will have to focus on the fact that I'm running the last part. Eat, drink. Try to trick myself into believing that 10 km – I can do that in my sleep. Even though I don't usually do it after I've run 30 km. Remember that I've done the marathon distance twice before, in training. Ultra-style, but still.

And, throughout the race, my most powerful weapon will be visualisation. Seeing the moment I cross the finish line in my mind, the moment I throw my arms around J with the medal around my neck, my happiness, my relief, the big smile on my face. The day after, when I can call myself a marathoner.

Yes, I think I can.

Mind games

It's starting to get nerve wrecking. Is my throat sore? Is my thigh muscle playing up again? And what was that sharp pain in my stomach?

I've got my mind made up about that little event on Saturday. Whether it's the long or short version is less important (although I'm trying to convince myself that, yes, I can do the whole distance, despite that little detail that I haven't trained for it). It's happening – IF I'm healthy, IF my thigh muscle is ok, IF a meteorite doesn't strike the earth...

Need a new medal

So I'm carbo-loading. And resting. And trying to get as much sleep as I can (and failing – I'M LOOKING AT YOU, TERRIBLE LITTLE CAT MONSTERS WAKING ME UP AT 3.30 THIS MORNING – anyone wants to adopt two adorable little kitties?). And making sure my mp3 player is charged and full of motivating songs to keep me going for hours, while I'm running back and forth the same boring stretch of cycle path I've cycled and ran a million times before. And bribing people to come and cheer me on, because, Internet, even if the body is able, I don't think the mind will be. I've never run more than 31 km solo. I might start having conversations with myself, just to keep myself entertained. Alas, I'm really not that interesting to talk to. And I've heard all the jokes I know before.

I'm also trying to envision a future where I've done it. I've run 42 km and I got the medal and I'm proudly wearing it everywhere – to work, in the shower, on the beach – and I'm moving past it and towards new goals. Because that's what this is about. It's not about running the marathon in itself. I've done it before, in training. But if I really do it, and I have the medal to prove it (mostly to myself, mind you), then I might just believe I'm ready for greater things.

Escape

Yesterday was such a crazy day that the only thing I could think about was running. Preferably far away. I don't usually believe in the pseudo-psychological theory that people run because they are trying to get away from something. I'm sure some people do, but there are so many other reasons to go for a run that have nothing to do with escaping reality.

But yesterday I wanted to run away from it all. The stress. The negativity. The sense that I'm wasting my life on something that's not me. That I could be doing so much more.

Instead, J and I went climbing and my mood improved, if only for a short while. And then, when we got home, I started planning my next run.

I got up at 5 this morning, had a quick breakfast and put on my running clothes. I fished my headlamp out of the closet, checked that the batteries were still working and off I went into the woods. When I got out the door, I saw the first light on the horizon, but in the woods it'd be dark.

It was completely quiet, but for the wind in the trees and the sound of the lake water against the shore. I wondered if there were any angry elks or wild boars around. My senses were heightened by the fact that I could only see a couple of meters ahead, and that I was wearing my VFF, feeling every little stone on the soles of my feet. I was lost in an unreal landscape, familiar yet distorted, dangerous yet comforting.

I trod as lightly as I could, taking care to avoid any obstacles. My memory helped me a lot more than the light from my headlamp; somehow everything on ground level is flattened by the light, and subtle height distances disappear, making it easy to trip on stones and roots. Good thing I had run around the lake a thousand times before, knowing exactly where to step and what to avoid.

On the way back, I switched my headlamp off. It wasn't necessary. The first rays of the sun had chased the last night shadows away, turning the world orange and unfamiliar shapes into the branches and rocks I'd seen so many times. It was time to go home. Back to reality.

Gorillas in the mist

Gothenburg has been covered in a thin layer of fog for days now. It's uncanny. It makes the city seem like it is isolated from the rest of the world, an island in a sea of floating raindrops, the last shelter in a post-apocalyptic world. 

J and I set out to run Torrekullaleden, expecting the fog to be our constant companion. As soon as we got to the start of the trail, though, the fog faded away and a glorious autumn day revealed itself. It was awe inspiring; the sun warmed our skin but everything else around us (the flame-kissed trees, the silence, the absence of weekend warriors) told a different tale: It's the 1^st of October, sucker! Don't get used to this warmth, because it's not staying! 

The trail was soaked in many places, forming thick, black mud patches. Sometimes we could run around them, other times we had to balance on stones to get across them. My new Inov-8 trail shoes turned out to be unreliable on wet stones and planks, but luckily I only almost died once. But hey! Their grip was excellent on asphalt, so that's ok! Otherwise they were very comfortable to run in, and the chafing problem I'd had the first time I tested them was resolved by taping my feet.

Yep, that's the trail.

The trail crosses a ”canyon” of sorts, a stream that has carved the landscape in such a way that it is now surrounded by two slopes. It's wet. It's very wet. It's been wet every time I've run Torrekullaleden, no matter if the conditions on the rest of the trail would make the Sahara desert look like a rainforest by comparison. My foot sank in the grey goo and it was soon followed by the rest of my leg up to my knee. Oh how I laughed, finding this extremely funny and thinking that this must be no less than a ten on the coolness scale. At least until I tried to pull my foot out and found that I was stuck, the goo holding on to my leg. There was nothing around to help me pull myself up except grass and thorny bushes. I was doomed. I would have to stay there, eating mud and catching stray ants and chewing on fallen leaves to sustain myself, until the goo dried up enough in the summer to let me break through it with a stone that I will have patiently honed into a sharp instrument over the long, cold, lonely months of winter.

Then I remembered that J was there with me and asked him to give me a hand.

Here is photographic evidence of how I almost got eaten alive by a pool of goo:

This is how my shoes looked before the Incident:

From then on it was child's play. Trail gave way to forest path, taking us past familiar places and back to more civilised surroundings. The weekend warriors were there now, carefully avoiding the mud pools. I, on the other hand, would have to get hosed down before I even could go into our flat again.

A schizophrenic run

I don't usually have my mp3 player with me when I run. When I'm in the forest, I prefer to listen to the sounds of nature all around me. When I'm in the city, I want my ears to be able to warn me about potential dangers, like oncoming cars. This morning I took it with me, however, because I knew I'd be running on the pavement, near traffic but not in it. I weighed the risks and decided they weren't that great. I still managed to almost get run over twice, first by someone pulling out of their driveway and then by someone driving out from a parking lot. I swear, a lot of people driving to work in the morning resemble zombies.

On my mp3 player I had a mix of upbeat hard rock and wanna-cut-my-wrists-with-a-razor indie. The thought behind choosing the latter for a long run was to get me to run more slowly. Instead, it brought on a wave of emotions that I didn't even know I was harbouring. I went through a wide spectrum, from anger to remorse, from worrying to unexpected, almost ecstatic happiness. And finally, relief and closure.

Society is built in such a way as to distract us from thinking too much. Work, tv, junk food, shopping, all leave so little time for reflection that we often repress all those pesky feelings that bring us down. They offer an overload of visual stimuli and little meaning. They fill our eyes and our stomachs, but not our minds. Sometimes we need to open those flood gates and let these emotions wash over us.

Needless to say, I've got things on my mind. Things that my running usually gives me the opportunity to analyse and work on. Having not being able to go for a long run for such a long time, these things have been building up in my mind. They've grown and grown in secret, without me noticing. With the help of music, these thoughts were released, and over the course of my long run, were analysed and brought back to their real proportions. Now they're not that big and scary any more.

And, as a bonus, a ray of hope broke through the heavy clouds hanging over Gothenburg. 22 km, the first long run in weeks, felt easy. At some point I realised: I was running. And then I smiled. My thigh cooperated as much as it could, despite some mild annoyances now and then. In fact, it felt better and better the further I ran. It's a week and a half left to Gothenburg Marathon. Hope springs eternal.

The things I do for love

...of running, that is.

10 VFF km run today, 5 of which in blinding pain. No, not from my thigh. Thigh was very complacent and seemingly very happy indeed. No, it was my poor foot.

VFF are usually very comfortable. They are like gloves, but for feet. They're not supposed to chafe. That's why I didn't know if it was my VFF or a little stone that had found its way into my shoes that was causing this burning sensation on the inside of my left foot.

I refused to stop and find out. I kept going through the pain, because I'm hardcore like that. When I got home and took my VFF off, I saw that it was the seam in the shoe (that had probably got twisted and ended up in the wrong way when I put the shoes on) that was the culprit. And that my foot looked like it had been mauled by rabid tigers. Ok, maybe not mauled. But scratched. And maybe not by tigers. But mice. Mice, definitely. Or tiny, tiny ants. Warning for strong images (and feet. Some people hate feet):

That hurt when I showered

 And sores are not the only thing I have to put up with. I also have to put up with having our hallway filled to the brim with running shoes and my closet with running clothes. It's chaos. To my ever increasing collection of shoes I added, apart from the new Kayanos, terrain shoes extraordinaire Inov 8 Talon 212. Because I'll be running a lot more terrain if I can help it, and because I like that they're minimalistic.

I'm the Imelda Marcos of running shoes.

Aaand...action!

What a week it's been. My good friend C has been here visiting for a few days (too few), and we've had an amazing time. Catching up, laughing till our stomachs hurt, sightseeing and -of course- running filled our time together. C is a fledging runner. More important, she is willing to listen to me talking about running for what seems like hours on end. And she claims she likes it. I choose my friends very carefully. They have to be able to put up with me going on about the things I love. Poor things.

Because C is a beginner, and because of my still strained muscle, we thought we'd take it easy on our runs in the woods together. We ran when we could, walked when running got too tiresome. Even so, C impressed and inspired me so much with her determination and strength. She managed to run 5,5 kilometres in her longest run, which is an achievement of heroic proportions, one that makes me very happy. I always get inspired by runners pushing their limits, regardless of their level. More so when they're friends of mine. 

After I dropped C off at the station, very sad to see her go, I went for a run by the sea. We'd been running on the hilly paths around the lake all week, so I wanted to see how far my thigh muscle could take me on a flat surface. The strain was there, but it never hurt. Unfortunately my stomach was a different matter. About half way into my run it cramped up and I had to walk for a few minutes. When it eased up, I recommenced my running and gradually picked up some speed again. In the end I managed to run 10,5 km, which I'm very happy about. I've been confined to single digit runs for two weeks now, so it was nice to get back to running longer distances. It was like waking up from a deep slumber. Who knows. If all goes well, I might even be able to enter the Gothenburg Half Marathon in two weeks.

I need you like a drug

There is an ongoing discussion on one of Sweden's biggest running forums about how running is like a drug. I completely disagree. Running is nothing like a drug.

So what if I get the shakes when I haven't been on a run? So what if it's the only thing I can think about when I can't do it? So what if, the more I do it, the more I need it? So what if I get runner's high on it?

I can stop any time I want.

Yeah. I don't need this.

So after 5 whole days of abstinence, I couldn't wait to chose to go out for a test run. My thigh muscle has been sending me mixed signals, feeling fine when I walked, aching if I made a sudden move. I wondered how it would feel if I ran in my VFF, thus landing on my forefoot very softly.

I put on my running clothes, enjoying the sensation of synthetic fabric on my skin. It was like reuniting with a beloved old friend. I had missed my clothes. My Garmin, that faithful little dog, found some satellites. I was ready to go.

I didn't dare try my luck for more than 3 relatively flat kilometres, and for those 3 km in the chilly, sunny autumn morning, it worked really well. That's not to say that I am injury free. But the injury was almost like a discreet ghost, tapping me lightly on the shoulder. No pain. Just bliss.

I can stop any time I want.

Out of order

And I was starting to worry that my annual injury was delayed...

Picture by ctbarna

I have rested my thigh muscle for three days, which pretty much meant that I did nothing: no running, no cycling, no climbing. That is frustrating enough; I'm used to doing at least one activity per day. Pure rest days are far and in between. But to add insult to injury (pun unintended but oh so fitting), I can hardly walk. I've been limping all week, not so much because it hurts to lean on my left leg, but in an attempt to let the muscle heal faster. I thought it was working. I thought I would be able to go for a test run tonight.

Two events violently shook me out of this delusion. First, my bus trip into town yesterday. The bus driver suddenly had to brake to let an old lady cross the road, causing me (who had just gotten up from my seat to get off the bus) to stumble and put all my weight onto my left thigh. Ouch.

Then, today after work, as I was walking to the bus stop, I saw the bus just getting ready to leave. Naturally, I started running. Well, the right leg ran. The left one shot pain signals to my brain immediately. My running total for the day: 1,5 meters.

So what's the moral of the story? Well, kids, it's like this. If you make grand plans for the future, like marathons and adventures and ultras and, I don't know, just running a couple of kilometres in the park with your friend who's coming to visit in a few days, all you get is a slap in the face and a ”Ha ha!”

All dressed up and nowhere to go

Bad Mr Postman/Mrs Postman (Postwoman?) left the Wiggle package containing my new Kayanos outside our flat. He/she didn't bother knocking on the door. I would have opened, had he/she done that. Instead they were left to their fate on the cold staircase, just lying there for any passing shoe thief to grab. Luckily, J found them first.

Look at them trembling with fear. Poor babies.

It's the same model as my old Kayanos, but a much better colour. They're, of course, still white and clean. But I don't expect that to last long. Just let me get over this pesky injury first and soon enough they too will turn a nice shade of brown. I only seem to own brown running shoes these days.

Determination or stupidity?

There's a blurry line between them. And I almost crossed it today. J and I had this brilliant idea to run Torrekullaleden today. Yep, the day after Risveden. It wouldn't have been a problem, as I didn't feel particularly tired this morning after the race, if it hadn't been for one tiny detail: that little muscle on the front side of my left leg.

It all started, I suspect, with my plantar fasciitis, which set off a string of minor complaints in my legs. Let me explain: to compensate for the PF pain in my left foot, I overused my right leg. This resulted in a complaint on the back side of the thigh. Then, to compensate for that complaint, and with my PF as good as gone, I leaned on my left leg for support, causing a strain in my left thigh muscle. It's just my theory, but I think it makes sense.

I'm not sure exactly when the left thigh muscle stopped liking running, but I think pushing on for 32 km last Saturday, even though my whole body just wanted to crawl into a ball and go to sleep, might have had something to do with it (again: determination or stupidity?). Running 17,7 km terrain yesterday didn't help. It certainly wouldn't help going out for another long terrain run today. So after 3 km of alternating running and walking, and just before we left the forest path for the Torrekulla trail, I threw in the towel, said goodbye and good luck to J and headed home.

A friend of mine once said: no one ever died of a little poison. Not of a little muscle complaint either. Right?

I've never had to give up on a run before. I've cut sessions short, I've taken it easy, changed my plans, but I've never abandoned a plan completely. But, although I was very disappointed (running this trail with J has been on the cards for ages), it was the right decision to make and I knew it. I jogged home pretty much on one leg, because it felt better than walking, and managed to add another 10 km to this week's total.

I don't think it's anything serious. It doesn't hurt; rather it feels like the muscle, or a tendon, is dislocated. Hard to explain, but it just feels uncomfortable. I'm resting both tomorrow and on Tuesday, and see how it goes from there.

Risveden terräng

Where to start...why not start at the end?

Mud. And a very generous goodie bag.

So, it was muddy. And wet. And steep at places. And very, very slippery at others. There were roots, stones, water puddles and mud. Mud everywhere. There were some short bits where you could actually run. Forest roads and such. But the toughest and longest part was the terrain part. Singletrack mostly.

At the top of the infamous wall. Yes, I walked.

I consider it a personal triumph that I not once landed on my butt. I slipped on one occasion, which caused me to wobble, but I regained my balance quite quickly. Others (I assume by the screams that I heard from time to time) weren't so lucky. They probably got more mud to wash off than I did.

Avoiding the mud was a futile pursuit. To do so you would have to not only NOT enter the race, but avoid being anywhere near the race. So after a while I stopped trying to run around the mud pits and run through them. I was already covered in the gooey stuff from the knee down anyway, so why fight it. Release your inner pig.

One of the shorter easy parts. Looks like a highway by comparison

My Kayanos helped me to stay on my feet, but, really, a terrain shoe would have been so much better. If this terrain running malarkey is to become a habit, I might have to invest in a pair. Small price to pay in order to experience something so unbelievably fun, so tough, so demanding, so obviously right and good for you.

17,7 km were run at an average of 6:09 min/km, with a couple of sub-5 min/km kilometres, way faster than I had dared dream of. It was a very well organised race, with glad volunteers and a fantastic environment. I liked the fact that there were ”only” 550 participants. Big races tend to shift the focus from what you're actually doing to what you're going to tell your work buddies at the cooler on Monday. They become something to brag about, one item to check off your list, instead of an experience. This was more my style. Local, fun, well organized.

An hour before the start. It got busier later.

Western Sweden's toughest and steepest terrain race

My Trail Runner magazine finally arrived the other day, just in time to give me the final push I needed to get off my arse and make a decision. It was so full of inspirational trail photos and stories that I couldn't resist entering Risveden Terräng any more. Besides, I need to quench my thirst for trail. My heart is aching for the mountains. Since there are no mountains around here, forest trails are the next best thing.

Having missed the deadline, I'll have to enter the race (and pay the higher price) once I get there, but right now I'm so excited about it that I wouldn't miss it for the world. The organizers are promising that the trail (that had apparently become not so much a trail as a small river after the last week's heavy rains) has dried up a bit. It is, of course, not mud free. But maybe I won't have to bring my swimming gear after all.

Apart from the prospect of finishing the race with mud up to my ears, other things to look forward to include 22 hills, one of which nicknamed ”the wall” (no climbing required. Or is there?) and amazing vistas over lakes and forests. Oh, and the route being 17,7 km long. It's not going to be easy; I have been too lax about my terrain training and there are definitely not enough hill kilometres in these old legs of mine. But what better way to get some trail running in than, you know, actually running trails?

Shaman is a happy little pig

After Saturday's less than successful run in the woods, I felt disheartened. The dip in my strength came after just 7 km and every hill was a struggle. I read this as a message that I had neglected my hill and terrain sessions lately, and had ended up in tarmac rut hell. I can run far if the ground is flat and even – but so what? The real test is terrain.

Dare to leave tarmac behind!

So I chose to run a hilly round in the forest this morning. As soon as I left the flat, I was stricken by the contrast between last Sunday and today: Sunday was a sunny and warm late-summer day. Today is a windy, rainy autumn day. The leaves have started turning orange and a lot of trees have dropped a considerable amount of their foliage.

Summer is over. Well, at least the colours are pretty.

When I entered the woods, the already dark sky disappeared behind the pine-and-birch canopy and I found myself in a landscape at dusk, although the sun was up – somewhere behind the clouds. I smiled when I saw that the lamps were on around the path. I dreamed of lazy evening sessions in the dark forest with my headlamp on. 

Cozy.

I left the main path and turned right on a lesser path that doesn't see as much traffic. It was wet, but I could easily avoid the worst puddles by running on the grass on the side. Soon, however, I came to a puddle that can only be described accurately as a minor lake. And it was only a little taste of the waterfall to come.

An appetizer. The main course was lake Loch Ness, monster and all (the monster being the mud that tried to eat up my shoes)

This time I couldn't avoid getting my feet wet. My shoes squished as I ran on, and it wasn't long before I stopped caring. The trail was no trail any longer. It was a river. The last few days' rain had made little streams overflow onto the paths, eroding them and creating little canyons.

Once I let go of my ”fear” of puddles, I had a blast. I ran straight through them, the water sometimes being ankle deep. My feet couldn't possibly get any wetter, my shoes hardly any dirtier. Inhaling the oxygen-rich air only made the experience better. But mother nature had one last surprise in stock. The light drizzle that had accompanied me since I left home suddenly turned into a monsoon downpour that soaked me to the bone within seconds. I burst out laughing then, the only living things around to witness this momentary lapse of sanity being birds, and they weren't likely to spill my secret. It was heaven.

Good girls go to heaven. Bad girls go to the woods and get their shoes all dirty.

16 wonderful, wet kilometres later I was home, filthy but happy. The hot shower I took afterwards was the best one I had ever had. The hot tea I drank was the tastiest one ever. My self-esteem was restored. This is happiness. This is life.

(Have a look at the new content I have added under ”why I run”)

Recovery

What do you do when your thigh muscles are so strained that you can't walk down the stairs? Why, you go for a run of course!

Gothenburg is enjoying what is probably the last day of summer, with 25 degrees and sunshine. How could I just stay home and rest? Besides, my logbook informed me that I was a mere 3 km away from having run 60 km this week. Good weather and a nice, even km total: excellent motivators to put on your VFF and head out for a recovery run.

I had to get out there before summer gives way to autumn

Surprisingly, it was easier than I thought. I even ran up a 300-metre hill without any lactic acid aggravating my thighs. The 60 km limit was crossed and I was happy. To top it all off, we went climbing afterwards, where I told J I'd take it easy. Sure. It's been months since it felt so easy climbing a 6B.

Yesterday's self-esteem killing session was replaced by two back-to-back successful ones, leaving me once again confident. No matter that my thighs hate me right now.

You gotta fight for your right to party

Some days running 30+ km feels easy. Today was not one of those days.

It all started last night when I, in preparation for my planned 35 km, went to bed early to make up for the week's sleep deficit. I put on my earplugs and relaxed. Not a second later, our neighbour (whose living room is on the other side of our bedroom wall) started blasting music. Bad music. Having the earplugs on made no difference; so loud was the music that I could hear the words of the songs.

I thought: it's Friday night. It's ok to have a party. I thought: J has talked to him about this before, he'll turn down the volume soon. I also thought: I hope his stereo spontaneously combusts. He has parties every other week.

After two hours of twisting and turning in bed trying in vain to fight the murderous thoughts that plagued my tired brain, I gave up and went to knock on his door.

Me: Hi! Could you please turn down the music? It's so loud that I can hear it despite the fact that I have earplugs on.

Sherlock: Aha! Are you going to sleep?

No, I'm not going to sleep. But loud music makes the voices in my head angry.

He agreed to turn down the music, but it made little difference. I could hear it anyway. So I spent the night on the sofa. On the very uncomfortable sofa. Where I woke up less than 6 hours later with a stiff neck, when the morning light found its way into the living room.

So maybe I wasn't that well rested when I joined the group for a long run with the ambition to run home afterwards. It might also be the case that today's lousy performance was a result of a low carb week. Or that my Camelbak tube suddenly stopped working and I couldn't drink any water. Or that last week's cold is still lingering. Or that the route was very hilly. Or that I was simply having a bad day.

The first 7 km went well. I talked to people, climbed up hills energetically, even jumped over stones and fallen branches. Then something happened and I found myself walking up hills more and more, the mere thought of running them making my thigh muscles ache. Nonetheless, I never once considered throwing in the towel and taking the bus home.

After I left the group, I had to stop and walk several times, stretching, drinking water (after I figured out what was wrong with my Camelbak and fixed it) and texting J complaining about how tough it was. Nuts and bolts started falling off, hips and knees begged for mercy, but still I went on. After all, no one ever got better by sitting on their arse. I have to fight for it if I want to get better. And boy did I fight today. For 32 km.

Running - a provocative activity apparently

A colleague at work reacted this morning when I told her that J had driven me to work.

”Good. I get a guilty conscience when I see you running 5 km to work at 7 in the morning”

I get such delightful comments from time to time. Another favourite is:

”I get tired just looking at you run”

Somehow I fail to see the humour (?) or good will (?) in these comments. I understand that, for some people, the very thought of exercise makes them want to hide under their bed covers. I used to be one of those people. Maybe it has something to do with gym class at school? I don't know. But I got over it. It took determination, it took inspiration, it took getting over injuries and illnesses and juggling training with work and personal life, but I got over it. It was a tough journey at times, when icy rain whipped my face and wintry wind turned my eyelashes into icicles, or when the blistering Mediterranean sun threatened to cook my brain in my scull, but I got over it. And now I can run 5 km and think of it as a warm-up, whereas some years ago the distance loomed over me like an enormous shadow.

So, if I could do it, so can you. Are you healthy and whole? Are you willing? Then there are no excuses. Just get out there and do it. Set your own goals and reach for the stars. Otherwise, quit it with the silly comments. I've already paid my dues.