Update + Cannonball read #24: The Long Earth by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter

Hi everyone! I have been buried under a pile of fan mail, each mail demanding to know when I'm finally going to update my blog. If by "fan" you mean my dad, and by "pile of mail" you mean the message he sent me this morning wondering why I hadn't written anything about running in a while.

So, yeah! Update! Knee is doing fine. Foot is not doing fine. After one of the most wonderful runs ever a couple of days ago, 19 km of both city streets and forest paths, I came home and immediately started limping. The pain is on the top side of my foot and feels kind of like when your shoe laces are too tight. If only it were that simple to fix. Too bad my VFF don't have shoe laces. Too bad it hurts even when I don't have any shoes on.

It would be easy to blame running for it. After all, I've made enormous progress the last couple of weeks, maybe too much, too soon. But I think that the blame might lie within landing too hard on the floor at some point while Body Combating last Sunday. I remember feeling pain in my foot then, but I was able to run both last Monday and Wednesday without feeling anything. 

So, here we are. On the bench. Again. I'm treating the foot with some diclofenac gel and it's already much better than yesterday, so I don't expect this to last more than a few days. Patience. A virtue that I've mastered to perfection, at least when it comes to running.

Apart from studying and limping, I've been spending my time reading. And here comes Cannonball read review #24 (we're almost there): The long earth, by Terry Pratchett and Stephen Baxter.

Terry Pratchett has been so successful in writing the numerous Discworld novels that he finds himself in a predicament: people either expect him to be just as funny in his other novels, or they expect him to do something completely different. Unfortunately, in this collaboration with Stephen Baxter for the book ”The Long Earth” he lands somewhere between these two. Not funny in comparison with Discworld, too pratchett-y to be different.

The Long Earth is a fantasy/science fiction novel about parallel universes. One day people discover that they can ”step” between worlds using a strange potato-based contraption. This opens up a lot of possibilities, at the same time as it creates a lot of problems. The book explores all those issues through the eyes of Joshua, a saviour kind of guy who was raised by Harley-riding nuns, and who travels through these universes in the belly of a Zeppelin controlled by the robotic reincarnation of a Tibetan motorcycle repairman.

I'll give you a minute to re-read that last sentence, shall I?

See the pratchettness of it yet? The quirk? The philosophical questions it raises? But there is one pratchettian component missing: the humour. And that's where I think Pratchett has dug a hole for himself. He's so good at what he does best, ie the Discworld novels, that a lot of people – myself included- expect him to keep doing exactly that. As soon as he strays from the formula and aims for something more ”serious”, like he did with ”Nation”, for instance, he's doomed. People will make comparisons, and his non-Discworld offerings will be lacking, because they're not Discworld. Oh, and because they're not as good. Pratchett is best when he's funny.

But say that you somehow manage to put the comparisons aside, and judge the book as is. Pretend that it was written by an unknown author. The book is still lacking, despite the very promising premise. It drags on, until the last 50 pages or so when it suddenly picks up pace and becomes really, really interesting, only to leave you hanging. No, really. The end felt like a cliffhanger, and I don't know if it was intentional and they are planning a sequel (probably) but it seemed like the book would have benefited by getting rid of maybe 200 or so pages about what came before and telling us what comes after instead.

Stephen Baxter, then? I mean, his name is on the book cover. Well, I wasn't able to ”see” his contributions to this novel as much as sir Terry's. But then again, I haven't read that many of his books that I can easily recognise his voice, as I do with Pratchett's.

In the end, I think the book has trouble finding its audience. It's not kid-friendly (because of the swearing) but not adult, either (too....lightweight). Will I read the sequel? You bet. I'll read whatever sir Terry throws at me. Even if he throws me crumbs. Don't judge me! They taste a bit like the cake they came from.

Where the streets have no name

(Warning: Long read!)

I started running around the time mammoths made Earth a cosier place with their thick woolly fur. I ran for days and nights, over fields and mountains, in rain and in sunshine. It wasn't supposed to be quite so long, this particular long run. The flu had been circling me like a vulture for a week. The last thing I wanted was to overdo it and die, providing it with an easy meal.

I had studied several maps to make sure I didn't get lost. I even took a picture of the map on my computer screen with my phone. They tell me you can use the GPS on your phone together with online maps these days, so that you don't get lost? WHAT KIND OF SORCERY IS THIS?

I was on familiar grounds for the first couple of kilometres. An easy upwards slope through the woods, with the sun warming my face despite my breath fogging up the cold air in front of me. And there it was! My motivation! I knew a long run would fix that. I was having a blast already.

Then suddenly I was on the moon. A grey landscape opened up in front of me. Big heaps of gravel surrounded me. Signs pointed to the ”food heap” and ”asphalt heap” and monstrous lorries carried dirt and emptied it, forming even more heaps. It was surreal. I ran around trying to find the exit like a mouse in a maze but all I saw was trees. Until I employed my typically underused brains to figure out that the lorries had to be coming from somewhere. Bingo: a road that led away from this infernal trap.

One small step for man...

I followed this road down to a motorway. I knew where I was, and strangely enough it was exactly where I was supposed to be. I crossed the motorway to a dirt road on the other side and found myself once again surrounded by trees. A few houses reminded me I wasn't so far from civilisation. According to the map, the dirt road would soon end and I would be able to continue on a trail. 

So far so good!

 

Hang on. That can't be it...

Kind of looks like a trail...if trails were only one metre long.

Dead end. No trail. I ran back a few hundred meters, thinking that I must have run past it, nothing. The map had lied! I doubled back to the motorway, because I thought I'd seen a path along it.

This looked like a path. But it wasn't. Yet another dead end.

With a couple of unplanned kilometres extra in my Garmin, I hit the motorway. I had seen a sign pointing to a golf course earlier, which -according to my RELIABLE map, yes I'm being ironic- could provide an alternative route to where I was hoping to end up. I probably don't have to tell you that running on the hard shoulder of a 90 km/h motorway is a hairy experience, despite the fact that Swedish drivers will kindly leave a good 3-4 meter margin when they overtake you. Thankfully I only had 400-500 metres before I reached the country road that would take me to the golf course. It was a fast 400-500 metres.

But just because I knew where I was didn't mean I knew where I was going. Several dirt roads lay before me, some cutting right through the golf course, others going around it. I was unsure: which road would lead me to E4, which had become my reference point for this whole adventure? I picked the road that seemed to have seen the most action, but which worryingly enough took me far away from the golf course. It was a lovely road, in the shadow of fir trees. On my left there was a path and a sign pointing to "Djuptjärn". I would later find out that this is where I would have ended up if I had found the trail I had been looking for, cutting my run by as much as 4 km. 

I was now by the E4, had found my bearings and was faced with a dilemma. I could run to the left and back to the city or follow through with my original plan and run in the opposite direction. I had already covered almost 12 km, so the wise thing to do would have been to run back. So I ran on instead. Because if I didn't do stupid things, I wouldn't be the adorable little idiot that I am.

I had found a good rhythm and was enjoying this immensely. It probably sounds boring to most people, but an open, straight road ahead with hay fields on each side has a hypnotising effect that lulls me into a meditative state. It's a shame that I, once again, didn't know where I was and had to keep stopping to look at the map. A lot of good that did me. The streets here had no names, so there was no way of finding out exactly which street I was running past now.

I was running further and further away. But hey. If people never got lost, Columbus would never have discovered America, and then we wouldn't have had Justin Bieber. My safety net, J, was at work and I didn't want to have to call him and ask him to come and pick me up in the middle of nowhere. So I kept running, excited yet apprehensive at the same time. Just how far would I have to run before I started turning back? Distances on the map of my tiny phone screen seemed a lot shorter than in reality. Strange.

A long, straight dirt road lay to my left. Finally, something I recognised from the map. This road would take me to a cycle path, which would in turn take me all the way back to town. It was about time. I had run 18 km when I got to the cycle path. And now I was back on familiar grounds. I had run here before, just a couple of hundred meters from the river.

I wished I'd brought my camera, and not for the first time.

A headwind did its best to tire me out. Psychologically I felt deflated after the joy of discovery and was looking forward to a warm cup of tea back home. My body started sending the first signals that it, too, was looking forward to getting home and maybe standing in the hot shower for an hour or a day. My chest was aching in a way I've learned to recognise and which I usually associate with bad posture or inhaling too much cold air, and, since the air wasn't that cold, I suspected that I was too tired to run with good technique.

The city started coming into view, and I had never before been so happy to see the river and the bridges. My feet were on fire. Remember the sores I got by some seam in my VFF about a month ago? I have been wearing socks since then, something that is a great solution for sores but not so much for blisters. I kept telling myself I'd walk the last couple of kilometres. But walking is so, how should I put it? BORING. Onwards I ran, and it felt like I had been running forever. But as much as I love spending my days running, I was hungry, thirsty and tired.

27 km had taken me on a round trip around the south part of Skellefteå, on gravel, dirt and tarmac, through forests, along fields and past little red cabins. The rice porridge I ate later had never tasted better, the orange juice had never quenched my thirst more.

Dude, where is my motivation?

If they tell you that studying is easier than working, that it leaves you lots of free time, that it helps you stay flexible, THEY'RE LYING. A course at 25% means a theoretical equivalent of 10 hours of work per week, three such courses 30 hours. So why does it feel like I'm working full time?

Still, I'm loving every single course I'm taking this semester, warts and all. Each one of them is extremely interesting and fun, although I still haven't figured out how to distribute my time so that I do all of them justice. One day I'm completely focused on photography. Next day I'm engrossed by sports psychology. The third day I've already forgotten everything I'm supposed to have learned. Goldfish memory – making students miserable since 5000 BC.

It's funny how running seems like such a great prospect the evening before, when I've finally put my books down. But when it was actually time to go running after a photo manipulation / essay writing marathon earlier today, I was reluctant. The weather was not lifting a finger to motivate me. Dark clouds floated lazily in the sky and tiny seed pods from the trees danced in the wind, reflecting the warm autumn light when the sun managed to break through the clouds. Actually, it doesn't sound that bad when I put it in writing. Funny. Maybe the weather wasn't the problem after all. Maybe I was just more motivated to finish up the essay.

This horrible weather was the cause for some ugly rainbows, too. Bleh. Rainbows. Just as bad as unicorns and puppies.

I am remarkably well-disciplined when it comes to running, though, a self discipline that I wish would wash off on other areas of my life (*ahem* cooking *cough* doing the dishes *ahem*). I tried to feel excited about it. Tried to remember the days when I wasn't allowed to go running because of my knee. Tried to think about how fun it would be to run on new grounds. Nothing worked. I just had to do it.

Of course, I managed to pick this particular route on this particular day. I wanted to see what the local running track in the woods looked like. It looked like a torture chamber. Up it went, up until I was hallucinating I was climbing Everest, until my eyes watered and my throat was sore with the effort of finding some oxygen to inhale. Everyone knows oxygen levels are low on Everest.

I persevered and was rewarded with the ground levelling out. I filled my lungs with air, caught my breath and promptly took the wrong turn, a horse track leading me up yet another mountain. But I was spent. I had to take a walking break. When I reached the peak, I resumed running and it was all downhill from there. Strangely enough, running got easier after that initial high altitude shock, so much easier that I took a detour by the river to collect the final couple of kilometres that would bring me up to an even 10K.

I need to scout a route that will capture my imagination. And not just any route: a long run route. Now that I'm up and running longer distances again, there is no point in holding back. I need to expand my horizons and find my motivation. Hopefully on flat ground.

Cannonball read #23: Titan by Stephen Baxter

It's a mystery. I enjoy most science fiction films I watch, most books I read, yet I never actively seek science fiction books out to read. This particular book, Stephen Baxter's Titan, was in my bookcase for years before I finally picked it up, reading the summary on the back cover and trying to remember if I'd read it. A sticker on the front told me I had bought it on sale, but I had no recollection of it. This didn't seem like a promising start.

Half an hour into the book, I was ready to put it down again. Details upon details of spaceships and how they work, jargon that might as well be another language, and science. Lots of it. I was wondering when the story was going to begin. But, paradoxically, despite the book balancing precariously on the edge between good story-telling and Space Flight for Dummies, Baxter slowly but surely drew me in.

Titan is the story of a manned mission to the titular moon of Saturn. Five astronauts make their way through years and unfathomable empty spaces to what they hope will become a new frontier for mankind, at the same time as Earth undergoes a catastrophic crisis. It is a journey fuelled by curiosity, that basic human thirst for knowledge and, in the end, for finding out what comes next. Are we alone in the universe? And – something that is perhaps implied, but never openly discussed – what happens when we die?

The aforementioned details that, early on, threatened to bog down the novel, prove to be the catalyst for its success. They are precisely what turned the astronauts' bland journey to the outer reaches of our solar system to riveting fiction. They spoke to my own inner curiosity about how people would survive such a journey, both mentally and physically. I felt what the astronauts felt: their boredom, their detachment, their fears and hopes. My only minor complaint is that I never cared for the characters, never rooted for them other than that I wished they'd survive so I could follow them on their journey. Their personalities are almost interchangeable as soon as one strays from their job descriptions, and that makes it hard for the reader to find someone to identify with. We identify with the idea of them instead, that they represent mankind. But maybe that was the point? That we are all flawed and ultimately as boring as these five?

Titan is not a book about hope, at least not if you honestly believe that we are the masters of the universe. Yet it is not a book about despair, either. It is a book that explores what it is that gives meaning to our existence and that reminds us how small and insignificant we are as soon as we've left the gravity boundaries of our home planet.

Kraftjoggen

A great way to spend a sunny autumn day is by running with more than a hundred others in the woods, wouldn't you agree? Not that I got to see much of my surroundings while I tried to avoid breaking my leg on the uneven, stone-littered terrain between Skellefteå and Skelleftehamn.

Kraftjoggen is a 20 km race that was organised for the first time this year. The idea is that, together with its sister races Krafttrampen (mountain bike) and Kraftloppet (Nordic skiing), it will give people the opportunity of doing a ”classic” (similar to Svensk Klassiker, for which you have to complete 4 races in 4 different sports within a year to qualify). It was a well-organised event that I'm sure I'll participate in again.

Around 150 runners gathered behind the starting line. Fifty meters later we encountered the first and worst hill of the whole race. Those who had warmed up before the race had nothing to worry about. Despite my vigorous 1 minute warm-up, I still managed to get some lactic acid dangerously close to my thigh muscles. Thankfully it was all downhill from there. Or at least flat. With some very gentle slopes to break the monotony. An easy course.

Or so I thought, until we hit the first real terrain bit. Upwards the single track went, and my steps got shorter, as my eyes worked overtime to spot all stones that threatened to cause me to twist my ankle and my brain tried to figure out the route promising the least risk for injury. I've said it before: VFF are not ideal for terrain. My KSO are not good on slippery surfaces. But I wouldn't change them for the world.

An old photo, because I didn't take any during the race, but very similar surroundings

I took a short walking break after 10 km, not because my knee complained but because I thought it to be the wise thing to do. It disrupted my flow, but luckily it coincided with the beginning of an easy part of the race on tarmac, so I was able to pick up some speed again soon and even run past some of the others. To think that I was worried before the race that I'd end up being last; that my knee wouldn't hold, or that my strength would betray me. Coming back from an injury that caused me to take it easy for 6 months meant that the only thing I had dared hope for was to complete the race, but here I was, running strong.

People had come out to see us run, and they were enthusiastic in their support, lifting our spirits. Before I knew it, there were only a couple of kilometres left, and my fear that I would run out of steam never came true. Instead I increased my speed a little more and passed a couple of runners. I felt great. I was running fast, by my standards, but it never felt so hard that I couldn't keep it up. I was in control. As I ran past the finish line, I raised my hands to thank the volunteers that cheered me on.

Do I dare say it? Do I dare say that I'm finally back and running longer distances?

Voyager

What a terrible blogger I've been. And even more terrible blog reader. It's like, since we moved, I've stepped into a different, eerie world where blogs don't exist. I hardly spend any time on the computer any more, except to study. I do other things instead. Yesterday, for instance, I spent two hours gathering blueberries and lingonberries. Then I came home and made apple cake. It's not that I don't care what others are up to, I do. It's just that creating a life for myself here is so much fun, so overwhelming, so different, that I haven't found my balance yet.

Between studying for three different courses and pretending to be Martha Stewart (except the prison part. I'm not doing that. I lack the upper body strength for prison), I've been going for runs. Skellefteå has its own version of Skatås called Vitberget (ie the White Mountain, a Tolkien-ish name that makes me think Gandalf lives there or something. Also, something of an exaggeration. It's more like a hill). J and I found a trail there so narrow you could just about fit two ants in it, which sent our pulses through the roof while we negotiated stone blocks and fallen trees for 5 kilometres. Otherwise, the river area is a great one to run fast in: relatively flat, mostly gravel-free and very, very pretty. I averaged sub-5 for two kilometres there the other day.

Last Sunday I joined a group at one of the local gyms for a Body Combat session. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically shadow-boxing, throwing punches and uppercuts and kicks and generally imagining that you're doing some serious damage to an imaginary opponent. I tried avoiding looking in the mirror while I did all that, or else the illusion would have been shattered as soon as I caught sight of my puny chicken arms trying to do ”damage”. I hadn't done any Body Combat in years, not since we lived in England, and I came away feeling energised. A day later, I was sore. Two days later, I couldn't move. My upper body, from my shoulder blades to the tips of my fingers, was aching so fiercely that I could hardly turn around in bed without waking up.

So I went for a run. Hey, it's worked for me before: when my muscles are sore, I flush the pain out with some increased blood circulation. It's science, people. I read that somewhere on the Internet, so it must be true.

It took me 5 km to get into some kind of flow. My legs never woke up completely, but I did pick up more speed towards the end. Now, after a hot shower, I feel much better than I did before the run, although I still suspect someone beat me unconscious some time last Sunday – I must have suffered head trauma and memory loss, that's why I don't remember it. Why else would my body hurt in such a way?

Down by the river

It took more than 16 hours to drive from Gothenburg to Skellefteå. Driving at night is nothing I would recommend. You don't notice you're sleeping until you're hugging a tree. Somehow we survived to see another day.

Högakusten bridge by night

Since arriving here last Thursday, we've been unpacking, furnishing, re-furnishing, putting up curtains and paintings, assembling furniture, buying new stuff because we threw the old stuff away and generally making a home for ourselves. This intensive working schedule paid off. I'm loving our place so far.

And what I love the most about it, at least from what I've seen in the short time we've lived here, is the fact that 300 meters from here flows the river. To the west lies a path that takes you through the woods and to a dam, which you can cross and follow a similar path back to town. Skellefteå has several bridges, allowing you to shorten or prolong your run. This path is laced with evergreens and birches, which are currently clad in their best autumn colours. J and I went for a run there the other day, on a warm late-summer evening, as the sun was slowly sinking down on the horizon.

This morning I wanted to explore what lies on the east side, towards the sea. The path by the river gave way to tarmac pavement by the road, but the monotony of this straight stretch was balanced by the rustic surroundings. Farms and fields formed pockets of civilisation in the fir forest embracing the whole city and obscured the river, which was nevertheless never more than a few hundred meters away. I ran over a bridge and then back towards town, lost in my thoughts, tired, so tired after the move and all the kilometers I had put behind me, both on my own two legs and while driving. Still, I pushed on. I wanted to test my knee, see what it was made of. I put bridge after bridge behind me and soon I was back home, with 18 more kilometers in my legs.

Life's pretty good right now.

Cannonball read #22: Slow food nation by Paolo Petrini

The message of this book is simple: try to eat good, clean, fair food. By good, Petrini means food that tastes like it should, and not the washed-out, bland doppelgangers that get transported around the globe to end up on our plates. Clean food is the kind of food that has minimal environmental impact. Fair food entails respectable working conditions for the farmers producing it and wages that match their efforts.

In this vision there is little place for monocultures and agricultural giants that bully small enterprises and cause environmental damage. Petrini stands up for the farmers and the consumers, and wants food to be more than nutrition. He wants it to be a culinary experience and he wants to preserve the cultural baggage it carries with it. Through the pages of his book he presents his vision, a global network of gastronomers (that is, farmers, cooks and consumers that share his ideals of good, clean, fair food) whose goal is to push for a new way of trading edible goods.

It is important for Petrini to point out that these gastronomers, himself included, are neither elitist nor want to revert to the previous state of things. He means rather to protect the cultural heritage associated with farmers, and to present a way of producing and consuming food that's more sustainable for our planet, a planet that is already on the brink of environmental disaster.

I am however not sure that he succeeds in convincing the reader of his intentions. His -at least initial- focus on the importance of taste in food brings to mind overweight Romans shoving all that is edible into their mouths, alternatively privileged older gentlemen that have little contact with the real world. I am definitely not convinced, as he claims, that a hungry, poor person cares so much about taste as they are about, you know, avoiding dying. As for the language he uses, it is stiff. The content, important message aside, is repetitive and tiresome. The book is plain boring.

Other authors with similar messages, for example Michael Pollan, have succeeded in capturing the reader's interest much better than Petrini. The anecdotes Petrini uses (presented to us as ”diaries”) are the most interesting parts of the book, without which it would just have been even drier and dull. And it is a shame, really; such an important message should be made available for all to read, and not just the most determined foodies, who -like me- probably don't need convincing to begin with.

The guide to successful procrastination

Take one boring thing that you have to do. Like the dishes.

Then take another thing that you have to do, that's even more boring than the first one. Like packing. By comparison, doing the dishes will seem more attractive.

Then don't bother with either one of them. Go out for a run instead.

Go, stop. Go, stop. Go, stop. This is what life is like right now. Pack a few things, then stop because you might need the rest of them. Go shopping for food, then stop and consider how much food you'll need for the few remaining days before the move. Be frantically busy for a couple of hours, then suddenly find yourself with nothing to do. I'm already a week ahead with my studies in photography and the courses don't even start until Monday.

Playing with Photoshop is a great way to pass the time. Not that this photo needed a lot of manipulation

Good thing running is so relaxing in its simplicity. Put shoes on, get out, run. Right foot, left foot. Breathe in, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. No need for time schedules, charts, lists and planning ahead.

It sounds like the most wonderful run in the world, right? It wasn't. My feet look like they've barely survived a war. The deep cuts on each foot are likely to leave a scar, but now I know how to protect them. Band-aid and toe socks reduce friction between my skin and the seams of my VFF. Tired, unresponsive legs that struggled to carry me around my usual forest round protested with every single step and didn't wake up until after 9 km, by which time I was almost home, exhausted and ready to enter a cryogenic sleep from which I didn't want to emerge until after the long trip North next Wednesday.

Easily amused

One thing there is plenty of time for while we're waiting for the movers to come and pick up our stuff next week is running. I've been toying with the idea of a long run, more or less planning it for this weekend, thinking that it should be doable if I took lots of walking breaks.

Then I got an email from Markus Stålbom inviting me and other past course participants to an interval session on Sunday. How can I say no to that?

My plans changed in a heartbeat to make room for this session. The long run was made shorter. It was also moved to today. The rain was pouring down when I left home, and my clothes were soaking wet within minutes. I had great music in my earphones and a burning desire to test my limits in my heart.

It all went so well. I took a detour on my usual road round (foot sole still sore) to make it longer. I was alone, the few people I met in considerably warmer clothes than I was, carrying colourful umbrellas. I took the seaside cycle path back. Pools of rain water covered it at places, making me splash through them like a child without wellies. Eddie Vedder's heart was breaking but mine was happy, so happy, because my knee was happy and it was raining and the sea smelled of salt and seaweed and I was running.

Then after about 9 km the pain started. I imagined how the blood soaked through my VFF and coloured the water puddles red, as the stitches inside the shoes rubbed against my skin. I tried to ignore it, then I tried to fix it, and when I couldn't fix it I tried to ignore it again. I thought about taking the shoes off and running barefoot. Thought about cutting my feet off and running on the bloody stubs, because surely that would hurt less.

I got home in agony after 15 otherwise wonderful kilometres, struggled to take my VFF off because, wet as they were, they clung on to my feet, and quietly inspected the damage inflicted on my bloody feet as my hair dripped on the floor. Then I rushed off to show J and see if he'd faint.  

Suspended animation

I bet you've all been wondering if I've fallen off the face of the Earth. No? You didn't even notice I was gone? Ehm. Ok.

I've been busy with the move and meeting friends to say goodbye, something that left me emotionally exhausted. The past three days I met up with 4 different groups of people, each dear to me for different reasons. It's been a lot of fun but very intense. So last night I went to sleep just before 11 and got up reluctantly just after 8. Time is moving at super slow speed. Now that all these goodbyes are said and only the tiresome stuff of the move remain, I wish I could fast forward this bit so that we skip over the part of packing and driving for over 16 hours across the country with two hyperventilating cats who lose control of their bowels at the mere sight of a car. But I'll have to wait another 1,5 weeks before it feels like we have a home again.

I thought a run would take care of this restlessness but I didn't really feel like it. Those who know me also know that this is a very rare occurrence, and it speaks volumes about my state of mind. I attributed my laziness to last Saturday's run, when a couple of friends, J and I ran the Torrekulla trail. My knee put up with a staggering 14 km of technical single track consisting of roots, stones, hills, and deep pools of mud that -at least on one surprising occassion- almost came up to my thighs. The walking breaks were far and in between, and -completely unintentionally, your Honour, I swear- happened to coincide with the worst slopes. I think I ran 25 minutes without a break at some point. My knee survived.

Sore muscles screamed obscenities to me as I finally convinced myself to step out the door earlier today. The plan was to run in the woods, but after a few kilometres of stones bludgeoning my left foot sole, tender from all the stones I managed to hit last Saturday, I was ready to find a nice patch of smooth, solid tarmac to run on. I took the easy way back and picked up some speed instead. At least for a while, anyway; my legs were tired and just wanted to lie down for a bit cradling a cold margarita.

What came out of this run was that I upped the ante. The running intervals went from being 5 minutes long to being 10 minutes long. My knee didn't seem to mind. Now I am very, VERY tempted to try a real long run. And I'm not as restless anymore.

10,5 + 12

I'm ready to put my feet up. 10,5 kilometres of blissful, almost effortless, remember-this-day-when-it's-raining-sideways running by a calm sea to the music of Bon Iver, the light breeze stirring up the salt smell from the water and carrying it over to me so I could soak in it, followed by 12 equally blissful yet hilly kilometres walking around a peaceful Delsjön and I think I deserved the chocolate cake slice I had at the Skatås café afterwards.

My poor toes, used to the freedom of VFF, don't like being squeezed into the relatively narrow toebox of my old Sauconys, which I used for the walk. As J and I were walking lost in thought, I smelled something burning (someone was grilling by the lake) and the first thing I suspected -I'm not even kidding- was my toes, because that's how much they hurt. I actually had to look to see if they hadn't caught fire. I know what you're thinking, has she gone mad? Well. The other day I tried to defrost my berries in the cupboard instead of the microwave. My brain hasn't been functioning properly lately. I blame the stress of the move. Or that glass of rosé I had a couple of weeks ago that killed off my last remaining brain cell. Don't worry, it was a mercy killing. It was getting awfully lonely in there.

This was probably one of the best days of summer 2012. I won't soon forget it.  

Oh happy day

Getting back to running is coming along nicely. Kind of. Yesterday I ran a total of 11 km with J, following the old true and tested recipe of running for 5 minutes, walking for one. Although I survived the continuous running for 2,5 km that Saturday's little duathlon entailed, I didn't want to challenge fate any more. I've become a coward. I'll probably never dare run without walking breaks ever again. Oh well. It suits my ultra running plans.

Part of my rehab schedule calls for squats. I upped the ante by holding a couple of 1,5 kg weights, which worked great in the beginning. But this morning, as I was doing my squats, the knee suddenly sent out a warning signal so strong that it scared me half to death. It actually hurt a little, and that hasn't happened in months. Sure, it's been stiff, but I never pushed it so far for it to hurt.

As you can imagine, that turned my mood a shade of sour whiter than yoghurt. And when your mood is already this rotten, first world problems you might otherwise not even have noticed can send you over the edge. Like, not finding a sleeveless functional top to buy for when it's this warm. And ordering the wrong dish at the Chinese restaurant. I wanted noodles. I got rice. To my defense, the menu only said ”fried with vegetables”. I assumed the noun they had missed was noodles, because the dish was right there, under all the other noodle dishes. I felt a primal scream rising from the depths of my larynx, barely contained by my lips, as I realised my mistake. My irritation turned to fury and, since I was the only one to blame for this mistake, I took it out on J.

He was happily unaware as we walked home, going on about how I should stop doing my rehab exercises and just run. I stared at him sideways but he didn't seem to notice. The only thing coming out of my mouth was groans of frustration. I didn't want to hear this now! I was too busy trying not to spontaneously combust!

After a lot of stretching and massaging with the rolling pin, all I can do now is to rest and hope for this pain to be a figment of my imagination. Because if it isn't...square one is my least favourite square of all.

Flabäck duathlon

What a wonderful, sunny day we got yesterday. It was the perfect day for me to test my boundaries. No, not those boundaries, the ones I keep testing by running further and further. No; these were mental boundaries.

A couple of friends live in this little community outside Gothenburg called Flabäck. Every year, a few people from this area gather there to participate in FIT, or Flabäck International Triathlon as they call it, probably with a good dose of winking while they say that name. There is a junior class and a duathlon class, too. There is no official timekeeping, no starting gun, no judges if you cut corners while you're swimming. Just a bunch of neighbours ”competing” against each other.

My friends invited me to this event, and since I neither could transport my bike there nor cycle the 22 km that the triathlon would entail without my knee cutting itself off from the rest of my leg and fleeing to Australia, I went for the duathlon. 250 meters swimming, 2,5 km running. The first part would be a test of my mental boundaries, the second a test for my knee.

The jetty we'd have to swim to in the distance

We floated in the water. My friend J said we could swim together, and I was thankful. I'm not a great fan of swimming in lakes. Correction: I'm not a big fan of swimming across lakes. Their water is usually murky once you leave the beach and you can't see what's underneath, if there are rocks you could cut yourself on for instance. Also, you don't see the piranhas coming. There were some teenagers in front of us, and another lady to the side, so the duathlon participant total was a staggering 7-8 people. The teenagers kicked our butt big time. The lady, too. By the time we had swum to the jetty across the lake and back, the teenagers were nowhere to be seen.

Oh well. I had survived the swimming part. I wondered why swimming always seemed to leave me breathless while running didn't. Both J and I had swum in our VFF, so we could just get out of the water and move seamlessly to the running part of the duathlon. Our support team, ie J's fiancée S, handed me my Garmin and we were off. We soon hit a patch of stone-littered single track which forced us to keep a lower pace. The conversation flowed freely and I was having a great time. I wasn't even thinking about my knee. It wasn't saying much, anyway.

The finish line for the junior triathlon. I think.

After a total of almost 24 minutes, 14.30 of which were running, we were at the lake beach slash finish line, where we got some applauds from S and the kids (and from a lady who was just there to sunbathe). I went into the lake again to cool down, and it felt wonderful. The weather, the company, this little neighbourhood event, it beat any Göteborgsvarvet for me. And the knee didn't seem to mind that it had run so far without walking breaks. And the day was not over yet.

J's focaccia. The best focaccia I've ever tasted.

While I was warming up in the sun on my friends' patio 10 minutes later, they were busy preparing dinner. We grilled, we ate, we chatted the hours away, until it was time to join some of the other neighbours for the Flängbäck festival. On a wet football field that hadn't been mowed in weeks, 50-odd people had brought foldable chairs and beer and their good mood, and sang along to Swedish summer classics that a band consisting of one guitarist, one singer and an Ipod enthusiastically and lovingly half-improvised on. Well, some of the public did not so much sing as shouted at the top of their lungs, but the intention was good, I'm sure. It was far from perfect; yet in a way it was just that.

Yep, there was dancing too

As the evening drew to its close, my friends made some hot coffee to go with the sinfully good rhubarb pie that S had baked. The sun had gone down and it was chilly. We said our goodbyes with promises to meet when J and I are in Gothenburg again. Perhaps for next year's Flabäck duathlon.

Have I mentioned that goodbyes suck?

By the skin of my teeth

Last week at work, trying to get mentally prepared for all the emotionally taxing goodbyes, hugs and well-wishing, I've been fighting the tension headache from hell. In a way I wanted it to be over and done with, because goodbyes suck, yet in another way I didn't want to have to say goodbye to any of these people, whom I've spent almost every day of the last 3 years with.

The headache reached a crescendo half an hour before I got off work for the last time yesterday. I think I might have been trying to stop myself from showing any emotions, because, once I started, then I'd collapse into child's pose (my otherwise favourite yoga pose) and have to be escorted away by the men in the white coats. So I held it together and got a headache instead. That's how neuroses start, you know. Just don't be surprised if you see me checking for the thousandth time if I locked the door, is all I'm saying.

When the traumatic experience of separation from meaningful people in my life was over and done with, I drove home completely calm. Not pain free, not yet – but I guessed that a run might help with that. I changed into my running clothes and tiptoed to the woods in my VFF.

Short update on the knee situation: I now run 5 minute intervals and it's going great. No complaints from the knee. But then again, there hasn't been a thunderstorm in days.

While I was taking one of my walking breaks, a guy jogged slowly past me. A few seconds later, it was time for me to start running again and the little devil on my left shoulder whispered in my ear that wouldn't it be fun if I caught up with him and ran past him, preferably with my thumb placed firmly on my nose and singing nah-nah-nah-NAH-nah? The little angel on my right shoulder said that it was the stupidest and most childish idea it had ever heard. I didn't want to have to argue with any of them, so I settled for keeping him in sight, staying 10 meters behind him. But then he realised I was breathing down his neck and, apparently refusing to let a woman pass him, he put in an extra gear and ran away as fast as he could, looking over his shoulder right before he disappeared around a corner.

I guess his little devil won.

The headache did not disappear immediately after my run, but so far this morning I've been pain free. It's a good thing too, as it would otherwise have put a spanner in the works of today's plans: a duathlon of sorts, with 250 meters swimming followed by 2 km running and then grilling with friends.

All we need is just a little patience

Turns out you can survive the first day of work after a long leave, especially if you have great colleagues that make you laugh. Also, despite the grey weather, feeling really tired at the end of the work day and wanting nothing more than running straight home, you can run the planned 10 km there. Miracles do happen, moreover, and the photography course you didn't think you'd get into suddenly has a place open for you.

What was slightly less successful (only time will tell just how stupid it was) was to opt for increasing the time for my running intervals by yet another minute, only 2 days after I increased it from 3 minutes to 4. I'm in a hurry to get back, that's no secret; up until this point I've been a really good girl and followed my physio's instructions to a T. But my patience is running low. I don't want to keep looking at my Garmin to make sure I don't run more than I should. I don't want to be back to square one. I don't want to feel like I'm cheating when I look at how fast I run, because I don't include the walking breaks. I just want to run like I used to. Go with the flow. Let my mind (and my body) wander.

I'm nervous. What will my knee think of this latest development? What will it think of running on tarmac after so many rounds in the forest? And how long will I have to keep looking over my shoulder before I can relax and accept that my runner's knee is gone for good?

Ugh

Shouldn't having a month off mean that you return to work afterwards with your batteries charged, full of energy and new ideas, ready to take on another whole year of it? Because right now the prospect of going back to work tomorrow, even if it is for just one week before I go on my long leave to study, just makes me want to yawn, hide under the covers and hibernate until next July. When it's time to go on holiday again.

You'd think I'd be doing everything to take advantage of this day, but instead I've been moping around, upset that my computer seems to be on its last throes. The graphic card has given up the spirit and my hard disk can't be far behind. I've been maniacally backing up everything that is of any value, and J has been helping me set up another computer to get by until we can find a more permanent solution after the move. Seriously. You don't know how computer-dependant you are until it breaks down.

To top it all off, I managed to strain my shoulder while taking my frustration out on the plank. I had done some power yoga earlier, whereupon I re-confirmed my dislike for it. I've given yoga many chances now, still nothing. No sparks flew. It's like going out on a date with a guy your mom fixed you up with. He's probably good for you but he just doesn't get your pulse going. What the yoga did do was make sure my shoulders were all warmed up and exhausted in time for the plank. 

While in the side plank position with my feet balancing precariously on the sofa, I felt how my left shoulder twisted and ended up in a strange angle. Still supporting my weight, I glanced at the watch and saw that there were 20 seconds left to this particular exercise. A smart person would have given up. A smart person would know 20 seconds more are not worth risking an injury. A smart person wouldn't end up with an abused shoulder. I'm obviously very, very stupid. Or very, very dedicated to my cause. My cause being to attain a strong core and abused shoulders.

So, yeah. Crawling into bed and not reemerging until next summer seems like a great idea.

Rude awakenings and making lemonade

I'm not going to dwell on the fact that I'd only slept for 4-5 hours before my run this morning. I'm not going to talk at all about the neighbour that decided that sleep is overrated and woke me up at 4.30 with loud music. After waking me up at 12.30, two minutes after I fell asleep, by having a shouting match with his friends on the balcony.

No! Instead I'm going to look at the bright side of the situation. Getting up so early meant that I could go for an early morning run, which I haven't done since last winter. I increased the running intervals from 3 minutes to 4 and lowered the pace, which – dare I say it out loud or will I jinx it?- worked perfectly. Seeing 4 (!) deer on my run was the icing on a very tasty cake.

There it is, right in the middle of the path

I had this perfect vision of finishing my run by the lake beach. I had taken a towel with me and figured that, at this early hour, I'd have the lake all to myself to swim in. Not so. Two guys were fishing on the jetty. I thought going for a swim right next to these guys while the rest of the lake was empty might send the wrong signals, so what's a girl to do? I ran on to find a nice cliff to sit on.

I found one just after a couple of minutes and got into the water. It was cold, but invigorating. But COLD. So I got out, changed into dry clothes and walked home. I could feel the blood returning to my extremities and my lips turning back into a more life-like colour. My mood got better.

Meep

Life feels pretty awesome right now. I'm still riding a high that started just after I survived running intervals in Åby track earlier today. It was a strange experience for me, who never runs intervals.

Maybe I should write ”intervals” instead. My rehab schedule means running in 3 minute intervals with one minute walking breaks, and today's session was no exception. I didn't plan the pace. I ran at a fast pace I could maintain for those 3 minute intervals, and today that was between 4.30 and 4.50 min/km (at least for the first few kilometers, then I went back to turtle mode). No lightning speed, exactly, but very fast for me. I fantasized about emptying a bucket of water over my head more than once. Jumping into the nearby swimming pool. Running to the near super market and sticking my head into the freezer. Drinking up all the water in the whole world. Cars stopped at the sight of my face. It was hot. 

Nerdy fun. The diagonal lines represent the walking breaks - my Garmin was paused then.

The sore on my foot, which I had forgotten to protect with a band-aid, grew more and more painful with each meter I ran, until I couldn't stand it anymore. That happened about 7,5 km into the run. So I took my VFF off and, bleeding just a liiiittle bit, joined my friend N from the group (who had been running real intervals, whooshing past me quite a few times) for some barefoot running on the grass. The sensation of being on fire was lightened by the few raindrops that fell from the sky and the soft, cool mud under my feet. Running on grass was slow going but it felt so natural, such a relief after the relatively hard track. The jury is still out on whether mud is a good antiseptic for my bleeding sore.

We celebrated a session well run by snacking on some chocolate cookies and sipping on some coffee, exchanging ideas about future runs and enjoying the endorphin buzz. Then the reality of today's run finally sinked in. I had covered over 10 km for the first time since, what, May? without any complaints from the knee. My feet might be destroyed, but my knee is fine and THAT'S WHAT MATTERS.

Energy

Exercise gives you energy. It sounds counterintuitive, but it's true. Well, unless you run, for example, a 24-hour race. Then you're probably beat. And if you run intervals. That makes you tired. And if you cycle for 50 km. ANYWAY. My point is that exercise always gives me a buzz, the kind of mental strength that I need in order to do boring stuff. Like vacuum cleaning and packing.

The plank. Crunches. Toe lifts, hip lifts, arm dips, I did a full body session and watched the sweat form like pearls on me. An intense hour without breaks that left me pumped. A shower later I felt like a new person. Love exercising. Love it.

Checkmate

I was really nervous before my run this morning. My knee has been acting up, feeling vaguely irritated and apparently kneeding (HA HA) rest. I've been following my physiotherapist's recommendations slavishly, increasing my running time slowly, my running calendar looking like a chessboard:

I couldn't decide what shoes to run in. Should I try my insoles again, to give my tendon some rest? Or should I keep running in my VFF, which were better for my runner's knee? Did it even make any difference or was it all in my head? I was becoming so paranoid at this point that I honestly started believing that my training had nothing to do with how my knee felt. No. It was the weather's fault. Thunder in the air? Discomfort in my knee. Sunshine? Knee's a go. It was just a symptom of old age rapidly approaching.

Of course that was a very convenient way to convince myself that I could still go running, and whatever happens, happens for some obscure reason that I have no control over. I mean, if there's thunder in the air, the knee will complain no matter if I run or not. This way, I can successfully shed any shred of responsibility I have over the state of my body. If only I could explain the existence of my love handles the same way.

Anyhow, I finally decided to run in my VFF, because runner's knee is in my brain a much more serious problem than a strained tendon (no, it never occurred to me to take an extra rest day – how would I keep my calendar looking like a chessboard?). I chose a route that would take me further away from home and to a different lake. I'm starting to run out of forest, you see. That's the kind of distances I'm covering now. Let's ignore the fact for a moment that I live close to a whole nature reserve I could spend a whole day running in. It's so much better for my self esteem to pretend I've outgrown my local paths.

The heavy rain had brought out a lot of stones. What used to be a gentle massage on my feet now felt more like acupuncture.

My knee was doing great. It was admiring the jungle-like scenery, waving at other runners, smiling dreamily. It didn't make a sound. My other knee...well, I'd read about people who had runner's knee on one side and when that side healed, they got it on the other side. My other knee sent me some warning signals a couple of times that I might join their leagues some time soon. Because running injury free is not challenge enough for me.

I kept my speed lower than I had the last few times and increased my run by another 3-minute interval instead, bringing the total up to 45 minutes. I am thankful I get to run at all, let alone 45 minutes, but I never for a moment let my guard down and think that I'm injury-free now. Because weather forecast says there might be thunder on Friday, and you bet my knee is going to whinge about it. But I didn't escape my run completely unscathed; the last few minutes were run in pain, thanks to a seam on the inside of my VFF rubbing against the side of my foot. I've had the same problem before, at the exact same spot. But pffft – real runners don't let a little wound scare them! So as I was taking my VFF off, I managed to jab my thumbnail in the sore. I'd like to say I did it on purpose -because I'm tough as nails, biotch! -but the sad truth is that I neither did it on purpose nor managed to stop myself from whimpering.

Resting

Resting from exercise, that is. With the exception of the plank challenge (week 7, day 1. Going strong). Because I haven't done so much resting otherwise.

I've packed some things. I've covered the holes in the wall with putty. I've mopped the floor (following the little accident one of our cats had in the living room at 6 this morning – who said you get to sleep in when you're on holiday?). Done the dishes. And I've baked.

Rosemary and sea salt focaccia was the result of my efforts. And a blister on my palm, because – who would have thought, right?- the tray is VERY F*!&ING HOT when it's just come out of the oven, especially if you expose any skin to it. Yes, really! I might have to finish that bottle of wine to forget the fact that even I, an otherwise wise creature, can sometimes make mistakes. Like sprinkling rosemary on the focaccia. I hate bloody rosemary. What's wrong with thyme and garlic? Feta cheese and olives? Sundried tomatoes and, well, feta cheese and olives?

Maybe the wine will take the edge off it.