Cannonball read #17: The Grand Design by Stephen Hawking and Leonard Mlodinow

I'm not a religious person, but I find myself getting spiritual from time to time. The Swedish mountains, a summer night sky scattered with stars, the open expanses of the ocean, all seem divine to me, because they fill my mind with questions about Life, the Universe and Everything. Questions that mankind has sought to answer since the beginning of time.

Or, hang on a second. There was no beginning of time. We can't talk about there being a beginning of time because...what was that again?

Hawking and Mlodinow's book ”The Grand Design” goes through some theories that attempt to answer some of these questions and to explain how the world works, and concludes that the M-theory is the one that holds most promise. The authors discuss religion in this context, in what I thought was a respectful manner, to make a case for why we don't need it to understand the universe. And (lemme see if I got this straight) the reason we are here to observe this specific universe is because this specific universe (only one of an infinite amount of universes) is the only one with the potential to have us, who can observe it, in it. Confused yet?

Science books are not known for being pleb-friendly. They have difficult issues to tackle, so no matter how simplified your language is, you can't explain advanced laws of physics and quantum theory to a three-year old. And that's what my level of understanding is when it comes to those things. You want to explain the Big Bang to me? Talk to me as if I were a child. Use simple words and speak s l o w l y.

Fun fact: I almost flunked chemistry in high school, physics only being a little bit more comprehensible to me. I could write a hell of an essay, though.

But I wanted to understand this book, because these things amaze me. So I kept reading, despite my eyes glazing over on more than one occasion. I think I read a whole chapter without taking in a single word. But some chapters I did understand, and loved. However, maybe the heart of the problem with this book for me (although it's definitely not the book's fault but my own expectations') is that it's less important exactly how it works; just tell me what the implications are. I don't care what the different particles are called or how they interact with each other, but I do care if it means there are infinite universes out there, or if teleportation is possible. Then I can send my cats far away, to a place where they can't wake me up in the middle of the night, and then bring them back when I'm in the mood for cuddling.

Maybe the questions are more interesting than the answers?

Pre-race jitters

Once upon a time, a better time, 21 km were the minimum distance I covered on my weekly (and sometimes biweekly) long runs. Now, the day before Göteborgsvarvet, I wonder if I'll even manage to complete the race. If my knee gives me any trouble, I'll walk. And I know it will, if I push it beyond its limits. But what if my knee hurts so much that I can't even walk?

Of course, this is a risk I have to take if I want to participate. I am aware that there is a possibility I might have to quit halfway. I am determined to do my best, but determination can only take you so far. I wouldn't be starting if I didn't think I stood a chance, but I am not willing to jeopardise my health and my legs for it.

So, two months almost to the day since the 6-hour ultra in Skövde, I'm back to square one. Can I do this? Can I finish a half-marathon? It might seem like a small achievement to the more seasoned ones among you but it will give me so much joy if I make it. It's quite humbling to be so uncertain about things I used to take for granted. A useful experience.

A busy day

Talk about never having a dull moment. I got up at 5.30 this morning, had some breakfast and then did some leg and core exercises. Then I went to work. 8 hours later I took my bike down to Frölundaborg to pick up my bib for Göteborgsvarvet. I spent some time in the fair, which had some good offers on lots of running related merchandise.

That's why I couldn't resist buying a pair of Saucony Kinvara 2, despite their blinding pink colour. I tried them on the treadmill and fell in love immediately. They weigh nothing. And they were pretty cheap: 800 Swedish crowns, down from the usual asking price of 1300.

Afterwards J and I went to one of Göteborgsvarvet's lectures. This one was by Rikard Hallgren, an ultra runner who ran the Marathon des Sables, a gruelling 240 km-long multi-stage event in the desert. The desert is the last place on earth I'd pick to run an ultra. It just doesn't appeal to me. Still, both in image and text, he made it look so cool, despite the photos of his bloody, blistery feet. A part of the lecture was about overcoming the pain the aforementioned bloody, blistery feet caused him, and the mental barriers that any ultra challenge of this magnitude poses. Inspirational.

I also ran into a few people from the group (Karin and Alexander, among others) and had a chance to chat with Niklas, one of the creators of jogg.se and companion on my very first ultra run. Talking to them made me even more excited to run on Saturday. Even if it takes me 3 hours, I'll do it.

Vår Ruset 2012 – a rant of sorts

When I was 25 or so and lived in England, right about the time the dinosaurs walked the earth, I entered my first race. It was a fun run called Race for life, the participants of which raised money for Breast Cancer Research. I was green as the first leaves of spring, and it was a daunting task to train for, and finally run, the 5 km around the city park.

I did 3 such fun runs in England, then quit running for a long time (you can read all about how I started running here and here). Yesterday's Vår Ruset brought back memories. The anticipation, the crowds, the sense that this was more like a party and less like a race. Unlike Race for Life, the money from Vår Ruset don't go to charity. Otherwise, there are many similarities. Among others, that it is a race just for women.

I ran with a friend from work, for whom this was the first race. She's good at running and takes it seriously, so we kept a pretty good pace together throughout, although I had to take a couple of walking breaks to give my knee some rest. Then I would run fast to catch up with her, zigzagging among the walkers and the joggers. Either we were too pessimistic in our own running ability when we picked the ”running” group and not the ”running fast” one to start in, or everyone else in the group was too optimistic, because moving forward was real slow going (first 500 metres took more than 4 minutes). Still, my friend and I raced each other the last hundred metres and sprinted past the finish line.

I was happy. My knee played up a bit a couple of times (hence the walking breaks) but otherwise it held much better and longer than I had expected, and there was no pain, not yesterday and not this morning (Göteborgsvarvet is a GO!). I was proud to see my friend run so well and glad that she enjoyed it so much, and hoped that she will continue to think running is fun. But the whole situation left a bad taste in my mouth.

I don't want to sound snobbish, because, after all, a fun run is how it all started for me. Maybe Vår Ruset is how it starts for a lot of these women who ran yesterday. But I personally felt out of place, and it wasn't because I was the only one wearing a Garmin or VFF as far as the eye could see, no; you don't need gadgets to be a runner. It's how the whole concept of races like this is aimed at women. At making it cosy, with picnic blankets and pink T-shirts dominating your optical field, and no pesky men around except the funny ones that put a dress and a wig on in order to be able to participate. This is girls' night out, but in spandex. And without the cocktails (or maybe I missed them?).

I bet they're men.

I overheard someone saying that she thought it was so cosy that it was just women running this. I don't know what reasons she had to say that. I don't even think I can formulate why it makes me feel so uncomfortable to hear women say that. The year is 2012 and we've supposedly come a long way from the time women weren't allowed to participate in sports, and then we go and segregate ourselves voluntarily. But I think that my biggest problem is not that it's just for women, but that the whole thing is so...sloppy. It's as if it's ok to not take it seriously, because who cares? It's just for women. No timekeeping. No official results. A very short distance (4,2 km – not even a 5K). Just cosiness, music, hanging out. And, because it's so cosy and short (and there are no competitive men around making you look bad), you don't even have to exert yourself. Don't push yourself, little girl, you might get tired!

He gets the medal. Because this was a race for women and he's a pussy-cat.

It serves a good purpose, of course. It brings women together. It gets women who otherwise might have spent the evening on the sofa to get out there and move their asses. And it was fun (and nothing wrong with that). But I just can't accept that this means that we don't have to take the whole thing seriously. The cynic in me screams ”marketing ploy” and weeps for the 290 Swedish crowns I paid that went to who knows whose pockets just for some light entertainment, when what I'd really hoped for was a race. In other words, I have outgrown this. Bring me tjejmarathon instead, a real ultra-challenge for women who don't just want the cosiness factor, for women who aren't afraid to test their limits, a serious race. Or at least lemme see a race just for men who want to jog around 4 km, have a picnic afterwards and gossip with their friends. What's that? Is there no market for it?! Come on, girls, you can do better than this. Crave more from race organisers. Take yourselves seriously. Don't settle for cosy.

At least Race for Life was for charity.

(Psst, you can follow me on bloglovin now)

Shhh...

...my runner's knee is sleeping. Don't wake it up. I have some vague plans to torture it tomorrow and it mustn't find out until I'm standing at the starting line.

My physiotherapist told me to take the knee for a 5-6km test before Göteborgsvarvet, to see if it holds, so to speak. So now you know what my plan for tomorrow is. Vårruset. Not usually my kind of race, but hey, why not. I'll put on my VFF and see it as a technique training session. It's not 100% decided yet of course. We'll see if the knee is in as good a mood tomorrow morning as it is today.

My VFF, in a very different environment than tomorrow's race

Q&A

I ran a total of 2,5 km yesterday (fast, in 2 minute-intervals with 1-minute walks in between) without the slightest complaint from my knee. Shhh, don't say it out loud now because you might jinx it...

Katarina, that amazing photographer, honoured me the other day by picking me to answer a few questions. Here are my answers to what I hope is a good translation of her questions:

1. Name a blog that inspires you in your own blogging.

The blogs I read don't inspire me to write, as such (my runs do that), but they do inspire me to do other things. Katarina's blog, for instance, inspires me to take more and better photos. Ultra runner Dakota Jones' blog inspires me to run trails. Miranda's blog inspires me to run far.

2. If you got to take ONE exercise gadget with you on a desert island, what would it be?

Is it a big island? My Garmin. Is it a tiny one? My sunglasses!

3. What gives you a bad conscience?

If I've been unfair to someone.

4. If you didn't blog about what you do today – what would you blog about?

Photography maybe – if I were better at it, that is. Or baking.

5. What irritates you?

Bigotry. It makes me furious. And bad drivers.

6. Which ice-cream is best?

Any that's made from natural ingredients. When it comes to flavour, I am partial to chocolate and stracciatella.

7. Where would you like to go on holiday?

Ideal destinations: Colorado, Canada, Japan, New Zealand.

8. Is there a sport you'd like to try that you're not practising today?

I played a little squash back when I was a student. I'd love to take that up again. Sadly, I don't know anyone here who plays it. I've always loved dancing but haven't done it in ages.

9. Which is your favourite training shoe?

My VFF. Mirage have grown on me, too.

10. What does training happiness mean for you?

Running brings me close to nature and takes me places I would otherwise have missed. It makes me feel strong and healthy.

There you have it! So in true blogging fashion I'm sending these questions onwards to a couple of other bloggers: Karin, Invisible world and Mia.

Cannonball Read #16: The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt

Cowboys, Indians, the hunt for gold, prostitutes. All the necessary elements for a Western are present in deWitt's book ”The Sisters Brothers”. A Western in book form, you ask? Well, it worked for me, and I'm not even a Western fan.

Eli and Charlie, a.k.a. the Sisters brothers, are two guns for hire. Their current mission is to find Herman Kermit Warm, who allegedly stole money from the brothers' employer, the Commodore. Their journey to find him is, predictably, littered with adventures and mishaps, and life-transforming realisations.

It was an amusing, easy read that would make for a fun film if it were directed by, say, the Coen brothers. What felt a bit hollow for me was that the aforementioned life-transforming realisations seemed to come out of nowhere. There is Eli's desire to find a woman to protect and love; but there is also their callousness when it comes to shooting people. No remorse, no sadness, no meaningful insights that this is wrong. There is no natural progression in the characters, no growing-up. For that reason, the resolution of the book felt unmotivated and anticlimactic.

Despite this flaw, I liked the book and had a great time reading it. It is worth a read.

Gather round children, let me tell you a story

If I were to tell you of all the things we did while we were away on holiday, I would need just as much time as the time we spent away. Suffice it to say that we had a great time, and pick one story to tell. The kind of story that stays with you until your hair turns grey, the kind you tell your friends late at night with a drink in your hand.

Suffering from runner's knee meant "suffering" psychologically. The hot sun turned each day into a lost opportunity to be close to nature the way I like it best: by putting on my shoes and going for a run. Thankfully there were so many other fun things to do that the "suffering" was minimal. Take walking, for example. We did a lot of that. New places to explore, new trails to tramp on. New adventures.

One of the trails we wanted to hike was the one between two villages, a total distance of 6 km through a gorge. Truth be told, I was scouting for trails to run in the future, when my legs are healthy again. We waited for the sun to ease down on the horizon, to avoid the worst of the heat. That meant heading out at 18.30. We figured that 6 km shouldn't take us more than 1,5 hours, and that should give us enough time to get to our destination before it got dark.

We had no water with us. No food. You don't need that kind of stuff when you're only going for a 6 km hike, right? Nor do you need a map, because you believe that there is only one trail in the area. Nor walking sticks to help you wade the stream that the trail follows. 

We left civilisation behind and met with our first problem from the start. The trail was not marked in any obvious way. There was a red dot on a tree, and here we had to guess, because that's how you mark trails in Sweden, but abroad? Who knows. We crossed the stream for the first time and entered a valley of lush vegetation. Stunningly beautiful.

It was slow going. The stream had to be crossed several times, and while there wasn't so much water as to make the crossing dangerous, it was very slippery on the stones we used to get across. What was that about having walking sticks with you being unnecessary? I balanced on the stones only to slip on the shore and land heavily on my right hand. The one with the wrist that gives me trouble a couple of times per year. I would have screamed in pain if it weren't for the fact that we were being watched by a couple that had walked to this place to be alone. They were sitting on a big rock in the middle of the stream. I swallowed my scream and grunted instead.

So far, we were still close to civilisation

 Soon, we came to a crossroads. To our left, a staircase was built into the steep hill. To our right, a path followed the stream. It made sense to follow the path, because we had to stay close to the stream. After 100 metres, however, the path stopped and we would have to climb a rock to continue. A drop of maybe 10 metres down to the stream extended below us. No way we were doing that. We turned back.

The staircase brought us to the top of the hills surrounding the gorge. We could see the village, impossibly far in the distance, and the whole place was bathed in a warm, late afternoon light. The landscape was painted in shades of green, brown and orange, with a hazy blue sky rising high above our heads. Everywhere around us were flowers and the air smelled of earth. I was thinking about how beautiful this all was, when I stepped on a snake.

I did a little dance. My screams were carried by the wind all the way to the village. My heart was beating fast, faster than ever. The brown snake headed right towards me, maybe a metre long and, by the looks of it, determined to bite me. When you jump into the air, you inevitably have to land sometime (what goes up must come down and all that), and I landed right on it. Several times, even. The snake, that had perhaps only meant to come and say hello (but that more likely didn't know or care who or what I was), got frightened and escaped down the slope and towards the stream. When my fear subsided some hours later, I felt sorry for it and hoped that I hadn't caused it any damage. After all, it hadn't caused me any damage. Apart from almost giving me a heart attack.

We were very careful now. The single-track trail was invaded by bushes and high grass, and it was difficult to see what, if anything, was lying there waiting to inject some poison into our legs. It was slow going, and to get here – 1,5 km after the start – had taken us almost an hour. Dogs were heard in the distance. Loose dogs. Fiercely protective of their territory. That's when we started getting worried that it might get dark before we were out of the gorge. Among all the things that we hadn't brought with us were headlamps.

A warning?

The trail brought us to the stream again, and as far as we could see, we would have to continue up the hill on the other side of it. No other trails were anywhere to be seen, so we ascended. As soon as we reached the top of the hill, we realised we were lost. This path was taking us away from the stream. Then we saw a road below that we had somehow missed. We also saw a herd of goats, and heard the aforementioned dogs again, warning us to stay away. The goats were on the road that we had to reach. Fearless (or at least pretending to be) we left the path and trail-blazed down the hill, among thick, thorny bushes and loose earth that crumbled beneath our feet, threatening to carry us with it all the way down.

Well, at least it was really pretty at the top of that hill.

By the time we were at the foot of the hill and on the road, with our skins broken by the thorns but otherwise intact, the goats were gone. We were back on the right path. We knew that because there was a sign pointing towards the village. The first sign we found on the trail, and it was in the middle of it. Useful. 4 km left. 

We picked up some speed, now when the comparatively flat ground allowed it, eager to cover some distance before it got dark. But suddenly, a pack of dogs were standing in front of us. 6-7 of them, barking.

Whosagoodboynow?

The secret to facing wild dogs is to not pee your pants in fear. They can smell that, you know. I took the lead, being very friendly towards them and whistling at them to come closer. That unexpected approach took them by surprise, so much so that one of them forgot that how fierce it was supposed to be and started wagging its tail. I moved forward and they backed down. We walked through the pack, the whole time watching them to make sure they didn't surround us to attack, and we escaped unscathed.

The stones in the stream had turned to sand, and that meant we had no way of keeping our shoes dry. The water cooled my feet down. The road turned to trail again, but we were getting close now. A couple of horses appeared in the distance. The first of them seemed to be spooked by something in our appearance and stopped, but after some goading from its rider, it continued. The second one was more curious. It walked right towards us, despite the fact that its rider tried to steer it the other way. We almost fell backwards to avoid a head-on collision. The animal kingdom was decidedly not in a good mood today.

Signs of civilisation came more and more often. An old man, sitting on a bench, philosophising. Some derelict buildings. A bridge. There was still some light in the sky when we reached our destination much later than we had thought, thirsty and hungry, but it had been close. After half an hour, darkness had fallen, but we were safe, looking at the photos we had taken and laughing about the whole ordeal, as if we had never been afraid, not even for a second.

Cannonball Read #15: Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer

The film ”Into the wild” is one of my favourite films. It is a film that touches me very deeply. So I was looking forward to reading the book it was based on.

Jon Krakauer documents the life and journey of Chris McCandless. McCandless was a college graduate, coming from a well-off family, who decided to leave it all behind and embark on a road trip of sorts. He travelled and worked in many different places until he finally headed off to Alaska to spend some time in the wild, living off the land. After surviving almost three months there alone, he tried to get back to civilisation but failed. He died there, apparently with no regrets.

Krakauer gathers information about McCandless' encounters and adventures from people who have met him. McCandless' tragic fate has a way of dividing people; either you get inspired by his anti-consumerist ideals and down-to-basics lifestyle, or you think him an idiot for causing his family and others so much pain. Krakauer makes it clear from the start which side of the fence he's on, but that doesn't prevent him from presenting the voices of people who are more critical. As admiring as he is of McCandless, even seeing himself in him, he doesn't shy away from the emotional mayhem he left in his wake.

Despite the fact that this is a factual book, a biography of sorts, the language Krakauer uses is not dry. The inspiration he seems to draw from McCandless is reflected in the careful way he chooses his words to describe events and places, especially in his depiction of the wilderness. His account of his own close call with death had me at the edge of my seat, although I did think it a bit out of place at first.

In the end, it is in human nature to seek thrills. Some people go to amusement parks to get theirs. Some bet money on horses. Some do drugs. But in a way, the most primitive, most authentic thrill is to live at one with nature. That's where our primal instincts were honed, that's where humankind learned to survive, that's what a lot of us risk our lives for. And – if one is to buy Krakauer's (and McCandless') argument – you can only get the real thing if you risk your life for it. Modern society provides us with all sorts of safeguards against Mother Nature, but by doing that it takes away the thrill.

Krakauer's book filled in a lot of blanks that the film had left for me. It presented a slightly different version of McCandless than the one Sean Penn crafted. A young man with faults, one whom you might call arrogant if it weren't for the fact that he wasn't out to impress anyone – you can't help but like him in the end. At least he lived, and died, true to himself and to his ideals.

A fascinating, sad, inspiring book.

Cannonball read #14: Boy's life by Robert McCammon

The author's name is Robert McCammon. Not Stephen King. Despite all the similarities: the nostalgia for a lost, beloved boyhood. The close-knit community. The sense of evil lurking in the shadows of the little town.

Cory is eleven years old and is having a hell of an eventful year. It all starts when he witnesses a car going off a cliff and into a lake, and his dad jumping into the lake to save the driver. Only the driver is already dead when the car hits the water. Thus begins the mystery that's at the heart of this book. Who is the dead man, and who killed him?

McCammon builds a rich story around this central mystery, adding other elements that seem magical in the eyes of an eleven year old and of a reader that hasn't forgotten how significant little things can seem to a child. The nods to Stephen King appear to be intentional, the whole book a tribute to the young heroes of many of King's books. But where King's children are often precocious and wise beyond their years, McCammon's Cory is truly young. He makes mistakes. He has a vivid imagination that leads him to trouble. The narrator of the story is an adult Cory looking back at his pre-teen years, but although the language is that of a grown-up, the events are described as witnessed by the eleven-year old version.

The mystery is perhaps not so gripping as one might think, considering it is what drives the plot forward. That's not to say that it's not interesting; it's just that there are so many sub-plots that are just as interesting. McCammon weaves it all lovingly into a very entertaining book, with some political undertones. Perfect to read on a summer afternoon with a glass of ice-cold lemonade in your hand.

All good things must come to an end (to make way for new good things)

After a week of rest and both the warmth of the sun and that of loved ones, we returned to Gothenburg. During that week, good food was consumed. Familiar places revisited. Books were read, legs were taken out for walks, brain was put on standby and important decisions were made for the future. And adventure was welcomed with all our hearts, though it did not always come in the form we had imagined. It found us even when we weren't looking for it, taking us by surprise and by storm.

I tested the old knee during that week, too. It seems to have nothing against me taking it for a run for a kilometre or two. My physiotherapist seems to think it's ok too – as long as I don't push it. 9 days to Göteborgsvarvet. Can I? Should I?

More details of the aforementioned adventure, photos and book reviews will be coming your way this weekend. In the immortal words of the Waterboys: ”I've much to say and I've more to tell, the words will soon be spilling from my tongue”. First, I need to get through the rest of this short work week.

Time out

After a hectic couple of days, I'm emigrating to warmer climates for some well-deserved (if I say so myself) rest and relaxation. Back in a week. I might or might not take my legs out for a short jog while I'm there.

Mirror mirror on the wall

Who's the most lop-sided of them all?

Photo by babymellowdee

You, my queen, are the most lop-sided of them all.

So turn your hips forward. Bend your knees. Build those thigh muscles. Stretch that hamstring. Check in the mirror to see if you're doing it right. Tomorrow, you'll do it all over again. Hopefully, this time you'll be a little less lop-sided, a little stronger, a little closer to the ideal. Small steps towards those big goals.

A little is better than nothing

It's hard to describe how I felt when I arrived in Skatås for a running technique course with Markus Stålbom. Upon seeing the familiar clock and football fields, there was a knot in my stomach and an almost unbearable longing. Skatås has been the place where magic has happened on so many occasions. Many a long run with the group started here. Not to mention the Ultra Intervals that we ran here together last November. My legs ached to take me on one of Skatås' many paths. But I couldn't do it this time. And not for many weeks to come.

We gathered up, we who had already done one of Markus' courses before but who needed some extra help. We started by getting filmed while running a few times and then getting our running style and its strengths and weaknesses analysed. Afterwards we headed out for some technique exercises. Markus encouraged us to think about our posture and cadence, and to try to run relaxed. We ran up some hills and down some hills. We ran with our eyes closed (safer than it sounds. Promise). We ran leaning forwards and backwards. And we got our hands muddy by doing some strength exercises.

To say that I had fun would be an understatement. Notice how I used the verb "run" a lot in the paragraph above? I did all the exercises, and maybe ran 1-2 km in total. I didn't hold back, and I worked so hard on the hills that my lungs got themselves a visa and emigrated to Australia to escape me and what I put them through. My knee was quiet until the very end, when it very discreetly ”ahem”-ed. I listened to it. Besides, the course was over. That's not to say that I left immediately. Markus has helped me with my injuries before, and he offered to do so now too. He had a look at my knee, showed me how to stretch it. Then he showed me some strength exercises. That's when a part of the problem was identified: my hips rotate towards the left, probably because my left side is stronger. When I tried to do the strength exercises, I did them wrong, precisely because of this rotation. And my right knee, the one with the problem, falls inwards.

It was truly a learning experience. I couldn't recommend Markus highly enough, if someone wants to have a look at their technique – he's brilliant and knows exactly what he's talking about. Plus he truly wants to help people, even after the course is over. I'm even considering a private lesson with him, to sort out the aforementioned technique problems.

My longing for running has been softened and made manageable. For now. Hope that my knee doesn't hate me for it.

They try to make me go to rehab

Knee strength exercises, stretching, diclofenac. Lather, rinse, repeat. I wouldn't say that this rehab business is in any way satisfying my exercise-addicted body, but if it's what I have to do to get back in my running shoes, I'll do it. Three times per day, no less.

I got a little bit of satisfaction this morning, despite the grey weather. I was going to walk to work (because I don't even dare cycle now, as my physiotherapist warned me against it) but I left home a few minutes late (because I was stretching my knee). I hate being late to things. So I started jogging. I jogged a few hundred metres, maybe half a kilometre in all, but my knee was quiet. Very quiet. Shaman happy.

Of course I am not going to push it and start running again already. But in a week that has been -to put it mildly- shitty, I need all the positive stuff I can get, and a few hundred metres of running put a smile on my face. Let's see how my knee reacts tomorrow after the running technique course with Markus Stålbom.

There are worse things in the world

You know what they say, that things could be worse? Well, they got worse. I received some really bad news with regards to two different matters these last few days, news that almost knocked me down. I can't tell you what they are. Why? Because then I would have to kill you.

When you're knocked down, it's tempting to just give up. Accept that things are shit. Stop trying. Fall into despair and struggle to look past all the bad stuff and into a future when things have gotten better. You go from being an eagle to being a sparrow. From feeling like a million dollars to feeling like a penny, that people wouldn't even bother to pick up if they found it on the street. From top of the world to the bottom of the ocean.

As I sat in my physiotherapist's waiting room, I thought about how easy it would be to just let go of dreams, goals, ambitions, when facing this tremendous brick wall. I thought about what brought me to where I am today. Mistakes? Choices? A twist of fate? What could I have done differently?

Trying to solve all of life's great mysteries and to find the meaning of it all while you're waiting to be called in by your physiotherapist doesn't leave you much room for philosophical breakthroughs though. I got nowhere, and my mood only got worse. When he finally came outside and introduced himself, I couldn't even find it in me to care about my runner's knee. There are worse things in the world.

Taping my knee is just one of many ways to tackle this problem

But as we discussed my runner's knee, as he made everything so concrete, as he told me exactly what I needed to do to get well, I found something to focus on, in the midst of all this chaos that my life is currently in. There are things in life that I can't control, that I can't do anything about. But this? This problem here? I will kick its ass. I wanted to give my physiotherapist a big sloppy kiss on the cheek when we were done. Two weeks of rest instead of the three the doctor prescribed. Stretching. Strengthening exercises. Another week of diclofenac and then I can power walk. Göteborgsvarvet is not out of the question, if I alternate jogging with walking. Intervals, trail running, variation are all great preventative measures against repetitive injuries like mine. He even won some bonus points with me when he said that barefoot running, if you build up carefully, is good for your knees. Unfortunately, he didn't think cycling is particularly good for my knee, but I can't say I'm going to miss it that much.

A ray of hope just broke through the clouds.

Inspiration

Talk about strong will. There's this guy called Simon Wheatcroft who's training for a 100-miles ultra. Running ultras is pretty amazing and inspiring, right?

But you know what's even more amazing and inspiring? Wheatcroft is blind.

What's cookin' doc?

Sunday is drawing to an end and it has been just the way I like it: filled to the brim with activity (if a bit lacking in, say, speedier training, on my own two feet, in the woods). I've gone grocery shopping, vacuum-cleaned, baked bread, baked a chocolate cake and done two loads of laundry. Oh, and I've done an hour of strength exercises.

 

"Use-whatever-flour-you-have-in-the-pantry" bread

Chocolate cake with bitter chocolate icing- yep, I improvised here too

I'm going to be vigilant when it comes to building up strength around my knees. I've been doing some leg and core exercises at least once a week since last summer, but I think I need to step it up and add some weights where it's possible. I also need to think about how I actually perform these exercises. I asked J to have a look at my posture while I did the exercises, and sure enough, my knees were collapsing inwards when I did squats and lunges. Whether my knees collapse because they are weak or they are weak because they collapse is anyone's guess. One thing's for sure: I need to get better at keeping proper posture while exercising.

This coming week I'm going to be getting some professional help with this problem. On Wednesday I'm meeting my new physiotherapist, who I hope is nice and takes my problem seriously, so that we can get to the root of it. On Saturday I'm meeting Marcus Stålbom, whom I've had a couple of running technique sessions with before and who's helped me a lot in the past. I'm hoping that these two gentlemen will tell me what kinesiological and biomechanical sins I'm being punished for.

Crutches (metaphorically speaking)

One side effect of diclofenac is that it can make you feel sick. Thankfully it's not so bad, and I can distract myself easily. But it still makes me wonder how much good these little brown pills do.

I don't like taking medicine if I absolutely don't have to. I want my body to try and fix things on its own, because I believe that this makes it stronger. On the other hand, I'd like my knee to get well as soon as possible, so that I can start running again. But does diclofenac really help in this case? 2 weeks seems like an awful long time to be taking it, especially if you consider that my knee is not swollen (I suppose it is inflamed, although I can't feel it).

Wouldn't my body have managed to deal with the inflammation by itself if I'd given it two weeks without running? Is it worth risking getting a stomach ulcer? Doesn't diclofenac only mask the problem?

It's kind of the same issue for me when it comes to running shoes. All the support that modern shoes offer often mask the problems people have with their running technique and tricks them into thinking they can do more than they actually can. And by ”people” I mean me. That's what happened when I neglected working on my running technique. I kept running long distances with bad technique in my super supportive Kayanos, wearing out my joints, kilometre after kilometre. My VFF haven't seen half as much action as I would have liked. 

So there is an upside to this injury. When I do start running again, I will have to do it almost from scratch. I can't go out there on my first run after almost two months' break and run a marathon. I'll have to slowly build up to it. So what better opportunity to transition to minimalistic footwear than this?

The long haul

(First of all, a HUGE thanks to all of you that left comments with tips and encouraging words. It means a lot to me!)

Yesterday, J and I talked about the prospect of going for a long bike ride this morning. The weather wasn't looking too promising; the sky was grey and heavy. But I was still itching to get out. The doctor had said it was OK to cycle, and cycle I would. Anything to try and maintain the level of fitness I have.

After checking the forecast and finding out that the weather was supposed to get better, we took our bikes and headed towards Särö. I started off easy but after a few kilometres I put my weight into it and picked up some speed. I'm about as fast a cyclist as I am a runner. That is to say, really slow. J decided to challenge me at some point and started cycling fast. I kept up with him for about five seconds and then I ate his dust. He disappeared into the distance. And I'm supposed to be the fit one?

Then I remembered I am on diclofenac and shouldn't really push myself (it can cause heart and kidney complications), so I slowed down again. I was getting bored already, just 10 km into the ride. The sky wasn't the only thing that was grey. So was the sea, and the cycle path we rode on, and everything around that's usually green in the summer was bare and miserable looking.

There was apparently a cloud that hung over our heads and followed us around, because we had a light shower slowly soaking us to the bone the whole way, even when the sun finally broke through the clouds. Refreshing, right? Not so much. My fingers finally got warm after 20 km, around the same time my wet toes started displaying the first signs of frostbite.

I considered cutting the ride short. It wasn't that exciting to cycle the same old route I've cycled or run a million times before, especially not in this weather, and besides, did the doctor really think I'd almost be cycling a marathon when he said it was OK to cycle? Maybe I was doing more harm to my knee than good? But before I had time to make a decision, we were almost in Särö, our original destination, and I thought we might as well continue.

As soon as we turned around and started cycling back home, both J and I ran out of energy. Just like that, the fuel tank was empty. The two slices of crisp-bread I'd eaten before we left had obviously not been enough. My speed dropped even more, and an old man cycled past me. The shame! I tried picking up speed again, struggled, but then thought it wasn't worth it and settled into an easy rhythm.

When we finally got home, we had covered 37 km in just over two hours. And all I could think of was what a great long run 37 km would have made, even with grey skies and light showers. Yet, even though I didn't manage to still my running lust, I'm satisfied. I got my pulse going, I got sweaty, I had the first real workout in weeks. I spent some quality time with J, making plans about the future. I feel great.

Things can always get worse

-Please don't tell me it's runner's knee, were the first words out of my mouth when I walked into the doctor's office.

Ten minutes later, he looked at me and smiled.

-It's runner's knee, he said.

He had twisted my leg this way and that, pressed his thumb all over my knee and observed my legs while I stood before him. It hadn't hurt anywhere, no matter how he twisted my leg, so the diagnosis (lacking, I suppose, a better one, since it didn't hurt) was runner's knee.

A prescription of diclofenac for two weeks, insoles for my over-pronation, no running for a month and a visit to the physiotherapist is the course of action now. I know what you're about to say, and lemme stop you right there. Yeah, it could be worse. It could have been six months. I could be sitting in a wheelchair. But I wonder if people say the same to the guy in the wheelchair? It could be worse? You could be tetraplegic? Or to the cancer patient with three months to live: hey! Cheer up! It could be worse. It could just be ONE month! And how about if you had burned your toast this morning! JUST THINK HOW MUCH WORSE IT COULD BE. Don't you feel guilty about whining now, my little bald friend?

It could be that my brain put everything the doctor said through the ”I hate you for bringing me bad news” filter, but he seemed to be enjoying this. He said ”Well, when you run as much as you do, you're bound to get injured” and I swear. That smug bastard gloated. Like, serves you right you stupid cow for having ambitions. And I hadn't even told him how much I'd run in Skövde, or how much I'd like to be able to run in the future. I think I'll save that information for people who are more...like-minded.

I went for a walk in the woods afterwards. Walking is too slow but at least you get to see more.

Hey, you know what's exactly a month from now? That is to say, on the first day I'm supposed to be able to run again? Göteborgsvarvet! I'm going to walk it if I have to.

Reminiscing

Like an old, wrinkled lady, sitting alone on a porch at the dawn of her lifetime, I'm looking back at the highlights of my running career. Amusing myself with those golden moments, because I can't see any new ones forming in the foreseeable future.

I think about Risveden Terräng, the 18km-long mud-fest through a fairytale forest. My -relatively speaking- short solo run on Kungsleden, and the awe-inspiring mountain views it offered. The craziness of the Ultra Intervals last November, going out for a 10K run at midnight, and then repeating that once every three hours until I'd reached 80 km the following night. Countless long runs in the sun with my friends, on road and on trail. And my absolute top personal triumph, the 6-hour race in Skövde that gave me a place among the top ten women in the country. The feeling that I can. I had trained for it, and I did it, and I had strength left at the end. I could.

Ah, the Swedish mountains...

I can't any more. I'm seeing the doctor tomorrow to get a diagnosis and prognosis on my knee, but I know that if it's a runner's knee then the way back is a long one.

That's not to say that I won't be able to again in the future. It will take time and patience, but I'll get there. If I believed in that kind of thing, I'd say that obstacles are put there to teach us something. I don't believe in that kind of thing, but I can still let obstacles teach me.

Living with animals

Animals are good for you, they say. People who own animals live longer, happier, healthier lives. Animals know when you're down and curl up beside you to comfort you. They give you unconditional love and affection. They help you relax.

Too bad no one told these two. It started with cat no 1 throwing up on our bedroom floor and in the hallway at 02:30 in the morning. After I cleaned up the disgusting mess and went back to bed, he went to the litter box and started digging. I tried to ignore it. A few minutes later he was at his food bowl and dug on the floor around it, thinking he could cover the leftovers. With linoleum. After a while, he was back on the litter box, probably for more serious business, and again, he dug. Only when he digs, he misses the litter box completely and digs everywhere else around him except there: on the floor, on the toilet, on the wall, on the ceiling.

Now that cat no 1 was (presumably) done, it was cat no 2's turn. He started by munching on some delicious dried food, the sound of which (crunch, crunch) echoed across our apartment and all the way to our neighbours across the street. Then, with a full belly, he started digging around the food bowl. He learned this technique from his big brother I suppose. Now it was time for him to visit the litter box. Dig. Get outside and into the bedroom, shake paws, send bits of silica litter flying all over the bedroom floor. Jump on the bed a couple of times. As soon as I manage to ignore this and fall asleep again, he's back on the box. Digging. Digging so deep that I'm sure he's half way to Australia by now.

The third time he visited the litter box (don't ask what he was doing. I don't know and I don't want to know), the time was just before 6 and I gave up trying to sleep. And I wondered. How is my life getting longer, happier, healthier if I never get any sleep? How have my two caring (or so they say) cats missed that their nocturnal behaviour is turning me into a miserable, sleep-deprived mess and why haven't they tried to comfort me? And in which way is night-time poo evidence of my cats' unconditional love and affection? I am most definitely not relaxed.

I tried, I really tried...

No matter how much I try, I can't get myself to like yoga. Today was one of approximately three times per year when I force myself to give it a try again. I changed into more comfortable clothes, spread my yoga mat on the living room floor and popped the Power Yoga dvd into the player. Time for alternative training.

The first ten minutes were spent in the lotus position, breathing. Then it was really hard for about fifteen minutes, because I have no upper body strength. Then I kept falling over for the next ten minutes, because apparently my balance has gotten much worse since the last time I did yoga (although I've been practising on the balance board every time I do strength exercises). And then I spent another ten minutes lying on my back, breathing.

I got off the mat dizzy. Yoga has that effect on me too. How can I find something so intense and difficult (well, at least when I'm not just lying on my back, breathing) boring? I dreamt of punching and kicking a bag instead. Maybe there's my answer. I need to do things that are more...active. That's not the right word. Powerful? Kick-ass? My thoughts have a tendency to wander when I do yoga. I realise that one of the purposes of yoga is to help you focus, but I'm too attention-deficient for that. I need action!

My knee has been off diclofenac since the last application Saturday night. I can't say that I can feel a difference, but then again I have been resting. I'm booking an appointment with a doctor tomorrow. I realised that I might have to miss Göteborgsvarvet.

How I cope with running abstinence

Apparently it takes a while for me to relax into my time off, when I can't start it with a bang by going running. After spending Friday trying to speed-learn Photoshop in one day, I pulled myself together and decided to make the best of this long weekend. Catch up with all the things I've been neglecting while I've been out running or recovering from it. Things I usually love doing but not as much as running.

So J and I went climbing yesterday, where I failed miserably at achieving anything harder than a 5+. No matter. It was fun and hard work too. Some strengthening exercises for the stomach and back muscles afterwards completed the workout. It was then time to celebrate Easter and the resurrection of Jesus in the most traditional of ways: by eating fajitas (for Hay-Sus) and watching hockey. I also celebrated by finishing my book. I skipped the Easter candy, because I didn't want to get too traditional. Also, there wasn't any left.

This morning I woke up with a purpose. I was a woman on a mission. I was going to make bread. Out came ye ole recipe book. Out came my big IKEA mixing bowl. Out came an assortment of flour, oil, sugar, salt and eggs. I rolled up my sleeves and got started. This is a favourite recipe, mainly because it's so easy and fun to make. Only I replaced the white flour with spelt, which threw off the proportions a bit and had me kneading the dough for 20 minutes.

By the time I was done, I was sweaty and aching in my upper body. Kneading dough is excellent therapy if you're feeling angry and want to punch things. However, I wasn't angry at all this morning, so I kneaded with tender loving care instead. I suspect that I got a good workout from this anyway, so I might have to go and lie down for a bit.

Ghost town

A tumbleweed just rolled past the living room. A layer of dust has covered my shoes. Objects that are so meaningful to me in my everyday life now lie still, waiting for the day to come when they can be useful again, the day when they can fulfil their purpose again.

It's kind of sad, really. They've been abandoned, like a favourite doll that a child has outgrown, or a favourite book that has been unwittingly left behind during a move. 

Things. Just things. With no feelings, no thoughts, no sense of purpose. No value other than that we attribute to them. No usefulness without a person. Just lying there, waiting for the day to come when I can run again.

Cannonball read #13: The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

I was surprised to find out that this was Morgenstern's début book. The stuff dreams are made of indeed. So I guess that all the glowing reviews I'd read were right.

The Night Circus is about, well, a circus that you can only visit at night. It is a mysterious world, the board on which a game between two magicians is played. The main pieces in this game are Celia and Marco. Illusionists. As the circus travels through time and place, we find out more and more about this game, sometimes amazed at all the wonders the circus contains, sometimes with a knot in our stomach because of the potential for horror it carries.

The more observant of you might have noticed a common theme in my reviews: I often wonder how much my state of mind, mood and general well-being affects how much I enjoy a book. I started reading the Night Circus more than two weeks ago, and it's been slow going, because I have been ill and/or preoccupied with other things. A few pages before I went to sleep, a few pages on my break at work, progress has been halting.

That of course has had its consequences. The jumping back and forth in time lost me on several occasions. I failed to establish a relationship with the characters in the book. I failed to lose myself in what is, essentially, a reverie, and when the book was over I wondered if I had truly read it or if I had dreamt it. Maybe that was the point? The distance I felt towards the characters, the confusion I felt almost every time I started a new chapter, it all created the illusion of a dream for me. I now wish I could have read all of it in one sitting, because it's the only way to do the book justice. I loved it, but it was more on an intellectual level: I loved the writing, the characters, the world Morgenstern created. But if I'd read all of it in one go, I would have LOVED it. I would have FELT it all.

As it was, I reached the end of the book kind of disappointed in the resolution. I can of course not reveal too much without spoiling the book for those who haven't read it, but it felt hasty, and because I hadn't established a relationship with the characters, in the end I just didn't care too much whatever happened. So, whose fault was it that the ending was disappointing for me? The author's, who didn't make it more to my liking, or my own, who didn't invest more in the characters? Would I have LOVED it if I'd been more focused, less distracted by other things? I think so.

This is a book I would definitely recommend to others. On the condition that they read all of it in one sitting, or at least within a couple of days. Lose themselves in it. That's the only way to truly appreciate this carefully woven, magical dream of a fairytale.

Resolution FAIL

Right before I went to sleep last night, I made a resolution: I'd stay away from any electronic devices for two days. Or one anyway. J bought an Ipad the other day and I've been playing games on it, games where you have to put letters together to form words or where you try to make your friends guess what you're drawing. You know the type.

A side effect of owning an Ipad is the feeling that you're always connected. You can't just switch it off and walk away like you'd do with a stationary PC. Well, you could I suppose, but it's so easy to carry it around, that you can never get away from the damned thing. And while the Internet is great for bringing people closer together, it's also responsible for ditto. It makes it harder to have a quiet moment by yourself. You-just-have-to-check-if-they've-played. Especially if you're under house arrest with a damaged knee. I think it's healthy to take a longer break from the online world sometimes.

So in order to get a quiet moment and maybe do something productive for a change, like, I don't know, bake? Tidy the flat? Read a book? I thought I'd keep away from technology for a day or two. Switch all electronic devices off. Switch myself off. A few hours later I got out of bed, ate some breakfast and turned my computer on. So much for resolutions.

Since then I've been playing with Photoshop. I applied for a course in photo editing in the autumn, just because I like learning new things and I'd love to be better at photography. I also applied for a photography course and a course in Sports psychology. More about the latter some other time. Exciting stuff.

I haven't baked. I haven't read my book. I have tidied the flat, even did some laundry and went shopping for some things we needed, but still: the largest part of the day has been spent in front of the computer. And, guys? Photoshop is hard. Good thing there's a course for it. You can see one of the products from this morning's frenetic activity above. A new banner for the blog. Hey, don't bash me. I'm a beginner.

As to my knee, I'm taking a week off running and contacting a doctor after the weekend. It got much worse yesterday after my feeble attempt at run-walking. Climbing on the other hand went well, although I did wear a knee support and mostly climbed easy routes. But at least I don't feel half-paralysed from the waist down any more.