Dances with reptiles

After a month of seemingly constant rain, a period so long and miserable that I thought moss would start growing on me and my running shoes started smelling conspicuously of mold (and looked like they were covered in it, too), we finally got a day so marvelous, a sun so fiercely devoted to drying our soaked bones and drenched hearts that everyone in the whole city dazedly crawled out of their houses like snails and stared disbelievingly at the blue sky.

About 15 of us in AIK ran a route I had never run before, which took us past one of my most favourite spots in the whole world: a weekend-house neighbourhood by a nearby lake, a place so picturesque, summery and, well, Swedish, it could have been the inspiration to an Astrid Lindgren book. Time flew faster than we could run as we chatted and laughed. Before we knew it, we were back at the hockey arena where we had started, 17 sunny kilometres richer.

I went on running after we had said our goodbyes. This time, I sought the shadow of the woods, having almost run out of Tailwind and needing the terrain mileage and elevation gain. The ground was sometimes soggy, even completely submerged in water at places. But some parts were as dry as a sun-baked stone in Death Valley. And there, while I was busy daydreaming about trail running in the mountains and summer days in warmer latitudes letting salty waves cool my legs, I heard it.

A hiss. That's all it took to make me produce a most pathetic little whimper. I turned around and realised I had narrowly missed running on a viper, that was lying on the right side of the double-track I was on, sunbathing and probably it, too, daydreaming about whatever adventures vipers embark on with their viper pals. Slithering up the mountain and biting unsuspecting runners, I'll bet. Or whispering in your ear that you should just eat the damn apple. Sneaky sods.

This is the second viper I encounter while on a run this week. The first one was a relatively small viper, cocky and pissed off (ergo most likely a teenager). The one I unwittingly almost got very friendly with today was probably an adult one. A grandpa, even, judging by the way it harrumphed and slowly crawled into the bushes after having warned me to get off its lawn.

Me and snakes, we get along great. Like cats and dogs. Remember the time I danced on with one?

Luckily the rest of my run was uneventful and I managed a not-too-shabby 30 km on happy legs. One tough week left.

I walk the line

The line between success and disaster is a very fine one. One that an ultrarunner has to learn how to balance on while an abyss of pain and disappointment lies beneath her feet, no safety net or harnesses. One false step and she falls, and there is no one there to catch her.

With one month left to High Coast Ultra, and just over a week to my last really long long run in preparation for it at Rovön 6H, I am starting to get nervous. I place my feet down extra carefully when I negotiate roots and stones on the trail. I listen extra carefully to my body's signals and massage my thighs at the slightest niggle. I fight the demons saying I can't do it with every bit of mental strength gained on previous races and runs. I keep expecting something to go wrong. I imagine myself standing at the starting line and what I feel most is surprise. Did I really make it here?

At the same time, the time for tapering is not here yet. Two heavy weeks left, two weeks to collect precious terrain kilometres, chasing single track and hills, in shoes caked in mud and on feet pruney and cold. Experience points to help carry me through endless miles of elevation, rocky paths and, possibly, apocalyptic weather. This needs to be done. Two weeks left before I can breathe out and let my body start repairing itself for the real challenge. Suck it up buttercup.

I am ready. I am not ready at all. A fine line between well prepared and under-prepared. Between top form and injury. And I walk the line.

Pushing my luck

Spring in Skellefteå is like a surprise visit from an old friend: It comes suddenly, you're overjoyed to see it and it only lasts a short while.

Within a couple of weeks, the last of the snow finally melted and the buds on the trees turned into leaves. Icy, slippery slush got burned down into water puddles by the sun and transformed the frosty, brittle earth into soft, hungry, shoe-stealing mud. Life is awakening from its deep slumber.

Like a migrating bird, I have returned home to the trails. My legs heavy from the last few weeks' increased mileage, my lungs burdened by a ball of yarn, I covered a total of 57 trail kilometres in 4 days. 

My knees were shocked by this ordeal and threatened to pack up and leave if I didn't quit this whole trail running business. They didn't approve of the altered running style or the elevation gain. I, on the other hand, thought my adjusted running style was doing a great job keeping me from falling on my arse and that every metre of elevation gain in training is probably vital in order to survive High Coast Ultra. 

Sticks and stones may break my bones...

Wet, wet, wet

Obstacle course.

It's not the first time me and my knees don't see eye to eye, and probably not the last either. No one ever became an ultrarunner by playing it safe, KNEES.

To celebrate the fact that the sun deigned to grace us with its presence today (after yesterday's short-lived snowfall) and that I survived yet another bout of back-to-back long runs, I forced myself to eat three scoops of ice-cream at a cafe.

Disgusting.

Thus commenced a 4-day rest period that I suspect my knees (and lungs) are going to thank me for.

Say yes

Finding out I have a condition that may make it impossible for me to run in the future led to a mini mid-life crisis that I must have forgotten to have when I turned thirty and thought to myself ”Eh, it's not that different to being twenty nine”. Running is a huge part of my life, my social circle here in Skellefteå consisting almost entirely of other runners, my free time when not running spent largely helping out with AIK-related activities (co-coaching the beginners group, for instance).

This realisation stopped me in my tracks. What would I do without running? Who am I if I can't run? What will I have left?

The answer is: not much.

It was a very scary thought. Sure, I have other hobbies. I knit. I read. I watch movies. But they're hobbies, not a way of life. And they always take second place on my priority list. Because, let's face it, would you rather be in a dark theater or running here:

Take yesterday, for example. I ran 36 km, a wonderful, pain-free, life-affirming 36 km, which, however, left me so tired I could hardly keep my eyes open. My vague plans to go out with friends for dinner and a drink were promptly cancelled. How could we go out? I had just gotten run over by a bus. I tried reading my book but I kept reading the same sentence over and over again, my brain having suddenly lost the ability to turn letters into words, words into sentences, sentences into meaningful language. I was done for the evening. I put on a film and watched it without really understanding what was going on (although, to be fair, that might have been the directors' fault rather than mine, WACHOWSKIS).

I was held captive under the blanket by a fearsome feline.

A couple of hours later, J reminded me of a gig I had wanted to go to. A friend from AIK happens to be an excellent musician as well as a gifted runner, and I had wanted to watch him perform for a while. I told J I was way too tired to even think about getting dressed and heading into town. Besides, it was getting late. Way past my bed time. Yes, I am 90 years old, thank you for asking.

J shook his head and laughed. I'd like to think he laughed with me rather than at me but I suspect the latter was the case. Which got me thinking. Was I really that tired or just lazy? My legs worked, surely I could cycle the two kilometres into town. My eyelids were heavy but open eyes are not a prerequisite for listening to music. Or drinking for that matter. And we didn't have to stay long. One drink, then straight to bed.

With my condition-related thoughts at the back of my mind, I said yes. It proved to be a lovely evening, with great music, great company, and a great big smile glued to my face. I even managed to keep my eyes open. We stayed longer than just one drink. All this I would have missed if I had said no to going out.

I made a resolution to start saying yes more often. It can lead to wonderful experiences during this wild ride that's called life. And who knows? Maybe those crazy people that claim that life is more than just running are right.

Difficult words and grim prospects

A few months ago, the palm of my right hand started itching. After a couple of weeks, a lump appeared under the skin. I ignored it at first. I had just taken up knitting, and because I hold the yarn in such a way that it rubs against my hand exactly there, I told myself it was an allergic reaction to it.

The lump proved to be pretty persistent. It didn't go away. It didn't hurt, but I caught myself rubbing it absentmindedly with my left thumb sometimes, so it was obviously at the back of my mind.

I finally decided to see the doctor about it. He compared my right palm to my left, rubbed them, made me bend my fingers this way and that until he was satisfied with his diagnosis.

What I have is a benign, often slow-progressing condition called Dupuytrens contracture. Try saying that quickly three times. What it means is that tissue builds up under the skin of your hand, which pulls at your fingers and can cause the affected ones to become bent over the years. Advantages to getting this condition include, but are not limited to, amusing guests at parties with your Captain Hook impressions. I need to work on mine. I only drew a polite smile from the doctor when I tried it. Maybe it's because I can still straighten my fingers? It's not authentic enough.

Apparently, it's more likely that you'll somehow get teleported to Mars and then promptly get hit by a bus driven by mutant sloths than I, a woman under 60, should get afflicted with this condition. So, despite my usual optimistic disposition when it comes to medicinal issues, I am not entirely sure that I won't be one of the few lucky ones who also develop a lump in the sole of their foot.

I don't need to tell you what a painful lump in the sole of a runner's foot would mean for said runner's future running prospects. I don't need to tell you what a scary thought that is for someone who, when not running, is thinking about running.

I don't worry often, but when I do, I usually worry about the past. About things I've done, things I haven't done. Things I've said or should have said. I don't worry about the future. But this? This worries me. It might take years before my fingers get affected. I don't care about that. Worst case scenario, I can't open jars and have to wear mittens instead of gloves during the winter. Clapping my hands might become a challenge. But, even though it's a remote possibility that it might ever come to that, I worry about my feet. My brave warriors that have carried me through forests and on beaches, on mountains and through golden fields.

Sure, there are worse things in the world. The Big C. Ebola. Multiple sclerosis. Boy bands. But thinking about how some people suffer even more doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel worse. And hey, don't worry! I could still get all those things! (Except boy bands. I don't think I'll ever ”get” boy bands.)

You want me to try living without running? You try living without oxygen. If you're a runner, you understand.

When I told her about my condition, my colleague gave me the following advice:

”Run all you can, while you can”.

And that is exactly what I intend to do.

Getting better every day

When the wind is howling outside your window and snow is pouring down from the sky, it doesn't help to shake your fist at the sky and yell ”But it's spring!”. There is no one up there who cares, unless you're into anthropomorphising weather. It's hard to believe that summer is but two months away.

Then, the weather turns. The wind lets off. The sun comes out. Suddenly, you find yourself running a long run in a t-shirt with the corners of your mouth apparently stitched to your ears, because that's just how good it feels to be experiencing this run on this glorious day together with friends. No hills, no ice, no mud can wipe that smirk off your face, because you're high.

And when the planned group run has come to its end and you've had a chance to refill your energy levels with a muffin and some coffee, you want to keep going. And your body responds with an enthusiastic cheer, because it's been missing this so much it hurts.

When you get back, tired but not exhausted despite the 30 km you've just covered, you notice the birds in the trees and you hear their lovely spring song. Life is beautiful and summer is most definitely on its way.

TLC

The fact that a whole month had passed since my last long run was painfully noticeable during the last couple of kilometres of my 27 km run yesterday. My legs, that had recovered beautifully after Thursday's heavy gym session, were now wet noodles, and my breathing was laboured.

What was neither painful nor noticeable was the ache in my right knee that had forced me to cry ”Runner's knee!” four weeks prior and had kept me away from my beloved long runs. Nothing. Not even the usual niggles I always have, and have to ignore in order to be able to run.

My left knee, on the other hand, was miserable.

”What is it?” I asked it, feeling very concerned.

”Nothing”, it replied, doing a very convincing impersonation of Eeyore.

”No, really, what is it? I can see you're upset”

”Oh, don't mind me. I just want to be alone for a minute”

”It's hard to leave you alone. You're attached to the rest of me”

Then it would pull itself together and help me move forward without a sound. Until it couldn't take it anymore and started mopping around again.

My knee's obvious attention-whoring was subsequently met by indifference on my part. I think it was just jealous that I'd given my right knee so much tender loving care these past few weeks.

The rest of the day was spent in the company of good friends. Even my left knee was happy about that.

Ride into the sun

A couple of magpies are currently busy building their dream home on a tree outside my window. Another, unidentified bird is singing its lungs out somewhere nearby, as ecstatic about the coming of spring as I am. The ice is melting, folks.

My bike has survived spending the whole winter outdoors covered in snow. I took it to the gym this morning, on roads and pavements clear of gravel, while the early sun blinded me. Motivation to go to the gym doesn't come easy for me, but this beautiful morning I was bursting with so much energy, you could have convinced me to do a whole body workout. And I did.

I had the whole gym to myself. I put a hard rock CD on. I turned the volume up. I picked the heaviest weights I could manage and lifted them until my arms shook with exhaustion.

The heaviest weights I could manage were also the lightest ones there were. 3 hours later, my arms are still shaking with exhaustion.

No matter. My knee feels better and I could even run 7 km yesterday without pain. Who cares if I have the upper body strength of a 90-year old?

Dream a little dream

Last night I dreamt that I was walking the streets of my hometown. It was late spring, the light breeze was warm, people were smiling and I had summer clothes on. The warmth seeped into my heart and I loved the whole world.

Then I ended up at a crossroads. The only way leading forward towards my unknown destination was through dark alleys, over fences and down great heights. I hesitated, went for it, ended up at a dead end.

This was a dream about my right knee. How, up to four days ago, I floated around on clouds, feeling lucky and happy that my training was going so well. And then, out of the blue, I was trapped, trying to move forward but finding only obstacles.

What I suspect is yet another bout of runner's knee showed up at my front door last Monday morning as an embryo and developed into a full-blown adult over the course of a few hours. I walked home from work with said adult on my back with an over-pronounced, almost theatrical limp.

The gradual onset of this problem baffled the physiotherapist I asked the day after. That I hadn't run in two days when it happened baffled him even more. But he needs to examine me in order to know for sure what it is.

As the dream dissolved into reality and I woke up, the dream of running High Coast Ultra faded away. But hey. Who says I have to run it? I can always walk it and see how far I get. I wouldn't want to miss it, even if it's enough of an obstacle course even without a bad knee. Even if it's just another dead end.

I almost forgot. In my dream, I was also cuddling a dachshund. But that had nothing to do with HCU and everything to do with my wish to replace my cats, who decided they'd have a karaoke night at three in the morning, with an animal that sleeps through the night.

No regrets

To say that this week has been full of ups and downs would be an understatement. Some work-related issues almost managed to make me quit and become a chicken farmer in Jamaica (why Jamaica? Because the temperature went up again turning the pavements into ice rinks). Then those issues got resolved, more or less, and I was pretty content again. That's when a cat jumped down my throat and started sharpening its claws on it. I ignored all warning signals that this might, shockingly enough, not be an actual cat but the flu, and ran another 30 km last Wednesday, a great run that was fun and gave me confidence. Then I spent Thursday trying to cough up the bag of sand I had so obviously swallowed.

There was a chance I wouldn't be able to run today. Despite the beautiful weather. Despite the fact that my legs desperately wanted to. Despite the fact that it would only be a shorter run.

I was still doubtful that I would make it to training this morning when I woke up. My throat felt much better, but there was a hint of headache and tiredness lingering in my body. I threw caution to the wind and joined AIK. Our coach told us we would be running on snowmobile tracks and I immediately regretted my decision. I remembered the last time we had run on snowmobile tracks. It was amazing to run in the woods in the middle of the winter then, but the tracks had given way under our weight with every step, making it taxing to run. How would I fare today in my half-sick state?

I didn't need to worry. After a slow start, when whatever virus has occupied my body attacked me with all its might, I emerged victorious. My breathing got easier. My heart pumped effortlessly. Not a hint of soreness in my throat. And the tracks were hard enough to bear our weight.

And the woods? Well. Let me just say that I regretted regretting that I had joined AIK for this run and started planning my next snowmobile track run. Because just look at this:

One ran over the cuckoo's nest

Why did Shaman shuffle down the road like a cripple? Why, because she lacks self discipline, of course!

But can you blame me? I spent a pretty big chunk of my time last Monday fantasizing about running 30 km on Wednesday. I felt strong. I felt ready. I felt that it had gone so well the previous week that nothing could stop me now.

Something almost did. Because on Tuesday the temperature soared up to a sweltering 7 degrees, women all over the city started digging in their closets for their summer dresses and barbeques got fired up.

And the snow started thawing. Covering the roads, pavements, lawns in baby-smooth ice. The kind that is really hard to run on.

Tuesday involved a lot of swearing on my part. Because, although spikes are an effective way to run without slipping and breaking a leg, they are also a very effective way to get sore feet and a fresh injury in your knees. I did not want to run 30 km in spikes. Tuesday was not a good day to ask me how I am doing, because then you would get a diatribe on all the injustices weather had inflicted upon me.

A calmer, resigned Shaman joined AIK yesterday. I would run with the dreaded, hated spikes, but I would only run the usual 11 km and then run my 30 km session another day, when I didn't have to wear them. I took nothing with me, no water, no food. I just grabbed a sandwich before I left, because hey, I would only be running 11 km and I could easily do that on an almost empty stomach. 

Like this, only darker and icier

It was just as miserable as I knew it would be. It was alternately slippery and slushy, or sometimes both, drenching our feet in ice-cold water before sending us skating into the bushes. But, as any long-time reader of this blog surely must know by now, there is a screw loose in my head. Not only was it loose last night, it practically fell out my ear and disappeared into the slush. Because, when we were almost at the end of our 11 km, instead of doing the smart, disciplined thing and going home, I turned to some of my fellow mental hospital candidates and asked if they would join me on a longer run to the Bergsby dam.

I wasn't surprised when they answered yes. After all, birds of a feather flock together and we are all a little cuckoo. In fact, these guys would have run a long run anyway (they may be crazier than me. At least I considered skipping the long run). Some of us started singing to lift each others spirits. Some of us probably managed to have the opposite effect on the others, so I went silent after a while. My legs were already beat after 14-15km, way too soon. I had aches in all new places because of the spikes, and my energy seeped out of me much more quickly than I had hoped it would. When we crossed the dam and turned back towards town, we were met with a strong headwind. Things got worse and worse. I tried talking with the others to distract myself from the self imposed torture I was currently undergoing, but it proved to be too much of an effort.

People dropped out one by one to run home, and each time I envied them. My feet were soaked and hurt. Our little warrior group was 7 strong to begin with, but by the end there were only four of us left taking a detour to add even more kilometres to our total. Then three. Then two. I looked at my GPS: 26,2 km and we were almost back where we had left our cars.

The saying goes: Misery loves company. So I turned to the only running companion I had left and said, ”We can't give up now, we've almost run 30 km!”. Because, if I should suffer, so should he, and he followed me willingly enough. Told you my team mates are a little cuckoo. I fit right in.

We were running against the wind again, on icy pavements by a busy, grey, dark road, around deep pools of thawed snow, then up a long hill, then back towards the parking lot. Another detour to make sure we didn't end up with too short a run, and now I was ready to throw in the towel. Our thoughts and conversation wandered to warm summer evenings, on soft forest paths and how wonderful it would feel to run unhindered by spikes. I could almost see it in front of me, through the grey winter fog of this February evening run.

31 km later I was back at the car, wanting to throw my spikes as far away from my feet as possible but only managing to throw them two centimetres to the right. I was dead, or dying, possibly from starvation and/or dehydration, but I am sure that there was a lonely brain cell somewhere in my head that was cheering for my achievement.

Flowing in the wind

The wind did its best to throw me off the bridge but I leaned into it. I must have been a sight, running with my body swinging like an upside-down pendulum from side to side depending on the wind's whims. I didn't care. The sun was starting to come up in all its glory. I call that great weather.

Once I arrived at the hockey arena, where AIK usually meets up on Saturdays, our coach informed us that those who felt like it could incorporate a faster 5km interval in the middle of the long run. This interval included the dreaded Erikslid slope. This slope lures you in; it starts off easy enough with a gentle incline, but just as your legs are starting to feel the difference between flat and hilly, it swerves steeply upwards. Only for a short bit, though.

I told my teammates that I would jog the interval, that no way I would run fast. Not during a long run at these post-injury times. Plus, I already had a long run in my legs. Last Wednesday I logged a wonderful 26 km, including hills, a run that made not only my day but my week. I could have run forever. So, nope! I would not run fast. No way.

Then we stood in a long line, all 12-odd of us, the slowest ones first and the fastest ones last. We started running one by one, 20 seconds between us, so that we would naturally gather up at the end of the interval. I wanted to position myself at the front of the line, but there were apparently others who didn't want to run fast either. So I started third.

I could feel the horns growing out of my head. The competitive devil took over me. I willed my legs to slow down. Tried to remind them I hadn't really done any speed work since last summer. But the devil was too strong. I caught up with the second runner on the beginning of the slope, then the first runner on the way down from the slope. The wind was on my back, lending a helping hand, but then it turned against me, trying to push me backwards with every step. I gasped for air. Thought to myself that now I could relax, when I had run past the first two. Then I saw our coach standing by the side of the path. He was very enthusiastic in his encouragement. It gave me new wings. Later, when two of the fastest runners had caught up with me from the end of the line, and when I had just started to struggle again, our coach was there again, telling me it looked good, that I was doing a good job. When he turned up again for the third and last time, I had found enough strength in me to smile in return.

I jogged back home after the long run, stopping by the river to take a look at the winter swimmers. My legs were tired but satisfied. I had passed 60 km this week, for the first time since last summer. Flow.

Hill repeats

Some runs you enjoy while you're out there. Others you don't enjoy until after you've come home and had a cup of tea.

We tried to look around us and admire the beautiful winter landscape surrounding us. Some of us had strength left to lift their heads and rest their eyes on the falling snowflakes. Others tried as hard as they could to will the lactic acid off their legs instead.

Okay, so maybe it was just me. The lactic acid had accumulated after 10-odd hill repeats up a short slope. It started off so easily. Yesterday was, uncharacteristically for a Sunday, a rest day and my legs felt strong. The first couple of repeats went great. Then, my inevitable transformation into a wheezing potato commenced. The repeats felt progressively harder and more and more people started overtaking me. My shoulders tensed, my breathing got shallower and my posture withered like a flower that hasn't been watered in weeks. And, of course, lactic acid flooded my legs and refused to leave.

The thought that I might actually die, my last breath wasted on the obviously insane act of trying to move my aching hamstrings up this little hill for the thousandth time, did cross my mind. And still, I somehow managed to survive. I was just as surprised I had as I was all the other million times I'd thought I would die while training. I am starting to think that my brain is just lazy and trying to trick me into going home and eating chocolate instead.

Curiously enough, I enjoyed this run both while I was out there (despite the near-death experience) and afterwards, when I had jogged home and had a scalding-hot shower. I am sure that, once the lactic acid drains from my legs, I will feel stronger, too.

Why we choose to suffer

Memory is a fickle thing. Like all things in the known universe, it inevitably falls victim to entropy. As time passes, it becomes a disorganised mess of fragmented images, imagined sounds, a censored version of reality. Also, as any police investigator will tell you, it lies. Memories are the result of a subjective creative process deeply influenced by our personalities. They are susceptible to suggestion. That is why two people can recall the same incident in two very different ways.

How we remember pain is a particularly fascinating subject. Even if we know on a cognitive level that we have experienced pain, we cannot recollect it physically. It is kind of a survival mechanism: just imagine if we re-experienced pain every time we remembered it. We would be overwhelmed by it, unable to lead a normal life.

The past is shaped by what and how we remember. For example, if a race has made a good overall impression, we might remember the scenery, the friendly volunteers, the interesting runners we meet. We often either repress or distance ourselves from the discomfort and the mental challenge. So that what we are left with is a beautiful, perfect snow globe of a memory, an idealised image of the real thing. But if that is how we remember it – and we can never revisit the past to find out if it's true-, is it less real than what actually happened?

And does it matter?

There are different sorts of pain (emotional, physical, mental), degrees of pain (from discomfort to agony) and even levels of pain tolerance. Runners of any distance might experience pain. Disappointment that they didn't win a medal or break a personal record. The beginning of a foot injury. Pushing through the wall at a marathon or the blood taste in their mouth during hard intervals. And so on.

Yet there is something particularly grueling about an ultramarathon. Maybe because the suffering is prolonged and gives ample opportunity to experience all sorts of pain. The ultramarathon is a Herculean labour, an extraordinary trial in which the athlete (from the Greek ”ἄθλος” meaning labour, task) must perform a seemingly impossible feat in order to succeed.

By choosing to run an ultra, we choose to willingly marinate in pain. We feel the tiny stones that have found their way into our shoes, gaiters be damned, and the blood blisters that are starting to swell under our big toes because of them. We feel the niggle in our knees and the anxiety that it can develop into an injury. We feel our stomachs revolting against the latest energy gel we've thrown down our throats. We feel eternity weigh upon us as day turns into night and the hours of our voluntary torment stretch forever towards an unknown finish line. In short: pain makes us feel. We are alive. Pain makes us focus, turn inwards and explore, something that is sorely missing in our frantic day-to-day lives.

Why do we keep putting ourselves through such harrowing situations? After all, the human instinct is to avoid pain. Pain means threat, danger. That's why we learn not to touch a hot stove after only one or two misguided displays of curiosity. Are ultrarunners just really slow learners? Well, I'm sure some people might say that ultrarunners have some kind of screw loose, but slow learners they are not.

As is often the case in life, it is a question of effort versus reward. Ultra running takes a lot of effort but the reward is worth it. We invest enormous amounts of energy in our sport. If we never got any energy back from it, we would just stop doing it. But that is not what happens. What we do get back are the healthiest, most nutrient-dense calories you can get, in the form of breath-taking views from the top of mountains, oxygen-rich air in thick forests, the beat of our hearts and feet on a silent, empty road… and delving deep into the abyss of our own souls to come eye to eye with our monsters, the ones that tell us we can't do this. And we get to slay them. That. That is why we endure the pain. We transcend ourselves, we go past our limits, we venture further than we thought was possible. We triumph. Mind over matter.

And then, when the race is over, we get to lie back and enjoy the memories we have created, where pain once again becomes nothing more than a cognitive exercise, unable to yield its power over us. We know that we persevered. We know that we conquered pain. We learn that there is an end to the pain, and that all we have to do is wait it out. We get stronger, patient, self-confident. We get an extra arrow in our quiver for when we have to face other, involuntary trials in life. Because then we know that this, too, shall pass.

She sells sea shells by the sea shore

My knees haven't been too happy about the optimistic increase in weekly mileage the last couple of weeks. They haven't been too happy about the wet, heavy snow that has been causing a lot of headaches for the ones in charge of plowing the streets and pavements. My knees aren't too big on thinking positively. They don't see this as a wonderful opportunity to get stronger, like I do. My knees are a couple of miserable, whiny old geezers and they want me to get off their lawn. I can't help wondering how long before those two kick the bucket and leave me to fend for myself.

As such, pain and its implications have been on my mind a lot lately. Why we do what we do even though it sometimes hurts. But more about that in another post. Today, let's focus on the good stuff, and how I ran 23 km without my knees firing any shots in my general direction. They just made some empty threats. No big deal.

One of the other runners in AIK suggested that we should run out towards the sea. I was glad she did. I grew up by the sea, took my first steps on a pebble beach and spent a lot of birthdays there as a child blowing out candles quickly so that the sea breeze wouldn't get to them first. If there is one thing I miss living in central Skellefteå, it is the sense of serenity only a sea horizon can evoke.

Rocking the bell bottomed pants. Hey, it was the seventies. But that coat is to die for.

The way there was by snow-heavy roads, framed by fir and pine trees. The conversation flowed freely, aided by the fact that it was downhill most of the way. Our goal destination was a summer house-lined bay, and once we got there we could see that the water had, of course, frozen and the sea was hidden under a layer of ice and snow. Still, at the narrow mouth of the bay in the distance, you could almost make out the point where the sea was too rough to let any ice form on it. Which is just as well, because otherwise it would be too easy for Finns to just walk over to Sweden and drink Swedes under the table.

We turned back the same way we had come, which meant that we were now facing a long uphill slope. My feet struggled to find purchase on the snow-covered road and I seemed to slip backwards with every step that I took. We all grew quiet, not wanting to waste precious energy on talking. That was soon remedied, though, when we rounded the crest of the hill and regained our strength. All that remained now was some easy kilometres back to where we had started.

After I left my teammates, I took the long way home. My knees started grumbling again, but I didn't let that deter me. I was just happy to have another solid long run under my belt.

Perfect weather to fly

The wind is trying to creep under my clothes and claw my skin with its ice cold nails but I go on. I lift my head towards the sky and look up at the tree tops, the snow painted in summer afternoon colours although it is the middle of the winter. I am not as alone as I would like to have been, even at this early hour of the morning. But if I am in the way for other, faster skiers, they only have themselves to blame. I mean, who gets up at 9 on a Sunday morning to go skiing? 

Maybe they, like me, like the way newly prepared tracks crackle under your skis. 

It's not even noon and I've gotten my exercise for the day. Yet, who wants to stay indoors on such a beautiful day?

24

Why, hello 24 km! Long time no see! I would never have thought that my legs would be so happy to run you after such a long absence! And on a hilly route no less...

I love those runs that start off slowly, on stiff legs and wheezing breaths, and then end up triumphantly, with a big smile on your face and wings on your heart.

High

Tiny snowflakes pirouetted in the street lamp light and landed on this cloud of snow we were running on. The stars had fallen down from the sky – now crow black – and lay on every surface around us, seemingly shining from within and lighting up the world with their conviction. Their enthusiasm rubbed off on me, and I danced forward, forward, into a darkness illuminated by magic.

-18°C. Four runners, our coach included. Empty streets, warm houses, silence loaded with laughter, that tried to push itself past my lips and break out into the world. 15 km of runner's high.

Growing pains

Growing older and growing up are not the same thing. Everyone grows older, but not everyone grows up. Some people have to be dragged kicking and screaming into adulthood, others embrace it (I guess they really love paying bills?). Me? If I could cherry pick some aspects of growing up and never have to deal with the others, I'd be happy. Money? Yes please. Being the master of your own destiny? Yep! Eating peanut butter straight out of the jar without having to answer to anyone except your future, slightly fatter self? You bet! Having to sit in meetings and pretend you understand what everyone else is talking about? Not so much.

So after an intense first few days at my new job, when I was left with a head full of numbers, names, rules and, most of all, questions, I was ready to crawl into the fetal position and let someone else do the cooking, cleaning etc. Unfortunately, J was out of town on business, so I had no one to feel sorry for me except myself.

Now, feeling sorry for myself is an activity I try not to engage in that often. I save it for real crappy situations, like when I have a cold or if I've ordered some books online and one of the covers is creased in one corner or when I've made myself a grilled sandwich and one of the cats has jumped on the counter while I wasn't looking and stolen it. So, when I got home after work last night, I had a quick bite to eat, spent all of 30 minutes trying to will-power my stomach into digesting the food faster and then I went out for an eagerly awaited run. 

It had snowed quite a lot during the day and the snow plow had not yet been everywhere. Scratch that: they hadn't plowed anywhere. For my snow-deprived readers, here's an interesting Northern Sweden fact: fresh snow is very nice to look at but it's also soft and unstable and good luck trying to run up a hill in it. You get twice as tired running in fresh snow than on tarmac, having to lift your legs high so that you can get through it. It's true. Scientists have done research on it. And by scientists, I mean me.

To further establish my street cred as the Hulk of running, my legs weren't some spry, gazelle-like things, and not only because gazelles have four legs and I only have two (an unfair advantage that is only accentuated by the fact that gazelles rarely have to run in snow), but because I had been to the gym two days prior and the soreness was really starting to kick in. Still, I picked the hilliest route I could find, because I thought of the 2200-odd metres' worth of elevation gain at High Coast Ultra and that it'd be nice to train for it and avoid dying of lactic acid overdose on the day.

The highest point of this particular route is also the most beautiful one, and I was rewarded by the coziest little snow-laden spruce tree tunnel at the top. My stress started to finally melt away and I could enjoy the tickling sensation of snowflakes landing on my nose.

What goes up must come down, and a long downward slope awaited me now. At the bottom of the hill I looked back and briefly considered running up it once again, to get more hill training in. Then I remembered J was coming home soon and how much I had missed him. A thousand excuses later, I was sitting at home looking at the total elevation gain of this route.

70 metres. One thirtieth of the HCU. Wow. Well, it's a start. And today it's Friday. So, let the weekend begin. And may it bring with it a lot of cumulative elevation gain.

Liar, liar

I've been going around telling people all about how 2015 is going to be about taking it easy, seeing where my training takes me, having no specific races planned.

LIES.

Because the truth is, I am a weak, weak person. Some running buddies have group pressured me into entering the High Coast Ultra. Thankfully, they have only managed to convince me to run the short, 75 km version. Just think if they had nagged me to enter the 129 km one.

I assure you, I had no intention of entering this race. You know how repulsive I find ultras! In the past, people have had to torture and/or blackmail me to run all 5 I've done. This time they forced me with promises of beautiful nature. So I went to the race's website to get some facts that would allow me to stand strong against the fantasies of undulating fields and breathtaking vistas.

There is a total elevation of some 2200-odd metres over the course of these 75 km. The elevation profile looks a lot like a cardiogram. And! You are practically self-supported. Well, there are two aid stations, the first one turning up after 30 km. But if it's a warm day, as it very well can be at the end of June, the one litre of water the race organisers demand that you carry with you is not going to last that far.

Thankfully, the race offers generous cutoff times. In case you need to start crawling at any point - and there is a good chance I will have to - you have 17 hours to do so.

So, in the face of these facts, what's a girl to do?

I was so nervous/excited I had to go for a run, despite the fact that today is a rest day. Am I even allowed rest days when I'm training for this?

I must be crazy, entering a 75 km ultra about a second after my knee got well enough to make it through 20. Nervousness and excitement take turns occupying my brain. I have never run this far, and definitely not on such demanding terrain. How should I train for it? Will I make it? Will I get injured and have to drop out? Or will it be a wonderful experience?

Bye bye 2014

Ah. The last day of the year. The day when we look back at how miserably we have failed to do all those things we promised we would do for our New Year's resolutions. The day before we make new resolutions, and this time it will be different. Suuure it will. And I have some prime swampland in Florida to sell you.

I don't remember what my resolutions were. To stop getting injured maybe? Well, we all know how that went. A runner's knee that could have been prevented if -you guessed it – I had been a bit smarter about my training. But being smart about my training might mean training less, and then I would have missed out on some awesome stuff:

There is no such thing as bad weather

This post was inspired by C, one of my best friends and fellow runner.

Skellefteå was hit by a cold front a few days ago, which made temperatures plummet and snow pour down from the sky. But, seeing as this is the last weekend of the year, and weekends mean long runs, I didn't let the weather stop me. I wanted to see if my knee could cope with a proper long run to end 2014 with. One over 20km. It could, and it did. Yey!

Contrasts

Thousands of miniscule shimmering disco balls poured down from the sky. I ran at a comfortable pace towards what should have been a sunrise but what was instead a wall of dark grey. I didn't mind. The road was lined by thick forest, interrupted only occasionally by country houses, and my steps were soft on the fresh snow. I wasn't the only one to greet this turn of weather with glee: birdsong broke through the otherwise all-encompassing morning silence.

I had gotten up at stupid o'clock, had eaten a way too early breakfast and had faced the dilemma: should I run by myself now or wait a few hours and run with AIK? I chose the first, partly because I can be very impatient when I have to wait for fun things to happen and partly because I figured I could then come home earlier and get on with other fun activities.

I get knocked down but I get up again

Last night I went skiing. I skied for a while. Then I must have thought it was getting boring with all that standing upright and getting some exercise and everything, so I fell down to mix things up a little. Even though I'm such a expert skier nowadays that I only fell down once, I am apparently also an expert at injuring myself (shocking, I know) and I twisted my thumb when I inadvertly landed on my ski pole. 

This is an old picture and those are some old skis. I now obviously own expert skis.

Because I'm stupid hardcore, I immediately jumped up and continued skiing. I can be quite reserved and don't like drawing attention to myself by, say, screaming in agony. I mean, other skiers might then have heard me and tried to help me! Better to save myself some embarrassment and pretend that nothing happened.

Back on (single) track

This could have easily been one of those runs that make me want to sing (inwards, of course. Not outwards. I don't want to get evicted and/or involuntary committed to the mental hospital). The only thing stopping me was the constant worry that I might slip on a root or that my knee might not make it. Otherwise, all the ingredients that make for a delicious winter run were there: great company, fresh snow, undulating terrain and a pair of legs as excited to go out and play as a little puppy.

Oh, and some warm mulled wine afterwards. Strictly speaking, not a part of the run itself, I'll admit. But - all scientific evidence agrees - a very important part of the recovery phase afterwards.

Our coach had informed us beforehand that it was to be a short run, about an hour long and mostly on terrain. My plan was to try and run 15 km, an increase by one km since last week. My knee responded to last week's increase so well, I thought I'd push its limits just a little further. I drove up to the hockey arena some 40 minutes before we were to meet, left the car in the parking lot and started running.

Leaps and bounds

After the end of a strange work week, when – among other strange things – I accepted an offer for a new job, I came home and collapsed on a chair. This was to be the first weekend in ages when I had absolutely nothing planned except to read a lot and drink buckets of hot beverages. I like having plans on weekends, but they don't usually leave me as well-rested and eager to get back to work on a Monday morning as having a chance to get bored. Not that I'm ever eager to get back to work. Less openly hostile maybe? Yeah, let's go with that.

I did have a little plan for this Friday evening though. I had complained to my chiropractor that I can only run 10 km before my knee starts acting up and getting stiff, and he advised me to add another 10 km run in my week instead of increasing the amount of kilometres on any particular run. So, naturally, I thought: ”Wouldn't it be great if I could run 14 km?” and – after a lot of hesitation because it was Friday after work and I was tired and lazy and it was snow-slushy outside and windy and dark and I'd rather be reading my Stephen King with a hot beverage in my hand and there was no one to give me a kick in the butt – I did just that.

Karma doesn't care about you

Just a couple of weeks after I ran my first post runner's knee, walking break-free round, my foot started hurting.

I have had similar foot problems before. The first time was a couple of years ago, after I got hubris and thought I could do 27 km in my VFF. Well, I could, but then I got injured. The second time was just last summer. Both times the problem was the second toe tendon, on top of the foot and halfway to my ankle. Both times I had to take several weeks off from running.

This time, the dull pain came unannounced and with no preceding running hijinks to explain its existence. It just started aching last Tuesday afternoon (on my rest day) and then got worse as the hours passed.

Yesterday, my short lunch-break walk made my foot complain more firmly. So much so, that I came home from work and spent an hour worrying I would miss practice. Wednesday afternoons are easy run days with AIK. Should I run with them or should I rest my foot?

I was getting frustrated. Furious at the injustice of what seemed to be yet another injury, I shook my fist at the sky. Hadn't I paid my yearly injury dues with my runner's knee? Was my body falling apart, finally beaten after years of abuse by way of running? Would I have to take up birdwatching instead? I don't even like birds! 

See? They're evil! By Abode of chaos

I don't believe in karma, or cosmic justice, or ”what goes around comes around”. Just read the news. There's evidence all around us that bad people get away with doing bad things all the time. And there are good people in the world that live in misery, never catching a break, bad things happening to them all the time. The universe is indifferent to our fate, and nothing that ever happens happens for a reason. As much as it would stroke my ego to believe that I am the centre of the universe and all it is there for is to accommodate me and my whims, I find it impossible to actually do so. I'm just not that special. None of us are. To each other maybe, but not in the grand scheme of things.

Still, I couldn't believe that my luck was so rotten, that a deity I don't even believe in would punish me this way (yes, I made up a deity so that I had someone to be angry at. I call him Stan). I refused to accept that I had sustained yet another injury, so close to my latest one. On some level I must have believed that my righteous anger would scare the cosmic powers (=Stan) into admitting that they (=Stan) had messed with the wrong person this time, because I went ahead and joined the AIK practice anyway. My foot sent weak signals throughout the run, but today it's much better than it was yesterday before the run.

It might be too early to say for sure, but I think that the universe might have finally thrown me a bone. Thank you Stan, fictitious deity of my imagination!