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!

Maybe I'm a dog person after all

For about a week now, our older cat Tidus has been keeping us up at night. He's done it before. He becomes completely unhinged and embarks on a lunatic back-and-forth spree through the apartment, running and screaming like a possessed cow, while we try to catch some sleep. He does that every night for a while, and then several months can pass before his next fit.

Last night, it started around 3 o'clock.

* gallop gallop gallop*  

MEOW MEOW MEOOOWWW 

*gallop gallop gallop* (we should really clip his claws)

(I cover my head with my pillow, a futile exercise as said pillow does not contain, say, a ton of earplugs, but mere feathers, which are excellent at keeping you warm but not so great soundproof material. Still, it gives me a false sense of peacefulness. I drift back to sleep)

BANG!

(He has succeeded in opening one of the kitchen cupboards after a few attempts and crept under the false floor. I am startled awake from the most wonderful dream. I was dreaming I got a full night's sleep completely undisturbed. I try to ignore the scratching sounds from the kitchen and the perversely enjoyable thought that maybe the cupboard door has shut itself after him, trapping him inside until I decide to let him out in the morning, or maybe tomorrow morning or maybe the next day, and fall back to sleep in three, two, o-- )

* gallop gallop gallop *  

MMMMMMMMEEEEEOOOOWWWWRRRRRHIIIISSSSS

*sound of living room sofa getting moved three centimeters to the left as something heavy crashes into it*

(Now he's taking his energy out on his little brother Sote, whose sense of personal space is so strong that Tidus just has to look at him and he starts howling like a pig that's just realised he's bound for the slaughterhouse. Sote takes cover under our bed, making sure he knocks the mattress under me with his back as he does so, because why wouldn't he)

Cats are so adorable they even make napkins with cats on. Vintage napkin from the '90s, courtesy of JH's wife

A person can only go back to sleep a limited amount of times before impatience and annoyance win over the desire to sleep. Sleeping in on the weekends? I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS.

Real and imagined dangers

While the rest of the country were stuck in the Friday evening traffic jam on their way home and some fredagsmys, I was driving in the opposite direction on my way to Vitberget. J and I had made plans to run 10 km in the dark. It sounded like the perfect way to relax after a long work week and kickstart the weekend. The moon was just one day past full, the air was crispy and our legs were willing. Now that's what I call fredagsmys. I also call it spending quality time with my husband, but I'm kinda weird. 

Like it happens with all great plans, there was immediately a hitch. J called me on his way home from work to let me know that his bike had gotten a flat tire and that he had to walk all the way back. I would have to run alone.

Run alone? In the dark? In the forest? But...moose! Bears! Sabertooth tigers! EFFIN' BIGFOOT! I felt my courage crumble like a stale cookie. I had run in the dark with only my head-torch for company before, but never in such remote woods. I hesitated. Maybe I should go for a run in my neighbourhood instead?

Out of the woods

...I am not. Not yet. I am standing on the edge of the woods, admiring the open fields before me, wondering where that lovely single-track leads.

Last Monday was the first time I dared run a proper session with AIK. I arrived at our meeting point first, eager to get going, my nervous anticipation betrayed by my constant jumping into place. I had no idea how this interval session would go. I had run a couple of test runs by myself last week, which went well, but intervals are a whole different kettle of fish. It could go either way.

As my fellow runners started arriving, I was greeted by more and more of them with hugs and lovely-to-see-yous. I was overwhelmed. I had missed this group so much, and to receive this kind of welcome meant a lot to me.

The intervals went well, at least knee-pain wise (let's not talk about my rapidly declining shape), so I joined AIK for the longer Wednesday run. As we ran under an almost-full moon and a crispy clear sky, the others kept asking me how it was going, if I was experiencing any pain, understanding my nervousness and excitement better than any non-runner ever could. They were looking out for me in case things went south.

Belonging. Caring. Learning. Daring. Laughing. These are just some of the reasons why being part of a running club rocks.

I completed the run with only minor niggles but I am not going to throw caution to the wind and start running longer runs. I am not out of the woods yet. But maybe soon I can find out where that lovely single-track leads, together with my running buddies.

In the gym no one can hear you scream

At 07:30 on a Saturday morning, before the sun has come up and while the sky is still dark, there aren't many people at the city hall gym. Of course, I wasn't a hundred percent certain that I was alone when I let myself in and found that all the lights were off. But soon enough, when noone came up to me to complain about my choice of music on the stereo (cheesy hard rock), I deduced that I was, indeed, alone, and I could do all my rehab exercises as wrong as I wanted to without worrying that people would laugh at me for doing so.

It was a bit worrisome when I caught a sudden movement behind me, as I admired my perfect technique in the mirror while doing some squats and singing along to Mötley Crüe's Kickstart my heart. ”Seems like I've got company”, I thought irrationally, because where would the company have come from? There were no doors behind me. ”A ghost”, I thought coolly. Because I don't believe in ghosts, so if there was a ghost behind me, I had nothing to fear. That made perfect sense, so I kept doing my squats. 

Then, I turned around. What I'd thought was a ghost was in reality a bird, a great tit (get your mind out of the gutter) that had flown in through the window that I had opened earlier. See? I was right not to believe in ghosts.

Birds have been behaving strangely around me lately. The other day, I almost stepped on one while running. Go ahead, try to step on a bird and see how close you get. I had to perform a little dance to avoid crushing this particular one to death.

Rehab is going great. I'm almost liking this gym lark again. And running? Well, I'm almost back in business. I've been running in three minute intervals for the past month, slowly increasing the total number of intervals while simultaneously reducing the amount of walking time between intervals. I have one run left in my rehab programme before I try to run without breaks, and boy am I looking forward to not having to look at my Suunto all the time.

Being in running rehab for the past three months has left me with a devastating hole in my social life. If you think about how I normally spend at least five hours per week with other runners when I'm not injured, talking running and shoes and adventures, perhaps you can imagine what effect the absence of the above has had on my life, my routines, my topics of conversation (not to mention that I had to channel all the spare energy into trivial activities, like vacuum cleaning and making dinner and, I don't know, work or something). To put it simply: I miss running with the group. I miss running in itself, the freedom of injury-free running, but I also miss connecting with others about it. The nerdiness, the company, the mutual, unspoken understanding. I read posts about it on AIK's Facebook page and feel like everyone else is having a blast at the best party ever - except me.

But after I had been to the gym this morning and gone for a lovely walk with a friend, it was time to visit the annual ski fair. There, I ran into and talked to no fewer that four AIK-runners. Then, J and I went into town for some coffee, where I ran into three more. I even had time to discuss marathon plans with one of them. Suddenly, within the span of a couple of hours, I had talked running with lots of people. I felt energised. As if I belonged once again to that wonderful, wacky band of long distance runners. As if I had never been injured and fallen behind.

And, with the first interval-free run only a couple of days away, as if I'd just been invited to the best party ever.

Silver linings

Every time summer starts drawing to an end, I start worrying about the oncoming autumn. How I will deal with the rain, the dark, the cold. It's as if, every single time, I forget that autumn is not just November. It's so much more.

It is, for example, my heart beating extra fast, giddy with fear-laced excitement during a run in the dark with my crappy headlamp on, its narrow, weak beam illuminating no more than two metres ahead of me. It is forests lit on fire by orange leaves. It is patches of blueberry bush turning Marilyn-lipstick red and fir trees hanging on to their dark green needles, providing contrast for the sepia toned birch trees. It is soft, bark-littered paths and trails under a canopy of neon-yellow rowan trees. October. What a great month to be a runner.

And runner I am. Even though I still have to run in three minute intervals. Even though I still sometimes forget I have already been out for the day's run when I gaze longingly out my window in the afternoon, because my legs are not tired after only 5 km. Even though I spend more time building up leg strength at the gym and going for walks than running. Because, despite all that, I am making progress.

I am being patient, careful, methodical. But I am not going to lie. On October days like this, I wish I could have a pair of injury-free legs to go on a long run under the autumn foliage with.

Alternative training

I am notoriously difficult to get out the door to exercise when said exercise doesn't involve running. Don't get me wrong. I love it once I'm out there, I love getting tired, but I need a lot of coercion to get going. Walks? Meh. Bike rides? If I have nothing better to do. Climbing? If you promise me chocolate afterwards.

So this long injury period combined with my reluctance to move my arse and my continuing to eat as if I still log 60 kilometres' worth of running per week has led to the acquisition of some extra cushioning around the waist. Realising that if my current lifestyle remains unchanged I might have to switch sports to sumo wrestling and it's something that I REALLY cannot see myself doing, I forced myself to get out the door this morning.

After an hour long walk, I went to the gym.

Not only did I go to the gym, I even did some exercises there.

Granted, some exercises were easier than others. Leg exercises, for instance, were no problem. My leg muscles have not yet deteriorated into jello.

Then I tried doing some shoulder and arm exercises. Pretty soon I formed a theory that I needed to build up my strength in those muscles considerably, when I found lifting the pin you put in the weights to keep them in place was hard. My suspicions were confirmed when I tried the Skierg machine (a machine that allows you to train your cross-country skiing muscles) and could only ”ski” for two minutes before collapsing in a heap on the floor.

Next time I'm shooting for the stars and aiming to ski for 2,5 minutes!

The road to recovery is long

There are only so many hits a person can take before she breaks. Only so many disappointments. Only so many setbacks. One day, she finally has enough. One day, she realises that this is an abusive relationship and she's suffered her last blow. One day, she turns her back on running for good.

But today, good folks, is not the day. Today, setbacks and disappointments have given way to victory. And the love affair continues.

My visit to the chiropractor last week left me feeling carefully optimistic. After popping my knee back into place, he told me to rest for four days and then, he reassured me, I would be able to run as usual. If it sounds too good to be true, it's because it was. Four days later, I tried running and managed a measly 3 kilometres before the pain got so bad I had to stop. The gamut of emotions I went through may have been vast but I can assure you that happiness was not one of them.

I wallowed in misery for a couple of hours. Then I tried thinking rationally. This wasn't my first time at the injury rodeo. I had done this before and recovered and gone on to run ultras. But despite this rational thinking, the fact was that my knee hurt and I could not run. I was bitter and anxious that I would lose the benefits of all the hard work I had put in the previous months.

The day after, my determination, weak as it was after so many false starts and hiccups, got a second wind. Maybe I could not run far, but I could run. A little bit at a time. Just like I had done so many times before. Run 2 minutes, walk 1,5 minute. Lather, rinse, repeat. Tedious, uninspired, not even guaranteed to yield results. And my only hope.

So, this morning I took my bike up to Vitberget. Started my rehab for the third time since I got injured. As the autumn leaves gave up the fight against gravity all around me and fell to the ground, as the sun warmed the earth, I skipped between roots and stones, light on my feet, light in my heart. It is going to be a long journey back, but if each step is as magnificent as the ones I took this morning, maybe it doesn't matter.

Soul for sale, CHEAP

Anyone with contacts down in the fiery pits of hell that can tell me if the Devil would be interested in purchasing my soul in exchange for a pair of working knees?

Two months of runner's knee. Two months of trying to make a comeback and thinking I have succeeded, only to fly too close to the sun and fall down face first onto square one again with my wings in tatters. It's getting tiresome, this cloud of despair hanging over my head waiting to release a thunderstorm on me.

Trying to think about all that is positive helps. For example, last time I had runner's knee I couldn't even walk, yet this time I've been logging 8-10km almost every day. I can run a little bit, even if I have to take walking breaks. It doesn't hurt after I've gone for a run, although the knee can get a bit stiff.

10000m worth of track

I am starting to get used to this endless roller coaster of injury - recovery - being in great shape - injury. That must be why my latest injury hasn't succeeded in crushing my spirits: I know that recovery is right around the corner. And I can run, after all. I'm not completely paralysed by my runner's knee. I just can't run very far.

The success rate of these running sessions has been variable, of course. Take Vasastafetten, for example. A short course over undulating terrain resulted in a 4:25 min/km pace with accompanying nausea and thoughts that wisdom tooth extraction without anesthesia would be painless in comparison. Yesterday's district track meet was twice the distance and only 5 seconds/km slower, yet felt like cuddling kittens. Go figure.

Heat 2, leading group

Vasastafetten 2014

If I could summarize an entire weekend in a sentence to spare you the trouble of reading a long race report I would. But I can't.

You see, there is so much to write about that I don't know where to start. The 11-hour long car trip from Skellefteå to Mora that could have been boring but wasn't. The atmosphere at the legendary Vasaloppet finish line. The struggle to keep going when I ran my part of the race. The Saturday night laugh-till-you-drop hi-jinx. The bittersweet aftertaste of coming home at the end of an amazing weekend.

So be warned. This is a long read.

Vasastafetten is a relay race from Sälen to Mora, on a 90 km long track that is better known for the Vasaloppet cross-country ski race. Skellefteå AIK running club entered the race this year with 3 teams – two all-female teams and one all-male one. Each team consists of 10 runners that have to run different parts of the course, on varying terrain. Some run on forest roads, others on single track, and some have to even cross bogs.

Our three teams drove down in four mini-buses. Spirits were high despite the fact that we set off just after 6 in the morning. There was never a dull moment in our bus. We somehow ended up competing with the all-male team bus about who would reach Mora first. Unfortunately the passengers in that bus made use of very questionable and decidedly unsportsmanlike methods to make sure they won. For example, they removed the hub-cap from one of our wheels. If they hadn't done that, I am sure we would have gotten to Mora first.

Once there and settled in our three-bed rooms, we headed out to get some dinner at the Vasaloppet party tent by the finish line. I had arranged to meet up with an old running buddy from Gothenburg there, who was to run the ultra version of the race. That is, while we others ran like we were being chased by a rabid Tyrannosaurus with a chainsaw in its hands (paws?) for a relatively short time, the ultra runners would be making their way along the same track but most of them at a more leisurely pace and for a most likely much longer time. Say, 15 hours or so (like some of the rear-of-the-packers I saw walking resolutely towards the finish line at 8 in the evening, hours after our team had crossed it).

It was strange to meet up with a friend from my Gothenburg days, especially in the company of my new, Skellefteå friends. Gothenburg is a city that I still love, and I have many great memories from the 8 years we lived there. Seeing my friend (and a couple of other dear Gothenburg friends who came to visit earlier this summer) brought back a lot of these memories and triggered an almost overwhelming longing to visit my old stomping grounds. At the same time, I was among amazing, funny, kind people, all of whom I've met the last couple of years in my new home. I felt lucky to have these people around me. Still, a trip to Gothenburg has been long overdue.

Later that evening, the three teams gathered in a meeting room by the hotel reception to talk logistics. My brain was mush by that point, overloaded by faces, places and information. Very little new information found its way in. I turned in not long after, completely certain that, exhausted as I was, I would fall asleep immediately. Instead, I lay awake for what felt like hours. I slept in intervals and woke up early, more tired than the night before.

After a prolonged breakfast, we got ready and made our way to our buses. Each person was dropped off at their station. I waited with the two other SAIK runners who would be running our 4,7 km part of the race from Läde to Eldris at a place that seemed to have jumped out of the pages of a story book. Log houses, flowers, green fields and spruce forests covered partly by brush strokes of mist were steadily getting hit first by a light drizzle and then by pouring rain. We stood there in our rain coats and trousers as ultra runners, among others my old friend, jogged past us. It would be our turn to run soon.

Läde

In my mind I was like a tight spring, full of pent-up energy. I had doubts as to my ability to reach my goal of 21 minutes. I had missed way too much training because of my runner's knee. My body, on the other hand, was quite relaxed. I was too tired to be wound-up.

Still, when my teammate showed up and handed me the chip, my tiredness melted away. I felt confident and took off in long, powerful strides up the first upward slope. A long downward slope followed, and I let gravity carry me at a speed far greater than I was used to. By the time I had run 2 km, I was struggling.

I was a diver running out of breath, swimming up to the surface only to find it blocked by ice. An astronaut on the surface of the moon with an empty tank. I tried to breathe and send oxygen to my muscles, but none existed. I slowed down but it didn't seem to help. I felt bad. So bad that I considered slowing down even further to a walk, but I was too stubborn for my own good and went on. I tried not to slip on the mud that covered the forest road I ran on, and to avoid as many of the meter-wide water puddles that stretched across my path. Rain drops forced themselves under my contact lenses and blurred my vision, but I could still see I was running past others. I was running past ultra-runners at least. And boy did I envy their leisurely pace.

At last. The finish line was in sight, my teammate was waiting for me to send the chip over the table separating her section of the course from mine and the rain had let up a little. I wished my teammate luck almost breathlessly and leaned over the fence to catch my breath. Then it was time to get to the minibus that was waiting for me at the parking lot as soon as possible. The ones of us who had already run would try to make it to the finish line in time to run past it together with the last teammate.

In our fathers' footsteps for future victories

To run under the legendary sign at the finish line in Mora was humbling, awe-inspiring. We entered the track as our teammate ran past and ran with her the last hundred meters or so, cheering her on as she finished strong. Our team efforts had granted us a seventh place out of 53 all-female teams. I later found out that I had run the second best time on my part of the course. My near-death experience had not been for nothing.

Of course we were not the only ones with a great result. The all-male team ended up in 11^th place among over a hundred teams, and the other all-female team got themselves the 21^st spot. No other running club had managed to put together more than two teams, but we had: three amazing teams. I am so proud to call each and every one of these people my club mates.

Needless to say, celebrations were in order. We started off by eating at the hotel restaurant, which served a luxurious buffet, and then we went for drinks at a pub in town.

If you think that the sorest muscles in my body on Sunday morning were my leg muscles, you are wrong. My stomach muscles were the ones that hurt the most. It must have been from all the laughing on Saturday night. Unfortunately they did not get to rest. The long trip back home awaited us, a tired bunch of runners and friends, already looking forward to next year's race.