An Iron What?!

When you’re training for an Ironman, word spreads like wild fire.

Even the most unlikely people in my office have asked me questions about it.

I think I underestimated just how interested people would be, actually. Or perhaps I was under the hopeful delusion that I could just crack on with training in secret, finish the bloody thing and have an epic finisher’s photo to update my profile picture with.

Not the case.

I never imagined the volume of questions or comments that people would pass and if one thing is for sure, it’s that, in general, people have no idea what you’re about to undertake.

So, instead of writing about how knackered I am  (beyond belief, in case you were wondering), I thought I’d share some of the most common/amusing comments I encounter on a daily basis:

I think my dad’s mate did one of them Ironman things other weekend – do you get electrocuted and stuff?

This one is my favourite. Everyone’s heard of tough mudder or tough guy events and assume it’s the same kettle of fish.

After all, the name ‘Ironman’ does evoke images of someone dressing up in a super hero outfit and charging through fields of mud or barbed wire, in a bid to prove they are in fact, a massive LAD.

And kudos to them. There’s no doubt that there’s a huge amount of determination and grit required to finish an event like that, but an Ironman is a very different kind of challenge.
I imagine that about half way round the marathon course, after completing a 2.4 mile swim and a 112 mile bike ride, I’d take a couple of electric shocks over finishing a 26 mile run. In fact, the prospect of the electric chair might even be more attractive.

Oh, and there isn’t beer involved either, if that’s your next question.

I wish.

But, you’re a WOMAN?!

Yes, you noticed! People are astounded by the fact that a women could be completing an event that, by its very own admission, only men can take part in – right? Wrong! Not only can we ladies take part in this type of challenge these days, we also have the right to vote too, madness.
On a more serious note there is a campaign to get an equal number of pro men and women racing the Ironman World Championship in Kona, aptly named #50womenToKona. Check it out.

What the hell are you doing that for?!

This one is probably the most difficult question to answer because there are generally two, clear cut camps of people: those who get it and those who don’t.
For the people that don’t (my mother included) there is rarely any point wasting your energy trying to explain or justify your reasons- they will never understand.
The feeling you get having conquered something you never thought you would – whether that’s a 10k or an Ironman – is something that stays with people. It’s not something that can be described; you have to experience it. Hence why people forget the pain and go back to take on harder challenges, again and again.
It’s not just about fitness either; it makes you tougher, more resilient and for me, a generally happier human being.
And, although there’s no denying that training can sometimes feel like a chore and you do have to make sacrifices, it’s also a chance for me to indulge myself in epic landscapes and lots of fresh air.

I know someone who did an Ironman and it took him like 3 hours, he’s SUPER fit though!

Unless you’re mate is superman, I very much doubt it, pal.

How much training do you actually have to do?

Well an average week at the moment looks a little bit like this:

Monday: Cycle to and from work (1.5 hours), short, fast run (45 minutes)
Tuesday: Spin session and core class before work. Cycle to and from (1.5 hours)
Wednesday: Swim coaching before work (120 lengths) Cycle to and from work (1.5 hours)
Thursday: Run to work (8 miles)/ 4k open water swim
Friday: Cycle to and from work (1.5 hours), swim 120 lengths
Saturday: Run 18 miles
Sunday: Cycle 80 miles in to a short transition run (20 minutes)

Of course it would be boring for people to hear every last detail of this plan so I tend to respond with two simple, but accurate words: ‘A lot’. (Whilst smiling over my overwhelming urge to collapse in a heap).

How do you have time to do all that?

If someone asks the sensible question of what an Ironman actually involves, this tends to be the follow up. And the answer is simple – I’m super organised and I get up extremely early!
People are under the impression that I must have turned into some sort of hermit, only rearing my head to run, bike or swim but it’s amazing what can be achieved before you sit down at your desk in the morning.
I definitely prefer morning training. I find dragging myself out of bed first thing is easier than dragging myself out the door when I’m home. I do train some evenings but this means I get to see friends a couple of nights a week, or just get extra sleep!
It does take a lot of planning to keep all the plates spinning and even more motivation to spring yourself in to action every day but it shows that it can be done without having to sacrifice your social life or career – you just have to really, really want to.

I bet you can eat whatever you want?

Ha, I wish!

Aren’t you going to get really fat afterwards?!  

For some reason people love to ask this one?! I think people really enjoy the idea that, once it’s all over, I’m just going to remain on a sofa for the rest of my life, eating pies and gradually transform into a bin liner full of yogurt.
I pray to the Lord this isn’t going to happen.

So, what’s next?

I dread to think…

Road to Recovery

So much has happened since my last post that it’s difficult to know where to start. I didn’t lose the ability to write, despite over a months silence. I did however, lose the ability to walk.

This happened in possibly the most awkward place imaginable, at the top of a bloody great big mountain in the Lake District.

The weekend after my bike accident my boyfriend and I had a training trip planned in the Lakes. Despite having to make significant amendments to the original plan (in light of the fact that I was unable to run, cycle or swim), a weekend of walking was on the cards. 

In hindsight, given my state of recovery, we probably should have resisted the urge to climb EVERY SINGLE mountain in the valley. But we’re not ones to do things by halves. 

You live and learn. 

To cut a long story short, after cresting the fourth mountain of the day my ‘niggling’ knee pain escalated rapidly into what I imagine it feels like to be stabbed repeatedly behind the knee cap. 

I’ll spare you the details of the preceding four hours it took to get down the mountain. All I will say is that bum shuffling was used as a viable alternative to walking, tears were shed in abundance and pain killers were taken with a worrying disregard for the maximum daily intake.

I now know that what I was suffering from was a severe case of Patella Femoral Pain Syndrome. A mouthful to say, but a rather simple explanation. 

Basically the muscles in my right quad had wound up so tightly from excessive overuse that they were pulling my knee cap completely off track. A result of lots of exercise and little (or in my case, no) TLC.

After bawling my eyes out through the whole of my first physio appointment, several revelations were made:

1) I needed to man up. Apparently the physical pain of this syndrome is heightened in line with your emotional state, so stopping crying might make it hurt less 

2) Me and my foam roller were to become the BEST of friends 

3) Iron man Muskoka was still on 

The third revelation came as the biggest shock since I could barely walk in to the consultation room without yelping out in agony. It was hard to imagine making a comeback that would not only allow me to complete the event itself but the training required to finish such a mammoth physical challenge.

But I was willing to do anything it takes. 

So the last six weeks have been spent seriously testing my patience and sticking to a rigorous daily routine of stretching, icing and strengthening exercises. And fierce amounts of foam roller-ing. 

I’ve had to reign it in completely, building up slowly from my first attempt at jogging one length in the pool, to five minutes on the treadmill to the twelve miles I completed this weekend. It’s not been easy and it’s tested my patience to the absolute limit. But I’ve convinced myself that this injury was a blessing in disguise. 

I’ve always been someone who wants to be ‘race ready’ as soon as humanly possible, desperate for the psychological gratification of knowing I’m fit enough. 

The day before my accident I’d run 16 miles and was hoping to ride 70 miles the day after. All with 19 weeks still to go. I could never have maintained that level of training until race day and in a way, I was lucky the pain kicked in when it did, not with two weeks to go. 

It’s like waking up super early to sprint for a bus which doesn’t come for a couple of hours. Then fighting to stay awake at the bus stop and falling asleep just before the bus arrives. 

Stupid. 

So I’m learning to trust my fitness and I know that if I buildmy mileage up week by week, i’ll get to where I need be.

If I’ve got the will power to get out of bed every day at 6am straight on to a foam roller- the Iron Man is going to be easy, right?

A Bit of Iron Will

It’s official, I’ve taken the plunge. Ironman 2015 is ON. 

On August 27th I’ll be flying out to Toronto, Canada, ready to embark upon a  2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, topped off with a full 26 mile marathon, just for good measure. 

And if that prospect wasn’t daunting enough, I’m writing this blog post from the Urgent Treatment Unit in A & E. 

Like a bad omen, this year has been plagued with injuries. Ive had the flu, a sinus infection, ruptured muscles under my rib cage, a dislodged toe nail (which had to be removed) and underwent another minor operation. 

So being ejected off my bike after cruising straight into a pothole at speed wasn’t exactly what I had planned for last weekend. 

Fortunately I didn’t break any bones however my body has suffered a serious battering. Both knees, hips and elbows are in a pretty sorry state (hence my return to hospital) and quite honestly, I feel like a million little lepricorns have taken miniature sledgehammers to all my major joints.   

But life throws these things at you and with Ironman training you have to accept that there are going to be bumps in the road. (Quite literally in my case). 

Before this tumble, training was actually going really well. I’d done some incredibly challenging rides including a beastly 70 miler in the Yorkshire Dales with over 5.5k of climbing. I’d been doing consistently long runs each week, reaching a speedy 16 miler the day before my bail. And my basic daily training, sometimes twice a day, was on track. 

I might have even used the adjective ‘swimmingly’ to describe my training thus far however swimming is something that’s been hugely neglected in recent months. Not for lack of motivation but having been barred by medical professionals from entering a pool. 

It’s understandable that immersing yourself in a giant germ bath with a crowd of total strangers isn’t exactly conducive to preventing infection following a minor operation. But neither is 6 weeks out of the pool conductive to Ironman training. 

So as you can imagine, I’m pretty gutted that, just as I was getting back into it, my newest injuries will keep me out of the water for at least another week. 

But if there is one thing this year has taught me it’s to be patient and not to rush back into things if you’re still broken. For a self confessed exercise addict, this has been a learning curve of epic proportions. I’ve rushed it lots of times in the past and ended up doing myself more harm – ultimately meaning more time out.

But I’ve realised that this isn’t something you can afford to do with Ironman training. A set back of a couple of weeks would be game over. Even a ‘day off’ (which, for me still involves a 16 mile round trip cycle to work), feels like I’m cheating. So the next week or so of rest is going to be painful. 

But having recently gone to a talk by four times Ironman champion Chrissie Wellington, whose one key piece of advice was, ‘Be kind to yourself’, I plan to keep reciting this mantra until I’m blue in the face. 

Throwing Down the Gauntlet

It’s taken a week for it to sink in after being in a state of shock/total euphoria for days; I came third.

Even typing those words, I still can’t quite believe it.

As this was my first 70.3, my main concern was whether or not I’d get myself round the course in one piece. I never imagined standing on the podium, receiving prize money and being snapped by a photographer?!

The hilarious thing is that, in all of the races that I’ve ever tried for a medal, I’ve missed out. After running the Guernsey half marathon a few weeks ago I blogged about the laughable predictability of my consistent fourth-place accolade.

So, when I came into the bike – run transition and my Dad was yelling at me that I was fourth lady, I had a little chuckle to myself thinking, ‘Of course I bloody am.’

It was a confusing mix of emotions though. At first I was surprised as I hadn’t realised how far up the field I was. I knew that I’d had a strong swim, coming out of the water 14th overall, but I didn’t know how many women were ahead.

Apart from a brief standoff with a woman on the bike leg who, in an attempt to pass me on the third lap, made the mistake of saying, ‘this last one is always harder than you think’, I was pretty sure that no others had overtaken me. Suffice to say it was harder on the third lap, but she didn’t stay ahead of me for much longer.

Secondly there was a childish stubbornness inside me which was telling me I’d rather come last than narrowly miss out in fourth place again.

Then there was anger. Anger at my boyfriend who was shouting that all I needed to do was rinse another woman on the half marathon and I’d be third. Easy for him to say having not just swum 1.9k through a smelly, opaque, mud bath and then furiously pedalled up countless lung busting hills for the past 3 hours 18 minutes.

I shouted back at him that I didn’t want any pressure and I just wanted to run my own race. But who the hell was I kidding?

The race was on.

I don’t even remember having jelly legs to be honest. I think I was distracted by the absolute blinding desire to catch the woman who’d just beaten me out of transition. I just remember putting my trainers on and virtually sprinting out of the area.

The run course started out on a rocky path and I had to concentrate hard on not tripping up. I quickly got into my stride though and, as the ground levelled out my pace went up. And up and up. I felt cocky passing other runners who were in different waves – people doing 5 or 10k’s in the sprint and Olympic distances. I kept thinking to myself that I should slow down, that I’d need something in the tank come lap three – but I couldn’t hold back.

Every time I saw someone wearing a black number, (an indicator of ‘the Gauntlet’ race), we exchanged a look as if to say, ‘I know how much pain you’re in mate – just keep going. We’re all in this together.’ It was actually an incredibly moving experience.

The run course was a three lap circuit. The first 5K of the loop was a steady ascent to the castle, followed by a much needed 2K decent.

Every time I ran past another female competitor I scoured her number to check the colour. I had passed two other women with black numbers on the first lap but I still wasn’t convinced I was in the rankings. In a state of such physical exertion, even the simplest mental tasks like counting are neigh-on impossible –I didn’t want to get my hopes up.

My family had also stopped shouting my position which I took as a clear indication that somehow, it had all been miscalculated. Looking back now, I know they were trying to protect me from any possible chance that they had miscounted.

But whatever hope I had I clung to it with a deathly grip. I ran with more determination and grit than I ever have in my life. The fear of another woman overtaking me powered my legs like a motor and kept me glancing over my shoulder constantly.

Apart from the rank taste of strawberry yogurt flavour energy gel, the final few K’s of the run are a bit of a delirious blur. However pounding down the hill from the castle to the finish line is a memory that still sends shivers down my spine.

I finished the run in 1 hour 32 minutes – not my half marathon PB but very close. My parents escaped to double check my ranking before coming back with suspicious smiles that hinted at good news. Despite a feeble attempt to keep it schtum until the presentation, their were easily broken – you don’t want to argue with an incredibly sweaty girl who has just done 5 hours 32 minutes of intense exercise.

The elation I felt when my mum broke the news to me with a cracked voice still hasn’t really dissipated. And the feeling of sheer happiness as I stood on that podium, staring back at my family – the best supporters in the world – is one which will stay with me for a lifetime.

Two More Days

I always imagine the final week of tapering spent in a state of calm, appreciating the lack of physical exertion – giving your body time to relax and your mind time to mentally prepare.

I’m always wrong.

There is a plethora of stuff to stress about. If it’s not absolutely cacking yourself about the immense challenge ahead of you, it’s daydreaming about all the things that could potentially go wrong.

Will I get any sleep the night before? Will my bike get a puncture? What happens if I get lost?

The latter is probably a concern reserved for me only however – ridiculous or rational – all this worrying leads to butterflies at work and anxiety dreams at night. During one particularly disturbed sleep I dreamt that I started the race without putting anything in my transition area (bike included), then plunged straight into the water without my goggles on?!

If I made this kind of mistake on race day I’d have to seriously question my mental stability but with so much to remember, it’s unlikely everything will play out 100% smoothly.

My mammoth checklist has also been occupying a lot of my time. I’ve been on two-week holidays where I’ve had to remember less:

Pre-Race:

• Clothes to keep warm
• Hat
• iPod
• Water Bottle (sports drink)
• Energy (gels, juices, bars, powders, pills, etc.)
• Flip Flops
• Transition bag(s)
• Timing Chip
• Race numbers
• Body glide
• Sun cream
• Chalk to mark transition area

The Swim

• Tri suit
• Wet Suit
• Watch
• Goggles (two pairs!)
• De-Fogger
• Swim cap (and an extra)
• Ear plugs
• Plastic Bag

The Cycle

• Bicycle
• Helmet
• Bike shoes
• Gloves
• Bike pump
• Spare Tube & Tire Levers
• Water bottles (filled)
• Socks
• Sunglasses
• Gels etc. taped to Bike

The Run

• Trainers
• Race belt with number attached
• Shirt with number attached
• Water Bottles

Transition Area

• Towel
• More Energy (gels, juices, bars, powders, pills, etc.)
• Toilet paper
• Small bucket / basin to rinse feet

Another stress-inducing activity was browsing the wave timings. It turns out that everyone taking on the iron man 70.3 distance is starting at the same time. This means being immersed in the water with 125 testosterone-fuelled blokes who are likely to show no mercy when the starting klaxon sounds. Shit.

I also discovered that only 25 other women are doing ‘The Gauntlet’ distance. Bigger SHIT.

This did seem quite fitting though given the response I got from a guy in my local running shop earlier this week when buying a colossal amount of energy gels:

Man: ‘What race are you doing?’
Me: ‘A Half Iron Man’
Him: ‘But you’re a WOMAN?

His comment was delivered with such genuine confusion that I couldn’t bring myself to explain that the name merely signifies a distance, not a superhero-male-specific-species. So instead I just giggled. Like a girl.
So, as you can imagine, I’m a little bit stressed. Just how close I am to cracking became clear yesterday when I got back from the local supermarket (approximately a four minute walk from my house) to realise I’d forgotten washing tablets. I had a complete meltdown.

God help me on Saturday night. Perhaps I should add Valium to my ‘pre-race’ list. If not for me, for the sake of my poor family.

Guernsey Half Marathon

I finished fourth lady, AGAIN. My ranking in this race has become somewhat of an on-going joke for my family over the past few years, as I’ve hopelessly battled to make it into 3^rd place.

After coming 6^th, 5^th, 4^th and then 4^th, and then 4^th… again, I seem to have reached a flat-line in my ranking performance. Having said that, I smashed my time by about three and a half minutes this year, finishing in 1:33:30 – so ranking schmanking I say.

It was my fifth or sixth time running the Guernsey Father’s Day half marathon. My dad has run it for donkey’s years and 2014 marked my brothers 10^th race. We’ve got relatives on the island so it’s a great excuse for a family holiday and it’s no coincidence that we make the annual trip at this time every year.

The course is beautiful. The route takes you up the West Coast of the Island where you can distract yourself with stunning beaches before traveling inland, across to the opposite shoreline. A final coastal stretch takes you up to the finishing sprint, right in the centre of town alongside the scenic harbor of St Peter Port.

As with any coastal half marathon, the wind direction can often make or break your race however, despite complaints from the majority of people, I didn’t seem to notice the apparent headwind this year. This may be due to the fact that, unlike any other year, I ran in a pack of about ten guys. With only 400 entrants in total the race is usually a pretty solitary 13 miles however for about 8 miles we kept as a tight cluster.

This resulted in A LOT of drafting. Anyone in the centre of the pack was total shielded from the gust which persisted throughout the first 9 miles of the course. You can see from the photograph that after breaking away from the group very briefly, I stupidly positioned myself right at the front, pacing our little harem for the majority of the race. I felt really strong though and by about 6 miles, I knew it was going to be a good race.

So strong in fact that I achieved something I’ve never done before in my racing history. I ran my last three miles at sub 7 minute mile pace. 6:50 to be exact. I don’t know where it came from and I did question whether my step change would come back to bite me in the final mile, but I held on.

I crossed the line with a huge grin on my face, oblivious to my all-too-familiar-ranking- just incredibly chuffed with the numbers on the clock. I felt like I’d paced myself purely on instinct, checking my Garmin sporadically, only to be consistently and pleasantly surprised.

This was a big boost for the Iron Man 70.3 in less than two weeks’ time and I feel confident that, all being well, I can achieve a time to be proud of.

And who knows, if I’m foolishly tempted to train for a full Iron man next year, maybe Guernsey 2015 will be my year for third place…

Back to track

I haven’t trained on an athletics track since i was about 14 years old and I certainly don’t fit into my running spikes anymore. I have a theory that I was born with a severe ‘fast-twitch-fibre-deficiency’, so I’m certainly NOT a sprinter.

My competitive track experience only extends to 1,500 metres but during my brief stint in athletics, shorter drills were mandatory at every session. As was agility training.

These are the kind of militant exercises where you begin lying face down, nose touching the track, arms by your sides. Then at the sound of the whistle, you move as fast as humanly possible to get on to your feet and break into a sprint.

I’ve never known anything to make you feel more like a collapsed hippopotamus, desperately trying to make a speedy recovery. Usually made worse by the fact that you’re surrounded by gazelle-like creatures, already at the line by the time you’ve just about hauled yourself off the ground.

So I’m not sure what’s come over me these past few weeks but I’ve been making weekly visits to a club session at Battersea Millennium Area… and I’m actually enjoying it. The hour and a half session combines a mixture of core work, agility and speed training to push you well out of your comfort zone.

I meant seriously. There are times when I’ve reconsidered my choices; head inches from the ground, gravel penetrating my bare forearms, pushing through the last excruciating seconds of a competitive plank-off. Or enduring the aggressive burning sensation throughout the whole of my body as I sprint the final straight of lap 15.

But somehow the company is a huge distraction and the friendly competitiveness really drives me to push that little bit harder. Plus it’s the only way to shave minutes off your time. I know this because the last time I did any speed work was during my training for the marathon and it made a huge difference to my 10k and half marathon PB’s.

So perhaps I’m a convert? Maybe I’ll ditch my endless plodding of pavements for regular stints busting my guts on the track? Unlikely.

But either way, there’s a reason I keep coming back. After all, I live in London and there’s no shortage of pleasurable things to do on a Tuesday night. But there’s no sense of achievement in just going out for dinner now, is there?

Off The Wagon

OK, so I cheated. Not in a big way but the fear of the unknown got the better of me.

I promised I would go plan-less and train following nothing but instinct. However on pure instinct alone I wouldn’t have accomplished what I did this weekend.

After running 14.5 miles in stifling heat on Saturday, I wasn’t exactly aching to get down to the pool and swim over 100 lengths. And after consuming several shandies on Saturday night, I wasn’t mad keen to haul myself out of bed at 7am on Sunday and cycle 100k around the downs. But, after a nudge from athlete Matt Fitzgerald, that’s exactly what I did.

Following a mild panic that I could be massively under/over doing it, I took a sneaky peak at Matt’s, ‘simple 16-week training plan‘ – just to reference where I should technically be up to. No harm in that, right?

But, like dangling a can of Newky Brown in front of a former drunkard, I’m off the wagon and back to my old ways: following ‘week 11’ down to the T.

I figured it would be a good test of form to pick up the plan from where I’d be, had I been following it all along.

To check off the bike miles on Sunday, I tagged along with two Windrush riders who’d promised 100k with, ‘a few challenging climbs’ at a ‘non-breakneck’ pace. The first was an understatement and the latter was accurate, only because it is neigh on impossible to travel at breakneck pace up a series of almost vertical hills.

Despite over four hours of thigh-burning climbs and having almost departed with my breakfast on several occasions, I had one of the best rides ever. The views were incredible and somehow eased the pain of the grueling hills, which pushed me to my very limit.

Knowing that this route would have defeated me only a few months back was a big psychological boost. As was the comment left by one of my fellow riders, James, after explaining that my brother beat me in the bike leg of our previous triathlon: ‘If Emma climbs in Cheshire like she did today I think her brother will be in for a shock!’

Here’s hoping…

Running for Rach

Today I ran the Great Manchester 10k. Twice. Once for myself and once for one of my best friends, Rach.

In my eyes Rach is a hero. On the 1st October 2010 she had a car accident which left her in a coma for four weeks. Aside from breaking countless bones in her body, her head took the brunt of the crash. I won’t go into too many details but visiting her in such a unrecognisable and helpless state was heartbreaking.

I never lost hope but seeing your friend wired up to so many machines- battered, broken and unresponsive- it’s hard to have faith. Especially when you’re surrounded my medical professionals who simply can’t reassure you that she’ll pull through.

But she did. In the most epic way possible.

Not only did Rach eventually come out of her comma, but her sheer determination has seen her learn to talk, write and – what’s most relevant in this instance – walk again.

If I could show you a photo of the day she went into hospital after the crash- you wouldn’t believe it’s the same girl standing in the middle of the photograph.

And this wasn’t her first 10k since the accident – we ran Manchester just eight months after she was in intensive care, unable to breathe unaided. And she’s run Sheffield since.

To me, this is a true inspiration. For someone to, not only overcome an accident which almost cost her her life, but to come back in a way that would put most perfectly able-bodied people to shame.

When I’m in search of motivation I often find my mind drifts back to being beside that hospital bed. Instantly I feel an overwhelming sense of appreciation. To be able to run, cycle or swim freely, with nothing else holding me back, apart from my mind.

And it spurs me on to achieve more.

However the PB I got today ranks nowhere near as high in my happiness bank as the pride I felt whilst hugging my friend after crossing the finish line for the second time.

Proof that running doesn’t always have to be about timings or performance, it can be about moments of pleasure – which stay with you for a lifetime.

Boost or Burn?

Last week looked a little bit like this:

Monday – Run to work (8 miles)

Tuesday – Cycle to and from work. Swim 2,600 metres (104 lengths)

Wednesday – Cycle to and from work (16 miles).

Thursday – 30 minutes run (interval session), 25 minutes cross training, 10 minutes rowing, sandbag weights session.

Friday – 90k cycle

Friday Ride

Saturday – 11mile run

Sunday – rest

Monday – 30 mile cycle, 7.5 mile run

When I write it down, it does seem a lot.

Having said that, it’s crazy how much the body adapts. Even now, after swimming over 100 lengths of fast crawl, then cycling 8 miles into work, all before 8:15 – I still feel like I could go out and run a marathon?! I guess that’s a good sign but I do have this niggle which is telling me to rein it in, or risk burning out.

I suppose this kind of insecurity is to be expected when shirking a training plan, so I’ll just have to stick with the uncertainty for another ten weeks, until race day arrives.

I’m feeling pretty good though and the past weeks training has really improved my confidence. I’ve now cycled the full 90k distance twice and on both occasions I’ve felt like, afterwards, I could give a half marathon a really good crack.

Once I’d finished a hilly 30 mile ride on Monday, my boyfriend joined me on the premise of doing an hour, ‘easy’ transition run. This turned into a 4 mile hill climb followed by three consecutive sub 7 minute miles. Despite my burning desire to punch him square in the back of the head for the whole, painful duration (that’s right, he was pacing me), I couldn’t believe I’d managed to keep up. Especially starting out with jelly legs from a pretty challenging ride.

So all is well, apart from a pinching pain in my hip which I’m getting looked at next week. Fingers crossed the guys at Pure Sports Medicine can provide me some strengthening exercises/a miraculous cure to get rid. And if they dare mention the dreaded ‘o’ word – I am fully prepared to place the blame 100% on my boyfriend.