I don't know what it was like in every other school, but running was NOT cool in my school. We used to wear bottle-green uniform in my school, so you can imagine how uncool it was already... Our annual cross-country was just an amazing excuse to have an afternoon off, jog round with the girls and put muddy hand prints on each other tits (and I'm still suffering from severe FOMO flashbacks), but for some reason, that ONE day of the school sporting calendar, I allowed myself to become uncool. I would win that race, and I would run the fastest I could possibly run, even if it ruined my pink eyeshadow/blue mascara combo or made me a bit sweaty. I didn't even think about it either - racing my hardest wasn't something I thought about really, I just did it.
Running is quite a personal thing, I think. I've read articles that claim running performances are down to just 20% physical ability - with the other 80% made up of mental strength. I don't know how accurate this is REALLY, I mean I don't reckon I could beat Mo Farah even if I thought about it loads and loads, but there's definitely some truth to it.
When I first started running again after university, I was 'training' (a term used very loosely here) to lose weight, get a bit fitter and for the genuine love of the sport. When my fitness picked up, I started doing parkruns or local 5km races and (this is no word of a lie) I would get a new PB EVERY SINGLE TIME. By like, 20 seconds or more, sometimes only a week later than my previous 5km. Like most people, I tend to enjoy the things that I think I can excel at - hence why, when I wasn't very good at science in school, I just stopped going...
When I was getting faster with every single run I was doing, I was on a 10000000% runners high. Much better than weed, a runners high is the adrenaline that rushes around your body after a run or race. Endorphines, or something? (Remember: not good at science). This left me with a huge confidence boost, LOADS of belief in myself and meant I was bounding off to training at every opportunity, eating properly and making sure I had enough rest. I was doing really well at something I enjoyed, and was getting faster every time I ran...
And then I stopped.
It all started with the Bristol 10km last year. I was training really well, my abs were looking SLICK and I had very high hopes of getting under 43 minutes. I didn't really have any doubt in my head, apart from the fact I was going to a festival the week before, but I thought I would be able to power through and ignore the inevitable horrendous hangover. WELL - anyone who has me as a friend on Facebook probably doesn't need to be reminding of the infamous Love Saves The Day photos. I 'went in', as the ravers say.
I had an absolutely amazing weekend and regret NOTHING (apart from spending £13 on the world's most minging mojito - Natalie Mott you know what I mean hahah), but it did leave me a rather broken woman for the next week. I was still on a daily vom ting up until the day of the Bristol 10km, and probably shouldn't have ran. Imagine your morning shower before a race being interrupted by a projectile chunder over your naked body. MMMMM. Anyway, the race was a shambles, I ran just over 45 minutes and was SOOOOOOOOOOOO hard on myself. Dave had to hold my hand and pull me along for the last 400m to make sure I actually finished.
I couldn't really forget how disappointed I was in myself, and started picking faults in basically my entire life. I managed to (and still battle with this daily) convince myself that I was overweight and my extra flab had stopped me from running a few minutes quicker (I am 8 stone, so I know that my thoughts were absolutely ridiculous). My next race went just as badly - I was on to run 20.40 for a 5km when I thought I had period leaked. Firstly, OMG PERIODS GROSS. Secondly, how bloody annoying (literally) to stop to check your flap area and be overtaken by women double your age who you should 100% be in front of. Again, I was super hard on myself and decided to give up on the summer season, instead concentrating on cross country.
AND EVEN THAT WAS SHIT. My beloved cross country; the very races that had got me into the sport in the first place had started to let me down. I had a few shocking races - one that can be blamed on a hangover - but the rest were just awful. I felt like I was training more (and trying harder) than ever but just not seeing any results. I cannot tell you how hard it is to dedicate a large portion of your life to something and then have people assume you aren't putting in any effort because you are 20 people further down the field than you should have been.
This is where my brain came in...
For the lucky ones amongst you who have seen me up close and in the flesh, you'll know that I'm built like a small male rugby player. My legs earned me the lovely nickname of 'tree trunks' by some PARTICULARLY friendly girls in the year above (see, I said I was cool) and swimming competitively from the age of 10 has give me a set of shoulders that can only be described as 'very broad'. I'm pretty strong for my size and I am occasionally both amazed and grateful for the things my body lets me do. SO, I knew it wasn't my physical fitness that was letting the side down, it was (and still is) my brain.
***STRONG NEARLY-NAKED PHOTO WARNING*** (abs are all about the lighting and nothing to do with the gym)
Every single time I was running I would tell myself that I couldn't, even though the year before I was flying round the track like a distant relative of Usain Bolt. I would look at my strong thighs while I was running, and resent them for being double the size of my faster team mates. I told myself that I was weak, everyone else was far superior to me and I couldn't even count the times that I've text my training partner Lucy (BRISTOL MISSES YOU LUCY) and told her that I was quitting. Being the angelic woman that she is, she would usually reply and tell me to stop being a twat - which is what I needed, really. It's a really strange feeling that's so hard to explain to my friends, who mainly think my running exploits are wonderful, but they listened to my moans anyway and told me I was still great (thanks guys, LOVE YOU SO MUCH). It got to the point where I was basing my own self-worth on how fast I could run around a field and everyone was thinking the same thing: 'come on Emma, don't be a bellend'.
Thanks to coach Dave, who has put up with my shit for nearly 10 years now, he has gradually got it back into my head that I CAN do it. I genuinely am stronger and fitter now than I've ever been, despite my best efforts to drink alllllll the gin and steal fags off of people on nights out, so there is literally no reason why I shouldn't be able to run as fast as other people think I can. I am very inspired by my mother, who claims that she was never spectacularly fast in her youth, and is now reaping the rewards of sticking at something that she loves, and has somehow ended up as a member of the England team. You go girl.
I haven't ran a 5km PB since January 2015 (apart from when I ran 20.20 in the first 5km of a 10km in March 2015, but that's not official), but on a good brain day I believe that in the next two years I can run around 19 minutes. My recent races have been really good - I've finished feeling genuinely happy and actually ENJOYED it. And, as I've possibly said a million times before, running is an absolutely brutal hobby to take up, so if you don't enjoy it, what's the bloody point?!
So yes, although I am a very fit woman (hahaha, sorry but technically it's true), my brain has been through the shitter as well and is probably the hardest part of my body that I've ever had to train. I've gone from wanting to be the coolest, cleverest and best gal going, to realising that you don't have to be the best at EVERYTHING. As long as it makes you a very happy woman, then that's a resounding success in itself.
#deep
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