Reflecting on my year as a non-slob

All-in-all, I've been running for about 10 years. It started when I won my year 7 cross country and WAS IN THE NEWSPAPER (the article was later taken off the wall of the headmaster's office after I got caught sneaking out of school to buy some sweets... but that's another story), and ended when I was about 16 and thought that getting off with my permanently-stoned boyfriend was much more productive than running round a track...

I started it up properly again about a year ago; the Bristol Half Marathon was looming and I also had an aim to complete at least one cross-country race that season (a very strange aim, I am well aware). Since then I've spent, well... bloody loads of hours, to be honest, pounding the streets, thinking about times, distances and whether I am STILL running like a hunchback after many, many back massages. This has also given me a bit of time to think about what my half-life-long hobby has taught me about myself... *LIST KLAXON*

I am more determined and committed than I ever thought possible
Last night at the track I was struggling with my 400m reps. Instead of sulking and/or giving up, I went to the toilet (gluten problems, hahaha) and when I came back out asked Dave to put my watch back to 84 seconds (per lap). I had it changed up to 86 after the first five reps but after a quick chat with myself in the loo (spending some quality time with myself) I was determined to prove I could do it faster. Back when I was a teenage knob I would've pretended I had a stitch and sat out (sorry Dave) but NOT THE NEW EMMA. I am now one of those annoying people who loves to 'push themselves to the limit' and will probably be paragliding off Everest, if you give me a couple of months.

Me being a sulky little teenager and Soph looking concerned that I'd act like that forever 

I don't need to get drunk both days of the weekend
Sooo many times this year I've gone for a lime and soda instead of a quad-vod - something that I used to (and still do) consider "BORING, OH YOU ARE SO BORINGGGG". I unashamedly love to get drunk and dance like a loon, but I also love running and have learnt that unfortunately I can't go out on the Friday and expect to get a PB on the Saturday. It's actually really hard choosing to be sober when I could revert to my party animal ways and sometimes I feel like the most boring person in the world, especially when my times aren't even that great. But luckily my friends don't take the piss too much. Which leads me onto...

I have the BEST friends
Never, ever, everrrrr have any of my close friends complained about me running/talking about running/not coming out because I'm running. Well, not to my face anyway hahaha (no girls, I'm sure you never would). Every time I have a race - even if it's just Parkrun - I can count on a text from AT LEAST Rosa and Simone, and if they are up early enough then Mott, Robyn and the rest of the girls are pretty on it as well. And they always like my running photos on Facebook. Which, obviously, is what friends are for.

My wonderful friends (most of them)

I don't like yoga
Running isn't for everyone, and yoga isn't for me. I tried it once as a way to relax and whatnot, but I just don't feel like it does anything. I know people have told me that it does loadsssss for you and makes you really strong and flexible blah blah blah, and I'm sure it does. But I like the feeling after a run of being absolutely shattered, covered in sweat (sweat fetish, its the new thing dontcha know?!) and knowing that I've worked my absolute ass off. Yoga just doesn't do that for me. I wish it did, so I could be all lean and long-limbed, but it doesn't. Soz yoga babes. 

I am easy to spot in a crowd
This may not be scientifically true, but bloody hell, my family have got amazing eyesight. They spot me EVERY SINGLE TIME I race. Especially hard in events like the Bristol Half, where there's 15,000 people running, Dad and Rach have been squashed against a railing for nearly two hours and Mum has just ran to meet them (after finishing it herself). EVERY. SINGLE. TIME. And they always tell me I'm looking really good even if all four of us know that I look like utter shite. 

The year we all did it and Dad was left as head cheerleader

My feet are disgusting
I have been told on many occasions that my feet are 100% my worst asset. I'm fine with that, as it means my banging personality is shining through and no one is noticing how badly I need to get my roots done. My main defence of my grim feet is 'but I run loads...', as if this excuses the black toenails and weirdly stumpy baby toe. But on top of this, I also have to deal with blisters. The bane of my life, as I'm sure many other runners will tell you, is a big bulbous blister. YUMMYYYY. It's so unfair, trying to do something good and being rewarded with a puss-filled lump, ready to explode at any point. And that could be on your way to work, while you're on a long run or - even worse - when you're in the bath. IMAGINE, bathing in blister puss. Mmmmmmmmm.

I AM SO SORRY

I am really hard on myself
Every time I do a time that I think is too slow, I cry. And if I think I haven't trained very well, I think about it loads and punish myself by doing a hill session like some sadistic weirdo. So I suppose, running this year has taught me that I'm actually a bit of a perfectionist and need to be nicer to myself. Looking at how messy my bedroom is, my mum would definitely disagree (it's like a graveyard for half-empty glasses and dirty clothes), and maybe I need to convert some of that perfectionism into the rest of my life... But yes, I have been told more than once to not be so hard on myself and I'm finally realising that it's true. I've knocked 9 minutes off my 10km and 5 minutes off my 5km this year AND have reached my 8 stone goal, so I think deserve a little pat on the back from myself. 

After a workout, I don't look half bad in lycra and my abs sometimes say hey
This is quite contradictory to my previous point, oh well. The other day I did a 6km run and straight away did my 7 minutes app (it really is my saviour). I saw myself in the mirror afterwards and decided that (this is SO bigheaded I don't even know if I can type it)..... I actually looked alriiiight (oioiiii). I took a photo of this momentous occasion because I'm one of those selfie twats and realised that I've worked really hard this year and now I look at that photo quite a lot. AND NOW I'M GOING TO SHARE IT ON THE INTERNET (sorry mum, dad, the twat police).

Excuse the barnet

I have become an 'organised sports activity geek'
Since I quit running for Bristol and West AC when I was 16, I'd become one of those cynics who thought organised sports teams were a bit weird. WELL, I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW THAT THEY ARE NOT (well they are a tiny bit). Bristol and West is one of those clubs that welcomes absolutely everyone, and since I've started getting my times down people have been so kind and supportive. Running folk are the nicest people in the world. And it's fun to be part of a club, so THERE.

I AM A RUNNER
I had a blast from the past while I was out the other night (I was drunk as well, proving that it is still possible!!!). We were having small talk, and he said 'aren't you, like, a runner now?'. I laughed and said 'kind of'... and as I walked off I realised, I ACTUALLY AM A RUNNER. 

It's been a good year.

'WOW!! She's definitely a runner'

TRY-ATHLON

I am so puntastic. 

As someone who is never, ever, ever satisfied with what they have (until I get a Chanel 2.55, obviously), I decided to take on another little challenge. Working on the editorial team of a triathlon magazine* and being a former competitive swimmer (haha, such a twat) it was only a matter of time before I entered my first one**. Fourty-two quid (yes I'm paying that much) later, I had signed up for the Bath Multi-Sports Sprint Triathlon. WHY? WHO KNOWS!!!!

*I actually work on the special editions team, but we mainly work with 220 Triathlon magazine and so I've worked on loadssss of issues.
**This will actually be my second triathlon, I did my first one when I was 13 and came 8th... out of 9. I tried to drop out halfway through and my parents forced me to continue. Dad has a photo of me giving him the middle finger, charming chid. 

Anywaaaaay...

From now on some of my blog posts may be taking a sliiiightly different view, e.g. not all about running; this will be great for those of you who can't help but click on the link despite finding my incessant running chat boring and annoying, although I can't imagine cycling and swimming are any more thrilling or endearing. Shoutout to the stalkers, soz 'bout that. 

This should be a BREEEEZE...

Having worked on 'The Beginners Guide to Triathlon' (available in all good book stores), you'd be forgiven for thinking that I'd be an absolute PRO at being a triathlon beginner. I have to point out, as an editorial assistant I don't get to do THAAAAT much and instead checked a lot of website names and made sure that certain swimming cossies were still in stock... But I did catch onto the absolute importance of transitions between each activity. The seconds from swim, to bike, to run are apparently well vital so I started off my OFFICIAL TRIATHLON TRAINING PLAN at 6.30am on Friday morning by practising just that...

Transition training, for those not in the know (aka, moi) is known as 'brick training'. I don't know why, but it seems to make the white middle-class men of triathlon sound extremely pompous and more profesh. Whatever keeps ya happy, I guess. I was supposed to be doing a 'brick session' of swim to bike - I was going to go for a swim and then ride my bike home straight afterwards. Ever the morning-person, I slept in my £6 ASDA swimming costume (already sagging at my non-existence tits) and when my alarm went off at 6am I was just like 'NAAAAAHHH'. With motivation and commitment at an all time high, I instead went for a 6km bike ride (I think that's super short but it was half past bloody 6), chucked my bike down on the drive and ran back up the road for about 8 minutes.

I may or may not have edited this... #expert

I'd read (actually edited some copy, ooooh) about the 'jelly legs' that you get from running off the bike, but bloody hell I wasn't expecting that. My legs didn't even feel like my legs... Is this normal? I actually felt quite drunk which initially was GR8 although odd on a workday morning... but it quickly became a bit weird and wooooozy. Remembering I wasn't running towards the kebab van on a Saturday night, I checked my watch and it said 3 minutes 30-something... about 10 seconds later my legs came back to life and I metaphorically sobered up. I only have to run 5km in my triathlon so every minute counts - I have a feeling that me and my 'drunk legs' are going to become eveeeeen more well acquainted...

With that done, this weekend I decided to buy a bike helmet (because crushed skulls aren't cool, kids) and also a PULL BUOY. This is a fascinating piece of swimming kit that I used to use when I was 12, had a six-pack and swam over 16 hours a week. A 12 year-old girl with a six-pack looks exactly how it sounds... disgusting. Anywho, the pull buoy is an oversized polystyrene peanut that you whack between your legs (oi oiiiiiiii), meaning you can only use your arms and therefore get massive biceps and asked by an international swimmer how your shoulders got so big (childhood scars). In all seriousness though, I do need to use this pull buoy ting as I need to save my legs for the bike and run. Also 'Dentist Dave' (my mum's workmate) does triathlon and told me to get one.

Helmet and between-the-legs buoy

OHHHH and also as a little note that may be of importance/interest, a sprint triathlon is:
400m swim (16 lengths of a 25m pool)
20km bike
5km run

WISH ME LUCK AND LETS HOPE MY SHOULDERS DON'T GET ANY BIGGER!!!

Leaving the label on, don't want to get too attached...

Sweaty betty on tour

I went on holiday to Majorca and so did my trainers. I know, I know, 'have a day off' and all that, but bikinis are daunting and letting standards slip just ain't my thangggg.

With a very important 10km coming up (as well as a triathlon - more on that later), I was quite conscious about not being a total slug for a whole week. I realise this is COMPLETELY ridiculous and probably really annoying - I can see the eye rolls from here - but girl got aims, ya feel meeeee? I only went for two runs while I was away, and ate plenty of food to make up for it so you don't need to cart me off in a straight-jacket just yet. Running abroad was actually amazing (lolz, totally Ghandi) and here is why:

You get to wear basically nothing
My friends know that I love nothing more than stripping off and generally being quite 'spirited'. Running in 30 degree heat is a great excuse for this. Sports bra and short-shorts and you are GOOD TO GO! No one gives a shit if you aren't wearing any clothes because its bloody hot and fair play to you sisterrrrr. MOVE DAT ASS. Allow the inner exhibitionist in you to run free (literally) - but not so free that you give yourself two black eyes. A bra is, unfortunately, always required.

NEARLY ALWAYS

You have NO IDEA where you are going
I've heard a few people talking about 'naked running' recently. I'm afraid this has nothing to do with my previous point (sad face) but is when you run without music or a GPS watch, meaning you just 'run how you feel' and don't obsess over minutes per mile and whatnot. As someone who is always chasing PBs and loves a good split breakdown, it was well weird, but nice, to run along a completely random road*, not knowing how far it was or how fast I was going. 
*for the benefit of my parents - this road was 'random' but also was a MAIN ROAD and there was no chance I was going to get into any trouble. Plus I was running welllllll fast so eat my dustttt potential attackers.

Foreign people
TAKING OUR JOBS. Haha, no no I am joking, the Daily Mail is a pile of shite and if people have the skills then by all means give them jobs. Anyway that's for another day... I love people who aren't English!!! They are so friendly. During my first run, which was a steady 35 minutes, I overtook a German man (getting them back for the football I suppose...). If he was English, it would've turned into a 2 and half hour race along the main road, with the middle aged bloke unwilling to give up and just LET A FEMALE WIN. Well, not this wonderful German man. He laughed, said something beginning with 'Ich bin....' and then tucked in behind me as we ran up the hill. I thought it was a bit weird he was running soooo close, but nevertheless as we got to the top he cheerily thanked me for pacing him and ran off down an alley. What a babe. 

(I just realised I wrote that a man 'tucked in behind me' - running lingo for my non-running friends)

Beautiful Majorca...

Wearing 'contraband'
If you watched I'm a Celeb this year then you'll know that contraband is very much frowned upon and use of these banned items is taken VERY SERIOUSLY by the general public. I still love you Amy!!!! My version of this televised scandal comes in the form of a pair of Nike Free Runs. I bought them in New York last year, wore them 4 times and then realised they were killing my very weak c-ankles... So now they live at my boyfriend's house and came with us on holiday. YAYYYYY!!!! My 'Mizuno Waves' went out the window like a discarded teddy bear and I got to run in my pretty grey and mint green Nikes <3. Since starting running properly again my ankles have got loads stronger, which not only means less falling down stairs in clubs, but also that I don't have constant club foot. I always slag off Free Runs - hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and all that - but I felt really light when I was running so they can't be that bad. Back in the box now though, until the next secret dalliance...

The two mistresses... and some beefy thighs

Tan?
If, like me, you spend a week lying on your back, slowly turning the colour of watery tomato ketchup, then this tanning malarky may not be for you. But then again, red legs don't go very well with pink shorts and that didn't stop me. For those of you who glow like a Greek goddess, then definitelyyyy run abroad. You can get a tan without even realising it, AND without leaving a sweaty outline of your body on the only towel you've brought for the week. 

It happens to the best of us, Kim

No one knows who you are...
...And therefore you can convince yourself you are a professional athlete. In my all Nike gear, doing my intervals, with sweat dripping down my back (and my front, LUSH) I felt proper fit. Like, properrrrr. In my head I was thinking 'I bet these holiday makers think I'm on a break from the Commonwealth Games and am gearing up for the European Champs'. UMM WHAT?!?! This thought would never enter my mind in the UK, and won't be happening again. Apart from when a little Spanish boy said 'Hola' and waved at me, which makes me think that Paula Radcliffe probably gets this all the time, and must spend her life constantly close to tears of joy.

THAT SMUG FEELING.
Oooohhh yeah. Pass me the Milka.

Smug git

50 Shades of Sweat...

As Dr Griffiths pulled it out my mouth after what can only be described as a four minute gag-fest, I hurriedly wiped my mouth and asked him if everyone reacted in such a way... "Not everyone", he smirked, "it's usually the younger ones that find breathing with a full mouth difficult..." He allowed me a few moments to get my breath back and I suddenly felt very vulnerable.....

HAHAHA sorry, of course I am talking about my 'stomach biopsy', and not anything else that anyone else may have been thinking of. Naughty Dr Griffiths. No no, yesterday I was put through the pain of having a camera shoved down my throat to try and solve my eating problems once and for all. Despite asking for a numbing spray, none was given (I have a feeling that they forgot...) and I was subject to 10 minutes of extreme pain and the feeling of being continuously sick. It reminded me a lot of one drunken moment in a toilet cubicle at uni, ahhhh the memories.

Knowing there was a 1 mile relay on at Eastville Park yesterday evening, I was determined not to miss out and had the whole afternoon off work to recover from the pounding I received from Dr Griffith. I was very flattered to get messages from a few fellows runners asking if I was running, so OF COURSE I had to make an appearance - can't let down the team now can I?!?

A nap on the sofa and a lot of sympathy from my dad (who has probably stopped reading this already) meant I was welllll up for a good time. I'd never done a mile race before so either way I'd get a PB, aka I could brag and be really smug and my friends would send me cute well done texts (Rosa, Mott, Simone - you are always babes). I was paired (tripled) up with Hen and Tracy, two of my favourite running ladies who - handily - are both speed demons. I put my journalism degree to good use and came up with the innovative team name of 'Best Buddies', whateverrrrrr everyone's got to start somewhere haven't they?!? To avoid running against my mother, I was put in the first leg, followed by Tracy second leg and Hen third. A quick trip to the loo and we were PUMPEDDDD. And I really wanted a medal and was hoping for wine (no wine, but free ice cream, chuffed).

The dream team...

Lining up for the 7.15pm start I noticed there was a distinct lack of women and a lotttt of men who looked a lot faster than me (and not like they'd had anything shoved in their mouth that morning). In my head I was just like YOLO - my dad was there so I knew he'd be cheering me on in the classic Steve Jolliffe BOOOOOMING VOICE so really, I was already winning. Also I didn't want to let my team down, these 'fun' relays are not actually fun; they are extremely competitive and I didn't want Tracy and Hen to resent me forever when I crawled in at last place, having picked up my free ice cream on the way round. No wayyyyy.

The gun went and I have to admit, I suddenly turned into a hybrid of a pitbull terrier and some sort of steam-roller. I was all over the place - it reminded me of a particularly cocky moment in year 8 when I elbowed three girls off the track because, well, they weren't very fast anyway. I was a very twatty 13 year old... I nearly knocked a fellow Bristol runner into a tree (sorry, Jane!) and clearly thought I was doing the 100m sprint. Definitely new to this distance hahaha... Such an amateur. Luckily the first bit was downhill so I kind of flopped down it, ran past mum ("NOT TOO FAST EM" - helpful in a race, calls herself an athlete) and concentrated on not thinking about my stomach being full of air (cheers Doc). By the time I'd looked at my watch I was going back up the other side of the hill and was starting to wish I'd listened to mum... But it was on 4 mins 30 so I just told myself to push push push, ignore that back sweat and WELL even if I do really shit I bet no one else was crying on a hospital bed this morning so I don't care. The twattiness has never really left me...

Entirely different race but there we go...

I got to the last 300m before the finish, where Tracy was waiting to take over from me. As I rounded the last corner I heard the trusty 'GO ON EMMMMM' from my dad so put in a bit of sprint (although 'running in treacle' came to mind) and slapped Tracy's hand like a good'un - my watch said 6.40 and we were in third!

Unfortunately the course wasn't great for spectating so I didn't get to see much of my team during their legs, but as seasoned athletes I was sure that no one would overtake them. Already dreaming of our third place glory, I told Hen to 'DO A SPRINT' (literally the most annoying thing to ever hear when you are blowing out of your arse hahah, I'm so sorry Hen) and of coooourse we ended in a blaze of glory as third ladies team. Obviously the running mums did one better and got silver, with Jane in their team as well - thank god she survived the steamrolling start line, and we all got medals, tshirts and ice cream. OH and I got to tell people about my traumatic and innuendo-filled morning at the hospital, which made me sound like suuuuch a trooper.

Mum, Sarah and Jane

Another good evening race put on by Sri Chinmoy (again, what a man) and although I am a competitive little shit, there were actually people there who run genuinely for the enjoyment and obviously the social side of it is wonderful. Sounding so soppy, but the people at running are SO lovely - it makes giving up my evenings for my quest of glory a lot easier.

We won the championship!! Bristol and West AC

Gloucester 10k breakdown bitchesssss

Being a cool, hip and happening 22 year old lady, I went to bed early on Saturday night and set my alarm for FIVE FOURTY FIVE AM. 5.45am, yes, on a Sunday. When it came down to it, I actually snoozed it until 6.25, but the thought was there. You see, my little doves, there was a race to be run! (run, ran? whatever). The Gloucester 10k started at 9am this morning, meaning we had to leave the house at 7.15.......... Oh why do I do this to myself?! Mother Jolliffe kindly gave me a lift, and double-kindly wasn't running, which meant today was all about me. Me me me.

WAAAAHH

Anyway I felt quite good, having passed up on a chicken burger yesterday lunch and opted for a 'gluten-free sandwich' instead - as yummy as it sounds, for those wondering - and we got to Gloucester at 8.15am. Thanks to my as-yet unresolved gluten problems and my nerves (and breakfast banana) kicking in, I headed straight for the loo. The line was akin to something you'd find at Glastonbury (plz see previous posts) and it soon become clear that the porter loos hadn't arrived. Ah well, two toilets for 500 nervous runner, SHOULD BE FINE - anyone ever heard of 'runners stools'? hahahah sorry... Not the fault of the organisers obviously, but it did mean the race had to be pushed back by 10 minutes to allow for everyone to dump their loads. I was in and out rather quickly (GROSS) and headed over to the start line. I positioned myself quite near the front, next to the 'sub-50 minute' sign. Andddddd GO:

The queue for the toilet                  *not really

0-1km:
'WOW EMMA YOU ARE FABULOUS!!! Check you out, running with all these skinny running men. Oh hang on, no one else seems to be putting in that much effort....'. I made that classic mistake of thinking I was going to break the world record for 'worst pacing ever' and went off a bit quick. In fact, one man behind me said to his mate "oh shit, we've just done a 4.10min kilometre. Let's try and hang on until we die". Great tactics, I'd say.

1-2km:
The men who were planning on dying were running right up my ass. This was annoying but kept me going, as I was wearing really short shorts and therefore felt like I should run fast enough to justify wearing them. DRESS FOR THE JOB YOU WANT, NOT THE JOB YOU'VE GOT, as they say... Lots of cutie 'mature' people were out and about, strolling through Gloucester, which was nice. I made sure I smiled at them all really aggressively, to dispel any bad thoughts about the youth of today.

2-3km:
My legs were notttt feeling wonderful or loose and I was mentally having a go at myself for not warming up properly. Coach Dave will not be hearing about this slight mishap on my behalf... There was a water station at 3km but I pretend my throat isn't drying up like Ghandi's flip-flop (haha, classic joke right there), sail on past and check my watch. Under 14 minutes, not bad for an old gal.

3-4km:
This was a bit of a blur, probably because I refused some life-saving water, but I trundled on like a depleting hippo (I remember feeling very slow at this point, questioning if I should be allowed to even own a pair of shorts). The man behind me nearly got hit by a car and shouted 'prick' at the diver really loudly. I turned around to make sure he was okay, obviously he chose that moment to overtake me... arguably he was also a prick.

4-5km:
'OH FUCK THIS' - this was me at around 4.3km. I stopped and walked (sad face). I don't really know why as I was going quite fast and was on for a 23ish minute 5km - maybe I just fancied a rest? I am so lazy. A man who looked like a walking (running) advert for protein shakes and fake tan gave me a pat on the back and told me to keep going. This was surprisingly helpful and I started running again, before being overtaken by three ladies at once!!! It was a mass takedown of the small little blonde girl in the Bristol vest :(

This was me at 6.30 this morning

5-6km:
Hmmmm, I want to say this is where we ran along the canal? I really can't remember, I'm sorry. Nothing to report here.

6-7km: 
AH!!! During my 6th kilometre, I realised that some of the markers were in the wrong place. It took me 7 minutes to get from the 6th to the 7th marker... Now I don't want to be a twat but I really, really don't think it would take me that long... okay I sound like a twat BUT it's true. Also I ended up running next to a man who was wearing a Garmin, and his watch beeped for 7km around a minute and a half before we reached the marker. No biggie and all that, but it was quite hard on my self-esteem as I started thinking maaaaybe I was running that slowly? 

7-8km:
Thanks to the earlier marker cock-up, it was a mere 3 minutes before I reached the 8km marker. EXCELLENT WORK EMZ. My legs were really aching at this point and I was a bit delirious. We had to run past Costa Coffee and TGI Fridays, where the workers all cheered us on. I was also running with a big group of men and a marshall shouted 'GO ON GIRL!!!'. What a babe, this made me feel like Paula Radcliffe in a sea of Mo Farah's. Obviously not the case, but my self-esteem was back in balance.

Cuties

8-9km:
I hit 8km in 38 minutes and didn't really have an excuse to do anything too horrendous time-wise. Fully aware that I'm an extremely unattractive runner already, I gave my best 'determined' face and tried to put in a bit of a sprint. With two kilometres to go. This was poor judgement from my part and I had to walk just before reaching the 9km marker... Luckily a really sweet 'mature' man was running just behind me and said 'come on girl, it's all downhill from here'......

9-10km:
That sweet elderly man was lying. As we turned the corner he looked at me and said 'oh, apart from this bit'. One last hill up through Gloucester High Street meant strange looks from the public (three women drinking coffee said 'why would you want to do that', I was asking myself the same thing). I hate hills and this one felt like a forever hill, would I ever reach the top? I did (obviously) and just had to make it down the long road to the finish. I'd buddied up with another Garmin-wearing man, and as we got to about 400m before the finish, his watched beeped for 10km. Never one to miss a trick, I took note of my time - 48.23 - and then heard my mum screaming at me to keep going. LOVE HER. I couldn't even manage a sprint finish, which I usually love (always a crowd pleaser) and crawled over the (400m too-long) line in 50.07.

This was after I cried for a bit

Mum then ran over with a piece of paper brandishing 'my number' and a time of 46.20. WHAT WOWWWWW I am amazing. We then realised that I was 233, not 122, and hadn't in fact smashed my PB by 4 minutes. Anti-climax if I've ever had one. Well done to 122 though, you speeeeeed machine. I actually came 12th senior lady, 23rd lady overall and 158th out of 500 runners. So not as bad as my immediate cry-on-finish indicated. 

After talking to other Garmin-wearers, and going by my running buddy's watch, the course was too long. And in the interest of making myself feel better about myself, I'm going with the Garmin... Controversial, maybe, but it means my 10km PB is now (kind of) officially 48.23. WOOOOO. I'll take that. Considering its only the 2nd time Gloucester have done this race, it was pretty well organised (apart from being a bit too long) and I will definitely be entering next year. Also the medal is really pretty........

YAY MEDAL

EFFORT

WARNING: This blog post is a bit 'dear diary', I apologise. It was meant to be about putting in loads of effort, but it turned into a bit 'me me me', shocker........

As I have the Gloucester 10k coming up, I thought I should probably fit in a session of mile reps... Wow that sentence makes me sound super fit. Mile reps are probably my favourite but least favourite session in the week, mainly because running my tits off for a whole mile is actually bloody hard, but also really liberating and it makes me look faster than I actually am....... You'd never catch me going that fast on a long run.

After my week of debauchery at Glastonbury (PLEASE SEE PREVIOUS POST, SLACKERSSSS), my face (and heart) dropped when coach Dave said to me "so you're doing your mile reps this week?". UHHH DAAAAVE. Why does he do this to me? Run-guilt took over though, and I sweetly replied "yes Dave, how many would you like me to do" (so dedicated, back in ye olde day I would've told him to shove his mile reps somewhere else...). With the Glos 10k looming, he decided that four reps would be an adequate amount. Not toooooo bad.

Evidence for the h8rs

I have a mile route that I follow along the main road by my house - for those Keynshamers among us, I run from the Cadbury's site to just past Londonderry farm. According to Google maps it's exactly a mile, although it could be a bit less - I don't know how accurate it is and I'd rather say its less than more innittttt, don't want to get ahead of myself. Usually when I do my reps my eyes are pretty much fixed on my watch. NOT THIS WEEK SISTAAAA. I decided I'd probably be slower so to just run as fast as my little legs could take me, and accept the time when I got to the finish. I have a 3 minute rest between each mile, which is more than enough for me to get my breath back.

The last time I did these miles I was running at around 6.55-7.05 ish for each one, going flat out. This week I set off well fast, and finished the first one in 6.48. This week I also decided to dress as a pink flump and was attracting quite a lot of attention (oi oi, white van men) so I really had to get my ass in gear. CRAZILY the next three times went like this: 6.42, 6.44, 6.42... and I was running wellllllll out of my comfort zone and my face was clashing with my on-point outfit. On my third mile I wanted to give up and lie at the roadside, panting like a dog, but luckily my best friend Rosa drove past at the optimum moment and I couldn't let my babygirl down now, could I?

Flump

All in all, I was pretty chuffed with my effort on a FRIDAY EVENING (for christ sake Emma, get a life). I think it's my favourite session because it makes me work really, really hard and proves to me that I can run faster if I put my mind to it. I also noticed just how much effort I have to put into running, even on my warm down I was sweating like the pink little pig I was dressed as. I wish I could glide along looking effortlessly, a la my bestest running buddy from back in the day, Sophie (HOLLAAAA), but I have come to accept that I am not a pretty lady when it comes to exercise. But that's fine, as long as I'm not caught on camera...........

OH WAIT. Sorry to post this again #fugly 

*my boyfriend, Nath, has requested a mention in my blog. So to shoehorn him in: My boyfriend always notices how when I have a particularly heavy weekend of drinking and little sleep, I tend to run realllyyyy well the next week. This seems to be true post-Glasto. MAYBE I should just get drunk and race? I'll ask Dave about that one.

Glastonbury: the best rest

I couldn't decide whether to make this post about my actual time at Glastonbury, or whether to try and link it to running (easier than you might think), orrrrrr just to briefly mention how drunk I got for 5 days straight and move on. I've gone for the latter - mainly because my parents like to read this blog and I don't want to burden them with images of their youngest daughter being an absolute DEVIL in a field with her friends. So...

Everyone knows that Glastonbury is 1000000% the best festival in the entire world and tickets sell-out in a matter of minutes. I was lucky enough to get a ticket this year, as did looooads of my friends and we've been pretty bladddy excited ever since. I was very, very sadly a bit worried that I would get fat while I was there (LOL, christ I have something wrong with me) but walking across a mini-city of musical madness everyday did just about enough to keep my thighs from merging into one solid piece of flesh. Details shall be spared from the internet as there are too many tales to tell, but we drank a lot of wine/vodka/beer/pre-made mojito (Simone) and personally, I ate a LOT of shitty noodles and we all danced around like maniacs for the best part of five days. We all loved each other like never before and hugged and kissed each other lots. Total hippies...

FRIENDS!!!!

As a side note, the only time I was slightly below the line of 'happy' was when Simone saw the 'glastonbury running club' forming one morning by our campsite. Now, I know that I would've definitely politely declined, but to NOT EVEN GET AN INVITE was truly heartbreaking. Apparently the men were all very skinny and looked super professional, and bloody hell HOW DEDICATED?!?! But still, must promote my blog far and wide so I get invited to these little festival get-togethers. Even if I was still a hungover mess...

The two reasons for my hangovers...

So, back to the running. After a triumphant 45 minute 10km the day before I packed my life into a rucksack, I was feeling excellenttttt. My head may have swollen slightly, especially as I have the Gloucester 10km in a fortnight. Despite still feeling a bit sleepy today (I got back the early hours of Monday morning), I whacked on my trainers and decided to head out for a run. I dropped my glasto-depressed boyfriend at the train station so he could go back to London and went straight out. 

My aim was to do a good 4 miler, but as soon as I started running I felt the backlash of Glastonbury hit me like a train. It was 23 degree heat and I was wearing full-length, black leggings. As a definite fan of being as naked as possible, this was a huge faux-pas that I've vowed to never make again. I knew my legs were going to take a while to get going so I made it to Bitton cycle path, where they have a 5km route marked out - if I couldn't do a good 4 miles, I would at least do something good. Dramatically rolling up my leggings so I looked like I had fat knees (YAYYYY), I set off at quite a speed (for me, I still got overtaken by a 65year-old on a bike) and managed the first mile in 7 minutes......

Included this purely because my legs look long...ish

Approximately three minutes after this I lobbed my fingers down my throat and threw up what I can only imagine to be the vast amount of shitty noodles that I ate at Glasto. Weirdly, while this was happening, a reaaaallly old man walked past me and wolf-whistled. CHEERS MATE, super helpful. This spurred me on - I needed to earn that wolf-whistle - so I told myself to stop being such a pussy and 'its only 5 bloody km'. The route has every single 100m marked out on the floor - quite annoying when you're feeling like you've hiked across the Sahara Desert - but, being the thrifty optimist that I am, used them as 'sprint markers'. Hahahah, these were definitely not sprints, but they did make sure I kept moving. 

It seemed like a realllllly long time, but I made it to the end of my 5km route (there was a lot of spitting along the way, does being hugely hungover make other people spit?! what does it all mean!??!), I'd say in a 'respectable' time of 23.48, not too bad considering I genuinely thought I was close to death at more than one point... When I finished I was sick again (this time it was those really yummy beef 'space raider' crisps) and had an audience of three lycra'd cyclists - those bloody male cyclists. 

These photos are getting more and more irrelevant...

I did a VERYYYY slow warm-down back to my house, like slow as in I might as well have been walking, and then my sister picked me up in her car before I'd even got home. RESUUUULT. Overall it was about 11km (I think?!?!), and during my lower points (lol, like I was trapped down the Grand Canyon) I decided that WHO GIVES A SHIIIIT if I'm running like an elephant today - Glastonbury was one of the best times of my entire life, and if you're going to have a rest, it may as well be the best rest in the world. TA DAAAA

What more could you want in a weekend?!

OH and thank you to everyone who's Facebook photos I have stolen for this post...