The hungover runs

OH how I wish I had the balls to write a whole blog post dedicated to those awful yet glorious moments spend on the toilet the morning after a skinful of gin and juice - but instead I will be focussing on the other type of 'hungover runs'. I also wish I could tell you all great tales about the magical hangover cure of RUNNING , and that all you need to do to clear your head is bound out the door with your trainers on and wait for the sins of the night before to melt away like that whole tub of Ben & Jerry's that you'd PREFER to be conquering. NO. That is all utter bollocks. Running with an almighty hangover is a terrible, terrible idea.

Let me explain...

When I first started running again, I was also (somehow) going out most Friday AND Saturday nights. I think I must've been living off of an odd cocktail of Echo Falls white zinfandel, plain scrambled eggs and a huge desire to lose some chub. This was a ridiculous way to live. I'd get out of bed at 1pm on a Sunday with a banging head and drag myself out for an 8 mile run. Firstly, I haven't ran more than 7 miles in about 18 months so god knows how or why I was doing that, and secondly it made me feel HORRENDOUS. I'd be back in bed by 6pm (after a cracking Sunday roast served up by Clare Jolliffe herself) and spend Monday completely zombified. Fantastic.

Last time I wrote this blog I had just finished the Bristol 10km. It was an amaaaazing run for me and meant I could fully reward myself - I had two weekends of heavy gin consumption planned and 100% deserved a little break. 

First up was Marbella for my friend Santa's hen do. Not only is she one of my oldest friends but also was there with me during school cross country's and any other type of athletics event. Santa has taken a more sensible approach to life and no longer gallops through muddy fields in her spare time, but EVEN SO I packed my running kit, just in case. 

Now Marbella for 3 nights with 14 girls is not for the alcohol-fearing women among us and I of course spent my time either absolutely bladdered out of my head or curled up in a hungover, sunburnt ball on my sun lounger. I considered running to the shops for supplies one day, then realised it was bloody hot, I was severely dehydrated anyway and WE WERE ON A BLOODY HEN DO. Going for a run would be bang out of order, so I got a taxi instead. 

Hungover runs done = 0. Times vomitted = 1 (but that was completely unrelated to running, lol).

My second weekend of celebrating was at Love Saves The Day festival in Bristol. This is always a highlight of my summer and I always go so overboard on the olllll' booze and ting. Being the sensible gal that I am these days, I got a long run done on the Saturday morning BEFORE el ginooooo started flowing and hoped to undo any of my upcoming sins in advance.

Two days of fun in the sun (lol) with my gal pals and main man Stormzy set me up nicely for a Bank Holiday Monday spent starfishing in bed and moaning at Ben all day - and not in a sexy way. The fact I spent over £100 purely on cans of gin and tonic in just 2 days should've been enough to keep me horizontal for at least 12 hours, but OH NO. My brain had other ideas, namely: 'you should go for a run and sweat out all this alcohol. Everyone says exercise is the best hangover cure'. UNTRUE. Here is what I thought about during my hungover run

• 'Well, this is highly uncomfortable.'
• 'I'm very, very out of breath...' 
• 'How long have I been running? OH. 1 minute and 37 seconds. Marvellous.'
• 'Why am I doing this?'
• 'My bowels feel very loose all of a sudden...'
• 'Why do I keep burping?'
• 'Ah, there's the gin'

• 'My mouth kind of tastes like that pizza I had for BREAKFAST.'
• 'Am I going to chunder? It feels like I'm going to chunder.'
• 'If I crouch by this billboard in the centre of Bristol maybe no one will see me shoving my fingers down my throat and bringing up the entire contents of my Love Saves The Day stomach...'
• 'OH NO I've been spotted. Has that man even been home since the festival? He looks dirty.'
• 'Move along, nothing to see here...'
• 'Great. Now I have sick on my top and 15 minutes until I'm going. Should probably try and jog.'
• 'HELL.'
• 'I'm never doing this again.'

Hungover runs done = 1. Times vomitted = 2 (and a half - there was a lot of spitting).

DON'T DO IT. YOUR BED NEEDS YOU.

Winning at the Bristol 10k

No, not in THAT way. The actual real-life winners at the Bristol 10k probably finished in around 31 minutes, but I was victorious in a completely different and very personal way. Let me explain...

Me and this particular race have something of a 'strained relationship'. It's one of the most popular annual events in Bristol and always attracts a lot of local people and quick club runners. Anyone who has read my blog before/knows me at all will know that the Bristol 10k in 2015 was the start of my downward spiral into low confidence, bad races and terrible diet/training obsessions. In 2014, I had entered, trained EXTREMELY hard and pinned all of my hopes on a sub-48 minute run. I finished in 49.57 and - to be honest - felt a bit robbed of a milestone time that I thought I fully deserved. The year BEFORE that (2013 for those of you who can't keep up with counting backwards) I was still in the throngs of my 'live fast die young bad girls do it well' phase and, although had weirdly signed up the Bristol 10k, decided to throw myself down a flight of stairs* the week before and was nursing a fat ankle. (*just to clarify, this wasn't on purpose - I was just full to the brim with vodka, fags and regret and could no longer handle walking). 

But this year would be different. After the disappointment of last year I had already told myself that this race didn't really matter at all. My new positive mental attitude has taught me that there are SO MANY races that I can do, so my soul would not be crushed if I didn't run as I wanted. The 2015 Bristol 10k was such a hard slog and I wasn't going to let it beat me this year. I have been training consistently hard, laying off the social fags completely and halving my gin intake. Also I've stopped living in the gym and ruining my already broken body. Everything in moderation, innit? 

Of course these chilled out and super coooooooool dreams came crashing down around me as I twisted my ankle not once, but TWICE in the two weeks leading up to it. Once was at the Ashton Court parkrun as I was hurtling myself down that bloody bastard hill, and the other time was on a run home from work. The second time left me in agony and I'd like to apologise to my dad for scaring the life out of him by ringing him in tears and acting as if my ankle had been snapped clean in half. #SuperSteve.

So while I've spent the past two weeks with a bag of frozen quorn chicken (shoutout to my main man Mo Farah) strapped to my foot and only running when ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY (e.g. 4 times a week at least, lolz), my brain has been doing some training of its own. I feel I need to mention my boyfriend Ben here, and also my wonderful friend Simone, for their unwavering belief in my ability and making me truly believe that a bit of rest will do me good, and that I actually deserved to run well so probably would. THANKS GUYS. After a steady (and ankle-strong) 4 miles on Friday lunchtime and a relaxing day on Saturday I was 10000000000% buzzing to get going - it's just a long Sunday run, after all...

I won't do a kilometre-by-kilometre report because wellllllllllllll I've done that before and my page views went down so maybe it was a tad boring and didn't set the world alight as I'd have quite hoped. Instead I'll just give you a bit of a rambling run-through of the day and hope that's enough.

THE GREAT BRISTOL 10K - 15th May 2016

Weather: SUPER sunny. Like, cheese sweating weather. Not a cloud in the sky. High chance of a very dry mouth and a stinky set of armpits.

Dress code: OMG SHORTS AND CROP TOP ALL THE WAY. Had a minor breakdown this morning over which shorts to wear, but went for the ones that gave me less camel-toe than the others (of course there was still slight hints of the toe - there's just no getting away from it). Fake-tanned at 6am on race day morning, debated drawing on a set of sick abs.

LET'S GO...

The course is slightly different to previous years and started a bit further down Hotwells Road than we were used to. This led to much panic and flapping from me and mum as we tried to weave our way through the crowds and get a good spot in our pen. We both had orange numbers so were in the first wave, and found ourselves standing bang smack in the middle of the 40 and 45 minute pacers. PERRRRFECT. There was literally no shade at all and everyone in the start pen was making small talk about the weather conditions. Honestly, British people are never happy, are they?! After mum offered her bottle of water to everyone within a 75 metre radius and I made awkward and unfunny jokes to as many people as possible about my fake tan, we set off right on time at 9.30am. Mum gave me quick instructions not to go off too fast (those classic pre-race tactics) and off she went. See you at the finish you RIDICULOUSLY FAST AND TONED MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN. 

My first 3km sailed past in a bit of blur. I was slightly ahead of the time I wanted to be on, hitting 4.10 for each km (howzzzzzzat for consistency? I am a fabulous athlete). The majority of the first 5km is along the Portway and under the Suspension Bridge. Thankfully most of it was under shade and it was at least 9 minutes until I realised fake tan mixed with sweat would NOT make the world's most perfect perfume. The U-turn on The Portway came a lot sooner than it did on the old course - at about 3.5km. This was an absolute dream in my eyes; I have a mental block when it comes to that road so I was more than happy to turn around sooner rather than later. I saw the lovely Chris Elson on my way up and the equally lovely Keith Brackstone on the way back down (who I am pretty sure forgot my name but gave me a massively enthusiastic cheer anyway hahah...). I hit 4km at 16.40 and miraculously stuck to my 4.10 per/km pace. OOOOWWWW YEAH. No twisted ankles for this sassy and extremely tanned woman.

I knew that the we would hit 5km just as we got off the Portway and headed back along the river to the centre of town. Between 4 and 5km I guess I drifted off a tiny bit - I was trying to spot my manager running up the Portway in the other direction (WHERE FOR ART THOU PENNY?!?) so was concentrating on scanning faces. This was kind of good as it distracted me from my sandpaper mouth and sweaty elbow creases. I also got really angry during this part of the race... The boys giving out water (who have given up their own Sundays to do this so I am extremely grateful and thankful) were leaving the caps on top of the bottles, with the seal unbroken. I realise that they had LOADS to give out but I just thought it was a bit silly not to undo the bottles, or at least take the cap off so we could pull the sports lid up with our teeth. I couldn't get mine undone and had to lob it back at them. I also told them off for not having common sense. SOZ BOUT ME.

We came off the Portway (going through 5km at around 20.55 - a new PB!) and straight down the river to St Mary Redcliffe Church. I don't actually know what this road is called, and I should because I used to live right next to it, but basically it goes past Spike Island, Bristol Marina and the Louisiana pub before heading up to Redcliffe Hill. I think it's about 3km altogether. This was 3km of pure grit and focus on my behalf (hahaha, such an inspiration I am). For at least 5 minutes my brain flicked between 'I really want to walk' and 'Think of how happy you're going to be if you get a PB', and by the time I had reached the Louisiana I only had 2km left to go and walking seemed like an absolutely ridiculous idea. I was going to leave my entire soul out on that course. LOL, joking not joking.

My AMAZING friend Connie had said she was coming to cheer me on and I wasn't sure whether she was going to be by Redcliffe Hill or on the finishing straight. This uncertainty was a GODSEND. I've done parkrun with Connie a few times and she has gotten sooooo much quicker over the past few weeks so there was no way in hell that I would let her down by running like a little slug. I powered up Redcliffe Hill just in case she was there and rounded the corner to Thekla with determination in my heart and Connie on my mind (owwwww yeeeea - or is that weird?!). Before I knew it we had reached the Bristol Hotel - the holy spot of spectatorship (not a word). It's Dad's favourite spot for the Bristol 10k and him and Ben were hanging over the railings as if they wouldn't spot the golden girl glowing at them in the distance. I spotted them as Ben mouthed 'IS THAT EM?' and felt SO HAPPY!!! I had 1km to go and my watch was on 38.10ish. Go go gooooooo.

The last 1km went by a in a bit of blur. I saw aunty Bridget (not a real aunty) and Connie was also in the centre but I was super in the zone and completely missed her :(.  The same happened with Beck and Dylan but I saw them alllll at the end and gave lots of sweaty hugs. We ran past Quigley's (top quality chips, cheese and gravy for anyone after a bit of posh grub) and I nearly didn't believe it when I saw the '400m to go' sign. I didn't dare to look at my watch for fear of completely overcooking it and twisting my ankle again, so concentrated on finishing well and overtaking as many people as possible. I looked at my watch with about 50 metres to go and smiled the entire way through the finish. In true attention seeking/'make a Hollywood film about my life' style, I punched the air as I crossed the line and had to hold onto my very on-trend French plaits for at LEAST 10 seconds to get over what had just happened...

I clocked the finish time as I ran over the line - BLOODY 42 minutes and 42 seconds!!! I haven't had a PB for nearly 18 months (despite the hours and hours of training and huge amounts of effort put in) so to knock a whole 53 seconds off of my previous 10k best was an amazing feeling. I even did a cheeky smile for the camera man, who seemed completely bewildered when I shouted 'PB! I GOT A PB' in his face and tried to high-five him. Crazy orange lady. Mum had waited for me at the end - she finished in a speedy 40.19 and proved once again that age is just a number and that she is utterly fabulous. Well done Mumsy. We had a massive hug and were both smiling our sweaty little faces off as we walked down the finish tunnel and collected our medals. What a moment - LITERALLY, JUST MAKE A FILM OF MY LIFE. 

So, there we have it. While the title of this blog post may be sliiiightly misleading, I did in fact win the Bristol 10k in my own special way. I ran my own race, paced myself well, won the battle against my brain, enjoyed myself, got a PB and most importantly, looked like a completely different ethnicity while doing it. As I write this, I am full of burgers, gin and joy - winning indeeeeeed. 

The runners' body

Body image is a bit of a big thing these days. Thanks to social media and generally everyone hopping on-board a health kick, it seems like we are all thinking more about how our bodies look (and feel) and in some cases (e.g. me) people can get a teeeeeny bit obsessive. This isn't meant to put myself down at all (because it's genuinely true), but I am the biggest girl in our training group and often one of the biggest runners in races too. Not 'big' in an overweight sense, just built differently. If you spend too much time on the internet then you'd be lead to believe that the ideal body shape for a middle-distance runner is extremely lean, quite often very slim and also a lot taller than my 5ft 1 frame. I wholeheartedly disagree with this idea; it takes all sorts to make the world go round and this is 100% true when it comes to the running world, too. (Not that the very lean and tall people of the world don't make excellent runners - I know bloody loads of them).

I've always been more aware of my body shape than I probably should be - I can remember crying before my year 11 leavers' ball because I thought I was the 'fattest' person in our limo. Obviously I wasn't fat at all and it's not my friends' fault that they are all absolute sorts and I'm a little pussy - in fact I ended up crying during the limo ride because I spilt champagne all over myself, so there's karma for you. My god-given genes genes and a bucketload of bad luck has left me with quite a low metabolism and a tendency to put on weight and if I don't exercise for a few days then I can really see the difference! I genuinely enjoy it though - something that people probably don't believe - but recently I've been looking at myself in a different and more positive light. I've been at this exercise grind ting for a few years now and instead of thinking about my aesthetic 'flaws', have been appreciating what my body has let me do.

The runners' body comes in all shapes and sizes, and this is mine:

Shoulders/Collarbone:

A childhood of competitive swimming has given me a pair of stacked out shoulders and a 'strong' collar bone area. It's one of the parts of my body that tones up really quickly and since I've been going to a few 'body pump' classes I've really noticed the difference. I don't really want to have big shoulders and sticky-out collarbones, but my bestest buddy Natalie Mott used to compliment me on them ALL THE TIME, so at least they are someone's cup of tea. Shoulders are a big deal in the swmming world, and without my massive pair I wouldn't have achieved half the success that I did, which helped me build a base fitness for this running malarky.

I had an operation on my collarbone a couple of years ago and couldn't run for a few weeks (the stitches would've split every time I moved my arm) - and this time taught me that I'm truly determined to be a little fitness freak. Instead of sulking about my stupid stitched-up chest, I borrowed Simone's mum's bike (THANK YOU!) so we could go on rides together and did lots of
one-arm workouts. This meant I wasn't any less fit than before my operation and I still had those (not so) delightful set of huge shoulders. Shake what your momma gave ya.

Boobies:

Bitchez love boobies. When I was in year 8 I suddenly sprouted quite a large pair of breasts. I think I was maybe around a C-cup, and then when I put on my extra chub at uni I went up to a DD. BANGING TITS 'ERE LUV. Being the standard size for a UK woman helped my financial situation greatly while I studying for a journalism degree - I helped test sports bra for Adidas and Shock Absorber, getting paid £50 a time for 10 minutes of running on a treadmill. The downside was that you had a room of strangers staring at your naked boobs bounching up and down, but it got me free bras and meant I could drink more jagerbombs. Kind of like a stripper, but for scientific reasons only so it's fine. Since I've started running again, they've shrank back down to a B (which I MUCH prefer), and my strong chest muscles mean they are quite perky. Nat Mott even voted me 'tits of the week' when we went on holiday to Rhodes, so that's quite something. Me and Nat Mott have a great friendship.

Arms:

My arms are super weak and not much to write home about. I struggle in gym classes every single time we've got to do any sort of bicep/tricep thing (what's the difference between the two, anyway), and when I run I do feel like they are just THERE, rather than actually doing anything. Maybe that's something to work on... I always have to stand like a teapot when I have my photo taken (hands on hips, makes your arms look skinnier) and I can probably manage 5 press ups before I have to collapse on the floor. BUT without arms I wouldn't be able to pick up yummy things like fajitas, newly-discovered BOUNTYS or bananas so they are one million percent vital to my survival.

Stomach:

Ah, the runners' stomach. Sports magazines are crammed full of photos of Amazonian women with their washboard abs and perfect posture. I WANT THIS. In fact, everyone seems to want this. Abs are the gold medal of fitness models but the fact of the matter is that a six-pack is bloody hard to achieve. At running, we call it 'core training', rather than 'ab hunting' - mainly because building a STRONG CORE is a lot more effective than just concentrating on stripping your whole body of fat and making your little abdominal muscles stick out. People who know me will know that I LOVE a naked summer. Come June, I won't be wearing anything other than a bra and a pair of denim shorts, so yesssss a washboard stomach would be ideal, but I've spent an awful lot of time trying and not much has happened so far. Luckily, my quest for abs has left me with a pretty strong core - so even if it's a teeny bit wobbly around the womb area, at least my posture has improved and my core can carry me through some hellish cross country races. Every cloud, and all that. (Stood in the bath to take this photo because good lighting and stuff).

Booty:

2015 was the year of the booty, and I'm very pleased that the sentiment seems to have spilled over into 2016. The Kardashian krew have come along with their unbelievable derrieres and now everyone is getting on the squat hype and building themselves a fantastic set of buns. MARVELLOUS WORK GUYS. A childhood spent in the pool or on the running track has blessed me with a strong gluteus maximus and, as the biggest muscle in the body, helps to carry my legs around when they really have had enough. Me and Alexa are a big believer in 'bum running' - basically getting as big an ass as humanly possible and using it to your advantage. I squat, lunge and donkey kick like nobodies business and am looking forward to growing the booty even more in the next few months. CUTIE WITH A BOOTY

Thighs:

Remember when everyone wanted a thigh gap? God, that was SO 2014. I was leading the 'thigh gap brigade' for a good few months, but now I realise that it was such a waste of my time. If you are born with thighs that don't touch at the top, then that is completely normal and all to do with an excellent set of genes. If, like me, you've got a wobbly bit at the top that makes your thighs touch, then that is also completely normal and ALSO thanks to a set of excellent genes. Look at Jessica Ennis for goodness sake - her thighs definitely sit side-by-side and she is a hell of an athlete. My thick thighs have treated me well over the years, carry me round the running track twice a week and allow me to pull out a slut-drop in any given club on Park Street with absolute ease. Thanks, thighs.

Calves:

'The calves of doom', as Ben so lovingly called them. These fuckers are not to be messed with. I reckon I could trap someone's neck between my lower calves and probably snap it clean in half. They are PUMPED, and where I get my 'rugby player leg' complexion from. I'll be honest, if I'm led down and the muscle is relaxed, I sometimes feel disgusted at the size and wobbliness of them and wish they were just skin and bone. But then I'll see myself running and notice the definition in them, or
put on a pair of heels and realise that they aren't really fat, they are 'shapely'. And again, they are major players when it comes to dance-offs and assist me in clearing the floor with one swift squat.

Feet:

I apologise profusely to anyone who has had the displeasure of coming into contact with my feet at any time in their life. There's no denying it - they are absolutely foul. My toenails were grown from the depths of hell and my heels are so dry that there could well be moss growing in the cracks. BUT without them I would have stumps at the end of my huge calves, and that would just look weird.

So yes, I am learning to appreciate my body a lot more for what it can do, rather than what it looks like. It has carried me through 5 half marathons, 1 10miler, a triathlon, tens of 10km, countless 5kms and a couple of speedy 800ms. Obviously I don't think like this every day - like most women I am highly critical of myself, want to get lipo on my stomach and feel genuine resentment that I will probably have to exercise at this volume for the rest of my life if I want to maintain this shape and size, but at least I no longer stand in the mirror and pull at my skin. Looking at how far I've come in running in the past few years has made me proud to have created such a strong and resilient body, even if I'm never going to be a Victoria's Secret model (or meet Gigi Hadid - I CRY).

Basically, the ideal runners' body is a myth. We've all got one, you just need to get out there and take it for a run. #girlpower

'What's that coming over the hill?' Frenchay 10km - nearly as impressive as the marathon

The London Marathon - arguably the most famous race in the whole world - took place on Sunday. Tens of thousands of absolute heroes took to the streets of the UK's capital to run an unimaginable distance in what will probably be one of the highlights of their life, and the biggest race they'll ever have the pleasure (and pain) of finishing.

I, on the other hand, could be found sulking my way around the Frenchay 10k - not too much of a dissimilar achievement, you would probably agree...

WEATHER WATCH:
Despite a shitter of a weather forecast in the week coming up to the race, it turned out to be a glorious morning. Sunny but not too hot and breezy but not too windy, the weather even had the bloke on the microphone labelling it a 'PERFECT day for running'. OH GREAT. Nothing strikes fear into my heart more than hearing that phrase - that's at least ONE of my excuses out the window if I have a rubbish run... Luckily for me, the weeks prior to this race had been spent discussing whether the course was 'hilly', 'really hilly' or 'an absolute bloody bastard', so at least I had that in the bag if my legs gave way at 3km. The general consensus was that it definitely wasn't a PB course - instructions were to not go off too fast and to 100% pace myself properly so I could power up the aforementioned hills. We'll see how that went, shall we?

WHO WORE WHAT:
Before I get started on the actual event, you'll all of course be dying to know how far up my ass my shorts were willing to go. I sensibly went for some comfy and very cheap shorts from Asda (£8!!), that were high-waisted enough to cover the gunt area, loose enough to give the impression that I have actual real-life abs, and jazzy enough to distract from the inevitable camel toe. Obviously I went for a crop top because HELLO it's basically summer and it's always good to put off the opposition with an intimidating belly piercing/mole combination.

Let's get started...

Start-1km:
The start had helpful pace-time markers in the 'tunnel' so we all felt a bit professional and more like were running the actual marathon. Mum and Sarah were fannying around near the 40 minute mark and peer-pressured me into joining them. I was quite happy to hang around with my 45 minute buddies but apparently this just wouldn't do. Pushy mothers... To be fair, where I stood didn't make much of a difference as the race spread out quite quickly once the gun went off. The first kilometre was a nice, flat loop around the UWE grounds (Glenside campus, for any keen Bristol tourists) and my legs felt pretty weightless. Always a good sign, although this WAS only the first km...

1-2km:
Getting the first part out the way, we ran out onto the road and straight into a huge downhill - WEEEEEEEEEE!!! Completely forgetting we had to run back up this beast at the finish, I was loving life. It's was a properrrrr downhill as well - I mean thighs were wobbling, boobs were going in a figure of eight and my legs were going a tad faster than I was really comfortable with. Totally fun, yah? An added bonus was seeing Fleur at the bottom - not only did her hair look truly amazing, but she also gave us all a huge cheer and made me feel like a real runner. Fleur - we love you.

2-3km:
After the downhill we turned a corner into Snuff Mills. I'd say Snuff Mills is kind of like a forest/woody area? In the summer it looks magical and I run through it quite a lot, but there are always loads of dog walkers and they all looked super confused at the mass of lycra-clad people interrupting their Sunday walk. The positions were quite drawn out near the front, I was maybe in like 50th or something?! I managed to tuck in with a few men, who were no doubt finding my flicky ponytail very irritating but I've heard that a good hair flick is the mark of a true runner, so there we go. Soz bout me. I got a bit confused at how long we ran through Snuff Mills and completely missed the 4km mark so was slightly disorientated. ALREADY bad thoughts had started creeping into my head: 'if I just went up this pathway then it would take me straight to Ben's house and I could just drop out...' WHAT? WHY? Dickhead Emma. Onwards and (literally) upwards...

3-5km:
Coming out of Snuff Mills I was greeted with the first of three killer hills. I wasn't expecting this one and it really battered the shit out of me. For any Keynshamers who may be reading - imagine Willsbridge Hill, but longer and with more corners. YES OUCH, YES HELL. In the post-race debrief, a lot of people said this was the worst of the all the hills, and I'm inclined to agree. It flattened out into a field (A FUCKING FIELD! Hellooooo new running surface, here to ruin my energy levels are you?!). Fields zap your energy way more than roads do, and being the big wimp that I am, I decided to stop and walk for a bit. It was literally about 3 seconds before a lovely lady marshall gave me a bit of encouragement and I started to move again - and SHOCK HORROR, felt absolutely fine to carry on.

5-6km:
I had done two practice runs of this course - once on my own, and once with my mum. My terrible sense of direction clearly meant I had gone the wrong way both times, and I hit the 5km marker in a residential area that I had never seen before in my life. Were we in Downend? Were we in Kent? Who knows. Fortunately there were marshalls swarming the streets and I didn't end up lost down a pothole - instead I managed to get my head down and pick up some speed as we ran past people stood in their front gardens, again looking mildly confused as to why we were wasting the nice weather by not downing several pints of cider. It was a bit weird being lost but also a bit fun. WHAT AN ADVENTURE!

6-7km:
A life-saving downhill section followed from 6km onwards, taking us down past the exit of Snuff Mills, giving me a false sense of relief and allowing me to overtake lots of skinny (e.g. GOOD) running men. A bit of advice - a 'heavy' set of thighs will carry you down any hill a lot quicker than those genetically blessed with skinny legs, but often the svelte legs are hiding a killer pair of calves and a good uphill climb. Strong is the new skinny, etc etc.. And OH what a twat I felt for bombing past those blokes when we rounded the corner to find Frenchay Hill. Now, Frenchay Hill is NOT a hill to be fucked with. At a pretty much vertical gradient, I basically ran into the side of it and would've stopped dead had it not been for seeing a few people I knew spectating and, never wanting to get caught on camera looking like a sloth, managed to reach the top without walking. I felt a bit sulky as all of the men flew back past me, but the joy I felt when I made it to a flat road was how I imagine a new mum feels once her 12-hour labour is over and her lady bits can have a rest. So much happiness, so much pain.

7-8km:
The 7th kilometre went across Frenchay Common and past the White Lion pub. This is a pub I'm very familiar with - Ben took me here on our second date and we got smashed on wine and BOSSED the pub quiz. Hiiiiiya. I also train on the Common sometimes so know that I can get round it in under 3 minutes (NOT after running 7km first, may I add). I really started to die here - my legs were feeling it from that bugger of a hill so I stopped and walked AGAIN (it's just too easy, I'm sorry). At this point a man I'd been running with told me to keep going, but all I could muster was a pathetic 'help me'. It goes without saying that no help was offered - this bloke had a bloody 10km to finish. Get on with it...

8-9km:
Out of the Common and onto the main road - 100% gagging for the finish line by now - and I knew that Ben would be waiting at the 9km mark. I needed at least a kilometre to get back into my stride and make it look as if I find running the easiest thing ever. Oh yeah, this is a breeeeeze. I cannot tell you how helpful it is to know that someone will be at a certain spot, it gives life some sort of purpose when your mouth is really dry and you know that you've started to smell a bit. Thank you Ben for giving my life purpose (LOL I am so sorry, he will hate that). I managed to stick with my group of men again and as I saw Ben in the distance I made a mental note to try to look seductive. What a lucky bloke. I managed a smile and a wave (usually he gets neither) so maybe I had been slacking earlier in the race. Oopsy. Fleur was just around the corner shouting her head off again - so quiet is our Fleur - and seeing them both gave me what is known as 'second wind'. Nothing to do with shitting yourself and everything to do with suddenly feeling fresh halfway through a race, 'second wind' is one of the best feelings, like, everrrrr.

9-10km:
HOMEWARD BOUND. Feeling like Paula Radcliffe on acid after seeing my fan club, I was ready to take on the last hill. This was the huge hill we ran down at the start - slightly more daunting having to go back up it. The acid feeling sadly only lasted a few minutes and I had a TINY walk. A woman powered past me at that exact moment, which was all I needed to give myself a kick up the ass. I'm actually quite keen on a hill or two (comes from the tree trunk legs) so managed to push on quite hard up the steepest section. I got to the top a lot quicker than I had anticipated, and just in time for my mum to run back and shout '200 METRES TO GO! AND IT'S ALL FLAT'. Yessssss. Back in the day I used to finish a good half an hour behind mum in long races, so the fact that she had to run back to get to me before I finished is a good sign, I reckon. I ran towards the finish line, first hearing Sarah's voice echoing across the whole of Frenchay (and possibly Bristol) and then tried to find my dad in the crowd (probably should've been concentrating on finishing, but I do love to spot my dad during races!). I managed a bit of sprint but really should have caught the man in front. Damn that three seconds of walking. I finished in 45.20, which wasn't tooooooo bad. In hindsight those hills were an absolute bugger but my walking probably cost me about 20 seconds altogether.

FINISH:
We all got commemorative mugs and an actually GOOD goodie bag (Haribo, fruit bar thing, banana, water) and I'm pretty sure they were playing some sort of SUMMER ANTHEMS complication CD over the tanoy. Classic.

If there was a team prize we definitely would've won it. There was a great team of Bristol & West ladies out on Sunday - Jessie, Mum, Sarah, Me (lol, I'm great), Christine, Isobel and Nicola (and Jamie - but you're not a lady) and we all finished well inside the top two thirds. We deserve a trophy. All in all, despite the horrendous hills, the whole day had such a happy, community-spirited feel to it and I will definitely be back again next year. That is, of course, if my London Marathon entry doesn't get accepted...

Brain training

At school I was desperate to be cool. And I succeeded, I suppose, if being cool means getting told off every single day for wearing too much make up, kissing boys and being hated by the girls in the year above... But I was also desperate to be clever, to be THE cleverest and coolest person, and also be really good at sports too. OH and have loads of money so that I could buy the best clothes from Jane Norman and wear my chavviest H.Samuels earrings with pride. So basically, I was a bit of a try-hard.

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

Advice to the unnatural runner

DISCLAIMER: I am not trying to offer official advice/tell anyone what to do.

When I was in school I was pretty fit (no not in THAT way, although my slapped-back ponytail might want to disagree). I ran, swam , played netball and ONCE played hockey for the school, and until I was 16 I was quite good at sports and all that jazz. Around the same time, I was also getting quite good at drinking vodka in parks and sharing half a fag with Faye behind the girls gym - so it's fair to say that my fitness was dwindling. I then spent 3 years at uni, abusing my body in ways that won't (and shouldn't) be discussed on the internet, and by the time I graduated I struggled to run for 10 minutes without stopping.

So although yes, I have a history of running, I spent a fair few years destroying any type of talent and fitness I once had. Luckily I've managed to pull it all back (and then some? Maaaaybe?) and my very own riches-to-rags-to-riches fitness journey has taught me a few things along the way. I'd like to pass on some tips to anyone who, like me, wants to try dragging their ass around the streets/on the dreadmill but doesn't know where to start. Oooohhhh I feel like Jacky Chan in that kung fu film.

Anyway, for anyone who fancies lacing up their trainers, ruining their feet or getting very well-acquainted with a sports bra, here are my words of wisdom...

1. Get good shit
Before you can even THINK about going for a run, you need to feel like a true athlete. I've read SO many articles that say "you should RUN! Running is FREE! All you need is an old pair of trainers." NO NO NO. Get semi decent trainers, for god sake. This doesn't need to be expensive: Go into a posh running, ask them to find you your perfect trainers. Once perfect trainers are found, thank them and LEAVE THE SHOP. Remember those perfect trainers. Head straight home to GOOGLE THE SHIT OUT OF THEM. If you can't find many bargains, add 'similar to' to your search term. Sports Shoes, Sports Direct and Zalando are great websites. Also, treat yourself to one new item of running clothing. You will look and therefore feel fabulous when wearing your new purchase, and if you go for a run once then you can at least wear it to Tesco and call it 'athleisure'. It's fashion, darling. If your item of choice is a sports bra, remember that its sole aim is to flatten your boobs to an almost concave state - the sheer fact that you've paid for a pair of flat titties should be motivation enough. H&M, Matalan and TK Maxx are your new friends.

2. DO IT FOR YOURSELVES MY DARLINGS
Everyone knows I bum running because it helped me lose a stone of uni/cheesy chips weight, but there are so many other (and better) reasons for wanting to go for a run. When I first started running again I kept my own, personal reason in my head and it helped to motivate me to keep trying. Some people like to run to de-stress after a busy working day, others need it to distract from other habits, some use running to wake themselves up in the morning while others may be on a mission to complete a 3/5/10km or maybe even a disgustingly long half marathon. But don't run to please other people - running is mainly horrendous and people who need to be pleased are annoying. DO IT FOR YOU. It makes life better.

3. Plan it
Running is one of those shitty things that is SO easy not to do. For this 'going for a run' thing to work,
it needs to be planned with military precision. If you get home from work and your shiny new athletic attire isn't within reaching distance, that run is just nottttt going to happen. I have a few suggestions:

• Tell everyone that you know that you plan on going for a run. Ask them to mock you if you do not bother
• Write it on the calendar/in a diary. When you do your run, you can tick it off. Ticking is so satisfying.
• Have your kit out ready, preferably with a note on it that says I AM GOING FOR A RUN.
• Choose an out-and-back route in as straight a line as possible. This way you can't 'worry about getting lost' and find yourself in bed at 7pm instead.
• Make sure you have adequate snacks ready for your return.
• Once your run is completed, eat aforementioned snacks and contact all friends and family to let them know that you're now an athlete.

4. Fuck the haters

Trust me when I say there is nothing more terrifying than the thought of being seen RUNNING by someone you went to school with. Oh god, the sheer horror of someone potentially recognising you through all that sweat and the steam that is rising from your body and HOW RIDICULOUS that you're trying to get fit and wow what a disgusting human being you've become. I have been in this position and the truth is that no one gives a shit. Really. Most people I've seen while I was out running have either: A. smiled and/or waved OR: B. said hi and carried on their day. Nope, no following group of villagers carrying pitchforks, no eggs being thrown from passing cars and no crazed laughter from a trio of witches. I was once called a fat slag while I was running, but that's a different story... Basically I know it's really hard to get over the thought that you should look your best at all times, but no one really cares about your exercise/sex face. They probably think 'oh fair play, maybe I'll go for a run soon' and then go back to their phones to carry out an extensive stalk of all your social media outlets.

5. Take it sloooow

I chase times constantly. How fast you can run a 5km is worn as a badge of honour in running circles but if you're new to running then IGNORE ALL BADGES OF HONOUR. Not only is there more to life than a bloody 5km PB, but it is also harder to try and think about speed when your main aim is to reach the end of the road without walking. It took me months and months to get any sort of speed back in my legs - I wanted to be able to run for 30 minutes without walking and THEN I started to think about how far I was actually going. If you need to walk for 10 seconds of every minute that you run then DO IT - just increase how many minutes you're out for with each run. After a few months you'll get to know your body and pain threshold and can start adding in an extra 5/10 minutes. Speed will come without you even noticing.

 

6. Remember the after, not the during

I am the first to admit that I find running bloody hard. Like, every step I take feels unnatural and I am in pain the entire time. 'BUT WHY', I hear you cry, 'DO YOU RUN SO MUCH?'. Well my friends, the reason I keep going back for some sweet run loving, is for the feeling I get afterwards. I feel more calm, my head is clearer, my body feels tighter (oioiiiii) and I feel like I've achieved something. If I could find that feeling in a bag of Dairy Milk buttons then trust me, I'd be living in one, but alas this is where I can all those happy feeeeeelz. The first few (and maybe all) runs will be HARD - but I bet you a fiver that you'll arrive back home in a better mood. Try and remember that good mood when you try to tell yourself that running is the devil and Eastenders is a much better option. Is Ian Beale still a tramp?

7. Feeeeeeel the music

My running life has been greatly enhanced by the genius that is Kanye West. His album 'My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy' houses all of my favourite running tracks, and when one comes on I feel like I'm about to undertake Mo Farah and slap his bold little pinhead at the same time. What a dreamy feeling. FIND YOUR KANYE. Whether you love Elton's 'Rocket Man' or the angelic tones of Bullet For My Valentine, the music you listen to on a run will help so much. You might not even notice it as you try not to collapse while wearing such a terribly uncool pair of trainers, but on the odd occasion that you CAN hear it, your favourite songs can be very comforting. Also, it beats hearing yourself sharting at mile 2.

8. JUST RUN.

The truest thing I've ever heard is that 'the hardest part is getting out the door'. IT IS SO TRUE. JUST RUN.

P.S. If you're out the door and still finding it reaaaaally fucking hard, then just CONCENTRATE ON REACHING THE NEXT LAMPPOST. Lampposts are your friends, like check-points on Crash Bandicoot. GOOD LUCK!!!

A week in the life of an above average* runner

I know what you're all thinking. ‘Above average? What a cocky twat' (because God FORBID anyone says anything positive about themselves these days) – but technically, I am. My Parkrun age grading is 69-70%, meaning there are only 31-30% of women in my age group who have ran faster than me at one of the many Saturday morning 5kms.

Anyway, now we’ve cleared that up… I thought it might be interesting to document my training over an average week (barrel of laughs, me). I'm a bit worried that I might come off as A. boring, or B. ridiculously slow for the amount I do, but there we go.

MY WEEK

Monday:
I read this thing once that to be a #fitspo (fitspiration – fitness inspiration) you should ‘never miss a Monday’. My alarm goes off at 6am so I can be ready to leave home at around 7.15. I drive to the athletics track in Whitehall then walk around 5km (maybe a bit less) to work. I go to the gym Monday lunchtime and fanny around trying to get me a set of cheese grater abs (planks, sit ups, leg raises, toe touches etc) and get back to work for 1.45ish. At 5pm I leave work, go back to the gym to get changed then walk back to the track. Monday’s are intervals so we usually go on the field and do a session of around ten 2, 3 or 4min efforts with 60/90 seconds rest in between. THIS IS BLOODY HARD. Running on grass is horrific. I get home between 8-8.30pm and eat my tea (thanks Ben) before getting into bed and watching the OJ Simpson thing on BBC2 (OJ is such a bellend, AM I RIGHT?).

Tuesday:
Ben drops me halfway to work on a Tuesday, so yaaaay my alarm doesn't go off until 6.30. I walk around 4km to work from my drop off point and feel SUPER cool in my walking-to-work trainers and professional office woman work attire. I go to circuits at the gym at 12.30 for 45 minutes. It says circuits but it's more like bodypump? Lots of squats and stuff with a big bar (I only have 10kg on mine because I'm a dainty lady) and I always get a proper sweat on. Big bum muscles are essential, you know. Shower then back to work until HOMETIIIIME. On Tuesday's I usually run the long way home, which is about 6 miles depending on my route. Luckily I have a really cool running rucksack to carry my belongings so I get allllll the wolf whistles as I trundle home. I always have a jacket potato on a Tuesday because I am extremely anal about food hahahah ***nervous laughter***. That's me done for the day.

Wednesday:
I usually set my alarm for 5.43am (lol, anal) on a Weds and get a 35 minute run in before work. It means I can be home before 6.45 and shower as usual. Another halfway to work drop off so around 4km walk. I always take my gym kit with me ‘just in case’ but usually am too tired to go on my lunch. I walk another 4km to meet Ben for a lift home. Wednesday is the only night we are both free so DATE NIGHT. No one needs to go what goes on on a Wednesday evening… lol.

Thursday:
Thursday is TRACK NIGHT so it's  6am alarm and drive to the track. Walk 5km to work (yawn, you get it, I know…) and SOMETIMES go to the gym for a core workout on my lunch break. I say sometimes because I'm not really supposed to do this and I know Mum, Sarah, Charlotte and Dave will all roll their eyes at me. After work I walk back to the track and do around 6 laps warm up. Our session is usually something like 4x600, 4x400, 4x200m and without fail I ALWAYS find something to moan about. My coach Dave has the patience of a saint. I usually get home about 8.30pm and Ben (glorious man that he is) mostly waits for me to get home so we can cook and eat together.

Friday:
I get dropped halfway to work on a Friday so have a laaaavly morning walk. I am such a walking wanker these days, but it saves me loads of money on bus fare and I am peasant poor so fuck you all. I usually go the gym on my lunch and do a HIIT workout (star jumps, squat jumps, mountain climbers, burpees etc). After work I either run home, or get the bus (once a week is fine haha…) and then attend whatever amazing social event I've been invited to that night. #friends

Saturday:
PARKRUN, possibly. My wonderful friends Simone and Connie have caught the parkrun bug (Issy – I wasn’t sure if you loved it really…) and its encouraged me to start going again. For anyone who doesn't know what Parkrun is, read about it HERE. I've ran with both of them while they got PBs and sometimes it's so much nicer to help someone else rather than being selfish and trying to bomb it round for your own PB. I usually go home and do some core stuff in front of the TV while Ben watches Soccer AM, so that's not annoying at all for him. Poor bloke.

Sunday:
EITHER: extremely hungover, so not moving unless for a plate of nachos and a tub of Hagem Daaz salted caramel ice cream. OR: long run through Snuff Mills (amazing woods by my house), usually 45-50 minutes. Home in time for Sunday Brunch and mega sloth aaaaalllllll day.

SO THAT’S ME. Wow that is a lot for someone who has only just got under 21 mins for their 5km. It's also a lot of organising – I am never without my gym kit (in case the moment arises that I can drop down and do 75 burpees) and to be honest it's probably a bit OTT but it makes me happy and keeps me sane. I also have the unfaltering patience of my roomie and loverboy, who is probably sick to death of seeing me in full lycra, bun head in tow.

Also I love fudge so need to balance out my clotted-cream booty. Clotted-cream ass, now that's an image to leave you with…