Week 1 had its challenges

I’m just back from my 2nd training run for Week 2, but let’s talk week 1: stairs, hills, hills, stairs, hills, leeches, more leeches, stairs, hills and water crossings. Probably should add in a tsunami.

In terms of mileage, you could argue that my training has really scaled back. Last week, all up I did 37km, which less than what I would normally run and hike. However, last week had an accumulative elevation of 1430m. Now that is a lot more hills than I would normally squeeze into 37km. Even with 2 rest days in there, my legs were dead. Dead, heavy, useless, by the end.

The way the week panned out was Tuesday stair repeats, Wednesday strength, Thursday hill repeats, Friday, hills and strength, Saturday hills with a water crossing and Sunday the long run that ended up with some hills and stairs, although predominately flat. I’m going to be honest with you, I got to the end of the week seriously doubting if I have it in me to commit to this level of training, whilst at the same time being excited about how fit I am going to become. But honestly, a lot of self-doubt crept in. Yet, the weekend ended with so much laughter.

My running bestie and I finished our Sunday long run at Wattamolla in the Royal National Park. It is a beautiful spot, and if you get there early enough you can actually enjoy it for what it is before the crowds turn up. We had planned to swim after our run because it is such a beautiful spot to swim. We got back to our cars, dropped off the running vests, swapped runners for thongs and, grabbed our towels and started the small hike down to the beach. As we walked F mentions that she saw a tsunami warning on the news and that there had been a volcano in Tonga and wondered if it was going to impact our little inlet.

As we started to get glimpses of the channel crossing to the beach I said “I forgot that this is why M [my husband] needed to get the SUPs out of my car this morning, it’s high tide, he is out on the SUP right now”. When we reached the channel, it was high. Really high. We were having doubts about crossing (lots of rocks to scramble and navigate) when we saw a man and his two little kids cross. Dropping all the gear at the bottom of the hike we decided to make our way across.

We scrambled over rocks to find the safest entry into the water. We took a few steps, F leading the way, when F drops down to neck height water and starts getting swept out. As she swims hard across the current to the beach on the other side, I yell out “there’s a rip”. Realising that I was going to have to do the same, I walked further down the channel so that if I was swept out as well, I would still land at the beach. Unfortunately, I didn’t see the rocks under the water and slipped and ended up in the same place as F. We both made it safely across and looked at where the rip was headed and where it was ending. We decided to go to the other side of the beach to completely avoid the rip area because if we got caught in it, we would be smashed against rocks.

As we floated in the gentle swirl, laughing and relaxing we saw more and more people arrive with their eskies and stand at the bottom of the hike and look at us and start to try and work out how to get across. For us, we decided that we should wait half an hour on this side to let the tide start to go out before we tried cross back. We watched an elderly lady get swept out by the rip and a man, about 30, dive in and save her handbag. The woman was safe and was laughing but it was enough for us to realise that the rip was getting stronger. Then the life guard arrived. What we realised is that perhaps all these people were trying to cross because they were getting to the bottom and seeing us swimming, plus the man with his 2 kids and thought “we can cross”.

When we try to return it was a lot worse. Yes, the tide had started to ebb, but the impact of the tsunami was starting to become noticeable. Now, to get an idea, Wattamolla doesn’t get waves. Yes it is a beach, but it is in an inlet and it only gets the gentlest of swirls. However, on Sunday, at the start of the channel there were waves, and they were creating a rip with a big pull. We went further up the channel to avoid the waves as much as possible, but they were coming in with such force that even metres away, the strength of the water rushing in knocked you off your feet, and then the ebbing water dragged you back out and onto the rocks. We had to get to the rocks, but we couldn’t see them all. Several times we made it to the rocks when another wave would hit and launch us.

Then the cramps hit. My legs had had enough and decided they just didn’t want a part of it anymore, so here I am being pummelled against rocks with cramping legs and absolutely no control of what was going on. We did eventually scramble out. We were laughing and at no point thought we were in danger, although looking back on it if we had hit our heads on the rocks it would have been a different story. We were scrapped, grazed and F had a few minor cuts.

The life guard was yelling at people to stop trying to cross and then we joined him, telling every single person to turn around and go back up that hike.

F and I often have some crazy adventures resulting in a lot of laughter, but honestly, this one could’ve gone the other way quite easily. Finally, when I got home I saw the news and just how devastating the situation in Tonga is. 2022 is messed up.

We come into week 2 and we are back into training. Monday was rest day with some yoga, yesterday was stairs and strength. I have to say, I didn’t do as well on the stairs this week as I did last week. My legs were still dead. Having said that, this mornings low HR run felt good. I have a long way to go, in terms of fitness, strength and weight loss. On that note, I’ve lost 5cm of the waist and am 2 kilos down. I’m hoping with every kilo lost, it all just feels just that bit easier. Or, if not easier, I can at least do more for the same amount of effort.

Looking back at Eagle Rock on the Coastal Track in the Royal National Park. The impact of the tsunami hadn’t hit those waters yet

The only way is up, baby

Today was the official first day of the hard training for Ultra Trail Australia 50km UTA50). Oh my giddy aunt, this is going to be hard.

I’m a lion chaser, I like setting lion size goals; goals that have a big chance of failure. But today’s session made me question the goal.

It started like an ordinary training morning. I met friends who I haven’t seen for awhile due to COVID-19 at the local park and we walked laps. This is our walk and chat session which we just don’t get to do much of anymore, so it was really nice and we logged a nice 5km. But then I had to drive to the Royal National Park for my real training. Stair repeats.

Now I know that there are readers who are thinking stair repeats are just part of what you have to do, and there are readers thinking 50km is just the baby of the ultramarathons and probably thinking in their head that I should just harden up. And I would agree with you. But here’s the thing. I’m just a few months off my 50th birthday, I have fibromyalgia and osteitis pubis AND I’m 30 kilos overweight. 30 kilos. For my American readers that 66 pounds to be shredded.

The thought process on the bush stairs all the thoughts that would happen in a really long run but they happened in 60 minutes. I moved from ‘this is good, this is a good start’, to ‘this is hard, but I’ve got this’, to ‘what the hell was I thinking?’ to ‘I don’t want to do this anymore’. For a brief second ‘it’s easier to give up’ flashed in my mind and then I checked myself. Yes, it is easier to give up, but I don’t want to give up. Then I had to start the self-talk to bring myself around and the debate in the head started. Part of me kept saying “it’s only day 1, you’ll lose the weight, it’ll get easier’ and the other part was saying “this uphill is only 1km, you’ve got to do 50km of uphill”.

Honestly, today’s performance says I will get cut off and won’t finish the race and, truth be told, even after the 17 weeks of training this reality will still be there, looming over me. BUT there is still 17 weeks and a body can change a lot in 17 weeks. I remember how fit I was for OXFAM Trailwalker and how I got there with hill repeats and stair repeats. So now we do it again.

Am I going to be successful and meet this ridiculously big goal? Only time will tell, but, I can only get better from here.

30kg overweight, sweating it out in the humidity and heat but happy the last lot of stairs are done. This is only the beginning.

Finding Joy

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Today was the last day of base training. The real plan starts tomorrow (with a rest). It is officially 18 weeks to go until UTA 2022 and my first attempt at ultramarathoning. I’ve walked 50km before, I’ve walked further than 50km, but running this beast is going to be a challenge. There’s over 2,500m of elevations and some 10,000 stairs to combat.

Today, though, was a pull back on the strings day. Today was a 1 1/2 hour run/hike to relax and find joy. And we did.

Last week we headed to the Coastal Track in the Royal National Park and swam at Bundeena afterwards, but found it so exposed and so hot that we had decided to not go back there again until it cools a bit. When you are getting sunburnt at 6.30 am you know it’s too exposed. But we loved the swim. After a week of storms and crazy deluge rain we decided that we could try it again, if we parked somewhere different, but somewhere where we would get the swim.

At 6.30 am this morning we met at Wattamolla, a beautiful spot in the Royal National Park that is along the coastal track way. Once upon a time it was my regular swimming hole. My sister and I would go down there midweek after work and/or uni to have a swim. It was always just us. Nowadays, due to social media, it is no longer a wonderfully kept secret, and instead, it is overly crowded most days. But at 6.30 this morning we were some of the first cars to arrive and we started. The dam was overflowing so required careful crossing, the waterfall was roaring and required a moment to breathe it in and the view to Little Marley, with Big Marley in the distance, was spectacular.

But the truly wonderful part was in the swim. The water was icey cold and soothed tired muscles and it was just us. We laughed, giggled, splashed, floated and played. How can you not love trails? We may just have to end up back there again next week.

Looking down on Little Marley (left and just out of frame) with Big Marley in the background

2022, here we are

Waking up to the news that Betty White had died is not the way I envisaged 2022 starting. It’s like 2021 decided to get in a final fuck you to the whole world. What a woman. Imagine living a life so well that the whole world says 99 years is not long enough and truly mourns your passing. What a gift she was. And what a bastard 2021 was.

But here we are. It’s the first day of 2022. It’s hot and humid but I managed to get to park run anyway. I pushed myself hard, but the pace was still slow. Partly because of the heat, a lot because of the osteitis pubis but mainly because I’m obese. Yep, there it is. I’m obese. I’m the heaviest I’ve ever been and I’m firmly squished into the obese category.

I’ve officially entered the year I turn 50, fit but excessively overweight, and that is a BIG problem, so I’m going to be selfish this year. I’m going to make 2022 completely about me. It’s going to be hard work, but I’m going to finish this year stronger, faster and in a healthy weight range.

Jason Koop, in his ‘Training Essentials for UltraRunning” states that each time you “strike the ground” running, you hit the pavement with a force of up to 3 times body weight, and that’s on flat ground! It’s much worse on the downhills. This means, for the obese runner, the damage that is being done to the body from the force and impact is ridiculous. I’ll never get rid of the osteitis pubis with strength work alone. I have to put in the hard yards in the kitchen as well.

Here we are. It’s no longer enough to follow the running plan and to do the strength work the physio sets. It’s time to really put in the hard work and dedication. Dedication to me. It’s time to make my purpose about me.

Here we go. Welcome to the year of Ultra.

Happy (?) New Year

Here we are. The count down is on. In my part of the world, as I write this, we have 7 hours left of 2021; a year that caused more disruption, more grief, more uncertainty, more fear, more challenges than 2020 did. Today, in NSW we had 21k+ cases. The trend is showing that the number doubles every 2 days, so by the time the New Year weekend ends, we’ll be at more than 40,000 cases.

Now, I know, we just haven’t experienced what other countries have experienced. I’ve watched on as friends lost parents to COVID, parents who lived in Europe whilst their child made a new life in Australia, friends who grieved all on their own without family or friends to support them. But today, when we woke to those numbers, we asked collectively, what was the point of the lockdowns? What was the point of isolating everyone to improve the health system, to find out that there are just not enough tests available? That people are going to continue to die? And this is how 2021 ends – with the knowledge that the uncertainty will continue.

In King Lear (if you’ve read my blogs you’ll see this particular Shakespeare play pops up more regularly than any other), Gloucester wants to kiss the hand of his dear friend, and Lear replies “Let me wipe it first. It smells of mortality.” This is our world now. Just as Shakespeare lived in a world very much aware of their mortality due to the plague, so do we; “The wheel has come full circle, and I am here”. The wheel has turned once more and history repeats – but have we learned anything from it?

It’s been a strange year. We’ve all collectively been in this together, but it has definitely been a year of individual experience, a year where mental health and resilience has been pushed all across the world. Capitalism is failing. It is showing itself to be corrupt and immoral; everything is reduced to sound bites and snippets of information. Knowledge seems to be lost. We have gone so far down the road of individualism, privatisation and the almighty $$$ that we are collectively lost.

And yet, yet there is hope. As we stand on the precipice of 2022, I can see hope. Yes, there is more uncertainty to come, certainly. Yes, there is more grief to come. Yes, we will all know someone who has been sick from COVID, arguably we will all get it. Yes, we will know someone who dies. And this weighs on me. The day we said farewell to our beloved Samantha this year, alone, unable to grieve together, unable to find solace in each other’s company, unable to find solace in each other’s stories, drags me back down and the hope starts to disappear, but it is there. It does shine like a beacon guiding us.

My eldest finished his HSC in this year of turmoil and enrolled in university. My middle child, absolutely thrown by online learning, refused to go back to school but is on his way with an apprenticeship, and in between the ever-changing social rules of distancing, my youngest and I did get to see Hamilton. It is in them, the children, that we find hope. On the news the other day, it was mentioned that a politician wants legislation in place so that those who refuse to get vaccinated pay their own medical bills – here in Australia, in the land of medicare. It was my eldest who said, “has he forgotten compassion? Has he forgotten that we must still love others, still treat them with respect and dignity? This is a slippery slope that we cannot go down”. There is hope in the younger generations.

I am actually grateful for lockdown. I know so many did it tough and so many hated it, but for my family, in our own little world, it brought us closer together. At the end of the day, we had each other, and, as my children stand on the brink of manhood, I am forever grateful for the 17 weeks of lockdown this year. 17 weeks of keeping my sons home with me for just a bit longer. 17 weeks of laughter and love in our own little bubble.

And here is why there is hope. There is love in this world. It is all around us.

So now 2022 is just there, just in the corner of my eye and the big, scary goals start to become a reality. 50 years old is just there, just hovering in the very near future, daring me, taunting me and my response is “50 years round the sun! Hell yeah, let’s make it a good one”. I say so long 2021, and raise a quiet toast to 2022. I look at you with trepidation, yet with hope.

“The worst is not so long as we can say, ‘This is the worst.” – King Lear

2022 is just around the corner

I haven’t written for a very long time. When everyone else seemed to take to writing, to creating, to tiktok, reddit, all things social media, I went silent. The last two years have affected us all profoundly and in different ways. Many have lost loved ones, many have been sick themselves, and yet others deny the existence of COVID-19, are fearful of the vaccinations. The constant shifting narrative, the power plays over the narrative and who gets to control it, the political upheaval and what appears to be the crumbling of democracy and the failure of capitalism, has left all of us questioning, wondering and unsure. I teach ‘Worlds of Upheaval’ in Extension English in NSW and often say to my students “here’s one I prepared earlier” – we are in a world of upheaval.

What’s that got to do with running? After all, this blog is about running, more specifically, my running, so what has the Great Pause, the Great Resignation and the Great Reset got to do with my running?

With 2022 just around the corner, two years of disrupted races, lockdowns and mental health taking knock after knock after knock, we can say that it has a lot to do with running. Whether we’ve run from something, to something, with something, everything has been impacted. From learning in the first lockdown in NSW that a great man of our running community had taken his own life because the running community had been removed, from watching friends’ mental health destroyed by the absence of parkrun, watching friends online as they tried to work out how to keep training for a marathon by running around their backyard, we realise that COVID has impacted our running in profound ways.

No, this is not supposed to be a commentary on COVID-19, and it’s definitely not trivialising all the turmoil of the last 2 years by making it just about running, but when I look back on the last 2 years, I can honestly say, I can carve out the impact of the Great Upheaval by following my tracks. There was the significant overtraining of 2020 as I carried hope on every run, hope that the world was going to re-open tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. There was the 3 months of no running in 2021 after a significant injury at Canberra Marathon; an injury caused by the overtraining of 2020. There’s the ridiculous amount of covid kilos that have piled on. There’s a great lethargy, fatigue and apathy about running, despite my big goals for 2022.

Just as you think it’s OK to go out, go for a run, case numbers spike, a politician says “let it rip”, and any hope for future events fades and drifts away.

But I do cling to hope. So far, neither my husband, nor I, nor my children have caught COVID. I know it is just a matter of time as the circle is tightening. I hear Yeat’s “the centre cannot hold” on repeat in my head. It’s just around the corner. My check-in app pings almost daily about cases in places I’ve been.

But we must find hope. I’ve had my own personal pause, resignation and reset. I’m in the middle of the reset. Previously, I had goals of marathons. Now, I dream of the ultra. My injury from Canberra Marathon turned out to be Osteitis Pubis. Now that is a bitch on an injury. When it comes on mid-run, it feels like I’m in child birth, right there and then. It hurts. It really, really hurts. 3 months off running did nothing. Rest does nothing. It can only be managed with strength work, so that is what I’m doing. I’m resetting. I’m rebuilding and I’m entering 2022 with big goals to reset this body, transform this body and discover trails and ultra.

I’ve changed running coaches, I’ve got my strength workouts sorted, now it is time to start all over again. Rebuild, reshape, reset – run.

It’s been a long time between drinks

2019 was the last time I posted. 2019. Do you remember that time? The time before the world changed? Last time I posted I had just completed my first marathon. A couple of weeks after it, I went hiking with the family. We were astounded by the impact of the drought on the bush and farms of rural NSW.

Then the fires started. Everything burned. Everything.

We spent the new year of 2020 in Tasmania, doing some of the greatest hikes in Australia and finishing the trip with Cadbury Half Marathon. I was training for my first ultra at Canberra Running Festival in the April of 2020. Unfortunately, a skin cancer in my leg impacted by training and I wasn’t allowed to run for 6 weeks. Amongst all this, the fires were put out by the floods of NSW. I honestly thought that was going to be the defining moment of 2020. I downgraded the race to the ultra to not risk tearing open the wound on my leg. Again, I thought this was it.

Then 2020 really happened. We all know what happened – who in the world was not impacted? Who didn’t know someone who got it? Who didn’t know someone who had died from it? Our world changed. Races were postponed. Then postponed. Then postponed some more.

For all of 2020 I pushed myself to be marathon ready. At one point it appeared that two of the races I was registered for were going to happen on the same day – one marathon in our nation’s captain, and one marathon in Sydney.

I started eating more, not really caring for myself – who didn’t get impacted in some way? Truthfully, NSW had it easy. Our Melbourne neighbours had it tough, and all of Australia are grateful for them for doing it tough so that the rest of us could stay safe. Even now, Australia didn’t get it that badly. But everyone, everywhere were impacted.

The real impact on us came at Christmas when my husband was made redundant. Recession. Covid. It’s what was happening all around the world.

But 2021 came and races started to open. But by this time I was suffering. I think I was injured, but kept pushing on – races were on. RunWest in March was the first of the races and it was extraordinary. My injury hurt. Something wrong with my pelvis. I pushed on. Running through a zoo at sunrise is worth doing.

Canberra was finally to happen. The marathon was here. I never bothered to pay up to upgrade to the ultra again, I wasn’t as fit, I was fatter and I was hurting. Was it fibro or injury or both? It was injury. That was the hardest run I’ve ever done. I still don’t know how I managed to finish it. From the 10km mark I started hurting. By 20km I was questioning the purpose of everything. By 30km I was a blubbering mess and by 42.26km I was swearing I would never, ever run again.

It’s 6 weeks later and I’m injured. The least of the injuries is peroneal tendonitis. I can manage this with rest. The other two injuries that are linked are adductor strain and osteitis pubis. It hurts. It hurts so much, it feels like you are in childbirth again when you run.

Everyone says to pay for zoom sessions with Jason. I discovered who Jason is. But I can’t afford Jason – although it’s impressive that people from all over the world are recommending Jason.

My physio has said that I need to limit my runs to 5km and only do them on trails until everything settles down whilst we start the long process and road to recovery. Today I ran my first 5km on trails since Canberra. My pelvis didn’t hurt – I finished before it could start to hurt, but my adductors really hurt tonight. It’s clear this is the key point of the injury. Now I need to learn how to release the adductors and how to get them stronger.

I have a half marathon coming up in 5 weeks and a marathon in September. Both are lingering races from 2020 which I was ready for in 2020.

Am I still a long distance runner? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But I am now a trail runner. How glorious.

It’s also pretty cool that I’ve got a long distance runner’s injury. Like it hurts, but hey, it’s pretty cool.

I’m a marathoner!

For a long time I did not write because fibromyalgia was slowly destroying me and stopping me from functioning.  My doctor then put me on LCHF and I stopped writing because I’ve been too busy living.  The doctor said “choose life or choose death, but decide now”.  That was on the 19th February.  I didn’t just choose life.  I chose to live.

Jump forward in time to last Sunday, 15 September and the Sydney Running Festival.  Jump forward over 900km of hiking and running to train.  Jump forward 12kg of weight loss and no more fibro pain.

It actually started on Saturday.  Saturday, 14 September my family and I travelled into Sydney, our home city, as tourists to have a day exploring, picking up my race bib and seeing our city.  Can I just say it was the ultimate day of R&R.  We were relaxed, we were together, we were family.  We explored, we rambled, we sight saw with no agenda.  We spent leisurely hours in the spa and pool, meeting another family who had travelled from New Zealand for the race.  He was doing the half marathon, she and the kids were watching (she ran it last year).  Dinner in the rocks, ice-cream for the boys at Circular Quay in the balmy evening; beautiful.   Back to hotel, early night for me, restless night for me, early start for me.

It was not as cold as I thought it would be when I headed down York Street to Wynyard, asking “Tony” (marathoners have their names on their bibs) which platform.  He could sense I was nervous and walked me to the platform.  There they were.  At least one hundred marathoners in waiting.  I arrived at Milsons Point, in control, but nervous.  Lined up for 15 minutes for the toilet, did some warm up drills and then went into panic mode.  Where was ‘C” group?  I could find A, I could find B – where was C?  I asked a volunteer “go back up the hill past the station and it’s on a side street”.  What?  I went up the hill and thankfully saw the big “C” before I followed the volunteer’s directions.  It was on a side street, but still within range – not past the station.

I calmed myself and prepared myself for the start.  I wondered at the elite runners who were just there, just out of reach, but looking glorious in their athleticism.  I looked around me.  The C group.  What an awesome bunch of people.  The people who have signed up for a race knowing full well that they are going to be running for somewhere between 5 and 6 hours.  I’m sure there were others, just like me, who just wanted to finish in front of the sweeper.

The elite started, so fast, then A group.  B group started moving up, so many of them!  C group were looking at their watches, I heard one say “will we make the start line cut-off”.  The race requires all competitors to start within 15 minutes of the gun and B group looked massive.  They moved quickly though and before you knew it C group were starting their watches and going – the fear of missing the cut-off had people running from the moment the ribbon dropped rather from when we actually crossed the start line.

I was proud of myself at this point- for the first time ever I did not get caught up with race vibes. I controlled my pace and started my race from the start. I was jeffing it.  A lot of people don’t agree with jeffers, but seriously, when you are a middle aged overweight woman with fibromyalgia, Jeff Galloway’s running program is the best thing ever.  I had a customised plan for 6 months.  Coach Chris supported me all the way from America and kept me going, helping me get faster so I wouldn’t get cut-off.  When I registered for the race my running pace had me completing the race in 7 hours – way too slow.  The thing about Jeffing though, the thing about being an overweight middle aged woman is the free license people feel they can take to tell you you can’t do it.  For every person that supported me, there was two that did not.  In the end my standard response was “I paid for 6 hours, I’m taking 6 hours” and “the winner gets the same medal and shirt as the person who comes last”.  It was hard dealing with the negativity, but there was also the support.  So much support.  My husband would help put my gear together on a Saturday night for my long run the next day.  There were all the women who joined me on a run – too many to mention, Jenelle, Lisa, Sally, Carol, Fine, Faye, Cathy, Kylie and so many more.  Lisa did her first half marathon distance joining me on a long run.  Faye who wasn’t supposed to be running at all due to injury was doing countless kilometres to keep me going.  Kim couldn’t run with me because she was training for her ironman, but she met with me weekly to debrief, to discuss where to improve, what was working what wasn’t.  I had a tribe, a pack.  My lion pack.  Saturday they all messaged me, wishing me luck, surrounding me with love and support.  The Diamonds were messaging too – they were all hiking Kangaroo Island but still finding time to message me.  Cathy put it the best “go and enjoy your victory lap” she had typed.  Yes, the race was the victory lap.  The 930km that I had covered in training was what was tough.

The race was well underway.  Crossing the harbour bridge I saw the 5 and 1/2 hr pacer, I spoke to him for a bit, keeping up with him just enough to say hi and that I knew I couldn’t keep up with him but wanted him in my sight for the whole race.  There was a woman called Michelle – an RMA.  We chatted and she gave me encouragement. 2 km in and I needed it.  i came across the bridge and looked up.  There they were – dots on a window – my family.  As I got closer I could see their arms swinging, waving.  I waved adn I waved and I waved.  For 2 kms I waved.  Down the Cahill, up Macquarie Street into Hyde Park.  That was beautiful.  One of the best parts of the run.  Two guys running together, laughing and telling jokes jokingly told me my jeffing was annoying because just as they thought they could catch me I took off again.  They told me it was their goal to beat me.  Unfortunately, they came into trouble in Centennial Park and I lost them.

Just before Centennial Park I saw Faye.  She was on the side, waving and saying she’d catch me soon.  As I approached the park I saw the wheelies coming out.  I got to see Kurt Fearnley flying past.  I couldn’t help myself.  I yelled and screamed, cheering him on.  I raced Western Sydney Marathon a few years back (the half) and Kurt was there.  He is such an amazing athlete to watch.  Next thing you know the elites were on their way out.  It’s a bit disheartening to see them coming out of the park when you are only just entering – it means they are a full 10 kms ahead.  They were flying.  Their marathon pace is my sprint pace; the one that leaves me breathless after 10 metres.  But into the park I went and there again was Faye – still smiling, waving and cheering.  Halfway through the park I just had to go to the toilet.  OK, I’m saying it.  Everyone had warned me but nothing prepared me for the portaloos.  It’s the back of the packers worst nightmare.  Piss and vomit over the seats, the floor, everywhere.  Several thousand other runners had used it before me.  I was worried I was going to get sick and not finish because of germs.

I kept going.  There was Faye.  She jumped into the course and ran beside me. I was worried about time – how much did I lose by waiting for and going to the toilet?  I could see the sweeper, I thought he was close.  “Don’t worry,” she said “he is 25 minutes behind you”.  She stayed with me for a bit and then she had to stop – she wanted to help others out there and cheer them on.  I ran a few kms and there was Faye, smiling and waving and jumping back into the race to run with me.  She stayed with me all the way out of the Park and to Macquarie Street.  She had to leave me, she wanted to see others and support them.

I met Kathy.  Kathy was also jeffing.  There was another lady with a nasty cough.  She was so sick.  She was doing it anyway.  The race was feeling good, I was feeling good.  Down to the Rocks I went, around the back of Darling Harbour, got to 27km and then boom.  Cramp.  By this stage the day had warmed up and was hitting 31 degrees.  I messaged Faye “I’m cramping”.  That was all I said.  There she was – at the 29km mark she joined me with potato chips covered in beautiful salt.  I slowed to a walk whilst I tried stretch out the cramps and deal with what was going on with my legs.  At the next drink station I guzzled electrolytes, Faye made me another tailwind and the running started again. Faye was still with me.  She stayed with me then until the 41km mark!  She kept me going, giving words of encouragement, looking up her phone to reassure me that the sweeper was further behind than what he looked.

Pyrmont was awful – it was really hot, there was no breeze and the heat was getting to me.  But on I went and we picked up the pace.  We were pulling back the time that we lost with the cramping.  Faye stayed with me.  On the fingers at the wharves I could see the sweeper, he was just there.  I panicked.  The bikes were coming fast.  I picked up the pace.  They caught me – it wasn’t the sweeper at all – it was St John’s ambulance.  Phew! I thought and then No! that means someone needs first aid.  I didn’t want any of my back of the packers needing first aid.  I felt that I knew them all now.  There was the other RMAs, the lady with the cough, the two old men shuffling along, and all the others – different ages, different backgrounds and all there just for the finish.  Noone faltered.  The pace didn’t change. We kept going.

At the 41km mark Faye left me.  She said that this was my race now.  I came into Circular Quay and was frustrated – they were letting people cross the race track, getting in the way of the runners.  Runners were getting angry.  I saw one runner get taken out by a pram.  Both runner and bub were put at risk with that one.  Under the train line we went and there were more and more people, then back under the train line back to the Quay once more and there was Carol and Lisa – team RMA.  Both of them cheering me on.  I ran into Carol’s arms, very emotional.  “Keep going,” she said, pushing me forward.  I couldn’t see the finish line and I just didn’t know how far I had to go. It seemed so far.  I heard a voice, a voice I knew. There was Layla.  I ran straight into her arms and started to cry.  “Keep going, you aren’t finished yet” she said and pushed me on.  I could hear her calling out “I love you” with a final push to get me going.

So many people, so many people calling out “Go Dette”.  My name was on my bib.  They knew who I was.  There it was; the finish line. The most glorious thing I’ve ever seen.  Cross it I went and there was Ruth, cheering me with arms open.  Into her arms I went and sobbed hysterically and loudly.  I couldn’t stop.  “Turn around,” she said.  There was my boys, grinning, waving.  I ran to them. I turned again and there was Steve, Kim’s husband, then there was my husband, Carol, Ruth, Lisa and there was Faye.  What a woman she is.  I wasn’t the only person she ran with.  She supported many RMAs that day. She ran at least 30km so others could finish and get their medal.  She did it all without recording it, without wanting a medal, just to help others have their moment.  And I was having my moment.

They all stayed with me.  Somehow we climbed the Opera House steps for a photo (yep, turns out I can walk up steps after a marathon!).  They walked me to the station, we all caught the train together.  Everyone had had their moment that day, and those moments were spectacular.

I am a marathoner.  I have an awesome bunch of running buddies and hiking buddies.  I have trail sisters.  I have a tribe.  A pack.  They all told me to Run to the Roar.

ROAR.

I am a marathoner.

 

The simple things

Just over a week ago I saw my doctor and we discussed the pain situation, the blood pressure, the heart problems, the dehydration problems, the swelling, the hurting, the tiredness, and so on and so on.  He talked about the possibility that I’ve shifted into RA.  “But we’ve tested for that before,” I replied.   So he said, “we need to talk diet more”.

The thing is, it is nearly two years since I had that first bit of pain that would eventually be called fibromyalgia.  That’s two years of continuous pain and stiffness.  That’s two years of chronic fatigue.  That’s two years of losing friends and family.  More importantly, it’s two years of being told to lose weight and trying every program there is.  I went on Lite n Easy. I saw a nutritionist (who was actually telling me all the right things but I wasn’t listening). I saw a dietician. I went on weight watchers.  I went on Kim Beach.  The doctor put me on optifast as the last dash thing. The sickness and pain got worse.  My eating got worse because I was emotionally eating.  I put on more weight.  It was a vicious cycle that wasn’t helping my situation at all.

So he said, “we need to talk diet more”.  He said you need goals.  I said I have one of those.  I told him about the marathon.  1 June.  He looked at me and inquired, “what’s your longest run so far?”.  “14km,” I replied.  The conversation continued.  The run hurt.  The run took a long time to recover from, but I did recover and I did train again a couple of days later.  Yes, I’m still in pain all the time.  Yes, I still struggle to wake up.  Yes, I still struggle to walk first thing in the morning.  Eventually, he said he was all for the running, all for the marathon, but only if I lost 10 kilos.  “So what do I do?”  I asked.

LCHF was the response.  LCHF.  He suggested websites, he suggested books.  I went home and I started reading.  I read and read and read.  I went to trek training on Saturday and discovered one of my trail sisters does keto.  She had lots of advice and suggestions about what more to read.  I read and I read and I read.  I discussed it with my husband.  I discussed it with some close friends.  Turns out that my friend had seen his doctor that week and his doctor had said “you are getting fat.  You are insulin resistant. Go on an LCHF diet”.  So we read together.

Sunday arose, I went for a long run.  I came home sore, tired and in pain.  I looked at my husband and said: “I can’t do this anymore”.  He said, “let’s start”.  So at lunchtime on Sunday we started an LCHF diet, following Professor Tim Noakes “dieting revolution” principles.  So did our friends.

Something happened.  Something strange.  I got out of bed on Wednesday.  I went to the kitchen and I froze.  It just dawned on me that I got up on time and walked the length of the house.  With no assistance.  With no pain.  With no loss of time.  By Wednesday afternoon the pain was back.  Thursday morning.  Same thing.  Lept out of bed, pain free.  Pain was back by Thursday afternoon.  Friday, again, no pain in the morning.  Pain hit hard Friday afternoon and I felt like crap.  Was this the keto flu people talk about?  Saturday I went to trek training and another one of my trail sisters tells me her story.  It’s not my story to tell so I won’t share it without her permission, other than she is truly inspirational and once again, I’m humbled by the struggles people face and know that my struggles are nothing.   She also does LCHF.  She gave me lots of hints and told me to go home and have a magnesium bath.

Now here’s a thing.  I haven’t had a bath for a very long time because the fibro hasn’t permitted it.  I haven’t been able to get into or out of the bath.  The water has hurt my skin.  Everything about a bath has terrified me because of the sheer pain.  But I listened, and I’m grateful for it.  I was able to get in.  I soaked in that magnesium bath for an hour.  I got out easily.   I was able to keep doing things during the day.

It’s about 28 hours later and I’ve been pain free for 28 hours.  28 hours.  For the first time in 2 years I’ve gone for 28 hours without pain.   Not only that, but I did 3 hours of exercise today on the back of yesterday’s 2 hours and I’m still going strong.

What’s more important is I’ve cleaned my pantry!  OK, I know that doesn’t sound like a big achievement, but here’s the thing.  When you are living with chronic pain and are struggling to exist everything else falls apart.  My home fell apart.

Once upon a time, I cleaned my pantry every school holidays.  I don’t know the last time I cleaned my pantry.  Certainly not in the last few lots of school holidays.  I aimed to but I couldn’t.  I had nothing left to give. My house is a mess because for two years I’ve had nothing left.

But today I cleaned it.  Yesterday I did trek training for two hours.  This morning I did a 3 hour virtual race to raise funds for SIDS.   A week ago this type of activity would have put me in bed and left me there for several days.   But no.  Today I cleaned my pantry.

It’s the simple things that give the greatest pleasure.  It’s the simple things we take for granted.  Today I cleaned my panty and I feel like the Queen of the world as a result.

Stay tuned for more LCHF progress.

Here’s a shelf in my pantry.  So much whiteness.  So much hope for a new beginning.

Fibro Fog

A hidden disease is a funny thing.  To others you don’t look sick, so therefore you aren’t sick.  You don’t look like you are in pain, so therefore you aren’t in pain.

We learn from Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird that we “never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view….Until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”    Fibro is one of those diseases.  You’ll never understand it until you climb into it and try it on and walk around in it.  And of course, it’s one of those crazy diseases that it is never the same for each person, so how can you truly understand it?

Someone recently said to me “but you had that disease 18 months ago, has it come back?”  Well, the truth is, it never went away.  It doesn’t go away.  And I have become a master of hiding it.   My husband has an auto-immune disease.  He has psoriasis.  He had it when we met.  He had it when we married and he has had it for the last 18 years of our marriage and the 10 years he suffered on his own with it before that.   Again, psoriasis is one of those diseases that impact people differently.  You hear people say “oh, I have psoriasis.  See this dot here of pink skin just behind my ear?  That’s where I get it”.  I say “but my husband is different” and they reply “yeah, but just a little bit of moisturiser takes the pain away”.

But what they fail to realise is that 90% of his skin is covered in psoriasis.  It’s not just behind his ears, it’s on his eye lids, under his eye lids, on his head, on his neck, his back, his chest, his stomach, his arms, his legs, under his nails in his fingers and toes and it is in places that are unmentionable for a blog.  Basically, his cheeks and chin are free from it.  Nothing else.   But people can see that.  What they can’t see is how painful that is.  What they can’t see is the psoriatic arthritis that goes with it.  What they can’t see is the 28 years of living in that kind of pain every single day.

I’ve seen it.  I’ve lived beside it for 18 years.  So now I have a chronic pain disease I have learned to hide it, because 1) I know his pain is much worse and has lasted a lot longer and he never, ever complains, 2) people don’t believe you anyway, 3) it’s just not worth trying to explain because people just don’t understand, 4) For my sanity I need to persevere in silence, as often as I can.

BTW the special bio drug he is on now has pretty much got rid of the psoriasis.

But this week I have had full fibro fog.  Of course, I tried to explain it to someone this week and they said “that’s not a disease, that’s just getting old”.  I’m 46.  I don’t consider myself “old”.   So here is a snapshot of a fibro flare and fibro fog.

Thursday.  Set alarm early to rise to go for a run.

Alarm goes off.  I can’t move.  Body is aching all over.  I need to stretch but it is so tight I can’t stretch.   I press snooze and sleep some more.

Alarm goes off again.  Press snooze. Sleep some more.

Alarm goes off again.  Press snooze.  Sleep some more.

Alarm goes off again.  Look at time.  Shit.  I’m going to be late for work if I don’t move now.  Try stretch again.  Can’t.  Decide to just get up.

Place feet on ground.  Sharp stabbing pain up feet, up calves shooting towards hips.  Try stand.  Can’t stand upright fully, so start the hobble down the hallway to the bathroom.

Shuffle down hallway and with each step am able to straighten out body just a bit more.  Get to bathroom and forget why I am there.  Head to kitchen.  Get to kitchen and remember I needed to go to bathroom.  Head back to bathroom.  Have shower.  In shower forget I’m going to work and shower for too long.

Get out of shower and get ready for work.  Remember I’m supposed to be at work early so call out for kids to hurry up and get in car.  Tell them I’ll give them money to buy morning lunch because we don’t have time to do it.   I forget to eat and I leave my lunch on kitchen bench.

Get to car. Left keys in house.  Go back in and get phone.  Go to car.  Have still left keys in house.  Go back in get keys and drive to work.  Voice from behind “Mummy, you are driving us to pools – it is swimming carnival”  Pull over and let children out a block past the pool.  “Sorry chaps!”.  I do remember to give them money.  Get to work.

Day starts OK.  Have an early morning class and then roll-call.  Teacher arrives to do my roll-call.

Go to staffroom to collect booklets I’m supposed to get copied.   Walk across the school to print room.  I don’t have the booklets.  Go back to staffroom.  Get my wallet.  Walk across the school to print room.  Damn.  Go back to staffroom.  Phone rings. Answer, deal with call and put note in system straight away so I don’t forget.  Start walking across the school to realise I still don’t have booklet.  Go get booklet and deliver it finally to print room.

Return to staffroom realising that fibro fog is apparently here and so I make big lists.  Lists are good.  Lists keep me on track.   Rest of school day goes smoothly.  I am a good teacher and I get it right in the classroom and with my lists everything is done right too.

Couple of teachers suggest we all go for coffee after school to unwind.  It’s a great idea and just what the doctor ordered, I feel.  I pick up my children from school and we head up to the shopping centre.  About to park car and car stops.  It won’t turn back on.   Boys get out of car and I put car in neutral and they help me get car into a parking space.

I get ready to call NRMA when youngest says “why is the fuel light flashing?”  I had forgotten petrol.  I’ve never forgotten petrol before.  I’ve never run out of petrol before.   We go for coffee and have a laugh about the stupidity of the fibro fog when I don’t have a list.  If I had put petrol on the list I would never have run out.  Colleague drives us all to petrol station.  She takes care of everything.  She sorts the can, she gets the petrol and she drives us back to shopping centre and she puts the petrol in.  I’m forever grateful for her for this.

Drive to petrol station to completely fill up.   Things are going ok.  Get to supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner.  I had a list so everything was bought (thank goodness for Thermomixes).  Park cark and go in to house and start cooking dinner.

Husband comes home.  “Bella?  Are you having a bad day?”  “just a bit, why?”.  “I’ve just got your wallet and computer off the front seat of the car, you left them there – with the car unlocked, and I’ve just taken the keys out of the front door and put them away for you”.

I cook dinner.  Everyone eats.  It was a nice dinner actually.   I go to bed.

Friday, I wake.  The fibro fog has lifted but the pain is worse.  I go to work.  I get through the day with just a few laughs because the students think it is hysterical when I get words wrong.   It’s my biggest grief with this disease.  It’s the loss of words.  But I had my lists, I had solid lesson plans, and the students know that even when I sometimes slip up with the words they are still getting a great teacher.  They know they are in good hands and they love seeing their own names on the lists.

The pain got worse as the day went on though.  Legs felt like lead.  Calve muscles felt like tightly strung cotton that was about to break.   My supervisor is sick.  Really sick.  Like bad sick.  It all happened in last 48 hours.  It made me realise that my disease is nothing.  So what if I’m in pain?  I remember King Lear, my favourite play and I focus on those lines:

The worst is not So long as we can say “This is the worst.”

I’m alive.  I wake up each day and the sun still shines down and me, I still have a roof over my head, I still have food to eat, I still have a job to go to each day, I still have a husband that loves me and would never hurt me, I still have three sons who love me and would never hurt me and would never hurt any woman, I still have an extended family that love each other and stay connected, I still have my kindergarten friends after 40+ years of friendship, I still have my best friends after 30+ years of friendship.

I am alive.  And more importantly, I am living.