old lady running

Halfway there Eight weeks down and eight weeks to go. Yay! That means I am exactly halfway through the training. Halfway is like half-time. It’s like ‘intermission’ at the movies. Time for the oranges. Or an ice cream. It’s time to change ends. To watch the ads.   Time for the coach to start ranting and raving. . .   Let the team talk commence! Half-time is when people stop and stretch their legs and take a breather. It’s when the cheerleaders come on and get everyone hyped up. It’s when people queue for the loo. For me it’s time for a nice bowl of fat greasy chips. And some bubbles to toast the past eight weeks’ effort. Hallelujah, bottoms up and cheers to the training so far.   It is fortuitous then, that I have also recently had a very significant birthday. One that I can’t let slip by unacknowledged. And, adverse as I am to taking centre stage on these occasions, I reckon I have to do SOMETHING. And SOMETHING usually involves a glass or two of merlot, lots

The Crappy bits - (or what to do if you get caught short!) Warning -   the content of this blogpost may offend some readers. That’s because there are a few crappy bits in it, which may not be up everyone’s alley - so I wont be offended if you need to skip the odd paragraph or two. But for those who want to hang in there. . ..   This is a story about bowel movements. Which is to say it’s a story about, poop, poo, number twos, crap, jobbies, tollies . . .or whatever you prefer to call the waste product that comes out our rear end at (hopefully) regular intervals!   When you first start running you might find that the movement of your bowel suddenly takes on a whole new significance.   Where, when and how - becomes a thing of utmost importance. And getting it right usually means getting it over and done with before you start the run.   Remember the last time you were on an airplane. And you hit turbulence. And the cabin luggage ended up all over the place.   Well, that

Okay, I know it doesn't look like fun. It’s not balloons and bugglegum and party frocks. It’s not champagne or roller coaster rides or whoopee cushions . It’s running! Plain and simple. Pound, plod, pound. Plod, pound, plod. Nothing more, nothing less.. .   And it’s not always a pretty sight. Like, there you are 45 mins into your run. You’re struggling a bit. Sweat pouring, hair everywhere, face grimmacing, open-mouthed, red-faced and breathless. A passerby could be forgiven for thinking ‘that woman is not having much fun out there’. And you can guarantee that no one is jamming on brakes, doing a double take and thinking ‘WOW! That looks like fun! Can I do that too?!’ Please. . .   I will agree that, from the outside, running doesn’t look like the most fun activity in the world. And obviously a jog round the block doesn’t compare to a sunny Sunday arvo at the ‘Rainbow’s End’ theme park or a bungey jump off the Skippers Canyon. But there are definitely some fun bi

Part 1:   The ‘hilly bit’. When the going gets tough, the tough get going! Or they get running. Or they do something!   Sometimes, the ‘tough’ even start running up the ‘hilly bit’!! Which is where the ‘tough’ and I usually part ways. I hate the ‘hilly bit’ with a vengeance! (Which is strange when I live in a city surrounded by them). I detest the way the ‘hilly bit’ can ruin the most enjoyable of runs. Nothing’s easy when a ‘hilly bit’ gets in on the act. I hate everything about it. The way it sneaks up when you least expect it. The way its lurks at the end of a road, looking insignificant -   ’til you get up close.   The ‘hilly bit’ can take you completely by surprise and should never be underestimated.   It has a way of blatantly making your run way more stressful than it needs to be. It makes your legs hurt and your lungs strain and your arms ache. It makes you feel like you daren’t stop because there’re still miles to go and if you stop now you might ne