Getting back

Motivation zero, I need to remind myself that it’s less than a year since my last Great North Run. This year, post-covid, I’ve completely lost my confidence for outdoor running. Its solitude and rhythm was my headspace, my thinking time. I miss it, and need to find my way back into the habit. It’s not the same, but I’ve joined the gym again. It’s where my running began, two decades ago. It’s where I convinced myself that, if I could manage twenty minutes on a cross-trainer, I could easily run a half marathon. I soon discovered it wasn’t easy, but it was addictive.

Getting back to the gym has had other benefits too. With a carefully planned route and newly acquired panniers to carry my kit, I’ve blown the cobwebs off my bike. It’s been exhilarating, but I’ll always be a fair weather cyclist. I’m probably a fair weather swimmer too. On a sunny August evening, with the tide coming in over warm sand, conditions were perfect for my annual North Sea dip with daughter. Her access to the beach and sea is enviable. This far from the coast, a pool’s the easiest option. That’s what enticed me back to the gym, so I was sad to get a text reporting that the pool is closed this week. I’ll be back as soon as it re-opens.

‘Will you be doing a triathlon next?’ asked a friend, who’s never observed my head out of the water swimming style. With a recent yougov survey suggesting that a whopping 27% of us reckon we could qualify for the 2028 Olympics if we began training today, it might be a dream for some. Thisgranny has no such ambition. It’s a very definite no. I know my limits, I might get back to parkrun, but I won’t be training for a triathlon.

The Gap

We stayed at Twice Brewed on the wall. A family gathering, inspired by the serious runner in our midst. We saw him briefly as he passed. His effort was our excuse to revisit Hadrian’s Wall. High on our agenda, and just around the corner, the solitary tree at Sycamore Gap. It was still standing when we booked. We knew the tree was down, we could hardly have missed that news. We couldn’t anticipate the shock of its absence. The emptiness of the space. How much worse to have been the ones to find it felled on that bleak September morning. Just why?

Our runner finished in good time and fine fettle. The week since our return was marked by coughs, colds and infection. It’s been the story of the last few weeks. I returned from my May retreat, thankfully well rested and very much on top of my coursework, to a time of simply being granny.

My solitary break energised me. I travelled to Grasmere by train and bus; ran and wrote each morning, walked in Wordsworth’s footsteps in the afternoons. I ran the same route each day, watched morning mist rise to meet clouds nestling in the valley as I headed away from Town End. Around the village, little stirred. Buses hadn’t begun to arrive. No queue for gingerbread. People sat behind panorama windows of B&B conservatories ordering their full English. Briefly, I became part of their view. Deeper into the village, air conditioned vans discharged chilled packages ready to be freshly baked, here, on the premises. Later I’d return to find grey slate eclipsed by brightly coloured coats and remember my moment of solitude as I too merged into their midst.

This week’s travels take me to the Southern edge of Coniston with Mr A. Both convalescing from our coughs, I’m not sure how much walking will get done. Resting, recovery and reading are firmly on the menu. No running.

Mayday

A distress call, or a celebration of the beginnings of summer? Either way, along with the biennial flowering of our honesty, May Day’s taken me by surprise.

It feels as if we’re only just beginning to put the grey days of February behind us. I need to remind myself that we’ve already celebrated Easter and a clutch of spring birthdays, and enjoyed some sunny days. I’ve spent several long days in the garden and been lulled into a false sense of security that it might be ok to plant out some of last year’s carefully nurtured seedlings. The sweet-peas, seeds planted outside a few weeks ago, are cautiously emerging from the soil bringing hope and anticipation for the summer ahead.

I’ve been pleasantly distracted, not only by the garden, but also by my adventure back into academic life. Four decades on from graduation, I’ve become a student again. No regrets, I’m bringing my life experience into the world of creative writing. And loving it. Freed from the world of financial reporting, my creative side has been unleashed. It turns out that some of my stuff is quite good, people actually like to read it. I’ve battled with my biggest critic, the inner one, the one that labels me imposter.

‘What are you writing?’ Mr A asks often. ‘Nothing much, just course-work,’ is my usual reply. Nothing to see here… I’ve changed tack now. This week, I let him see some work in draft. ‘I’ve written another story,’ I said. ‘Would you like to read it? Tell me what you think is happening here…You don’t have to, not unless you want to…’ His verdict, ‘gripping’, combined with a handful of pencilled editing marks, has left the imposter within me temporarily maimed.

And yes, to those who like to ask, this granny does still run. Three short runs last week. And I’m off on a writing retreat at the weekend, filled with good intentions that my running shoes will punctuate my days. I will return with better habits.

I’m in…

Last week I travelled.

First, to Newcastle and onwards to the coast, unplanned, but easily managed by train. A pre-arranged journey would have taken longer, there’d have been waiting time. I’m not one to plan for sprinting between connections; I succeeded nonetheless to make swift changes. My running for the week was mainly at York station.

Then, back from the coast, to the edge of Cheshire for a reunion with two school friends. That journey, planned ahead, presented problems. Trans-Pennine trains proved unreliable. I went by bus. It was worth the effort, years rolled away as we recalled memories of the life we shared half a century ago. After I left I realised that no-one had taken a picture. I need to remind myself it happened, despite not being recorded.

Monday afternoon brought news by email. ‘Huge congratulations, YOU ARE IN.’

That risk I took with my running ambitions, a ballot entry to the Great North Run, has been rewarded. There’s 28 weeks of training time (and the arrival of two new grandchildren) before I stand in fear on the start line. They’ll play Mark Knopfler’s Going Home; I can hear it already. It’ll be with me as I head back to the coast. It won’t be a sprint, not even that final stretch along the seafront at the end; but it will be an achievement for a granny who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, run at school. Wish me good luck… and strong knees.

Nostalgia reimagined

The end of the second Elizabethan era has been marked by proclamation, pageantry, and procession. Pictures of Elizabeth’s state funeral reminded me of souvenir magazines, once carefully stored in my Gran’s house, containing photographs of Elizabeth’s father’s coffin draped in the same colourful flag. And now, seamlessly, whether royalist or republican in belief, we have a new monarch. One generation has given way to the next.

It’s been a time for nostalgia. Last week, I learned its etymology.

Apparently, it’s derived from the Greek: nostos, homecoming, and algos, pain or distress. In the 18^th century it referred to severe homesickness and was regarded as an illness. It’s a longing for a time or a place that may never truly have been quite as we imagine it.

I felt a little nostalgic this week for a part of my own roots. I went up to Glasgow to meet a friend; it was a sunny day, and I had some time to spare. I walked beside the Clyde to the end of Glasgow Green where I stood directly opposite the red stone terrace where, a century and a half ago, my Great-Great-Grandmother made her home. I’ve read copies of some of her correspondence; it’s a life I can only imagine.

Walking back towards the city, I passed beneath the McLennan Arch. It’s at the entrance to the Green; I’d run beneath it 10 years ago at the end of the Great Scottish Run. I assumed then that it had always stood here, even imagined my G-G-Grandmother here.

There were plenty of runners around in the late afternoon sunshine. I was happy enough to let them run whilst I took my time to walk and think. Just beyond the arch, I paused to read the engraved stone sunk into the pavement. It seems that, over the years, the arch has had several homes around the city, it’s only been here since 1991. If G-G-G did ever shelter beneath it, it would’ve been elsewhere. I’ll never know.

Wellbeing habits

Today is world mental health awareness day.

Last week, I had coffee with a friend. She reminded me that we all need to make time to look after our mental wellbeing, every bit as much as our physical. It’s not always easy to maintain good habits.

She’s a carer for a relative; she’s been unable to return to employment after an accident at work. She’s on universal credit. Last week’s headlines told of cuts in benefits and escalating fuel prices.

She struggles, but she doesn’t complain. She’s grateful for the support of her local foodbank. When she couldn’t leave her home, they delivered.

I asked how she was managing now. She told me that the first steps out of the door after lockdown were still hard for her. Her turn of phrase resonated with me.

‘When I run, it’s the first steps that are hardest.’ I agreed.

‘Do you still run?’ she asked.

I hesitated.

She noticed that, and persuaded me to commit to putting on my running shoes before I see her again. I thanked her for the motivation. She was pleased to be the one giving out support.

For her, I ran a slow three miles this week. It felt good.

I wonder now, how many times will I need to push myself out of the door before it once more becomes a healthy habit?

Still seeking solitude

It’s been a strange couple of weeks.

Going into lockdown felt comparatively easy for me. Cancel everything, stay at home. Only go out to exercise or to do essential shopping. No traffic noise, lots of birdsong. Four months later, reversing lockdown feels loud and complex.

It’s been great to have family and friends to visit; good to get a haircut. #GNRsolo runs are fitting into a new schedule of coffee dates and appointments. I have to confess that, some days, I have felt a little overwhelmed by the existence of pre-planned events in the diary.

As a child, I was frequently accused of being too much of an introvert. As if it was something within my control. Self-conscious, I became quieter and retreated to the world of books. The craving for moments of solitude hasn’t gone away. When life gets too busy I still need space and downtime. I’m not a recluse, I enjoy the company of others but I draw my strength from an inner depth. Extroverts can drain me.

I describe myself now as an ambivert. I need time to get in touch with my introvert side, but I’m frequently surprised by the joy of meeting similar souls. Like my school gate friend, Mary. We met for a walk by the river and an open air coffee. She told me that she had willingly sacrificed time alone in an empty house to meet up with me; I felt privileged. We understand each other.

Running solo

On Sunday, a challenge appeared on a whatsapp message for #GNRSolo. The link’s not working for me, I replied. That’s because it’s just a picture, said my daughter. Once that was sorted, I was able to search on line to read the challenge.

Last Sunday, 28 June, was the 40^th anniversary of the Great North Run. It’s a late summer event now, but it seems that was not always the case. The challenge, should I choose to accept it: forty runs in the 78 days between the 40^th anniversary date and the date of the, now postponed, 2020 GNR. No specification on speed or distance of the runs. That will motivate me, I thought, as I entered my details online. One by one, my family all signed up for the solo event. I even set up a spreadsheet to record my progress. After 5 short runs, my spreadsheet tells me that I have run the equivalent of one half marathon this week.

Mr A managed to achieve this distance in fewer runs, and in considerably less time than me. However, he is now out of action for a while. He hobbled home, battered and bruised, after crashing to the ground on his 3rd run. He had the misfortune of encountering a small dog running out of control between his feet. A trip to A&E and an emergency dental appointment followed. Whilst he may now be able to see the funny side of the event; the pain of his bruised ribs prevents him from laughing.

Running through the woods

A bright early spring morning. The sun shines in at the windows. It breaks through the fingerprints on the panes; highlights the dust dancing in the air. I could stay indoors and wage battle on the dirt, but it seems a little early for spring cleaning. I’m not expecting visitors. Even if I were, I would likely wave an arm around a hastily tidied room whilst issuing a vague apology for my standards of housekeeping.

I choose to put myself on the other side of the dusty windows. Cleaning windows is, by his own choice, one of Mr A’s jobs. He enjoys it. Almost as much as our grand-daughters enjoy leaving face and hand prints on the glass. It’s not a day for staying indoors, I get ready to go for a run.

Halfway through the door, the phone rings. I hesitate. Who rings the house phone these days? Sellers, ‘just carrying out a survey in your area’; fraudsters, claiming to be my internet provider…

I give in and answer. A pleasant, if delaying, surprise. For a change it’s a friend, seeking clarity on a date. More usually resolved by a quick text, it turns out that it is quite nice to take the time to chat.

I run away from town and into the woods. I am cheered by the light filtering through the trees, and by the snowdrops bursting into flower. My head clears and my thoughts unravel. The steady rhythm of running always straightens my thinking. The endorphins are doing their work. I run out of the woods, aware that last week’s knee pain seems to have passed; possibly helped by the consumption of large quantities of pineapple. The sadness that I feel reading my newspaper has not diminished, but at least I am able to find some respite.

Sing out my soul…

I love to sing but, unfortunately, this granny cannot hold a tune.

It’s 40 years or more since it was said to me: ‘no one would want to sit near to you in church’. It wasn’t that I didn’t wash, I think; just my lack of musicality. The speaker didn’t need to sit near me, she sat in the choir. It took me some years to regain the confidence to open my mouth and join in congregational singing with any degree of enthusiasm.

Reading the letters page in the Guardian, I mention it again. ‘It was a long time ago,’ says Mr A; ‘can’t you be forgiving?’ ‘Of course I can forgive,’ I say, but the memory stays with me. The pain and shame can bubble up and catch me unawares. Forgiveness doesn’t always wipe the memory clean. A harsh reminder, perhaps, that we should be careful what we say. Once said, things cannot be unsaid.

I married into a musical family and my daughters all received the music gene. I have always celebrated their ability to bring pleasure to others through music. I love to be in the audience and enjoy a concert; but I must confess to a little envy that I cannot do the same.

I know that I am not alone and the letters in the paper made my heart sing. A choir that’s for the tuneless, that’s got my name on it. I went to the website to see if there’s a tuneless choir near to us. Sadly there isn’t, but I’ve signed up just in case there are others near my postcode who need the same therapy.