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Ageing, breast cancer, charity, exercise, fitness, Health, Humor, middle-age, running

There’s no doubt in my mind that what this year’s fun run is really about is another narcissistic attempt to deny the physical evidence that my body is as old AF and, well, a bit buggered.
The papers – or “the news” (as my millennial daughter corrected me yesterday morning because she has never read a hard copy newspaper) – continues to be full of stories of New Year’s resolutions that never got out of the starting gate, Dry January fails, and Januhairy – the least challenging resolution for the menopausal/hormonally hirsute amongst us.
Privately, I have made a couple of personal resolutions – that for legal reasons that involve the old man, I can’t share publicly with you yet – but I have made one that I’m happy to talk about.
This May, I will be competing in the 4k Mothers Day Classic Fun Run to support breast cancer research.
Yes, FOUR FUCKING KILOMETRES, and A RUN! The “fun” part, I’m not so sure about.
I did a similarly crazy thing a little over ten years ago when I celebrated my 40th birthday – don’t ask me why I have this tendency to come up with harebrained schemes such as these, although I suspect that wine has something to do with them – when, in the wisdom of what I will now refer to as my youth, I signed up for the London To Brighton bike ride, to prove that I was still young, hot and fit to raise money for The British Heart Foundation.
And evidently, few life lessons were learned from that day of shame. Either that or I have parked them in the dying brain cell department of my brain along with memories of childbirth and whatever I once saw in Johnny Depp.
In my defense, the temperature that day in the UK was (an unheard of) 33 degrees – the precursor to what the intelligent among us now accept as climate change – but added to which, I was also sporting a rather debilitating injury, incurred at training the week before; the result of a nasty brush with gravel. That meant that I had to compete with two stitches to my right elbow and severe PTSD in relation to every getting on a bike again.
To cut a long story short, I was the only competitor to cross the finishing line as the event organizers were planning their retirements – although twelve hours to complete fifty-two miles is apparently a record…of sorts. I was also the only competitor to be slapped around the face by their husband halfway around the course when he feared for my sanity – although, again, in my defense, my bum was really sore.
There’s little doubt in my mind that what this year’s fun run is really just another narcissistic attempt to deny the physical evidence that my body is as old AF and, well, a bit buggered. However, my ambition is not to complete this year’s run in a credible time. No, all I’m really aspiring to do is not look like a complete twat as I cross the line – IF I cross the line – ie. I’m hoping for no sign of poo or wee on my pants, that I haven’t stolen water from the nearest dehydrated child spectator, or taken the bus to raise money for a commendable cause.
I’m also hoping that on this occasion I don’t have to beg a steward to pull me up the last hill in return for sexual favors – something the organizers of the London To Brighton event got very sniffy about.
In case you’re wondering, I don’t know why I don’t organize a coffee morning, eat all the cakes, and be done with it, either. It’s not like I’m one of those stoic people who can put their mind to anything for a shot of very public altruism. Frankly, I couldn’t apply myself to catching a Huntsman spider if the lives of my children depended on it – something you might have picked up on in my last post. I’m not naturally a “charity” type of person – other than my belief that it begins and stays at home, ideally in my bank account.
However, I’m proud to say that I have reached the 2km mark in my training – not an easy feat in the humidity of a Sydney summer – and my only question at this stage of my running journey is when the fuck it gets easier? When will my legs and boobs stop hurting? When will my thighs stop sticking together? Will I ever enjoy it?
To answer your questions – no it doesn’t get any easier, no your legs and boobs don’t stop hurting, get longer pants to avoid the sticky thighs, enjoy it?? Are you insane!! My thought was, if I’m going to be bright red and sweaty (the non-existent joy at turning 50) at least I can use the run as an excuse, ‘me menopause, oh no darling, just been for a run’ – whatever time or day that’s my stock response, think the bottle store owner is starting to doubt me!
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Haha, I should use it for my Rosacea outbreaks. The great thing about running is that it offsets the damage done by wine – at least, that’s my logic.
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i’ve never run for more than 30 seconds so this is amazing to me
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It’s amazing to me, too. Every time I do it I think that I’m going to wake up at some point like in Dallas. As in, I wish I would wake up…
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Never, never, never, and no.
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Bugger! That was what I feared.
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Yeah, when I was a fit and trim college athlete who worked as a seasonal fire fighter, running was boring and painful. It still is boring and is more painful. Good luck! I don’t think you can look like a twat while running, though maybe it means something different in the American dialect.
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Haha! Looking like a twat is looking like an idiot. I know about the pain bit. Have you tried listening to music or podcasts?
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No in my case Ive been asking the ‘when is it going to get easy’ question for decades now. But it sounds like you are doing great. Good luck.
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Someone told me there’s a magic 3k mark. I knew it sounded like bollocks.
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I’ve tried running. I just. don’t. like. it. My husband is a runner, and he gets cranky when he skips a few days. I, OTOH, get cranky when I have to run at all, lol.
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I am struggling with it, but like your hubbie, I get cranky when I can’t do it – like in this ridiculous heat. The best part is that it only takes 15 minutes.
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