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A couple of years ago, I joined a gym. Not just any gym, but the M&S of gyms – those that have all the whistles and bells, a pool, a sauna and a cafe. Hot on the tails of the pandemic, it was a company keen to show solidarity with key workers and so offered an NHS discount, hence I was not obliged to consider a second mortgage to meet the monthly fee.
As is the way with all newbies to a gym, you are obliged to be shown the ropes by a young and keen whippersnapper. I’m never quite sure whether they are more worried that the machines will break you or whether you’ll break the machines. We began with an encounter with the treadmill. As mentioned in a previous blog post, my anatomy is not one of an elite runner. Thus little more than 30 seconds on the machine of death is sufficient to send my face a true beetroot complexion and to send me into a breathless jellied heap.
Trying to be helpful, the youth sent to induct me, suggested that the rowing machine might be good as, “2km would be a good 10-15 minute workout.” Alas, little did he know that whilst I have never won a running race, my living room contains a more than few trophies picked up whilst misspending my university years on the river. There was a quiet correction, to suggest that perhaps 7-8 minutes might be more of a target for 2km (my PB is 7 minutes and 12 seconds). The incredulity to my assertion was not so much barely contained as liberated with the full force of the skepticism as how the middle aged woman standing in front of him might be able to row a machine so quickly.
Thus the moral of this tale is never to underestimate a middle-aged woman…
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I delayed writing this post – at the time it felt like something that had happened to someone else and I thought it would take time to sink in. It still feels like an adventure that someone else achieved!
At 0145 on the 12th June 2024, we had a date to meet with the pilot and the crew of the Anastasia at Dover marina. Whether 0145 is in the middle of the night or constitutes an early morning is a moot point – I’d like to think that years of traversing hospital wards at unseemly hours contributed to my tolerance of that eerie hour (after 4 hours of sleep the night before). Packing for the boat had focussed on warmth – 2 sleeping bags, thermal underlayers, fleecy leggings, fleecy cycling tops (wrong sport, but very warm!), 2 woolly hats, big fleecy socks and a year’s supply of teabags. We undertook a quick tour of the boat, including, disconcertingly the life-raft and the life-jackets, failing to put the crew at ease by asserting our familiarity with the use of the defibrillator. An hour’s journey around to Samphire Hoe for the start allowed Jane enough time to grease up and attach lights to her posterior. She tried to maintain that she had some sandwiches in her Duffel bag (Victoria Wood joke) before disappearing into the blackness of channel water.
The rules of a channel swim dictate that the swimmer has to start on dry land, so after Jane’s swim out from the boat to the beach, she waded ashore and performed the obligatory wave before once again diving into the shadow of dark water. Vicki and I had the picturesque photo opportunities of swimming into the sunrise. We had a Whatsapp group of friends and family – many of whom hadn’t realised that we’d be swimming in just swimsuits and suddenly woke up to the fact that the cold is as big a challenge as the distance! At 0846, we recorded a water temperature of 12 degrees and an air temperature of 14.6 degrees.
Inhalation of diesel fumes on my first swim did not facilitate my stomach to find it’s sea legs. Despite use of Cinnarizine, the boat bucket saw action and fuelling became limited to black tea and ginger biscuits initially, with cold boiled potatoes later on.
We became familiar with new landmarks – emerging from English waters into the first shipping lane and the appearance in the distance of big boats. We developed a routine – jump in (behind the current swimmer), overtake the swimmer, swim for an hour, sing silly 1980s songs to yourself and then realise that you don’t know the words after 3 lines, make up a few lines, handover, climb up the back of the boat, change into a new (dry) swimsuit, put on every item of clothing that was packed (I defy anyone to beat me at the dressing up game at children’s parties after this) with cup of tea in hand. Second cup of tea when first drained and then eat. Following this we reached the separation zone – Caroline’s definition of this was “like the middle bit in the motorway” i.e. a no-travel zone for boats. Our tides were deemed to be unusual, but we ploughed on through. My third hour featured jellyfish (but no stings – I am hoping that I am forgiven for poking one in the head!) and movement into the North East shipping zone aka French waters. It was as if the weather approved of our venture and the sun came out to play as Jane dropped in for her 4th swim of the day.
We hit the point at which we were a mere 7 miles from France as the crow flies. Unfortunately we were swimming. The hotel at Boulogne was identified as a landmark and resolutely stayed as a speck in the distance for what seemed like hours. Jane argued that we needed to swim along the coast for bit to look for “a nice beach” (another Victoria Wood joke). We had an army of supporters sending us messages on Whatsapp, providing tailwind to our swim (I strongly suspect that trackers provided distractions from work). Our 5th swim complete, the air temperature began to drop. What had been a balmy 27 degrees now became 16. The “fun” of a 3-woman relay became apparent and 2 hours to eat and re-warm seemed a challenge in itself.
Just prior to my 6th swim, I received the instructions for how to finish off. I was assured that we were a mere 750m from France, but that we were having to swim into the current – it was estimated that this was a 30 minute swim at most. I needed to either touch a rock or walk out onto the beach. One message encouraged me to swim like Coach Wales was yelling at me! Much to the excitement of those on the boat, the rib was launched as I was swimming. With France in touching distance, a last push was called for. I could feel the tide. The team on the boat decided to give it one last changeover, so Jane jumped in to follow the rib to shore. Just as she touched French earth, the sun came out and a seal popped up his head.
Our time was 18 hours and 3 minutes. The 12th successful all female 3 (wo)man relay.
Enormous thanks need to be extended to Rob Thompson, the pilot of Anastasia, all the crew, our observer Garry Salter and most especially to our crew Caroline Sims, who literally dressed us after every swim, made so much tea that we got through every tea bag that we possessed and to all the folks who cheered us, sent us messages, whooped along the way. However, most of all, especial and ginormous thanks need to go to my fellow adventurers and partners in crime – Jane Scott and Vicki Watson.
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As mentioned – we are scheduled to do our channel swim attempt starting at 0145 on Wednesday June 12th from Dover. We will be on Anastasia with pilot Eddie Spelling. Our team name is 2 bras and no knickers.
You can track us here:
https://cspf.co.uk/tracking/235023353
The thinking is that it will be a “nice day out on a boat, with a picnic and a bit of swimming!”
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The telephone call came on Saturday, post a tired park run and equally weary swim. Our window is due to start on the 11th June – we were scheduled to swim on the 12th June at 0145.
Having expected that the likelihood was that we’d swim at the end of our window, the immediacy sent a mix of excitement and panic amongst the team. Meetings and appointments had to be rearranged (Jane), hotels had to be booked (all of us!), travel arrangements made, packing organised. Knowing Jane and I only too well, Vicki sent us a kit list – this had PASSPORT in capital letters at the top and the word etched itself into my brain, such was the fear that I would forget it. Food shopping with it’s fear of till operator judgement at the copious amount of junk food became mandatory. Discussions with a friendly pharmacist (in my professional experience, they are all friendly!) paid off and seasickness tablets were purchased.
Various computer mapping exercises had suggested that my house to Dover was a 4 hour drive. Add in a bit to allow for toilet and drink stoppages. What they hadn’t mentioned was that there is a world championship lane closing contest between the motorways. Any national shortages of traffic cones need only look to the plentiful supply along the M1, M25 and M2 – the reduction in speed limit facilitating easy pick up and deposition. The M1 triumphed the tournament with a road accident and subsequent motorway closure at Junction 11. I am sure that Lutonians are very proud of their town, but their pleasure at an entire motorway’s worth of traffic jamming up their roads was probably equal to my enforced, unplanned and unguided tour. The A2 came a close second with another road closure – losing out on first place merely by the use of the odd yellow diversion sign indicating an expedition through, what I presume are beautiful Kent villages – alas the blackness of the night meant sightseeing was impossible.
Dover castle proved to be a grateful vista and the peak of the hill from which I rolled into the town. Parking remains the hurdle yet to be surpassed (I’m good until 3pm today!). Tomorrow is approached with a mix of trepidation and excitement.
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Oh I do like to be beside the seaside!
Oh I do like to be beside sea!
Oh I do like to bound into the waves so cold
And run until my feet lose their foothold
So let me be beside the seaside!
I’ll be beside myself with glee!
Anderby’s hosted us well
Beside the seaside! Beside the sea!
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To prove that we are made of the stuff that could even contemplate a channel swim, we were required to complete a qualifying swim. Essentially this a swim completed in water of less than 16 degrees Celsius – we were required to swim initially for 90 minutes, emerge from the water for 60 – 90 minutes and then a further swim for an hour.
The qualifying swim invoked a great deal of discussion, mostly about when. Too early and the lake would still be so cold as to induce hypothermia. To late and the temperature may have risen above the required 16 degrees. Would we need more than one attempt at the swim, and if so, did we need a few dates in the diary? How should we refuel in between swims and how should we keep warm?
We settled on a date in mid-April, just before my birthday. An early start was required to complete the swim within the WholeHealth opening hours. An unexpected late frost and an air temperature of 4 degrees led some vocalisations questioning life choices, but the mindset becaem that of aiming to complete laps of the lake. Snatches of songs running through my head maintained the rhythm.
Ninety minutes passed with a few extra just in case the watches underestimated our time. We emerged to swaddle ourselves in layers upon layers of clothing. Hot chocolates were consumed and a cheeky march around the lake brought the feeling back to the toes.
A pep talk from Coach Wales consisting of “Empty the tank” and “hot fires” preceded the second swim. Having known Wales for some time, her wisdom seems to have a theme around the topic of “Go hard and swim fast!” Yet her advice rang true: 2km of swimming at a pace significantly faster than the first 90 minutes meant that the time passed. Before we knew it, qualification had been achieved at our first attempt!
Of course a birthday wouldn’t be a birthday without a swim – just because qualification was done, didn’t stop an extra dip in the lake. However, the addition of a Markeaton parkrun PB, several meals with family and friends, beautiful handmade birthday cards (my goddaughter’s card depicted Vicki, Jane and me swimming) and an amazing cake did make the weekend rather special…
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In a bid to get back into the saddle, I entered the Derby 10km race. Alas, Cassie, my usual canine running partner, was barred from this event. I had all the cheer that my PB (obtained in 2009) was not so much unachievable but a mere whiff of a memory of times past. In fact, I had all the reassurance that most people would be not just over the finish line, but massaged, nourished with a cup of tea and a biscuit and settled into the car for the journey home at the point of my finish.
The day proved to be a gorgeous one for running – sunny but not too hot and I left my house early aspiring to bag a parking space (bag a parking space full stop – nevermind close to the race or even in the overflow!). Fate had another thought in mind though. As I turned onto the A610 the vision of a motorcyclist emerged. The bike was no longer balanced on two wheels but upended and prostrate over the carriageway with a dazed and thrown rider on the side of the road.
That thought of, “do I stop and use up my precious window of time or even miss the race?” flitted through my brain, shortly followed by, “if I missed this race, no-one will believe that the underlying reason has heroic undertones.” Two other runners had stopped, but they felt powerless to do much other than call an ambulance, which although had yet to arrive, was exactly the correct response. There is then the problem – as a healthcare professional, I can diagnose, but I don’t carry any medical kit beyond a face mask in my car.
I did stop of course. There’s a reassurance that everyone feels when you mention what you do for a living. The patient was escorted to safety and a basic examination performed. My skillset found it’s limitations at trying to right the bike and take it off the road, but thankfully teamwork proved to be the order of the day. The ambulance responded quickly and politely took my handover. I was allowed to proceed on my way.
The chaos that I’d hoped to avoid became apparent – how to negotiate the closed roads, yet find somehwere to park. The temptation to yell, “do you know what I’ve done just to get here?” boiled underneath my larynx. Suddenly, a miracle of miracless occurred and a genuine legal parking space close to the start appeared.
Following the adventure that was the outward journey, the race itself was an anticlimax! A cruel headwind into the first uphill was energy sapping, but I found my rhythm and the general plod. The race route passed Derby Cathedral, ensuring ringside seats to view the Bishop and her entourage on the Palm Sunday parade. I remain to be convinced that cheering sweaty, beetroot faced runners is part of the Palm Sunday liturgy though.
I had a time in my head to beat. Despite all the adventures, I did it! Still room for improvement though!
Fast forward one week to Easter Monday and an entirely different race filled the calendar. An out and back race along the trails around Matlock (about 7 miles). However, not only was I racing other runners, I was racing a steam train. I’d entered the race with some friends who had put their children onto the train, so the kids had the amazing experience of a literal trackside view, cheering on all the runners, but simultaneously hoping that they would “beat Mummy!” Steam definitely beat this runner, but a great experience nonetheless.
My experience at Runner vs Steam convinced me that I could once again up the distance, so I entered Carsington 7.5. If you think that a race around a resevoir will be flat – think again. Even seasoned runners describe this one as “undulating!” A warm and humid day does not suit my English constituion. When the marshall running at the back explained that there was provision for stopping at the first checkpoint, she was subjected to a withering, “but I’ve only done two miles!” Wisely, she changed her tactic and began a lecture on the perils of dehydration – points that were well heeded.
The route is beautfiul and a slow plod facilitates appreciation of woodland, meadows, flowers (although species recognition passed me by) and of course the lake. Well-meaning visitors cheered – I was particularly encouraged by the “You’re nearly half way!” at 5 miles into a 7.5 mile race. Finally, I came to the dam, with it’s welcoming cooling breeze, followed by the final narrow paths. The cheering visitors and mountain bikers now morphed into jeopardous obstructions requiring careful overtaking. I emerged from the trees to the salute of a whistle and a welcome from the Derwent Runner girls who had delayed vital ice cream consumption to cheer me home.
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Ian woke up Jane on her special day. “Beast,” thought Jane. “He’s forgotten that we had a midnight feast last night. There was mountains of cake and lashings of Prosecco.”
“Wake up!” cried Ian. “It’s a lovely day, hooray! I don’t know why but it’s very important that it should be a sunny day on your birthday!” Jane dressed herself in her jersey and her favourite birthday purple tutu and packed her bathing suit in the car. The car seemed to eat up the miles as it purred along to the lake. It was an easy path from the car park to the lake. The lake was calm and blue in the morning sun.
“Happy birthday, Jane!” cried Ruth. Cassie the dog wagged her tail enthusiastically in agreement. “Are you going to bathe? Do lets go for a swim!” “Let’s go for a run around the lake to get warm first,” suggested Abigail. “I’ll go and time you all as you run!” Abigail scampered off to the parkrun finishing strait, leaving Jane, Ian, Katherine,, Ruth and Cassie to the run. “She is a dear,” said Ruth as they capered over towards the start line.
The run was marvellous. All the runners were delighted with it. “Don’t you simply love parkrun!” said Abigail as she caught them up afterwards. The smell of bacon and eggs coming from the Wired kitchen by the lake was very good, but Jane was keen to bathe first. She knew that she could bike faster than any boy and could swim faster too. In the warmth of the sun, she saw dancing sparkles on the blue water.
They changed behind the bushes and ran down to the lake. Oh the delicious coolness of the water! Phillipa joined Ian, Jane, Ruth, Abigail and Lisa for a swim and they all came out glowing and laughing. The Wired café had hot chocolates ready for them when they came back. Ian brought out a tuck box containing a large chocolate cake. “Oh goody goody!” cried Ruth. “Happy birthday Jane!”
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I never needed anyone,
Ran 10ks just for fun,
Those days are gone
Runnin’ alone,
I think of all the milestones
From races long ago
And then I groan
All by myself
Don’t wanna run
All by myself anymore
Hard to be sure,
I’m finding it tough to see the allure
Fitness so distant and so obscure
Running’s the cure.
All by myself
Don’t wanna run
All by myself anymore
All by myself
Don’t wanna run
All by myself anymore
Air drum solo
Repeat chorus
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Multiple attempts to get back the rhythm of running hit brick walls – I was attempting to cover distance using a run / walk strategy with the thought of gradually building up the running segments and decreasing the walking distances. However, I got stuck and could not advance beyond 6 minutes running and 4 minutes walking.
To break the impasse, I signed up for a couch to 5km course run by Derwent Runners. I’ve commented before about the wondrous encouragement emanating from this group – even those not run leading were quick to offer a word of welcome! I loved the definition that “running is anything that isn’t walking.”
The key to this course for me was the regular commitment to running. Specific C25K group runs ran weekly, but we were encouraged to form alliances for the homework runs. Fear of not keeping up kept me on my toes with the homework. The timing of the course coincided with my border collie puppy, Cassie coming of an age in which she could accompany me on runs, thus two of us began the training together.
Eight weeks, two to three runs per week and the final 5K arrived. My participation was nearly scuppered by traffic congregating at Pride Park – a journey mere minutes away from my final destination might have been half a world away. Heart rate already elevated, I began the graduating run. I had a faint glimmer of a cold (but no COVID), so breathing was not as straightforward as I might have hoped. However, my sights were set on higher things than excuses – having put in the steps, I was determined to finish and to run every kliometre of the last 5K. Speedy course participants completed their challenge and then ran back to the tail markers to cheer us along. The bright lights of the rugby club drew me towards the finish line and as much of a sprint finish as I could muster.
See you at the next parkrun…
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As the leaves turn from green, to gold, orange and red, most people start to think of all things wintry – the dark evenings and the cooling of the weather. The night upon which the clocks go back sits at the crux of that point when autumn disappears and winter emerges. With the exception of those years in which I was working nights, for the first 48 years of my life, the night when the clocks go back is celebrated with a snuggle underneath the duvet and the rejunivation that comes with an extra hour of slumber.
This year, a challenge arose that flew in the face of traditional observances. The rationale was simple – a 200m open water swim relay in a team of four. The team to win would be the team that completed the most number of laps in the time allowed. The twist: the race would start at 1am with the laps to be completed clockwise and on the hour that the clocks turned back, the laps would be completed in a counter-clockwise direction.
Consequently after viewing the Rugby World Cup final, our team met to register at the venue in Lincoln. It was decided that the order of swim would be settled by the order in which we arrived for registration, consequently I was selected to swim third. We made a decision not to swim in wetsuits (one of only two teams to do so) and thus we arrived at the venue laden with dryrobes, sleeping bags and blankets, towels, hot water flasks and all such accoutrements to keep us warm during the challenge. Having completed long swims in the past, the duration of this swim was mild by comparison, but never before had I to emerge from the water, rest and re-enter. With an air temperature of 12 and a water temperature of 10 these were fears that should not be underestimated.
Mindful that a two-hour swim can constitute a marathon, and having seen the natural athleticism of the other teams, I sought to find my own rhythm and ensure I swam my own race. I was conscious that a wobbly course can add minutes onto the 200m time and concentration had to be devoted to looking up and focussing on the next buoy. During the briefing, we had been warned about the slippery matting at the exit point and warned to swim as close to the exit – it was at this point we were swept up into the hulking arms of Jim, who gave just enough time for the feet to touch solid earth before being sending me in a sling shot up the ramp to high five Jane, who was leg four. A call to the lap counter with the name of our team (Two bras and no knickers) never failed to elicit a smile, even on the 23rd repetition before the attempts to keep warm and the repeat 200m.
Time ticked on – we reached the halfway point, along with with the confusion created by those swimmers finishing their clockwise laps and those just starting the counter-clockwise laps. The reverse loop added an extra challenge – the route into the finish was lit by a dazzling white light so powerful as to blind and disorientate the most experienced of swimmers. The rules of the competition had stated that any lap started at 2am would counted in the final total, consequently the sprint was on for me to finish my lap, race up to Jane and allow her to enter the water with seven seconds to spare.
Event over, team photographs taken and layers of clothing adorned, hot chocolates consumed and self-congratulations earned at having completed the challenge of a relay swim in the middle of the night complete with getting in and out the water. We earned the accolade of being joint last with 23 laps completed – the fellow holders of the wooden spoon spot being the other team to swim In skins.
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Couch to Enduroman 