This post is this weeks entry for the writing workshop over at Sleep Is For The Weak

There were some pretty tough prompts so I opted to choose running.

Running was something I only really started doing when I met my husband. My chosen form of activity has always been horse riding and the thought of going to a gym was enough to bring me out in a cold sweat. Why on earth would I want to surround myself with sweaty people, give me a sweaty horse anyday. But seeing as my husband was keen on going to the gym, he talked me into membership and so my running began.

Now I’m not a very fit person at all, ok so I’m thin and look like I should be a great runner but I have mild asthma and find I get very wheezy with prolonged exercise. To start off with just 5 minutes on the treadmill left me gasping for breath, but as the weeks progressed this increased to 10, then 20, then 30 and within a couple of months I managed my first 10km run on a treadmill – OK so it took me 1 hour and 21 minutes (I’m like a tortoise – slow and steady) but my running slowly means I don’t get out of breath and although the other people in the gym were wondering whether I was planning on running a marathon on there I just kept going waiting for that magic 10km. I was so proud of myself for that.

As my running slowly progressed I moved on to running outdoors, now this was where the real challenge began, no more air conditioned gyms, no more being able to stop and go the showers when I’m tired, no I have to get home, no more flat terrain. This time I was running properly, running against the wind, running up hills, running where other people beside sweaty gym goers could see me. We lived in York back then and most evenings my husband and I would go for a nice hour long jog down by the river and back home. He was so patient, running at my pace just to keep me company and keeping me going.

We started entering 10km races, not with any hope of winning, just because it was nice to run in other places, run with other people and take home a competitors medal at the end of the day. In these events my husband ran at his pace, usually getting home in about 45 minutes and I usually managed just over an hour. My personal best at a race was 1 hour 2 minutes – again, not fast but I was happy with it :)

The big challenge came when we relocated to the North East, home of the Great North Run. We both entered and both got places and so the training began in earnest. I did a few 10km races over the summer coming in around the hour mark and feeling quite happy with my fitness and then we started upping our weekend runs, first an hour, then 75 mins, then 90 mins until a few weeks before the GNR I could manage running for 2 hours quite easily. I felt great and was loving setting off for our runs, watching the world go by as we ran across the countryside, nodding to fellow runners and cyclists we met along the way and getting home feeling healthy, fit and charged ready for the weekend. I never believed it when they said running could get addictive but it’s true, I loved running, looked forward to it.

And so with the GNR just one week away I set off on my last training run by myself, aiming for about 12/13 miles. My husband had set off earlier and was running at his pace as he was aiming for a sub 2 hour half marathon whilst I was aiming for 2:30. 5 miles in I was feeling fantastic, 8 miles in I was still feeling great and enjoying the scenery, 11 miles in and I stumbled, went over on my ankle. I tried to continue as I was still 2 miles from home but everytime I put my foot down the pain shot through me and so I stopped :( It took me 40 minutes to limp my way home and by the time I got there my ankle had ballooned. A trip to the doctors the next day confirmed that I had torn the ligaments in my ankle and there would be no Great North Run for me. So unfair, I’d managed 11 miles in 2 hours and 10 minutes and I could easily have managed the next 2 miles home, I was fit enough to do a half-marathon. All that hard work and it was ruined by one stupid stumble. I was gutted. The next weekend I dropped my husband off in Newcastle for the start of the run and I drove to the finish line, found a place to sit and waited for him to finish which he did in 1 hour and 58 minutes. I smiled at him and was so proud of him but I hurt so much on the inside watching the clock tick by wondering what time I would have made.

Last year I was pregnant so running was sidelined and this year I haven’t entered as I’m secretly hoping to be pregnant again by the time the run comes by. Running is something I currently dream of doing. Whenever Zara is having a bad day I would love to just put my running clothes on and run but I can’t. Running with my husband isn’t something we can do anymore as we have no baby sitters and by the time the baby is in bed, I’m usually so exhausted going for a run is the last thing on my mind.

I love running and I miss it :(