Dear Mum,
I read this and thought very much of you and I.
Defining the Problem
I can't forgive you. Even if I could,
You wouldn't pardon me for seeing through you.
And yet I cannot cure myself of love
For what I thought you were before I knew you.
(Wendy Cope)
Love Always
Cass
xx
Wednesday, 30 March 2011
Wednesday, 23 March 2011
Tredmill Rage
If you run you'll get this if you don't you'll think I have tourettes. . . sort of.
I am mentally trying to get used to the idea of running for more than an hour. Much more than an hour. Did I mention The Snowdon Marathon that is taking place in October and that I am participating in what Runners World called the UK's Hardest Marathon in 2007?!
So, not loving Mondays much I decided this week to hit the treadmill and see how long I could take running. It was not about speed it was about mental stamina. I will need to break this beast if I am going to make 26 miles worth of Welsh hills.
At 6o minutes my stomach was calling out for a break from bouncing around. 4 minutes later I was confronted with my first Paul Radcliffe moment, so I rushed off to the ladies for the necessaries, leaving my treadmill on pause.
On jumping off the treadmill and turning for the toilets my legs were still operating at 8kph and I shot off like a snapping elastic band.
On my return I was confronted with a blank machine.
All my stats gone.
ANY sign that I had been consistently running for over 60 minutes, that I had covered more than 10k, that I had burned through more than 700 calories, that I had spent this time running at an incline of 1%, was all lost. . .
I did manage to get a look from the two treadmill runners on either side of me when I uttered a frustrated "FUCK" when I realised what had happened.
These runners had only been on for 15 minutes. They had no idea about the level of my Monday night commitment & determination. They could look all they liked. I wasn't about to apologise, I'd earned that sweary word. They could just be grateful it wasn't louder and that the whole gym hadn't heard.
Not prepared to be sabotaged by technology I angrily whacked on another 25 minutes, ramped in incline up to an impressive 1% and set the speed back to the 8 kph per hour. Then started doing the maths.
Oh yes if I were set the challenge of running a marathon on a canal I would be done in 5 hours.
So much more work required. . .
I am mentally trying to get used to the idea of running for more than an hour. Much more than an hour. Did I mention The Snowdon Marathon that is taking place in October and that I am participating in what Runners World called the UK's Hardest Marathon in 2007?!
So, not loving Mondays much I decided this week to hit the treadmill and see how long I could take running. It was not about speed it was about mental stamina. I will need to break this beast if I am going to make 26 miles worth of Welsh hills.
At 6o minutes my stomach was calling out for a break from bouncing around. 4 minutes later I was confronted with my first Paul Radcliffe moment, so I rushed off to the ladies for the necessaries, leaving my treadmill on pause.
On jumping off the treadmill and turning for the toilets my legs were still operating at 8kph and I shot off like a snapping elastic band.
On my return I was confronted with a blank machine.
All my stats gone.
ANY sign that I had been consistently running for over 60 minutes, that I had covered more than 10k, that I had burned through more than 700 calories, that I had spent this time running at an incline of 1%, was all lost. . .
I did manage to get a look from the two treadmill runners on either side of me when I uttered a frustrated "FUCK" when I realised what had happened.
These runners had only been on for 15 minutes. They had no idea about the level of my Monday night commitment & determination. They could look all they liked. I wasn't about to apologise, I'd earned that sweary word. They could just be grateful it wasn't louder and that the whole gym hadn't heard.
Not prepared to be sabotaged by technology I angrily whacked on another 25 minutes, ramped in incline up to an impressive 1% and set the speed back to the 8 kph per hour. Then started doing the maths.
Oh yes if I were set the challenge of running a marathon on a canal I would be done in 5 hours.
So much more work required. . .
Saturday, 19 March 2011
I bet Madonna gets to punch hers . . .
I am seeing another man.
At my husbands suggestion.*
He tells me things like "well done" and "come on, you can do it" and "excellent stuff"
He smiles when he sees me.
He smiles, while I sweat, grunt and beg to stop.
He is deaf to my pleas of mercy.
At first I thought this was going to be the start of something wonderful.
Now I realise (after 1 hour) I am paying for the privilege of having my muscles stretched to new lengths and am developing a strong desire to hit my new man in the face.
Very hard.
Repeatedly.
All in the hope that my body is transformed into something magnificent and athletic**. However he has my money and I have another 8 hours of this ahead of me.
Be warned of the dangers of signing up to a personal trainer.
I bet Madonna gets to punch hers, repeatedly and very hard- have you seen the size of her muscles?!
I was foolishly under the impression that a Personal Trainer was a kind of glamorous thing to do but essentially it would get the results I am after- faster than I am doing myself. If you have read and understood anything of these posts and the warped personality that lies behind them you will realise that I am not a glamour hunting monkey. More an impatient, with high expectations, kind of Hippo!!
I am told that our sessions will include Pilate's and some boxing. Poor guy is literally not going to know what has hit him when it comes to that boxing session . . .
* I think this is because he was bored of hearing me moan and whinge that 3 Legs, Bums and Tums classes a week were doing nothing for me. Now he has to listen to me moan and whinge that I can't brush my own hair because I can't lift my hands above my own head. I think he might also regret my handing over our hard earned cash for 9 hours of personal training.
** I may in fact be getting trained up for the Commonwealth Games!
At my husbands suggestion.*
He tells me things like "well done" and "come on, you can do it" and "excellent stuff"
He smiles when he sees me.
He smiles, while I sweat, grunt and beg to stop.
He is deaf to my pleas of mercy.
At first I thought this was going to be the start of something wonderful.
Now I realise (after 1 hour) I am paying for the privilege of having my muscles stretched to new lengths and am developing a strong desire to hit my new man in the face.
Very hard.
Repeatedly.
All in the hope that my body is transformed into something magnificent and athletic**. However he has my money and I have another 8 hours of this ahead of me.
Be warned of the dangers of signing up to a personal trainer.
I bet Madonna gets to punch hers, repeatedly and very hard- have you seen the size of her muscles?!
I was foolishly under the impression that a Personal Trainer was a kind of glamorous thing to do but essentially it would get the results I am after- faster than I am doing myself. If you have read and understood anything of these posts and the warped personality that lies behind them you will realise that I am not a glamour hunting monkey. More an impatient, with high expectations, kind of Hippo!!
I am told that our sessions will include Pilate's and some boxing. Poor guy is literally not going to know what has hit him when it comes to that boxing session . . .
* I think this is because he was bored of hearing me moan and whinge that 3 Legs, Bums and Tums classes a week were doing nothing for me. Now he has to listen to me moan and whinge that I can't brush my own hair because I can't lift my hands above my own head. I think he might also regret my handing over our hard earned cash for 9 hours of personal training.
** I may in fact be getting trained up for the Commonwealth Games!
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