I jogged a couple of days ago, not 10 kms as per my Freshness Big Year, not 5 kms as has been a frequent last-resort action, but only 2 kms. And it didn’t work. My right quad muscle is messed up and it’s time to see the physio. In the meantime all my exercise goals are moot and need to be sensibly revised. My other Big Years also flounder, I’m not sure why.
So, with a quarter of 2018 remaining, let me reorient and recommit.
I should be so lucky. An unexpected but brilliant birthday gift was my first ever running watch, a Garmin Forerunner 35. I’ve only tested it once, on the run that stressed out my quad muscle, and I’m far from mastering it, but it seems a most welcome step up from carrying an iPhone (plus Ziploc bag plus little towel as rain insurance). Strava on the iPhone used to talk to me every kilometer, which I enjoyed, whereas the Forerunner just buzzes on my wrist, but at least I’m no longer straining to hear my Strava companion over traffic noise.
Now to figure out how to use the new heartrate data . . .
I’d begun to imagine I was bullet proof. After months of feeling undercooked, my jogging last week was regular and improving. Sturdy legs were my undying allies. Or so I thought until I stopped halfway up a hill to walk-then-run-then-walk and noticed a quad muscle twinge and kept part running (I had a Big Year goal to upkeep!) and experienced the shock of gripping pain and kept part running (goal!) and limped the final hundred metres. That was four days ago and I suspect I’ll be grounded for a few more days.
Icing . . . stretching . . . using a roller . . . dreading the eventual reassessment of my Big Year possibilities . . . so it goes.
At last I’m running consistently. These two photos are from Street Regular, a 10 km run without greenery. The first shot is of a hospital on the way out and the second is taken of the same hospital when heading homeward, tired. Both times I raised my eyes to the hospital windows and sang a song of encouragement and hope.
Jogging: with 582 kms under my belt, the annual target of 1,200 mandates meeting my weekly 30-km goal every week without fail (plus squeezing in about 20 kms extra along the way). Can I do it? Yes but I’ll need to show more grit than so far this year.
Cycling: 1,064 kms done. If I hit 50/week as planned, I’ll have a little wiggle room (maybe a week’s worth), so yes this is doable.
Gym: a miserable year so far, 36 sessions only. Extra focus is needed to reach 80 visits by 31/12.
Some people have the most admirable exercising mentality. You all know quiet achievers who train for marathons or Iron Mans, and who, seemingly without mental strain, fit in extreme effort every day amidst life’s hurly-burly. I have Strava friends who are less rigidly systematic but who possess such strong motivation that they offset down times with regular massive efforts.
Regrettably I find myself more mortal and halting. Every week of my jogging/cycling/gym goals of 30 kms/50 kms/3 session is different to every other week. My motivation and fortitude plummets and I relaunch effort, time and time again. Sometimes all that spurs me to head outside is the Big Year annual goals and the panicky sensation of “what if I fail?” In Darwin since the start of the month, I ran a few times – 5 kms, 8kms, 5 kms – but all the outings were crap (I stopped). Then yesterday I managed to rise earlier and in the cool did 5 kms without stopping. Then today, up early enough again, I tricked myself into jogging outward for 5 kms, so that I had to jog 10 kms in all, and I only walked a couple of times.
I feel transformed – tomorrow I can aim for 10 kms without a stop. Why can’t every day be like this? Why can’t every week be “regular”?
Saturday. The riverside and creek-side trails are bathed by warm sun. I haven’t cycled in a fortnight and my legs don’t want to. So I set off slow, and I stay sedate, and I take photos. Every local parent with cycling kids is out to enjoy the day as well, and I’m accommodating. A Coot squawks and on an empty football field the Willie Wagtail flits again. I steer round a bulldog, glancing back to confirm that yes, his owner looks like him. I nod at Droopy, the older man I always see going the opposite way, his long face impassive, impressed by his red-and-black lycra and his shoulder length curly tresses. The blazing carrot top of a speeding runner in black, under sun-drenched gums. Strollers with linked arms, lean identikit road racers, middle-aged riding couples with yellow see-me-don’t-kill me jackets, joggers so slow even I would blitz them . . . I see them all. Slow suits me fine, slow leaves me settled.
This week saw me resisting my daily exercise strictures. Melbourne was dismal and I prioritised work over fitness. I know, I know, the whole idea of the Big Year is that I inculcate a habit of everyday jogging, cycling, or gym, but the habit is not ingrained yet (will it ever be), so I missed a day, grumbled to the gym, grumbled again to the gym, and missed a day. By the end of Day 4, my Thursday, I had precious little to show over the half week.
Instead of clocking in to a habit, what ended up working was shame. I might not be fulfilling the Big Year, but it was in my mind, and over four days, a sense of regret filled me. So on Friday, unable to stand the ignominy any longer, I woke early and jogged in the dark, 5 kms through my streets. I didn’t feel cold at all, my lungs filled with air, and my pace of 6:35 brought a smile to my face.
Days 6 and 7? I cycled, not quite my weekly target, but hey, I tell myself, I managed five of the seven days during an off week. Not too shabby, I tell myself.
Three and a half weeks back from vacation and the magic of the Big Year concept has again made itself known to me. Running or cycling down the hill on any of the grey, cold days since then, I was one grizzly old man. But the Big Year dictates I do something every day and sets weekly and annual targets that brook no disobedience. So I’ve swaddled myself in warm clothes and driven those legs through winter’s worst.
And when I examine the results over nearly a month, I’m amazed, for my negative self-talk has been inaccurate. Gym? Three times a week, as prescribed. Cycling? 50 kms each week like clockword. Jogging? The first full week only recorded 20 kms out of the weekly 30-km goal, for I was only able to make myself do short runs, but I’ve hit target ever since.
Absent the Big Year discipline, I’m certain I’d have been a couch potato venturing outside occasionally. Best of all, in the words of R.E.M., “and I feel fine.”
Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead propping on my arse in a seaside holiday town, but the experience in magical Rovinj has been so wonderful that my aversion to sitting still now seems wrong. Seven nights in one place! No car (and limited drawcards near town)! Laziness but plenty of restorative exercise! A rare opportunity to review what an inspiring long trip has provoked!
So . . . I depart homeward today with many changes afoot, both in the short term and into the 2020s.
Nervous but excited.