#RunningForRukai
http://uk.virginmoneygiving.com/MaxineNapal26.2
Oh the running the running. I'm back to the running. Ok, well not this past weekend but still - over the Christmas break there were nonstop 5ks galore, there was a 'trending faster' on Strava, there was a pain free over-10-k. There was a glance at the Garmin during a comfortable stretch to learn the pace was for me a blistering 10:12. And here I thought I was an 11+ minute miler. It's so fantastic to see your pace speed up, particularly post injury. I'm glad to have had a few days off but still champing at the bit to get out this week.
Why off? There's been a break from work which means DIY calls.
But I'm sure I can get fitness points from the distraction in question: 48 hours of painting the kitchen. Up the ladder, down the ladder, wipe wayward paint off the floor, wipe forehead, wipe wayward paint off forehead, grab a beer, discard can, repeat, repeat, repeat. And surely inhaling paint fumes is cardio, right? Aren't my lungs learning to work around toxins in the air? So in effect, the running of 26.2 miles through the streets of London and all it's diesel, stale beer and waft-of-wee should be a doddle. Or so I hope.
If that doesn't cut it for the weekend workout, I've surely covered at least 10k worth of marching through the lounge to the festive magnificence that is 'I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas' with my best boy. "Surely you jest!" you say. "That's not runnin', that's funnin'!" Ah, mais non. This gives high knees an entirely new lease on life. Better still, if there was any question whether the workout was finished once the song ended, Mini Coach simply retrieved the remote, planted it in my hand, stared me down and got shouty until the music started up again. But then again we already knew who's in charge. In fact, last time I foam rolled, old MC stood watch for a minute before he decided I wasn't applying enough pressure so just climbed on to my back. Ye Olde Transport for London muscle didn't have a chance. Tell you what, the boy's small but he's built like a brick shit house. True story.
Tomorrow it's back to work and back to the regime de rigueur. Operation Iron Arse is going swimmingly. I know this because I no longer have a frog ass. It's magnificent! If only everything were that simple. I've also incorporated to the routine the jelly-legged person's version of pistol squats, which I've named 'Pistol Squats in Principle'. That being balance on one foot in a slight squat for a minute until your kneecap blows out of your leg, you fall over, or Mini Coach returns, demanding another round of marching. And you do what you're told. And you'll LIKE it.
Oh I like it alright! Roll on April, but not too fast. Slow and steady finishes the race.
Oh the running the running. I'm back to the running. Ok, well not this past weekend but still - over the Christmas break there were nonstop 5ks galore, there was a 'trending faster' on Strava, there was a pain free over-10-k. There was a glance at the Garmin during a comfortable stretch to learn the pace was for me a blistering 10:12. And here I thought I was an 11+ minute miler. It's so fantastic to see your pace speed up, particularly post injury. I'm glad to have had a few days off but still champing at the bit to get out this week.
Why off? There's been a break from work which means DIY calls.
But I'm sure I can get fitness points from the distraction in question: 48 hours of painting the kitchen. Up the ladder, down the ladder, wipe wayward paint off the floor, wipe forehead, wipe wayward paint off forehead, grab a beer, discard can, repeat, repeat, repeat. And surely inhaling paint fumes is cardio, right? Aren't my lungs learning to work around toxins in the air? So in effect, the running of 26.2 miles through the streets of London and all it's diesel, stale beer and waft-of-wee should be a doddle. Or so I hope.
If that doesn't cut it for the weekend workout, I've surely covered at least 10k worth of marching through the lounge to the festive magnificence that is 'I want a Hippopotamus for Christmas' with my best boy. "Surely you jest!" you say. "That's not runnin', that's funnin'!" Ah, mais non. This gives high knees an entirely new lease on life. Better still, if there was any question whether the workout was finished once the song ended, Mini Coach simply retrieved the remote, planted it in my hand, stared me down and got shouty until the music started up again. But then again we already knew who's in charge. In fact, last time I foam rolled, old MC stood watch for a minute before he decided I wasn't applying enough pressure so just climbed on to my back. Ye Olde Transport for London muscle didn't have a chance. Tell you what, the boy's small but he's built like a brick shit house. True story.
Tomorrow it's back to work and back to the regime de rigueur. Operation Iron Arse is going swimmingly. I know this because I no longer have a frog ass. It's magnificent! If only everything were that simple. I've also incorporated to the routine the jelly-legged person's version of pistol squats, which I've named 'Pistol Squats in Principle'. That being balance on one foot in a slight squat for a minute until your kneecap blows out of your leg, you fall over, or Mini Coach returns, demanding another round of marching. And you do what you're told. And you'll LIKE it.
Oh I like it alright! Roll on April, but not too fast. Slow and steady finishes the race.
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