No, ma’am. It’s a bike saddle…

With my swanky new bit of carbon arriving tomorrow, it’s got me thinking about accessories. When you I make a purchase as expensive as a new road bike, you’re I’m bound to make additional purchases to either look the part or enhance comfort, or both. At least that’s the story I’m sticking to. Padded lycra, gloves, shoes, spokey dokeys (although I’m told they don’t make them to fit road bike spokes… boo) are all on the new bike aficionado’s menu. Even the old bike seat gets a look in because, let’s face it, there’s nothing worse than hurty Lady Bits after a long pounding on the road. Or something.

What I’ve found intriguing about the whole process, however, is how, er, sexually inclined some of the women’s bike saddles appear to be. Now I’ve seen those split male bike seats before (my ex was very protective of his Man Bits and absolutely loved the fact that his nuts didn’t hurt after a long day on the bike), but until now I didn’t realise that there were so many female equivalents.

The process of shopping for a Lady Bits friendly bike sddle reminds me of the SATC episode , where the following conversation took place between Samantha and an electronics salesman:

“I’d like to return this vibrator…”

“We don’t sell vibrators.”

“Yes you do. I bought it here six months ago.”

“That’s not a vibrator. It’s a neck massager.”

CJ and I have been having way too much fun looking at all the bike seats and deciding which one I should purchase. Our criteria generally extends to what I’ll call “enjoyment versatility” and sheer shock and awe value.

Here are some of the saddles we’ve discussed at length (indeed!) so far:

Exhibit 1: More cushion, less pushin’…

It’s not all about the length, you know.

Exhibit 2: Curvy comfort…

It’s all about the right, er, correct fit.

Exhibit 3: Long and lean…

Who are we kidding? The size ALWAYS matters.

As you can see, there are a wide variety of women’s bike saddles from which we ladeez can choose. It’s just a pity that I can’t try all of them them before I buy one… Cough.

Get your minds out of the gutter, people. We’re talking serious cycling equipment here. Or seriously talking about cycling equipment. Or something

Behold Teh Gloreh!

My newest obsession. *Swoon*…

My new Malvern Star Oppy C5.

Excuse me while I experience A Moment…

You never know who you’ll see around the traps…

So with all this running injury nonsense hanging over my head at the moment I’ve suddenly become a huge fan of swimming. This is very interesting to me and all those who’ve known me since Ye Olden Days because I can’t float. As a child I spent all my energy propelling myself to the top of the water for breath, almost choking every stroke and looking like I was reenacting a badly choreographed movie drowning scene. I think my school record for 50m freestyle is something revolting, like, 52 seconds.

Fortunately, however, I can now swim a bit. Thanks to Teh Runnang, my Rock Hard Abs ™ (“oh wait until you have children”, I hear them scream) seem to keep me a bit more level and I’m able to propel myself along the top of the water for the first time ever. And as a result, to everyone’s amusement, today I managed to easily swim/bob up and down the lane for 1200 metres in one go. Noice. Did I mention that I’ve entered an Olympic distance triathlon (Mooloolaba, March 2010)? Probably another good reason to get on the swimming bandwagon.

So with all this swimming I’m becoming quite the regular at the local swimming complex. For those of you not from Australia, my humble (*cough*) state of Queensland tends to produce and import some Kick Arse Swimmers. And by that I mean many legendary Olympians and world record holders. Mind you, this isn’t so good for me because this means most other people at the local Olympic pool pass me and must wonder if I’m actually a corpse just bobbing along until I hit the end of the lane. Then off I bob in the other direction until I hit the other end of the lane. And so on and so forth.

Anyhow, after today’s round of bobbing up and down the lane while getting passed and kicked in the head by four year old brats in flippers by future Olympians, my friend and flatmate CJ and I dodged the naked women in the showers (ew) and went and purchased me some brand new togs. The lady at the counter was causing a ruckus with another customer. They seemed to be very familiar with one another, or, more to the point, the lady at the counter seemed to be sucking up to this woman who was simply trying to buy a twenty entry pass for one of her spawn.

“I don’t know why you’re paying to come here. I should be paying you!”

“That’s silly. I’ll just get the pass.”

“Seriously. You should have free entry to EVERY POOL IN THE WORLD!”

The poor customer was really embarrassed by this stage.

At this point, I laughed.

“She’s laughing at you!”, said the pool lady (who clearly didn’t realise I was actually laughing at her and the fact that her nose was turning more brown with every word), who turns to look at me and says, “Don’t you know who she is?”

“Um. You look familiar… But I don’t.”

“She’s Tracy Caulkins! She won three Olympic Gold Medals! She is one of the greatest swimmers of all time!”

“Oh, and I got a husband out of those Olympics,” she said in a faded Nashville accent.

“Well I suppose the husband is the most important thing,” I said.

Tracy laughed.

“Which games?” I asked.

“1984.*

“Oh! Los Angeles!”

“You must be a sports historian!”

At this point CJ piped up. “Actually she IS a historian!”

“Wow!” said Tracey.

“But not a sports historian. US history though. And I do have a friend at the University of Toronto who is a sports historian.”

So the conversation continued. I bought my new pair of togs and congratulated Tracy on snagging a husband at the Olympics. I left poor Tracy to deal with the overly effusive pool operator…

What a bizarre but totally awesome encounter. I’ll probably see her there again since she’s apparently a local and is there all the time.

Not to mention the second really famous person I’ve spoken to in a day. The other one being this guy, who is I hung out with last night (not an exaggeration)… But that’s a story outside of the scope of Running Budgie

The Damage…

I sat opposite the doctor with pictures of my insides lit up on a screen in front of me. I’ve always found it amusing that people (read: I) get embarrassed being partially naked in front of a doctor yet don’t seem to mind when their (my) innards are photographed, lit up like Christmas lights and examined with a magnifying glass. The day before, I’d spent an hour sitting inside an MRI machine listening to Jose Gonzales while the magnets took images of my left knee and hip and today was judgment day.

“It’s one of those MRIs you wish you’d never done.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because now I’m going to have to tell you that you’ll need the meniscus removed in your knees.”

“What?”

“Oh, not for another ten years or so. But it’s going to happen. Have you thought about just running 5k races?”

“Um, no. Been there. Done that. Moved on.”

“Well, don’t worry about that now. Although I’m sure your other knee looks exactly the same way.”

“You’re a very encouraging man, Doctor.”

“No worries. Now on to that hip. You seem to have a labral tear in your cartilage. It’s not too big, but they’re painful things. Unfortunately you’ll have to see a surgeon about that one fairly soon.”

“Can I keep running?”

“Absolutely. But it’s a matter of whether or not it’s too painful for you to run…”

“How thrilling! Any good news?”

“Well, you’re really fit, your heartbeat is extremely slow, so I’d bet on you living a long life.”

“With bad knees and hips.”

“Exactly!”

So that’s the good news!

Melbourne, 11 October 2009. Part Two.

Pain cake. It’s something every marathon runner eats day in, day out. During training. After training. During races. During time off. The trick is, as I see it, to eat as small a slice as possible. Avoiding the big piece of pain cake, or the whole cake, comes from mental and physical preparation. Eating well. Sleeping well. Thinking positively about training and the race. Looking after your body.

Unfortunately, however, no matter how much time you spend training yourself to swallow the pain cake, some always goes down the wrong way. It is unavoidable…

After two weeks of being Fully Sick, bro, I knew the slice of pain cake I’d eat during the marathon would be well more than my fair share (fair share being determined by a complex equation involving time spent healthy, training, thinking positively, and amount of cash spent on physio and massage therapists). If any of this is out of whack, you may well find yourself facing a tough race, or even a runner’s worst nightmare–a D.N.F. / D.N.S.

I knew I wasn’t quite right on the morning of the marathon. My body felt tired and just depleted of the stuff that gives you the goods when running. Mentally, however, I was strong. The distance wouldn’t be a problem, it would be the time.

The race started well. With my Mum cheering from the start and having already met a few new friends, I felt confident. The morning was cool, clear and sunny. An unusual combination of good weather from the notoriously unpredictable city of Melbourne. But by the 2km, I knew it was going to be a tough race. The first few kilometer markings were clearly not accurate. They were several hundred meters long–a fact that bothered me and absolutely everyone around me.

The sluggishness in my legs and general exhaustion didn’t abate. By the halfway mark on St Kilda beach, I was fifteen minutes behind where I should have been. I can’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed, but in all honesty I knew my goal was to just haul myself over the finish line. Only a few kilometers later, however, this looked even less certain.

“Crack!”

At 25km my hip made a dramatic noise and my knee collapsed on a slight downward slope. Pain seared up my left leg and I grabbed the light pole I almost hit my head on as my body lurched sideways. Tears welled in my eyes as I instantly thought my day was over.

I tried to take a step. My left leg wouldn’t respond. My hip and knee were staging their own coup d’etat and were unyielding in the face of my barrage of bad words.

“&%$(_(*&^$%^((( R#@##$*&&*((&%%$&**”

My hand met my foot and yanked my leg backwards, stretching my left quad. I stood this way for a minute or so and then tried to take a step. My leg responded. I stretched again.

At this stage I was able to walk but not run. I walked slowly down the hill, then started a slow and very painful Cliffy Young shuffle on the flat. 1.5km later my leg collapsed again. I stretched. I shuffled. I stretched. I shuffled.

For the rest of the race, every two or so kilometers I had to stop and stretch to both ease the pain and remain vertical. The hell that I was in is quite indescribable, but nothing was going to stop me. I’d trained for nine months for that event and finishing was the most important thing in the world. Nothing was overriding my focus.

I remember so much but so little of the remainder of the race. The scenery was lovely, but my focus became tunnel visioned and my movements automatic. At 40kms, a member of the crowd decided to cross the road in front of me and told me to “run around” him. Needless to say, my zen was temporarily broken and I responded like a wharfie on ice who’d just run 40kms. In other words, in a very unladylike manner.

Seriously. What a moron.

But not long after I was feeling nothing but elation as I ran into the MCG. Tears welling in my eyes, I crossed the finish line almost 45 minutes after I’d planned to, in 4hrs57mins. The adrenaline and my own mental determination (of which I am very proud!) had carried me through to the end and as soon as I crossed that line my leg once again seized up.

But who cares… Despite the pain, ten minutes later as I lay on the massage table I was already planning my next marathon.

Gold Coast 2010, here I come!

And if you want to know about the injuries I sustained, I’ll get to that next time…

I am cool; envy me.

Excuse me if you can somehow see the drool pooled on my keyboard as I look over at my brand new Women’s Nike Free Everyday +2 shoes.

Running shoes tend to inspire a pavlovian-style response in me. It’s something you’ll just have to get used to.

For the uninitiated, Nike Free shoes are a neutral shoe designed to offer various levels of support (depending on the model) while simulating running barefoot (the extent of which, again, is based on the model). Since I overpronate (roll inwards) and have overly flexible ligaments, I can’t use them on long runs even though these shoes are the most supportive of the Nike Free range. But I can use them on shorter runs with orthotics and for general walking around and looking cool. Because boy oh boy they are pretty.

Once I’ve used them a bit (more) I’ll post a full review.

Enjoy the shoe porn!

And Part Two of the race report is coming… If anyone is hanging out for it, that is.

P.S. Nobody is paying me to promote these shoes. Unfortunately.

Unorthodox speed training…

This would definitely help to pick up the leg speed of anyone, runner or not.

Stay tuned for Part Two of my Melbourne Marathon race report…

Melbourne, 11 October 2009. Part One.

I decided I was feeling pretty good during a 23km one Saturday morning in about May and fell into the trap of yielding to the feeling of invincibility that running gives me. I did what I often do during these runs: I made a Big Plan.

“I’m going to run the Melbourne Marathon. This year.”

“Oh shit. What am I thinking?”

Instantly (read: about an hour later when I’d finished the session and had a red bull) I called my Mum and some friends to tell them what I’d decided during my Moment of Insanity. I guess I figured the more people I told the more would be there to guilt me into finishing it.

My first full marathon was the painful experience you’d expect. What people tell you over and over, and what you don’t fully realise before you run your first 42.2 (26.2), is in both the training and the race itself, there is much more to running a marathon than running a half marathon. Although I’m a slow runner, I hesitate to say that half marathons had become somewhat routine for me. Maybe I’m not pushing myself hard enough. (Ok. Not maybe. Definitely.) Anyhow… After three this 21.1km races this season plus about ten more runs over 20kms in training during the past few months, running this distance started to feel comfortable. 21.1km runs are not easy. Don’t get me wrong. But guess I had started to wonder what was next.

I’d actually trained for a marathon before but been foiled due to a bad bout of E. Coli and not being able to extend my visa to stay in the country I was living at the time. This time, local citizenship and determination would mean that there would be no valid excuses, at least in my own mind. As the saying goes, however, “Running is what runners do between injuries”…

Just as well I was determined. After having a cracker training block in the months leading up to the race, two weeks prior to Melbourne I suffered my first setback. Although my 36km training run had been a dream, the 17km taper was hell. About 9km in my hip popped and my knee collapsed on a steep downward slope, leaving me as the running equivalent of Eddie the Eel for the final 8km of what was meant to be an easy taper. I could barely walk on flat surfaces. I could not walk downhill (resulting in me having to be carried partway to lunch with friends later that day…).

The lack of being able to walk two weeks out from the marathon ceased to be a major problem, when 36 hours later my stomach decided to hold a revolution in which it appeared to be attempting to escape the confines of my body via a spectacular case of gastro. Oh and it WAS spectacular. Things really could only have been worse if I’d come down with the bug… Well, it couldn’t really have been any worse.

It’s a scientific fact that endurance sports reduce your white blood cell count and therefore your ability to fight infection. On top of the gastro (the details of which I will spare you), I caught another viral infection and then a bacterial infection; sore throat and pathetic human being central. So thanks to my vacationing white blood cells, in the two weeks prior to the marathon I managed just one yoga session and ran a paltry total of 2km. Pathetic. At least the time in bed allowed for my knee and hip to heal. Or so I thought. One week of barely walking–except to make regular offerings to the gods of the porcelain throne–and the knee was doing no more than bitching and moaning every step.

But as a wise and much more experienced marathoner once told me (thanks Glendry), completing a marathon is an entirely mental affair. And was I ever counting on this piece of wisdom to hold true…

Stay tuned for Part Two.

Backwards…

It seems a little odd to start a running blog just after completing my very first full marathon. The logical thing would have been to chronicle my journey to the big race, talking about injuries, successes, the pain and the passion that running can inspire. The truth is, however, it’s taken me a long time to figure out why I like to run and to be able to articulate this.

Running is a constant in my life. It’s my zen. Nestled amongst my successes and failures, the love and the heartbreak, my ability to run is something that is constant. Even when injured, I think about running and spend my time doing everything I can to be able to lace on the shoes once more and experience my nirvana.

When I started running, I hated the process but loved the way it made me feel afterwards. I really do get why people hate to run. But slowly, this all started to change for me and Saturday mornings became my favourite time of the week. As the sun rises over my beautiful city, I run. Nothing can touch me. No problem is insurmountable. No goal is unachievable.

So this blog really is about running and all its derivatives. Staying active. Being motivated. Living a better life. Loving, learning and, erm, stuff.

Join me on my journey.