Please excuse the tardiness in posting this weeks blog. I've been rather busy in my work and running life and haven't managed to stay out/get out of bed to write it. No real excuse but hopefully it's given me inspiration for this post on busy lives and how sometimes fitting running in turns out to be the best medicine.
As I've mentioned in my early blog posts, I work backstage in a GORGEOUS Victorian theatre. I adore my job and colleagues and basically I'm a lucky duck (or a smug cow ;) )
Now that said, life backstage isn't all beer and skittles. It can be a tonne of hard work. Especially when we're getting a production from the rehearsal room, onto the stage and ready for the audience in less than a week. The production we just opened was particularly tricky as the whole stage floor is covered in sand and litres and litres of fake blood are thrown at the cast, set, props and costumes.
So. Vans had to be loaded. Tables had to be labelled. Problems had to be solved. Props had to be washed. And rewashed. And washed again. Days started at 9.30am and finished at 10.30pm. And we worked 6 in a row. Meals were missed in the endeavour of keeping the plates spinning.
This led, inevitably, to tired bodies and minds, frayed tempers and a numb discombobulation about anything related to our real lives. When you strive to create a play this long, this epic, this radical, you live and breathe it. You dream it, eat it, feel it. You are in a constant state of alertness, clipboard in hand, awaiting instruction, alteration or a cry to arms.
So yeah. I was tired. Dead. Dog. Tired.
Did I mention that I was tired? Once or twice? 60+ hr week and a commute to boot.
But fuck it. I never turn down a race if I can possibly attend. What's 2.5 hrs driving followed by 3hrs running up hills on my day off?
I mean there was the promise of a MEDAL after all!
So up at 7am, I headed North with my intrepid running buddy Amy. She was due to race with me, but struck down with tonsillitis, she offered to be my support crew and look after my bag while I trudged through the hills. At my inspired suggestion we picked up a McBreakfast on route and I drank a lot of tea and coca cola for pre race fuel. I'd also been gifted donuts by one of the cast the night before (we really did look tired) and we ate them to maintain my grown up race day superstition.
A few winding roads later we arrived. At beautiful Balmoral.
So, with the minimal of fuss a small crowd of us trundled off across the start line and into the countryside.
Now, I don't wish to sugar coat this with the privilege of hindsight, but pretty soon I wasn't feeling tired at all. I mean my body was, but somehow the landscape, the air, the people, the sunshine, seeped into my weary mind and woke it up. It was as if I was breathing deeply after holding my breath for a week. My clenched shoulders relaxed. My tense mind eased. I felt joy wash over me and I had a bloody good time.
Confession: I walked the hills. Obviously. I was cheerful. Not superwoman.
But I ran the rest, and had a delightful time. It felt like I'd been born to run. Like this was my natural state.
Then, following the sunshine of the previous afternoon, we awoke to FREAKING NARNIA!
I bloody love the Highlands!
Sometimes you aren't as tired as you think you are. You can be fraught, taut and overwrought with enough energy tied up inside you for feats of athleticism. In the words of Elsa you just need to let it go.
Also the Highlands are fucking stunning.
And friends, wine and dirty food are the best medicine.
Love Run Cat Girl Run x x x