Monthly Archives: July 2016

Running Up That Hill – Training for the Great North

Standard practise for training for any race above 10 miles is ramping up then ramping down the distances. With the Great North on the 11th of September I am now at the putting in the miles stage. Yesterday I ran 15k.

All runners, training properly, have to be careful. As a man with MS and a number of other co-morbidities I have more rust than most to contend with. Many of my tribe will tell you the effects of heat and humidity on their MS. The pins and needles, the neuropathic pain that no drug ever alleviates, the issues around balance. So what kind of twat goes running with MS during 25ºC and 70%?

That’s Dr Twat to you…

I gave up ‘proper’ running in 2011. I had set myself a target of three 10k in under 50 minutes but I felt my time was coming to a close. My condition meant that after about 8k my left arm and hand began to have a life of their own (better than mine, bastards) and my right knee would shriek in pain from an old football injury when I was 16 or so. Running had become disturbing. I felt the need to stop.

At the Town and Gown that year I just scraped over the finishing line in 49 minutes 58 seconds. I felt like shit, no denying it, but in so many ways I had let myself go, putting a brave face on it, obvs….P1040193

13 stone 9 pounds. Lovely. Anyway I still ran shorter distances. Heat still was a problem but I made sure I never ran over 8k so still had my left arm and hand to myself. Thankfully I had a relapse in 2013.

Yes you can read that again. Thankfully. At the time it was awful. The way your body all of a sudden becomes ever so slightly less yours, more distant, any relapse is a tragedy. By the standards of my tribe it was a reasonably light affair though. Balance, exhaustion, neuropathic pain and confused nerve endings. Months past and remission came but I lost the ability to drink and so a silver lining emerged.

As my weight began to drop Christmas that year I wondered whether my knee might just be up for a longer run. It was. 10k not just once over the holidays but four times cross country. The weight kept falling and I kept running. I started proper training for triathlons. Short ones (I am not mad you know) but the weight kept falling and I kept running. I did the Goring 10k in 47 minutes on a bitterly cold March morning. Nothing hurt or screamed (apart from my lungs).

The MS though abhors a vacuum and as soon as the temperature got to ‘mild’ my nerve endings decided to play thrash metal music as soon as I ran much past 5k. It is such a curious thing. The confusion of the signals coming back (fire pit? ants biting? have I pissed myself?) is, as you can see, difficult to explain. Now I could run longer though, something very odd was happening. After 8k or so the symptoms died down. As if the thrash metal band had finished their set and headed back the Green Room for groupies and hash. *coughs gently at this analogy*

So I pushed it a little more. Then some more. Then my first half marathon in 1 hour 36 minutes. 3 stone lighter and ready to roar.OHAB1825-20x30

So here I am. Training for the Great North. The extra running (even with the lack of weight) means the knee is painfully again. My excellent physiotherapist Andrea (she who must be obeyed) believes I need to learn how to run properly but with the Great North, Barca Tri and Great South this year I don’t have time. Maybe next year 🙂

So I run the hills around where I live. 15k yesterday hurt. My age, my MS, my other comorbidities (a spinal tumour called Nigel, my prehensile tail FFS) mean that my post run routine is longer than the run itself. Getting liquid inside me. Carbing back up. Protein for the muscle damage. Cooling off (which ironically temporarily gets the thrash metal band to lay off the groupies and put the pipes down….) followed by a Andrea mandated stretching session and a long long bath. A 70 minute run morphs into an afternoon. It’s dull.

But I’ll take dull. Dull means normality. Dull means, at least for the moment, I am still out running my fate.

Next week 17.5K. Keep up.

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The Truth About Steroids – part 2

Last night I was an ass.

Through a combination of coincidence and bad luck (for the people who had to watch me) I ended up playing Bottom as part of a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to celebrate the 10th Anniversary of a local acting troupe. I can only marvel at the dedication and ability of all those who surrounded me. The audience too came to laugh, to be part of something bigger. The weather, though cold, decided to be lenient and what prevailed was a throughly English evening as the sun went down on a performance of the original, perhaps the best, of all the Carry On scripts Shakespeare ever wrote.

But tomorrow…

My neurologist just called. Canadian by birth but English by inclination he started the call over apologising for the intrusion on a Sunday. He wanted to confirm my treatment for MS from tomorrow, three days on a steroid drip. I have written about this before but I have lied. I have made merry on the chaos that half a gram of steroids a day creates but not the depression it imbues.

For tomorrow I will go a little mad and a lot dark. My now natural inclination for self hate, normally contained by my own situation and polite society, will be allowed more licence to fuck me over. As the drugs infuse and as I lose the abilities of reason and balance, I will take a good hard look at myself. And the steroidal version of me will weigh and judge and find me wanting.

I have a choice. Steroids are not compulsory. Other treatment regimes are available. But steroids have become my totem of choice. The damage they do both physically and spiritually are balanced against the work they do slapping my immune system so intent on killing me. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. On balance my better, but shrinking self believes this to be something to endure. I run, a lot. I get to be a viable (if occasionally distant) father.

As time goes on however I wonder whether this is just another form of subtle self harm. No logic no reason just punishment so richly deserved for every crime and misdemeanour. I guess I will never know.

I don’t write this particular blog entry for comment. Please don’t. I do write it for the ‘record’ (the arrogance!) and as a marker. I get the comments about being a lucky man, I really do. But, like many people, MS or otherwise, I am worn by the niceties of life and ground down by absurdities of my situation.

Last night I was an ass. Tomorrow an arsehole. That seems about right.