Joining a(nother) club and falling in (and then out) of love with running

I joined a triathlon club *just* before I moved away from London, so even though I really didn’t make the most of being in the club I decided to join another one, with the hope of actually training this time. I was worried about not being good enough for the club so went along to an interval running session, figuring I could run at my own speed around the track, rather than feeling like I was keeping people waiting. I prefer to ride my bike on my own anyway, and I hate coached swims (because I suck at swimming) so didn’t have too many options.

I arrived early for the session and stood about awkwardly before people talked to me. Once I got talking it was fine and people were really friendly. We warmed up and then did pyramids on the track. I was slower than most – but not all! – but surprised myself by doing slightly better than I thought I might. For the next few days I felt quite excited about running and my next run felt easy and fast.

This week it’s been a bit of a disaster. On Monday I ran through the meadows to Grantchester, across to Trumpington and up along the guided busway, but I was tired and my feet hurt and I struggled with motivation.

Yesterday I donned my club vest for the first time and took part in a 5k, one in a series competing against other local clubs. I’d been told that we needed fast people to win it but we also needed people taking part as this got us points. I can do points, I thought. I cycled out to a disused airfield in Witchford, near Ely, and chatted to my new club mates. We set off with the sun in our eyes and I was very careful on the uneven ground with so many people around. By 2k it had thinned and I could relax a little – and 500m later, tripped on a pothole and twisted my ankle.

After standing by the side of the course for 30 seconds, checking out my ankle, I decided that it was probably okay to continue on and began jogging. It was a bit sore and I was cautious of every hole from then on (and there were a lot of holes).

Worse, I felt like I couldn’t be bothered. Up until the fall, I’d checked my time at the end of each kilometre (5:21 for the busy first km, 5:12 as it thinned out on the second), but after stopping I didn’t check any more. I even stopped for a little walk, not because I couldn’t go on or was especially worn out, but because I just couldn’t be bothered.

And then of course, at the end I felt really disheartened as my time wasn’t great (27:45). I found one of my friends and she suggested getting some ice for my ankle, which meant filling in a form – in triplicate – with the St John’s Ambulance. We went to the pub afterwards which did help (I was tempted not to go but I’m glad I did).

Today my ankle hurts quite a lot and I’m annoyed at myself for a) falling over, b) being so easily downhearted and c) looking so terrible in every race photo ever.

Gah. I really thought I was getting better at running. I did intervals twice last week and have upped the amount of running generally that I’m doing, and have been feeling better and stronger… but I guess there’s still so very much to do, and a lot of it is convincing myself that I can actually do it. I’m so worried about failure that I don’t even try, so that I have a ready-made excuse for failing. I need to be braver and *really* try. And if I fail, at least I’ve given it a go, instead of this endlessly disappointing situation I put myself in.

On Track

The promised legacy of London 2012 was world-class sporting facilities for the city, including, most excitingly, an indoor velodrome.

I ride, every day, a fixed gear bicycle. I am one of those people. It shouldn’t be hard for me to ride on a velodrome.

One of the things I am most ashamed of is my fear of riding on the track.

The first time I rode at Herne Hill Velodrome I turned up with boots full of swagger, bravado plastered over my face to disguise my inner terror – and I did it. Once I chose to do a track session on my birthday as I wanted it to mean something. I didn’t tell anyone it was my birthday because I wanted to be the only one who understood why it mattered. I thought I’d cracked it.

I often got shouted at for not following the wheel in front closely enough and I always made excuses about the person in front being sketchy, when in reality I was too scared.

Then a day at Lea Valley Velodrome was arranged. I’d been before, as a spectator, so I knew what to expect.

I had a bad feeling about it, riding through the torrential rain on the way over to east London. I got there late and was pleased to miss the early session. I got moved to the second session and pretended to be happy about it.

I was cajoled into getting on a bike and doing a lap of the infield. I rode around, slowly, feeling like my internal organs were being crushed by a self-fulfilling sense of failure. My friends were standing about, eating cereal bars and chatting. I tried to convince myself everything was fine.

The safety briefing with Rob was a blur. Everyone else knew what they were doing. I felt sick. People peeled off and soon were passing at head height. I got on. Deep breath. Clipped in, holding the rail. Breathe.

I let go, rolled forward exactly one rotation and and grabbed the rail again. Breathe. Oh god. My eyes filled with tears and I looked away from the track, as if this would stop anyone noticing.

“You alright?” asked Rob. “Take your time. You’ve got all the time you want.”

The tears escaped and I had to unclip so I could let go of the handrail and wipe my face with my mitts. It was futile, they just coming from this well of insecurity and doubt.

I’d done a training session with Rob before, road racing, and I remembered what now felt like embarrassing bravado at Hog Hill. I’d thought I was so cool. And now I was crying by the side of the track, dissolving with every minute.

I tried to reason with myself. I knew the others in my group had more track experience and so someone would end up shouting at me to get out of the way at some point. I really didn’t want to be shouted at in this strange weatherless room with its perfect wooden floors.

I didn’t want to do it if I couldn’t do it well, and I couldn’t do it well because I was afraid to make a move, afraid of failure.

The other riders regrouped and David told me that if I wasn’t going to ride then I had to leave.

I handed the bike back, handed the shoes back. I went over to my bag and sat in the middle of this cavernous space and cried. This was the home of such great triumphs – the Olympics, the day I met Chris Hoy, the Bespoked show – and here I was sullying it.

I could see my friend’s kid, waiting patiently while mum rode, eyeing me warily. I blanked an acquaintance who was keen to find out all the soap opera details, to let everyone know how I’d bottled it at the track.

I went to the changing room. I could sense all the people who’d changed there. Champions, kids, coaches; the excitement, the tension, the thrill of riding around the top of the banking at the best venue to come out of the whole Olympic legacy. I curled up, letting the tears fall down my face, off the wooden bench and onto the lino floor unchecked, staying as still as possible so the motion detector lights would go out.

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Usually I can keep in mind that situations are transient and that no matter what it is, I’ll get over it.

But sometimes something cuts too deep and I know with a sickening certainty that I’m permanently branded.

Don’t stop believing

I’ve been thinking a lot about the psychology of racing, or simply participating in sport. It won’t come as any surprise to anyone who knows me to hear that I’m a perfectionist. I set myself goals that I want to hit (for example, I want a sub-2 hour half marathon time) but then I don’t train properly for it, because part of me believes that I won’t be able to do it anyway. By not training enough I give myself an “excuse” not to have achieved the goal, rather than not hitting the goal because of some other, deeper failing of mine.

This is, as you can imagine, hugely unhelpful and damaging to my self-esteem, as I constantly feel disappointed and frustrated.

I oscillate between two scenarios:

• If I tell myself I don’t care (and then don’t train/prepare), I run the risk of not doing well and then feel annoyed with myself for letting myself down.
• If I do care, I become paralysed by the enormity of the situation and become convinced that I can’t do it – which, of course, means that I then can’t.

Friends tell me they’re proud of my achievements, but I can’t think of a single sporting achievement that I’m genuinely proud of (except perhaps getting a Merit in Grade 8 Ballet, because that was so ridiculously against the odds and took so much hard work).

It’s taking that first step. Believing you can do something, then working towards it, and dealing with the fallout of what happens if you don’t quite make it. Written down, that sounds so simple.

Like a moth with a light bulb, I keep throwing myself into futile situations where I can only expect to see the same old outcomes. Friends say I’m brave for trying new things (marathon, cyclocross, track, triathlon) but being brave would be putting myself on the line and seeing whether I can really do it, not making a web of excuses for myself to fall back into when I lose my nerve once again.

I cannot go on like this.