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Have We Met?

Something strange is happening. In ma neighbourhood.

I don’t think it’s a call for the Ghostbusters.

It follows my previous post, full of woe at the state of my feet after I tried (and wholly failed) to be an Olympian for a day. The result… ‘Don’t graze your feet trying to win gold for the blue team then dance for eight hours in a sweatpit of a filthy super club in Ibiza then ignore the raging infection that makes you sick for six days and then only go to the doctors when coerced by colleagues that think you’re crackers.’ That.

The upshot of my moronic behaviour was some pretty shit blood sugars. I’ve explained it all, you don’t need the woefest again (I can hear you exhaling with relief. Panic over). But while I was stuck hobbling on and off the tube and keeping horizontal at any opportunity (doctor’s orders, you understand), I found myself completely and utterly frustrated that I couldn’t exercise. I know.

Disregarding the fact that I was pondering this as I reached for yet another slice of pizza, the overwhelming urge to get up and just MOVE DAMMIT was almost physical. From my twitchy fingers all the way down to my septic toes. Now, this wasn’t some sort of epiphany; I’ve always exercised because I like the feeling it gives me – that and without it I’d undoubtedly double my already slightly wobbly frame in record speed (try me) – but it’s by no means a labour of love. I do it because I feel I should, and exercise equals a big fat thumbs up for the blood sugars. But suddenly, overwhelmingly and tangibly I found myself with a ridiculous NEED to have that feeling you get after a big sweat fest. You know the one. No, not that one. Because the luxury had been taken away from me, and was completely out of my hands, I just had to do it. Dangerous how they wire you like that really isn’t it

I gave it until I could put one foot in front of the other without wincing before I put my trainers and my lycra on (shudder) and just RAN. Like a kid who’s just discovered they can walk I was UNSTOPPABLE. This here actually was something of a revelation, because of all the years of sweating out too many bourbon biscuits, all the hours I’ve clocked in the gym, I’ve always tried to avoid running like the absolute plague. I would maybe occasionally begrudgingly entertain a slog of a 5k on the treadmill with absolute disgust if I was feeling particularly energetic, but it wasn’t something I was ever keen to do. Give me a bike, a pool, a Davina DVD sure, but Christ – don’t make me run. And here I was like a delirious hippy, finding absolute delight in the green grass, the blue sky, the fresh air… dodging the families taking up the whole pavement and not even humouring you with an attempt to allow you past without pushing you onto the road, nearly getting runover by the learner that failed to stop at the zebra crossing (that happened, I made contact with a wing mirror), and even SETTING A PACE to the sound of Swedish House Mafia. WHO. IS. THIS. GIRL. Well, this is a girl who, according to the supercool fembot on my handy app, runs at 5 minutes and 52 seconds per kilometre. On a good day. But I do look like this, which is unfortunate:

So where does the diabetes fit into all this? Well, the MB of late has been obliterated. Not 100% of the time, but my sugars on the whole have been infinitely better. Partly due to the fact that a casual 10k gives me nearly two days of lowered sugars, and partly due to the fact that any run on any day then makes me want to put the pizza down and pick up the greens. Ultimately I need less insulin and that, Novorapid fans, is the absolute one. Less insulin equals less margin for error equals less chance of getting my doses completely and utterly wrong equals banishing the MB to the box containing cold congealed rank uneaten pizza. HURRAH!

I definitely sound like I’m getting carried away – that this is all a little whim that Jen Is-excited-by-and-wants-to-do-everything-so-ends-up-completing-nothing Grieves will soon get bored of, and that it’s only a matter of time before my damp trainers grow mould in the back of the cupboard, and the lycra is left in a crumpled heap in the bottom drawer where no other living creature has to see me wearing it. Although that WOULD be a better thing for other users of Regent’s Park. Soz guys.

Ohhh. Lycra. Ohhh. Jane Fonda.

BUT… then something realllllyyyy weird happened. So crazy and so strange that I knew this must be something more serious than first thought.

It started out like your average Sunday morning… in bed. Sure. I was obviously thinking about food – pondering whether to meet my friends for an egg-based brunch. Nightmare I know. It was absolutely pouring down, for the first time in a long time – autumn has arrived people. There’s something so so good about being all warm and cosy in bed and hearing the rain on the window isn’t there? I LOVE IT. Smug. But then, for reasons I’m still unsure of, something made me get out of my snug smug haven, put the lycra on, get the trainers laced, find the playlist and go outside. In the pissing rain.

I GOT SOAKED. I learned within about 4 seconds that choosing glasses in favour of lenses was an utterly ridiculous idea, but apart from that I honestly had the time of my life! Ok, well maybe not the actual time of my life but I bllllaaaaadddyyyy loved it. It was so liberating. The delirious hippy was more present than ever before. This is not despite the fact that I looked like I’d been in the shower within about 30 seconds and thus the lycra was clinging to every ounce of jiggle as I bounced across the road – next level horrific – but BECAUSE of it. I just didn’t care. I was absolutely elated as I thrashed through the puddles.

Post-rain run pic (my Dad didn’t believe me). Soaking wet, freezing cold, make-up free… deliriously happy.

There have been previous occasions when I’ve been in my car when it’s bucketing down and clocked a runner pounding the pavement and had to consciously prevent myself from winding the window down and actually asking them what on earth they think they’re doing –I WAS THAT MENTALIST. Me in the car would not know me in the lycra. She wouldn’t want to know me in the lycra. And not because of the lycra. But because this is utterly insane behaviour for a Sunday morning. I mean, maybe not really; I appreciate there are many many thousands of people in the world who choose to do this on a weekly, if not daily basis. Look at Gavin Griffiths, running astounding distances on a regular basis – the latest being 30 miles a day for 30 days. Just a small challenge. Oh, and he’s also a Type 1 diabetic. Ridiculously incredible. Or Team Type 1, literally racing across the planet in formidable efforts that my silly little head can’t even begin to comprehend. Even the thousands and thousands of people that had the discipline to train for the Great North Run the other weekend – including a dear friend of mine – just SO inspiring. But for size 12, whole-pizza hogging, greedy guts, smug and snug in her bed Grieves? Running a measly 10k in the rain… Madness.

So really, the next goal is to do some actual good with this new-found fancy and sign up to a race and raise some money for us pancreatically-challenged folk. But you definitely didn’t just read that…


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