You can walk my path, you can wear my shoes!

God created man on the 6th day

There are 6 strings on a guitar

6 is the number of points received for a touchdown

6 is the number of points on the Star of David

6 is also the number of miles I ran yesterday. Yee ha, go girl, party people its six miles!

And let me tell you I was impressed. Partly because I was itching to go last night so my heart wasn’t really with my trainers but also because of the monumental pain barrier I had to break through with the boys.

Yes, the shower was painful again yesterday evening as I now seem to have even less skin on my already very raw, left tit!

(I have included a hazy if not affective image of the tit in question…I would recommend that those of a queasy disposition look away around about five minutes ago.)

But hey, no pain no gain, right?

The run itself was lovely if not slightly boring towards the end.

I lapped Pontypridd Park six times, you got that right? SIX TIMES! And I came in just under an hour so not bad going really.

And I only ran into (not literally) one homeless person so all was well in the world.

I do have to be brutally honest here though. For the strangest reason Ponty Park appears to have some sort of influence over my bowel movements. As soon as I set off from the Bridge, which is my usual starting point, pretty much an entire mile from the top of the range toilets, my stomach seems to wake up and give me the nod. Literally.

Yesterday, thankfully, I played a psychological game with my belly, telling the wobbly bastard that I’ll give in after the first mile, then the second, then the third. In the end, I forgot that my arse was twitching and just got on with completing the run.

I did have a bit of a mad dash back to the hostel mind after the victory dance and I have now concluded that playing mind games with your stomach is an incredibly risky little activity.

At least in the running gear and undeniably sweaty head I didn’t look like a complete knob legging it through the town; arse cheeks practically clenched into my bellybutton! 

Back to the running; I felt a little unsteady as I first set up due to a complaining left calf and the twitchy hoop but thankfully both eased within the first ten minutes or so. And to be honest, I didn’t feel the pain in my chest area until the last mile so it wasn’t that bad.

I am having technical issues whilst out on the road.  And when I say technical what I mean is that bloody stupid iPod Nano tiny piece of crap that can only hold about twelve songs on it is doing my head in! (Did you know that twelve is the double of six…I ran six miles yesterday by the way.)

I desperately need a new playlist, unfortunately ABBA are no longer making me run fast…in fact they appear to be making me stop! Right there and then, I hear; ‘I don’t wanna talk,’ and my heads saying ‘then don’t open your gob Agnetha!’ 

I can no longer take any more Alanis Morrisette and I certainly do not ever want to hear another Jack Johnson bloody tune in a long, long, time. Longer than six miles!

I will get Scotty Boy on the case.

I also noticed yesterday that my beloved daps are starting to look slightly battered, not unlike my boys! Ha! Yes, you can see my little toes through the lining of the trainer. Sad times for me, sadder times for Scotty Boys bank account.

Talking of Scotty Boy…I’d like to take this opportunity to put it in print that there is a vast difference between Lance Armstrong and Neil Armstrong, may he rest in peace.  I’d also like to remind Scotty that Neil actually went to the moon and it was a good thing…for mankind and all.

Happy Bank holiday!

Isabella's Wish to Walk.

Howdy partners!

Right, where was I with this running malarkey? Oh yes; I had completed my first three miles post honeymoon…then I completed a very gruelling four and a half miles the day after, since then…jack shit.

Yes, the girl who’s signed up to do her first half marathon in a mere seven weeks has lost her mojo. Well, technically it’s not my mojo it’s my bloody skin.

Yes, once again the quest for yet another sports bra has begun.

After the four and a half miles, which I was pretty proud of because I hadn’t felt like doing half a mile, I showered, as one does when they are covered in sweat and general mank and the pain! Oh the pain!

If you were passing Gelli Dawell at some point on Tuesday and heard something along the lines of a twenty seven year old getting murdered, it was just me getting in the shower.

And as you probably know, or don’t, getting in the shower is enough of a task for me anyway. (It was Scotty Boy who taught me to wash in the correct manner…hygiene has never been my forte. In fact, I see washing as a general waste of time but that’s a whole other blog!)

The skin under all my left boob had been ripped from its original place and decorated the inside of my useless, yet-again expensive bra.

‘What’s happened now?’ Scotty Boy asked with a definite rolling of his eyes. I think he’s fed up of my attempted justifications for not actually wanting to run.

‘My breast!’ I say in the most dramatic voice I can summon. I even put my hand on my forehead and swoon a little…for dazzling affect, you’ll understand?

‘Hannah…WHEN. ARE. YOU. GOING. TO. BUY. A. PROPER. BRA?’ The husband asks in a tone I’m not quite accustomed to.

‘When they make a proper bra.’ I reply with a cute expression.

But to be truthful something has got to give and I don’t particularly want it to be the boys!

I’ve rested for the last three days in an attempt to let the cut/blister/raw bit of tit heal to an OK state so I can pound the pavement once again. To be totally truthful…I’m scared.

My boys are one of my more endearing features (along with my eyebrows and toes I’d like to add) and the scarred and battered look is not a good one for double F’s.

But I’m a martyr to the cause and after work today I’m going to do a five or six miler.

Definitely.

I can’t wait.

It’s not like I have a choice in the matter anymore, anyhow.

The Baili Glas Amateur Running Club has been officially set up, we have a designated charity and we’ve begun to fundraise. So, people are putting they’re hard earned cash towards an amazing charity but in order for this to come full circle I have to run and complete thirteen point one bollocking miles.

I hope my hair grows by then, I want to wear it in plaits!

In all seriousness; ‘Isabella’s wish to Walk’ is a very worthy cause and if you fancy donating I’ve popped all the links on here. Go on, you know you want to.

Hopefully in the next few blogs I’ll know a bit more about my running team so I’ll divulge all necessary information to you.

In the meantime, I’m concentrating on the actual running, an actual, proper sports bra and some actual decent straightening of new Lily Allen fringe!

Have a good bank holiday.

Catch you soon.

http://www.justgiving.com/hannah-phillips-0

Tag team back again!

I got back on the horse. Back on the wagon or back in my trainers…whichever way you want to look at it.

On Monday I embarked on my first three mile run and guess what?

I loved it!

Forgot how much to be honest. All that dread and dragging my daps was for nothing.  As I stretched my brown little legs my stomach was going berserk! Like literally. Remember the first day of comp or your first date or having to speak in front of a load of strangers or even when you consume a wet chicken? Well, that’s what my stomach was doing! I was nervous…for a jog!

I literally shook my head and told myself to get a grip so not only was I the chubby kid in Ponty Park trying to run I was the chubby kid trying to run who’s a bit loopy…  ‘You know, the one who talks to herself?’ people will say. Hell yes! 

And then I set off.

And it was like all my worries and tension just slipped off me and onto the track!

Ha! Who am I trying to kid?

It was bloody hard. After the first mile my head went a superb colour of puce and the sweat! The sweat could have its very own blog!

But, in all honesty I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The weather was good, my soundtrack was good, I was feeling good.

And I’m sure Ponty Park has got smaller cause my timing had miraculously seemed to have improved vastly, Scotty Boy pissed on this theory when he gave a convincing argument that the park would have actually shrunk in the sun. But seriously, I managed three miles in twenty five minutes and with that I stopped to say ‘howdy’ to a homeless person.

I got back to work all smiles and sweat until I realised something was hurting.

Not hurting but stinging.

Being the vain bastard I am, I was adamant I wanted to wear shorts to run in. After all, I’d spent two weeks and a vast amount of money to get my pins this colour. In my haste to hit the road I had forgot to Vas up. What I mean is; I forgot to lube the inside of my thighs and my shorts treacherously rubbed. And when I say rubbed I probably mean chapped. I’d like to give the argument that its not because I’m chubby, its because my shorts sit difficulty but who the hell am I trying to kid (again) its because my legs got, how shall I put it…fleshy!

GOD DAMN ALL INCLUSIVE!

So, I limped home sideways and wondered what to have for tea and when I could go to bed?

But Scotty Boy had other ideas. ‘Let’s go for a walk!’ he said joyously.

‘OK.’ I said, bottom lip stuck right out.

‘But we’ll go when it gets cooler.’ He said.

‘OK.’ I said, lip out even further.

We decided to walk the slip road…or I decided to walk the slip road. Since I’ve been running everyone has banged on about running the slip road to build up my bloody stamina! Bloody stamina is all people worry about when you mention you run and i wanted to know the distance of the beast.

‘Let’s walk down the slip road.’ Scotty Boy said. ‘Its boring walking up it because the cars are going the same way…you don’t see anything.’

‘But, I’ll be running UP it.’

‘Yes, but we’re only walking aren’t we?’

‘OK.’ Even my lip was tired. Pouting takes it out of you.

Now, if I had clicked on…I would have noticed that Scotty Boy was very precise in the time we were leaving, then i would have noticed that half way through the bloody walk he mentioned we’d be passing the Baili and didn’t I want to pick up that thing?

‘What thing?’ I said.

‘You know mun.’ he’d said and again nothing clicked.

When we got to the Baili and he turned right through the doors. He stage slapped his head and said; ‘God, I forgot Man United are playing! Doh!’

Yes ‘doh’ indeed. Why am I not of blonde heritage?

So, I walked four miles, drank four glasses of wine and then went home slightly squiffy and confused to how I’d been ‘mislead.’ I should have been mad but I do love an off the cuff hour in the pub.

When I woke Tuesday I had a slight wine head but the complete opposite to slight pain in my legs!

‘The milk!’ I howled. I hadn’t drank milk after my run…no wonder my muscles were stiff. ‘And its weigh day!’

God, could life get any shittier?

No, in the words of D-ream; things can only get better and better they got.

I LOST FOUR POUNDS!

FOUR POUNDS!

How was this possible?

Broken scales?

Light underwear?

Who cares! I’m at the lowest weight I have been since this whole malarkey started!

Whoop bloody whoop!

I. MUST.STICK. TO. DIET. THIS. WEEK!

I also must start building on my mileage and timing. I told you about the running club didn’t I? So, now it’s serious, now I have to keep up with people…now I’m doing it for charity!

Why couldn’t I have taken up knitting or yoga?

Bloody running my arse! 

Anyway wicked Wednesday has arrived and, technically, according to the plan that has gone way out of the window…I should be doing an eight miler today but the logic and lazy part of my head is saying try a five or even a four.

My legs have other ideas mind.

Watch this pathetic space! 

yesterday, tomorrow, today...all the bloody same.

So…tomorrow was yesterday and guess what I did?

Sod all.

Nothing.

Zilch.

At this rate I may as well give up the entire idea of completing the half marathon in a matter of eight weeks.

Eight weeks!

That’s a mere 56 days.

54 if you don’t count today and the actual race day.

Holy crap I’m in trouble.

It’s funny because I’ve already spent a copious amount of time planning how I’ll wear my hair and whether I’ll buy those nice pretty trainers I’ve seen especially for the day. I’ve even decided that myself and Scotty Boy will get smashed after the event and have an Indian on the way home.

The only thing I haven’t really accounted for is the actual bloody running!

In my defence I can whole heartedly justify my lack of running.

Firstly there was the whole secret wedding malarkey. Now, believe me if you will even when there’s only four of you involved with planning, orchestrating a wedding ceremony…it is still bloody stressful! I mean, really, really stressful.

To start the procedure off we had to visit the registry office which pretty much involved an SOS plan of getting in and out without anyone seeing us and that was just to give notice for the bloody thing. Then we had to get interrogated. I said it was simple questioning but Scotty Boy took it to heart and panicked when he couldn’t remember his future wife’s date of birth.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ He had mumbled to the registrar. ‘We’re not that bothered to get married.’

‘But you’re very close.’ She told him. Eventually she had mouthed and mimed my date of birth. When he came out he looked like he’d endured some form of Chinese torture.

‘Not good with numbers, this one?’ she said tapping him on the shoulder, like you would a stray dog. I nearly wee’d.

Then came the ring picking where we had a blazing row because I had told the girl who cut my hair, a girl I had never ever met before, a girl who still to this day does not know my name, that we were getting married.

‘But we said we wouldn’t tell ANYBODY!’ Scotty Boy had shouted at me in the middle of Cardiff.

What am I doing? Had sprung to mind but then he promptly fed me in a way of an apology so I forgave and commented on how much I liked dessert.

The wedding day itself went by in a haze of Champagne and cider and lager and whatever else I could ram down my throat…no time for running.

Then it was hollybob time and I’ve already crossed that bridge with you.

My second justification for not running…the jet lag. Yes, I know everyone who’s endured a long haul flight will sympathise with me. I mean, it took about five days for my head to reunited with my body. Literally, my matter was in Mexico whilst my lump was in Merthyr.

Thirdly, my wifely duties. Yes, believe it or not I’ve taken this wife role/ nonsense quite seriously. Take today for instance, Scotty Boy not only has a clean and ironed uniform ready for tomorrow…yes, for twenty four hours’ time, but, he has clean and ironed pants, with a pair of matching socks all ready for him to just slip on tomorrow at his convenience. Matching socks! If you know me, you’ll know this is unheard off. It’s almost as close as me saying; ‘Yeah, I just ate a strawberry!’

Hannah does not eat/drink/consume/like any red foods or drink. Hannah, under normal circumstances, cannot stomach a matching pair of socks…but…Hannah is now a wife and Hannah is determined to be a good wife. And let me tell you now, as soon as my oven stops leaking water, therefore making my chicken wet, I am going to learn to cook properly! Whilst wearing an apron!

Mrs Phillips if you please.

I won’t be putting anything red whatsoever in my mouth though. Let’s get that cleared up right away.

Right, so back to the running. Actually, before I get to the running let me tell you about my new running club!

Yes, you did just read that correctly. I have joined a running club. Not a real one, just a load of us from the Baili joining forces to raise some money for a good cause. Cute or what?

This is a good move for me to be truthful.

It’s now impossible to give it all up.

‘Gonna’ have to get your arse into gear now, H.’ my loving husband informed me, not unkindly, last night.

‘I know, I know, I know!’ I had snapped back, panic starting to creep into my ever decreasing muscles. (When you think about it, it really has been quite a while since I’ve done any form of exercise, unless you count swimming with that dolphin thing, or lifting a glass to my mouth.)

Tomorrow.

And I mean that.

I’ve ironed and packed up my running stuff to bring to work to get a cheeky little three miles in before I go home to tackle a six mile power walk with husband and previous step dog. (She’s now my fully fledged dog!)

Let’s get this show back on its road to running glory.

You can’t say my intentions are not there, it’s just they seem to be hidden under more chubbiness and quite an impressive sun tan.

I’ll leave it there for today; I actually had an epiphany in Mexico and have started drafting some writing that I think could be worth a read. Fingers crossed anyway. So, that’s my afternoon sorted.

Writing and thinking about running.

Happy Sunday.

I'm back!!!

Guess who’s back in town?

Well you won’t guess because I’m back from the hollybob with a new ring and a new name!

Yes, I’ve finally been made an honest woman.

Mrs Phillips.

HP if you please.

Anyway, I honestly believe my new title effected my running…it certainly affected me. I became Mrs Affected Phillips.

So, like I promised, I packed the old daps and my newest running gear all ready for the honeymoon…lalala.

I unpacked the daps and the newest running gear and then promptly forgot all about it!

Only kidding, but I may as well have left it at home after my feeble attempts. I say feeble but Cancun, Mexico in the middle of August is one boiling place. Cancun, Mexico gyms in the middle of August are even more boiling plus…I hadn’t run on a treadmill since the time I went to a posh gym in the country on my butties parents membership, pressed the wrong button and fell off the bloody thing. Scraping both shins so bad ( I neglected to let go of the machine as I flew off it) I was bed bound, minus the duvet of course, for two weeks.

So after the wedding of my little dreams, a night at a posh Manchester hotel, a twenty two pound breakfast and then a ten hour flight we got to Mexico in a flurry of excitement not to mention tiredness and, well, being completely overwhelmed.

Then Scotty Boy had to endure the whole, ‘Oh my god, my first lemonade as a married woman, my first poo as a married woman, my first everything as a married woman.’ I thought it was brilliant but by the time I declared I’d had my ninth poo as a married woman he grew slightly impatient.

The gym.

The dreaded gym.

The first day was FAB! I loved it. I was there at seven in the morning like a child in a sweet shop. I named my treadmill Princess Diana and climbed aboard like we were old friends. If you didn’t know me you’d have thought I was a professional gym bunny…I did…that was until I saw the fat girl in the mirror in the same outfit as me.

‘Not again.’ I sighed to which a bald Scottish guy told me that he came every day too.

I couldn’t just walk out.

I couldn’t just walk out.

I couldn’t.

Go on…

Go on…

I pressed start. And prayed to some sort of God.

Bounce baby bounce sprang to mind, shortly followed by, be fucked its boiling!

That first day I managed two and a half poxy miles.

Don’t worry…don’t worry…its day one…you’ll get used to the heat.

Ha!

The second little trip to the gym resulted in me getting three and a half miles to tick off my imaginary chart.

I was hot, sweaty and so uncomfortable it was unreal.

The third and final visit was going quite well…well, well’ish.

I was comfortable and trying not to pay too much attention to the red dials screaming how very little I’d actually run when in walks one of those people. You know, the ones that people pretend don’t actually exist. Those ones that walk in the gym and spend their entire session looking in the mirror and doing very little else.

When I’ve spoken about my apprehension regarding going to the gym and those type of people, I’ve been hushed quiet, ‘don’t be silly, people who use the gym, work out. The posers are like the loch ness monster…a myth!’

TAKE ME TO SCOTLAND.

Because on the third day I pilgrimaged to make up some mileage, in walked something as rare as Big Foot apparently.

One of those people.

Now, this little squirt was five foot a fart and looked harmless enough.

Harmless my arse.

He wandered about, not touching a machine, just lifting his top up to admire his finely toned tummy and don’t get me wrong it was pretty impressive but seriously come on!

He put me off.

Really put me off.

The chubby kid got off her treadmill, head hung low.

Two poxy miles.

 

Now, let me impart some of my Mexican wisdom upon you…it’s too hot in the gyms! It’s too cool in the bar! It’s too nice to exercise!

I also learnt some phrases like;

Hola!

Amigo!

Tequila!

No! Please don’t arrest him!

Yes…just what every honeymoon needs…the groom banged up for thirty six hours in a Mexican prison.

Now, I’ve warned Scotty Boy about such actions…what actions you say?

PISSING. IN. THE. STREET!

‘Don’t do it I pleaded.’

‘I’ve got too!’ he whined.

‘Yippie!’ The police whooped.

It took some severe waterworks from me, a shit load of cash from Scotty Boy and a bit of a telling off via the police.

FAB!

‘One to tell the kids, ey?’ we’d giggled the next day…him lighter in the pocket department…me frayed in the nerve area.

You’ll also be pleased to hear I wasn’t violated by a dolphin…only kissed by a baby called Mya. Nice at the time then my head started doing the maths and I convinced myself I had defiantly caught a bought of herpes from the bloody thing. I mean, a lot and I’d like to reiterate that a lot of people pucker up to those beautiful creatures every day.

‘I’m going to die!’ I told Scotty washing my mouth in anything that resembled clean liquid. (Corona)

‘We are going to die!’ Scotty Boy reassured as we watched a million little Mexicans in hard hats start to board everything up as the heavens opened and the wind howled.

‘You are going to die!’ the Mexican barman reassured even further, ‘Have another Corona!’

Shit the bed.

Obviously we didn’t die but the whole Mayan prophecy thingy’s were flying about along with most of Mexico’s trees!

Happy bloody honeymoon darling.

Thankfully the hurricane passed but it took with it my optimism.

‘I don’t want to run out here.’ I said in a tiny voice to my husband.

‘Then don’t.’ he said simply. ‘You’re on your honeymoon.’

‘Good point.’ I smiled. And that was that.

Literally.

The daps were packed away along with the knee strap, the bras, the ankle socks. The only thing that wasn’t folded under the unnecessarily brought beach towels was my catholic guilt.

‘I feel shit. I feel really, really shit.’

And then I found Pina Coladas! And although I felt like a complete and utter prick ordering the world’s most girly cocktail, I certainly enjoyed knocking them back.

‘I used to run!’ I slurred at the bar.

So to say the plan is monumentally fucked would be an understatement and I’ve been back from le’honeymoon for four days and its only now my head has caught up from my body so theres been no chance of any running action…although to be fair there’s been no chance of any action since Mexico.

Bollocksed springs to mind.

Anyway, I’m back in work…back in the game and I’m ready to get my trainers back on…tomorrow.

Definitely tomorrow.