How not to run 5km

Secret confession: I run because I have to.

I am not going to sit here and tell you that running changed my life, or that for those 30 minutes or so on the road, I feel free. Nope. Perhaps, you would disagree with me if you like the idea of cars full of young testosterone-injected students whistling and hooting at you, or being attacked by swarms of miggies (tiny fly-jobs that lodge themselves in your nostrils or the back of your throat when attempting to breathe). So to be blatantly honest, I run 5-6 km on average and I try to get it over with as soon as is femininely possible – I say femininely because I was once told I look like a giraffe on steroids when I am running and since then I have attempted to shorten my stride length to look more like a female. But, and this is a big resounding but, on some occasions, running feels…great. It’s addictive. If I don’t run at least three times a week, I struggle to sleep, I eat whatever edible thing I can find in the fridge and I feel like a puff adder – fat, lazy and ready to strike at anything that moves.

So, shortly after moving into my new apartment, I decided to go for a little 4km jog to check out the area and hopefully learn the back roads to beat the morning traffic. I asked my flat mate, to tell me her 4km route, which she dutifully did.

Unfortunately, I did not listen and the leisurely 4km run turned into a 6km run-walk, to be known from here on as the '6km Run of Death'. Now I know what you are thinking. "6km is manageable" and "2km is not that much more". To both of these responses I would say "yes I agree", except that I was completely unprepared for the 'Extra 2km of Death'.

I was buggered, to say the least, when I arrived back home, gasping for air and sweating like a foot in a plastic shoe. I threw down my iPod, smashed two glasses of Oros, choking and spluttering because I was still sucking air like an acute asthmatic and vowed never to run in my area again…and then ran the same route the following day. So there it is. Running is addictive and it feels incredible when the routes you initially found so tough start to get easier.

Here is some practical advice from my own personal experience in my purple Nike’s:

I. Measure your routes and don’t take to the road willy-nilly or wear a watch and time how long you have been on the road for so you have an idea of your distance. You are not Bruce Fordyce (but if you are then I would like to take this opportunity to say hi and tell you what a huge fan of your work I am sir), so unless you are training for Comrades, keep to your target distances and times.

II. Don’t run faster when cars full of young talent are approaching and then slow down when they pass you. Firstly, this can be extremely tiring and secondly, nobody is really looking at your running style or speed. They simply want to check out your bum.

III. Carry tissues in the little pouch they sometimes put on the inside of your running shorts (I am convinced that’s what it’s for). Your nose will inevitably run or you will need to do some heavy trumpeting to get those delightful little flying jobs out of your nasal passages.

IV. Run with someone a little more experienced than you are, but at your pace. You have two options for this. A) Run with someone hotter than you. This obviously has advantages and disadvantages. The advantages are that if they run ahead of you, you get to watch and you will also try to push yourself a bit harder because you don’t want to look like a moron. The disadvantage is that they will probably see you at your worst – red faced and smelling a little funky. B) Run with someone who really encourages you and has your best interests at heart (alternatively someone who is not as hot as you). This way, you can exert yourself, push a bead or two and still take comfort in the fact that your running partner will not suddenly leave you in a cloud of dust when the inevitable car full of young talent approaches.

V. If you are one of those people (like me) who doesn’t usually (ever) spit, don’t attempt to do this while running. The odds are against you…seriously. I tried, I failed, and it landed on my left shoe.