Hitting the mini-wall with a reinforced mantra

RUNNING ON EMPTY:I am not stopping now, having faced failure on a small Donegal hill and wobbled at East Wall

I AM running on a path through a pine forest. Unexpectedly warm spring sunshine trickles through the trees illuminating the way. I am running, legs flying. I feel like a 10 year old, running for no other reason except the sheer joy of moving my body. I have no cares. No responsibilities. There is nothing except the sound of my feet against twigs, the rustle of branches, my breath unforced and rhythmic and true. I notice everything. All those shades of green. The dappled light on the leaves. I am running, I think to myself suddenly. I am actually running. Then I wake up.

The cruelty of the dream is that it arrives after I’ve hit a mini-wall. Earlier that day my friendly “Couch to 10k” app informs me I am due to run 30 minutes. I head out the door. But, ah here. I just don’t think I am capable of half an hour of continuous running.

After my five-minute warm-up walk I begin, shuffling slowly down the East Wall Road, towards the O2 where I plan to continue along the Liffey. From the first 30 seconds I know something is wrong. Not physically, because physically I now trust myself a whole lot more, but something has shifted in my head.

It’s a subtle shift but in those first seconds I know. I know as sure as I know I urgently need to invest in decent sports underwear that I am going to stop before the 30 minutes are up. I know that this is where it will all start to unravel. I know the real me, the lazy me, the one who is allergic to exercise is finally going to exert herself. Show this annoying new version of me who is boss. And sure enough for the first time in this whole running experiment I stop before I am supposed to stop. I look at my phone. Only 15 minutes have passed. I kick the wall in frustration stubbing my toe.

I walk home. That night I have the sublime running dream. I wake up confused. There’s a guy on Twitter, @gpescatore, who has a running blog. When I tweet about my fears around breaking the 30-minute barrier, he tells me it’s just a “psychological hump” and promises that one day I will have “an effortless run”.

On “The Music of Running”, he writes about the Breakthrough Run. He says one day I will have a run during which I will feel like a runner, where my pace will improve, where I will feel like I can go on forever. The thought of it spurs me on.

Two days later I am visiting friends outside Donegal town and I get up at 7am, put my runners on, head uncertainly out of the door. This is unfamiliar territory but I have every intention of getting to 30 minutes this time. And I might have except I find myself accidentally running up a small hill. Halfway up I realise I am not going to make it to the top. So I stop. I look at my phone and I see that I’ve only been at it for eight stupid minutes.

It feels as though the past couple of months have been a waste of time, that all I’ve been doing is building up to this moment of humiliating failure halfway up a hill.

I’m wondering how I can even attempt the Great Limerick Run when clearly I don’t have the stomach for this experiment. Or the heart.

But there’s my training partner and sister R to reckon with and this column deadline approaching. I have to try one more time.

For my third attempt I choose the Phoenix Park on a glorious Sunday when the whole of Dublin seems to have come out to play. I don’t like running with exposed skin, so wearing a hoodie I set off under strong sunshine. I have a mantra this time. “I am not stopping. I am not stopping.”

For distraction I am listening to a podcast of Radio 4’s The Moral Maze as recommended by a friend. It’s a vigorous discussion about gay marriage.

I am sweating by the second minute. But my mantra kicks in. “I am not stopping, I am not stopping, I am not flipping stopping.”

I am boiling and uncomfortable and embarrassed as I pass picnickers lolling on the grass which is where I’d prefer to be. But I don’t stop for 30 whole minutes. Third time lucky. I’d do cartwheels if I had any energy left.

Two days later I complete a 35-minute run along the Clontarf prom and it’s as close to an effortless run as I have come.

So here I am. Still on the path. Still moving. For now, anyway.

Róisín Ingle’s next instalment will appear on April 17th.