The Jolly Runner

Don't you just love Mondays? A day to start over and begin again! So why is Monday not run day? #daretodream #comrades #downtodurban

Whoop whoop. It’s the start of a fresh perky new week and a public holiday. Bonus. And armed with my brand new accountability blog, it should follow that Monday must be run day. Right?

Wrong.

I have two training plans. Now I’m not sure this is the norm. I mean, do you follow 2 different plans simultaneously?

But I like to work this way sometimes. Actually, quite often.

So, I have my…

So here I sit on the couch

I have a dream.

But unlike more illustrious dreamers before me, mine is little less world-changing and a bit more physical.

I want to run the Comrades Marathon and I want to do it in June next year.

Now if you’re not a running type, (which might mean you are a saner person than me), running a marathon 9 months from now might seem perfectly feasible. And not entirely insane. Apart from,…

The ginger has landed

Hi. It’s me again. You don’t hear from me for months and months, then I’m suddenly all over your social media. But hey, it’s not me. It’s the little ginger. Thought I’d update you on the latest in the life and times of Lord Oscarmort and his adventures.

So, it turns out Oscar, the ginger overlord, had an even more traumatic 72 hours than expected. There I was, thinking he missed me, and…

Moving day has been and gone. Our worldly belongings are chugging their way to South Australia. The Grumpster has taken to the skies hot on their heals. And I am writing this pretending to be a hipster, sitting in an apartment in trendy Teneriffe, overlooking the Brisbane river. Herbert is still resident in Queensland, so I am listening to the (somewhat disconcerting) giggles of a 16 year old…

I went for a run. For someone who blogs about running, that’s hardly a revelation, I know. But of late, it certainly feels like a novelty.

The last time I ran, I was in Whyalla. I ran with Jacqui and Rachel, and we hit the trails round Mt Laura. Great fun, and such a step back down memory lane when @thosewhyallagirls and Ness were the stalwarts of my long training runs/adventures. That was 6…

I went to see Michael the Massage this week. Which has nothing to do with swimming or sharks, I know. But bear with me. There’s a story here, I promise.

It’s a routine appointment that I almost cancelled; attending a sports massage when I had barely moved for a month seemed awkward. Especially as we start each session with a run down of what exercise I’ve done. Hum.

I thought I’d go for the…

The timing of going sober was always going to be questionable, considering I share a house with a teenager. That said, the last 2 weeks haven’t been too bad, although I definitely noticed that my mood went through the predicted “tense” phase. I dethroned the Grumpster for his title and crowned myself Grumpress. You can be assured I have ruled my dominion with much whinging. My brain also turned to mush. It was like being pregnant all over again. And as my stomach has swollen due to the hot chocolates and extensive treats I’ve awarded myself for abstinence, I count myself lucky theologians haven’t been hammering down the door to proclaim the new miracle conception.

Alcohol Free Down Under

The lack of alcohol hasn’t been an issue, per se. I realised my personal interest is more for something tasty to drink that isn’t actually another glass of water. Sugary gloop – pop/soda/fizzy whatever-you-want-to-call-it doesn’t hit the mark as a refreshing drink, and there’s only so many cups of tea I can cope with before I’m buzzing all night from caffeine overload. Which defeats the point of trying to defy the 3am wakeup call that alcohol so reliably provides. So, wine is a dry, pleasant-tasting alternative, and I realised I missed having a cold beverage. So I set about tracking down something to fill the void.

SoberMummy recommended Beck’s Blue as a decent tasting no-alcohol beer. I checked out several of the local off-licences. There are plenty of bottle shops within 1km of home in every direction, so I thought I’d be able to get hold of something suitable. However, it appears that zero alcohol beer is as rare as rocking horse poo in this part of the world. The wine varietals are better served, but having tried one that cost $15, so apparently a better class of vino-replacement, I was not convinced by its character: the aroma of newly picked grapes evolved rather dramatically into the sharp rasp of vinegar. The sensation was akin to jumping on a bouncy castle at a kids party, then suddenly falling off a cliff. Not something I would recommend.

A case of the Beck’s Blues

I googled Becks Blue and found I needed to drive across the metropolis to find a retailer that stocked low alcohol beer. I found myself in an outlet the size of a respectable supermarket, but dedicated to drink, and the zero alcohol offering was about 1/4 of one rack of shelves. None in the fridge. Oh, and Beck’s Blue is out of stock. Nationwide. I bought a couple of 6 packs of German imports to try (I didn’t see a locally brewed alternative) – both priced exorbitantly – and found both of them were acceptable. I particularly like the Bitburger Drive. It’s a taste that takes me straight back to Germany, and as I was 19 when I lived there, what’s not to like. “Bitte ein Bit'”.

Teenage Mutiny

Amidst the sobriety, we’ve also been on the case of solving – well, at least understanding – Herbert’s anxiety. Having seen a couple of specialists, there was some interest in his inability to organise his life. His anxiety spiked when he’d left himself one evening to do an entire assignment that required about 6 weeks work. Who’d have thought that would be a problem? So, it’s now official, we have a diagnosis! And the verdict is that it is not some underlying attention deficit issue, he’s simply ignoring us… It is a case of teenage mutiny.

So the hunt for a cause continues.

Mood Food

With the help of Ali at Apple to Zucchini, we’re testing the link between food and mood. I can’t recommend taking your teenage son to talk to a dietitian enough, particularly if they need some payback for heinous cheek or abject laziness in recent weeks. Why? For the joy of watching him squirm when he has to discuss how regularly he poos as part of the consultation. As a parent it’s important to balance the moments of proud parenting that you can shout about on instagram with the quietly satisfying smug moments that need no further broadcast. (Unless you happen to have a blog read by your mum and the cat).

I guess Herbert has had the last laugh, though. My disinterest in the kitchen has been inherited, so he doesn’t feel that any of this improving his diet is any of his responsibility. (Is it just our house where the need for self-determination oscillates depending on the task in hand? How much time to play computer games? At 15, he is totally mature enough to make his own decisions. Cook food? He’s a child and it is utterly outrageous, bordering on neglect, to expect him to have to fend for himself).

Now I know you’re thinking I should just fight that battle.

But I am somewhat battle fatigued.

Plus, the novelty of trying to find healthy food that he might be prepared to pack and eat in front of his friends has piqued my interest.

I might also have more energy as a result of no longer being hungover each morning of a weekend. (I have discovered there is so much more time available on Saturdays and Sundays – it’s a revelation!) And I seem better able to concentrate on the instructions, too, so my success rate at creating edible morsels, rather than burnt cinders, is 1000% better.

Avoiding Teenage Mutiny over Lunchbox Contents

So here are some of the things that I have produced in the last couple of weeks on the occasions that I have kitchened. #proud #actuallyadulting #lessdelinquentparenting

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Herbert was slightly abashed after talking to Ali. Not just because he’d had to discuss poo. But also because reciting what he eats for breakfast, morning tea and lunch were identified as being somewhat nutritionally lacking. Breakfast, consisting of commercial breakfast cereals, were deemed dessert choices. (He loves Milo cereals and Coco Pops and other sugar laden delights – and sugar is not anxiety friendly). Then, his choices at school were basically devoid of nutrients. We have a daily battle (if I have time to remember to notice that he hasn’t made himself some sandwiches) over making sandwiches. He hopes I won’t notice, in which case he just raids the school tuck shop for high-fat taste sensations. If I do notice, he makes the sandwiches, and on most occasions leaves them in the bottom of his bag, and raids the school tuck shop for high-fat taste sensations…

Of course, the other challenge is finding “healthy” food that looks innocuous enough to still be cool. Passing the friends test and fitting in is more important than any nutrient count or benefits that might accrue. As any parent of teenagers will know.

Homelife Crisis

So having managed to get organised in the kitchen for the first time ever, I have managed to wreak chaos in my working life. Tomorrow I fly to Perth for a couple of days. Problem, you say? It is if you live in Queensland, and it’s actually a public holiday… GRRRRR.

So Australia, I have two small requests:

Please could you sort your act out with no-alcohol beer and stock it more accessibly

And harmonise your sodding public holidays!

Is it really so hard for everyone to have time off at the same time??? Really??? I have a Herbert to wrangle. It’s enough already.

So, with that, I will sign off and go and pack my suitcase. I will be leaving the Grumpster in charge of dictating a nutrient-rich lunch time experience for the next couple of days. 😀 😀 😀

  *The recipes for the little bites of heaven are courtesy of Apple to Zucchini, Dietitian Approved and Lola Berry. Not pictured is some frozen water melon and some frozen watermelon blitzed with grapes (he doesn’t like grapes!) and frozen to pop in smoothies.

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There’s a certain irony in being caught in a cloud burst and having to take shelter in a bar on your second day of “going dry“. I decided to leave work early on a mercy dash. There’s a storm forecast and Doodles the Dog doesn’t do well on his own. Last time he was home alone, he tried to commit kamikazi. Helpful Herbert greeted me when I got home to announce I needed to look upstairs. “At the…

I’ve read two books in less than two weeks. And I haven’t even been on holiday. I think it’s a world record for me. I’m usually the world’s slowest reader, but I’m starting to wonder if Amazon has created some wizardry in its Kindle apps that make those on the speed-challenged end of the reading spectrum like me able to whizz through words at a rate equating to “normal”. And whilst I haven’t been…

Or little lies. And other truths.

Dear Kirsten,

Well, chick, you said you were looking forward to reading this, and knowing that you’re setting out on your epic adventure today and you’re out there as I write, I figured your body will be ready for a sit down by the time I press publish, so I have you as my captive! I can blether on and on. And on. And your only resistance will be sleep. Bwahaha.

Downward drowning dog

The waggy wet tail was Dexter’s rudder. Most days, he stands by the edge of the pool crying and stretching one paw dramatically over the water, looking plaintive, as we’ve abandoned him on the waters edge (a maximum of 1.5m from the nearest human at the further extremity). But ever since he fell in and toppled upside down and half drowned before I heroically rescued him, he’s lost his nerve in the water. Today’s dip in the pool was Grumpster-assisted: he had carefully plonked Doodles in the water – making sure he kept his bearings – before releasing him to pootle round in the cool water. And no, Dexter’s inability to determine up from down wasn’t actually the direction of dog in the title that I had in mind. I was actually thinking about ME. #obviously

Warning: unexpected muscle soreness (UMS)

The cool water was soothing my sore muscles which had accidentally got used at the gym on Friday. I’d got on the treadmill to do a bit of walking in my eagerness to try out the new Hokas, but was bored after – ooh – 30 seconds. So, I managed 1km, which involved a run because I was too impatient to keep walking and just wanted the distance done. The Grumpster had 5km in his sights, and whilst I could have walked home, it seemed a bit rude. I felt I was being moral support. Or companionable. Despite not saying a word to each other for the duration of being on the gym’s premises… So I went and played upstairs. On weight machines. Which look like fun and not hard work at all. Until the day after and their lies are laid bare… I have discovered Unexpected Muscle Soreness (UMS).

And boy, it’s a thing that makes you want to say UMMM!

Hokas pocus

The sadness of sore muscles and happiness of new Hokas blended into thinking about my resolutions for the coming year. Which are not many.

Resolution number one is to do the work to get a Comrades medal in this year’s Down Run. (There’s the small issue of qualifying, but more on that another time).

And resolution number two is to not get injured in the lead up, or as a result of doing it. I would like to spend the whole year running, not just the first half, as happened in 2015. Because in 2015, I decided on the morning of the race, to run Comrades in a pair of shoes I loved, but had never run more than 10-12km in. I’m such a model of #goodrunningdecisions… I ran Comrades in a pair of Altras, which are fabulous, but not ideal for anyone with tight calves.

  Did I mention my tight calves?

I have super-tight calves.

And whilst Hokas aren’t quite as seriously unsuited to my calves, they are still SHOES I SHOULD NOT WEAR…

Resolution Number 3

OK, so I said there were 2 resolutions. I lied. Like gentle-looking gym equipment really.

I want to wear all the shoes I SHOULD NOT WEAR. Which yesterday, was something I did, and took the Hokas on a test run to parkrun in morning. #SuchaRebel #ILikeRules #butSometimesCantSticktoThem.

I like the Hokas.

(I liked parkrun at Stones Corne, too. They have these fabulous inventions called trees-along-the-path. It was a revelation. SHADE!!!)

And I liked the Hokas. Did I mention??? I do, I do.

They are marginally too narrow, even in the wide-fit-and-half-a-size-up version. D is not 2E. (I.e. made for feet, not flippers like mine!) I wedged some wedgey things in the soles (as donated by my podiatrist) to increase the heel-to-toe differential. And my calves were happy. Or at least they didn’t complain there and then. I suppose we might be having words later, but we had no whinging this morning…!

Old. Alt. Altra

My other love is my Altras. And I want to buy more. I saw a whole shelf of them in Wild Fire Sports last time I was in there. I want to buy them AND actually wear them, rather than storing them in a dark corner of my wardrobe. On the basis that if I can’t see them, then I have nothing to confess to my physio. Surely?

Downward Dog

So the point of the downward dog? My calves need a stretch. A lot of stretches. And downward facing dog, along with copious foam rolling and general stretching is the order of the day. So my resolution is to stretch, roll and maintain this body of mine. It isn’t getting any younger, and as this picture proves, it isn’t good at yoga either. Whilst my feet are beautifully cut out of view, it’s a surprise you can’t see my heels. Because they’re closer to my arse than to the floor.

Celeste Barber … You have nothing to fear from me….!

So, there you go, 2018 is the year of the stretch.

Far be it from me to complain, but chafe... Chafe is happening in this world. And on my body. In regions that were apparently undiscovered previously. I feel like the Captain Cook of chafe. #summerrunning

It’s summer, and therefore, it’s time for my obligatory post bemoaning the effects of chafe. Because I have been suffering. Oh yes indeedy.

I found this picture on Google showing the zones – not erogenous zones – no need to look away. And realised, at least in my experience, it’s dismally inadequate in explaining the real horror of chafe in sub-tropics.

The Jette Stream

So far this year, I’ve…

End of year revision

It’s been a year of revised running goals (down, down, deeper and down), a year of revelations (triathlon as an event isn’t for me –  although I enjoy each individual activity and think tri-club peeps are the BEST), a year of clawing my way back into permanent employment (worth it in the end) and a year of trying to find myself again (let’s just say that’s a work in progress, but I think I”m finally on the right track). So 2017 has been a big year. And the kilometres covered have got bigger. But boy, am I struggling at the moment! And I don’t know if it’s just melting. Or genuine slowing.

Paint your pants

It’s not even the distance at the moment that is causing trouble. The muscle memory, which I was convinced had developed its own form of amnesia bordering on Alzheimers, has thrown off the forgetfulness. The idea of running more than 15km was intimidating just a couple of weeks ago. Then Coach Pat found me a running buddy and we talked ourselves into running 50km as a team – 25km each, and boom, I was back. At least, I was for 23km. Then my gut gave up, and the best I could do was walk the last 2km if I didn’t want to paint my pants…

Working parts

But my legs were still working. Or maybe my head was. What is it that really gets you through the long kays? Yes, the legs have to be conditioned, but really, it’s the head that rules the day. And for the GoldCoast50, I’d decided I was going to enjoy it. So I did. I ignored the pace on my watch; enjoyed the scenery; embraced the heat; talked to fellow runners. I had fun.

Only when I got back to the finish line, and poor Pat was still waiting, did the tempo feel like an issue. Because pace counts right now.

Qualification pace

When I ran Comrades in 2015, pace was of little issue. The rules were different. I had run Adelaide Marathon in August 2014. And that meant I had pre-qualified for the 2015 down run. But now, only races after 1 September count as qualifiers. So, as a Queenslander, that means running in the stinking heat of summer. And I don’t know whether it’s additional age, or extreme humidity, but my pace has slowed SOOOOO much. So now I’m really really concerned that I won’t make the 5 hour qualifying time I need in Hobart. Which is slightly ironic, as I think my training has been generally more consistent than in 2014.

Is Strava Swedish for “truth”?

(I haven’t consulted Strava, which is obviously the only source of truth, and I am the person who thinks she runs 4 days a week simply because there are 4 runs/week on my schedule, even though only 2 of them has been adhered to, so my thinking may be flawed….). And of course, when training for Adelaide, all my running was on the flat streets of Whyalla. Whereas, now, the “undulations” of Brisbane are my everyday. And did I mention humidity? I can barely breath! I do not heat well…

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Treadmill woes

So, today, I tried a treadmill run at the gym. And it didn’t end well. I’d like to blame it on the hills from Sunday: check my Strava – I went to Mt Coot-tha and nearly ripped my calf muscles off the bone. Which they hadn’t forgiven me for today. But, in truth, I also think there might have been some complaining about the turkey, wine, Pimms and chocolate that found their way down my throat yesterday…

Luckily, there is a call to arms tomorrow. Rena has invited the turtles* to run with her in the morning, and somehow, having a tribe to chat to makes plodding and pace something less of an issue. 45 minutes of tempo running might happen. And the pace really isn’t anything demanding – under cooler conditions. So, let’s see what turtle chats and early morning breeze does tomorrow.

I have this familiar feeling. I’m out of my depth and floundering. I shouldn’t be here. I feel like an imposter. You might know it, too: imposter syndrome. It creeps up on you holding a wet fish and whacks you round the chops before a race. It doesn’t matter what event: parkrun, an enticer distance tri, a marathon, the one where you want that PB. Every event has it’s own element of epic. And the moment you’re on your own, you look around at the field of honed athletes and wonder how on earth you slipped through the gate. There must have been a mistake. And whack – wet fish in the chops.

Only, I’m not at a start line. Not one where you stand around with people in shorts and singlets and running shoes. Or tri suits and googles.  Or a carbon steed between your legs.

Instead, I’m just sitting on the sofa.

Start line phobia?

Besides, let’s face it, standing at a start line is not a familiar feeling this year – start line dodging has been my forte – but that’s another story…

My start line is simply the will to start. The will to move my body; the will to ignore the fact that I’ve drunk too much wine, eaten too much curry, too much chocolate and every other delicious thing I could shovel into my mouth, and created extra wobbly bits, which will jiggle uncomfortably. Or even the will to go outside and try.

You see, I have a goal.

Goal 89

A grand plan.

I’ve had a few of those before!!!

There is a snag with the sofa-loafing. Wine glass in hand, laptop primed and credit card akimbo; signing up is just too easy. And thus, I entered for Comrades 2018. Yep, I’ve signed up again. For 90 kilometres of running down hills. Me and the 21,499 others who had entered by 21 September*. Woohoo!

Except right now, I’m not feeling the woohoo.

Finding why in Whyalla

I spent an hour wallowing in the bath tub yesterday. Searching for inspiration. Because, where else do you look for running inspo? Surely it all comes from sitting or lying around….or gazing at Pinterest… I was searching amongst old photos taken when I was training for the Up Run in 2015. And I felt the spark. The sense of purpose I had on those early mornings around the dusty Whyalla streets, grudgingly awake before the dry South Australian heat became too intense to go outdoors. The days when 5km hurt, not because it was too far, but because my body was only just easing into its rhythm.

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Now 21km feels intimidating.

A distance that used to be standard or a Saturday morning and that was before the long run on Sunday…

So what’s the matter with me? Why can’t I start?

Actually I did start. I did run this week. I ran on Tuesday with all the lovely peeps from tri club, and I have to report that it felt amazing. The pace felt good, the fresh air felt good, the camaraderie was fabulous. And then I woke up on Wednesday feeling like someone had removed my spine and replaced it with a cricket bat.

For those old enough and British enough to remember the advert, I felt like I needed a Shackleton High Chair** when I got to work – I could barely get out of my seat. Which gave me a perfectly valid and genuine excuse not to run. Except it had eased by Friday and was further sorted by the magic of massage at RHP Physiotherapy, so why didn’t I run on Saturday? Or this morning?

It seems to me the longer I put it off, the heavier the weight of starting pushes down and pins me to the sofa. A cold compression of quiet panic freezes each fibre of my legs, my arms, my body and stops me in my tracks. Instead, my brain rapidly fills with a myriad of excuses until the bottomless bucket labelled “I can’t” has inconceivably reached a point of overflowing. A couple of this week’s specials are:

my back is brokened, so I must not run

the washing machine is brokened, so I cannot wash running clothes

I know I need to co-opt some running buddies, even though I still get scared that I’ll be too slow and unable to keep up. I know I need a running plan, even though there are plenty available online. But mostly, I know I need to put one foot in front of the other. To make that commitment to myself to just get out there and try. Only I can do this.

Right now, I have another excuse to add to the bottomless bucket: I need to go and collect Herbert from trials at school. (By the way, I would rename him, except the name he best suits is already taken. He has become another Grumpster. All hail the joy of teenage hormones!)

But here it is: my commitment to you (but really my commitment to me): I will pull on my trainers and get out for a run before today is done.

I want to go far, so please come with me. Let’s go together.

xx

*The race organisers closed entries after 3 weeks!! – the window is normally 8 weeks – because entries had exceeded the race capacity of 20,000 lunatics entrants.

** Australia has some fantastic adverts – Noel’s caravans‘ theme tune is a particular favourite, but I think this is a classic. Particularly as it came from Bradford, and therefore eternally reminds me of my Grandma.

Got weirded out this week. I mentioned tri and the Grumpster looked interested.. He thought I was being raunchy...

As you know, despite best efforts, I can’t get the Grumpster interested in triathlon. He doesn’t have a bike, he ran his first parkrun and promptly put his back out, and he flat refuses to swim. Apparently, he can drown with even more alacrity than me. But I’ve noticed his eyes light up recently when I’ve been discussing my trials and tribulations with triathlon. Particularly with my recent…

Following my epiphany about training, the one about perfection, I embraced the inner turtle, which meant I trained today! It’s like a miracle.

So, there we were, sitting around in a caff in Nundah, having cycled, swum, cycled, run. In a turtle fashion. (At least in my case)…

And we got onto the topic of Strava.

Before, I continue, you should understand that this was the week when Daz, an SBTC club member published helpful and insightful articles on Training Peaks, another training platform.

And as we sat round discussing training over breakfast with Ian, a recent convert to the Garmin cult, I realised there was an obvious appetite for this type of information.

And clearly, with my technical savvy, I realised I could fill a gap by explaining Strava, for the uninitiated.

*cough*

Strava for the uninitiated

So here’s the thing. Once you have a Garmin, you have to get on Strava, or your training basically no longer counts for anything. BECAUSE that is what Strava does. It validates your training. There is a saying: if it ain’t on Strava, it never happened. And it’s more than a tag line. It’s fact.

Just don’t ask me about attaching Garmin to Strava. It’s not that it’s hard – even I managed to do it, and now everything recorded on my Garmin is also in Strava – I just can’t quite remember what I did. That’s the tech part of this blog. #yourewelcome

The other thing about Strava is that it was invented in Sweden. And whilst I haven’t consulted Google Translate, I’m 99.5%^ certain that the English translation of Strava is “stalker”.

I call this close!

Because Strava is actually about stalking. In a good way, you understand.

You stalk performance. Of other athletes that you know. Not actually to track them to their house, or anything sinister and creepy.

There’s no camping involved with Strava. It’s for athletes. There’s no time for that kind of weird behaviour because you have to get kudos and work your way up the leaderboard. (We’ll get on to that). So, you can’t waste time hanging around outside someone’s dwelling. Or being static. You have to get that next block of activity on the charts…

Facebook for the athletic world

On the face of it, Strava is like the Facebook of the athletic world. You “like” activity (a.k.a. giving kudos), “comment” on activity and get inspired by how well those in your social sporting sphere are doing.

There are also leaderboards. Clubs or groups each set up their own, you grovel request to join, and once you’re in, your weekly activity is totted up to compete for leaderboard domination.

I’m particularly fond of the categories that measure time spent on an activity. This lends itself to those of us partying at the back of the pack. We spend longer going the same distance. Turtles can dominate this category. In theory.

Ahem ^^^ Please note: #1 swimmer

(It is sometimes spoiled by the more gifted long course/ultra athletes that just enjoy the feeling of being awesome, and stay out running, riding and swimming for the sheer joy of it **…)

A business plan

Over breakfast, we got talking about a certain coach we know, who is a very gifted runner. And some of his Strava entries showed that he’d been running what we’d class as a long run at around 4:30km/h pace for recovery. #WTF

(If I hit that pace for more than 3 seconds, I’m air pumping for the next 10 minutes in absolute glee).

BTW – I don’t know how any of us were aware of this. Because, obviously, we only use Strava for validating our activity. And not for what it’s name implies.

And then we got onto whether elite athletes use Strava to psyche out the competition?

None of us knew.

But that was when I came up with a brilliant business plan.

Running with dogs

I am going to acquire a pack of dawgs that like to run and hire them out to elites who are a little weary, but need to get inside the minds of their opposition. The dawgs will have special collars that safely hold the elite’s Garmin, and then I will unleash the running puppy for several kilometres, whilst the elite has a little nap, before handing back their device.

The elite can upload the Garmin data to Strava, write a comment against the awesome speedy trace saying something along the lines of “easy cool down run – 20km @ 2:55km/h” and chuckle evilly knowing the opposition just died a little inside.

My teammates all laughed nervously when I suggested it.

Perhaps this is why I’m not living in the lap of luxury on my earnings as a successful entrepreneur…

Anyhoo, there you have it, the outsider guide to Strava. You probably don’t need to consult any other technical guide ever….

  ^ This level of certainty might be slightly overstated – I may have had a glass of vino…

**It’s OK – I don’t know what that means either.