This morning I woke up with every excuse as to why I couldn’t go running: my head hurt, my body ached, my lower back was kinked, I was tired. But when Mario broached the idea of having waffles for breakfast, and when I said no, that, right there, sealed the deal.
I was eating oatmeal; I was going out for a run.
It was my first real outdoor run (last week’s analysis doesn’t count) and for the most part I felt good, although my legs were a little heavy at first, and I kept worrying about my form, and kept checking in on the feeling around my knees, but as soon as my iPod clicked over to Jesus of Suburbia, – nine minutes of pure, hard, go-get-em rock music – I was in the zone.
New Westminster Quay Boardwalk
(my Garmin got a little confused, (maybe because it was the first time it’s been turned on in two months) and had me running through the Fraser River around Howe Sound … odd.)
- 10:30 a.m. BG beforehand: 5.3 (granola bar, no bolus) I inputed a temporary basal of 50 per cent less than normal
- Run: 4.15 km
- Time: 26.30
- Average pace: 6:23 km/h
- Slowest pace (first km) 6:40
- Fastest pace (last km) 6:08
- 11 a.m. BG afterwards: 6.4 (the temp basal seemed to work, however two hours later my blood sugars had skyrocketed to 14.8, so I’m not too sure)
Now, speaking of music, why can’t I get that same kind of power music in my yoga lessons that I do on my runs. Don’t get me wrong, I love my yogi, and I am so sure what she is doing for my body is sheer brilliance, but god help me, if I have to listen to another Moby song, I could very well off myself with those black straps she comes equipped with!
I’ve never been much for yoga, it’s always been a little too “hippie” for me. The calmness of it killed me, I don’t know what it was, if it was my inner demon or my self-diagnosed ADD, but I just couldn’t lie in a dark room and find my “happy” place. But with all these injuries I’ve suffered, I figured it was high time I put my fears of becoming a dirty hippie aside and call my yogi of a girlfriend up. And let me just say, I’ve been going to physio and massage therapy for years and been paying them thousands of dollars (says so on my tax forms) to knead out the recurring pain in my butt, but she’s given me tools to stretch that pain out whenever I want and hopefully, over time, take that recurring factor away.
Tools like, the exalted king pigeon:
And the relaxation part of it isn’t even killing me this time around; I’m embracing my breathing … that is, when I actually remember to breathe. But the part that is killing me: THE MUSIC! Why does yoga have to coincide with the sounds of “calming” crashing waves and Coldplay (ick) Jack Johnson (eww) Dido (why, oh why, must we torture me with Diiiiiiii-do)! I’m not asking for death metal here, I’m not even asking for Queens of the Stoneage or Metallica, give me some Pearl Jam or Foo Fighters or U2 or Sheryl Crow even.
I know, I know. The music is supposed to be relaxing and calming, but my gawd, when I’m being jet setted into a Curious George flick with Jack Johnson’s voice, that, to me, not so relaxing. And the waves, as soon as I hear those seagulls flocking about overhead, I have visions of them pooing on my head – again, not so relaxing.
Please just give me some rock and roll already, please!
ps. LOVE YOU YOGI! … please don’t kill me on our next lesson 🙂