December Stats

Swim - 2.4km
Bike - 241.48km, 15.1kph, 4362m el
Run - 16.1km, 7.2kph, 1349m el

Bestest hardes thing ever

"What do you want for Christmas?" he asked.

For months, possibly years, I have been trying to build up the courage to tell him the real answer to that question.

It started out a private thought, one which played on my mind like a butterfly. The imagination, the image of wearing a wedding dress again, the constant urge to no longer battle with the question, "is that Mrs or Miss?". Does it matter? You choose. If I'm Miss am I desperate or a fraud? If I'm Mrs, am I a liar? If it's Ms, I am clearly a divorce or trying to cover up for still being a Miss at 38.

It became a voiced desire when Silver Lining and I went for a walk together. One of those great gossipy walks that are as much about the talk as the walk. "you should tell him how you feel", she said. I didn't want things to change though. I didn't want my world to cave in around my ears if he didn't feel the same way. So it remained unsaid and filed under "another day".

I continued to think that I'd do it but then there was PBP to get through and my job in France and then not my jo in France and everything was too fraught and depressing and then better but up in the air. 

Then christmas arrives and the daily discussions about what I want for Christmas. I've pretty much made my mind up by now that there's going to be a paradigm shift here. My lovely tiger is, by now, pretty convinced that I don't want to get married.

I still hope that nothing will change between us. I hope he doesn't misread this as some sign that I want babies or to become a domestic goddess... and therefore run a mile or more.

I could wait for February and do the right thing but we're beyond romantic proposals and gestures and into the territory of adult discussions and paradigm shifts.

Nevertheless, I'd planned to raise the subject in a romantic location. I mean if things go well you don't exactly want to be the couple who got engaged at the Sainsbury's checkout. Not even Waitrose really!

A christmas shopping trip might be just the place. Fairy lights, happy surroundings, glittery decorations and joy. We had quite a quiet train journey to Leeds. The question of what for Christmas came up and I dodged it.

Walking down the high street we came across a shop selling moomin merchandise. As you know, I am the hippo and hippos love moomin stuff. I wouldn't let him buy me a moomin bag or a hot water bottle or a knitted moomin toy.

We went to the corn exchange where I wouldn't let him buy me a poncho. We got something for sissy instead.

We went up to the top floor where the architecture was impeccable and pretty breathtaking, like looking through the canopy of an air ship.

We were in a quiet place without anyone to hear my words flop - if they were going to flop. I opened my mouth and no words came out.
 
We walked away to the other side away from the few people who were there but still no words came out. Finally I could not put off staring at the architecture any longer so we headed out in to the cold to check out the rest of town.

We walked through the most romantic streets, arcades filled with sparkling light displays, a massive tree made from glitter balls and arrays of tinsel and fairy lights, dripping from the corners of expensive shops.

We walked through the market with its vaulted glass ceiling and traditional stalls and great big slabs of meat which Yorkshiremen in white coats slapped with pride. 

I could have said something here but there were too many people, busy with their shopping and their meat, all trying to listen in on my conversation.

We headed over to the Christmas market where we searched for a glass hippo on the stalls and bought some chips because by now I was even getting pissy about food.

We ate our chips next to a fountain. We looked at the hand prints of African children representing Nelson Mandella's freedom and christmas shoppers milled about somewhere in the periphery, too busy to be concerned with us. I thought I could do it here but there was a woman wailing to another woman on the bench and it just didn't feel right. I didn't want my big moment to be interrupted by a wailing woman.

After chips comes coffee but we couldn't find a quiet coffee shop with a quiet corner or even one with sitting down space so we headed back to the beautiful Corn Exchange.

I had one thing on my shopping list for me - a little note book to use to organise my time. I went into paperchase, a shop I love, and couldn't even get excited about stationery. This was getting serious. I was going to get more and more frustrated and get no Christmas shopping done whatsoever.

In the basement of the corn exchange over a coffee and a very delicious lemon cup cake, he asked me again what I wanted for Christmas. I started to sweat, blush and get all coy at once. The people next to us seemed quite occupied with eachother. I could do it now but they might be listening in. Of all the things that I had thought I would say, I thought it most prudent to warn him of the surprise and came out with, "Can I surprise you?"

He was quite amused by this, that I was going to surprise him with what he was getting me for Christmas and took the time to point out it isn't how it's supposed to work.

Some people came to look at the menu and I clammed up again.

Outside on the steps he asked me one more time what it is that I want for Christmas and how I am going to surprise him. There was no one around.

I grabbed his hand but I talked to the buildings. Blurting out that I really did want to get married to him and all I want for Christmas is his hand.

"Do you?" he said, his voice filled with glee.

We started walking down the road together in no particular direction, diverting off down an alley way because it was deserted, because it was interesting - brick built, cobbled streets, a shiny Leeds bar called The Mook - a cross between a Moo and a nook.

"Shall we do it then?" he said.  "Can we?" I said.

"Yes we can".

To say I whooped would be putting it mildly. 

November Stats - The recovery continues

And don't even talk to me about the house moving!


Swim - 2.27km, 1.5km/hr.  Ugh, but at least I am back in the water.
Bike - 124.54km, 20.3kph, 986m el.   Not all logged miles so the average is over and the mileage is under
Run - 44.5km, 7.2kph, 1396m el.  Surprising but true.

Catching up - October Stats. Oh the recovery!

Swim - BIG FAT ZERO!
Bike - 288.9km, 17.1kph, 3250m el. Not far but it's amazing what house hunting in Sheffield does for the elevation count
Run - 18.02km, 6.8kph, 425m el.

Catching up - September Stats

Swim - 2.72km, 2.5 kph.
Bike - 267km, 19.1kph, 3919m el. 
Run - 20.30km (although a LOT of the 3 Peaks was running / walking), 5.7km/hr, 921m el.

Closure

For the first time in 4 years, we don’t have a storage unit full of our stuff. This is a pleasant experience. Trying to find a location for the bits we want to keep (and some of those we don’t intend to) within the new house is more of a challenge.

As much as I’d like to go racing tomorrow, I don’t think I will. I want to be ready for my new job, get a good nights sleep and save the money on travelling by getting a work-out starting somewhere outside of my own front door before and early bath and falling into bed before 10pm. Besides which, we have no internet right now and I have no idea where the race is or how to get there.

As far as the new job is concerned, I am nowhere near as terrified as I was when I first moved to Sheffield but still filled with the usual anxieties associated with getting there on time on the first day, making the right impression… and of course, there’s what to wear.

La Retour

I ate, tidied and dressed for running this morning.  Up the hill to Walkley village centre, taking the branch off to the Rec.  A man has converted the old pre-fab built school at the edge of the park into his home and is working away on something in his open garage.  Dog walkers wish me good morning.

I ditch the tarmac path, shrugging off soggy trainers in favour of the short cut across the grass.  Two dogs bound towards me then veer off, attracted by eachother.  I stop at the edge of the park and enjoy the view out across the Rivelin and Damflask valleys. It’s 13 minutes since I left my house.

Across the park I join a path which threads its way through the allotments – flat along the contours then dropping steeply on cobbled and flagged paving, they go on for over a mile, stretched out up and down the hillsides.  Some are split up into 4 or more plots.  Some covered in black paper for the winter, some still showing the spoils of ruined onions, leathery green leaves littered across the surface of the soil.

Finally I was spat out on Bole Hill Road and I wiggled down to a path which I had walked before, approximately 20 years ago.  I pinged out of the mud and dank trees of the allotments into an open field where two paths run parallel to eachother at different levels.

I stood here 20 years ago on a rest day from a course (lets ignore its basis until I’m happier in my work) and said the words, “Yeah, I think I want to go to Sheffield University”.  This field has been a defining point in my life.

20 years ago it had taken me ages to get there.  This time it took me 26 minutes so rather than turning around at the other end of the field I kept going in a rivelineley direction.

Through autumnal trees and finally to the river side below the A61.  It could’ve been a million miles away for all the noise that was present.  I reached the still millpond with ducks and reeds and the hillside and trees reflected perfectly, broken by nothing more than the excited paddling of expectant duck-feet.

I’ve run from the Rivelin Road down to the edge of town before so was on familiar territory, running up the hill.   The only differences this time are daylight, sunshine and other people for the last time I passed this way was December last year after work.  Dogs and children passed by and I reached the carpark before turning around and heading back down the path.  

 I swept up to the A61 and beyond, climbing to the small back-roads which run along the edge of the suburbs bolted onto the edge of Sheffield until finally, another path swoops back down to the valley, the river and the main road.  Straight down another path and into the parklands – swings and climbing frames and the lido paddling pools flitter by in the corner of my eye then eventually I am spit out at a 5-way junction.

A tiny back-road climbs up from the lights but then it dawns on me that it seems like a dead-end.  I persevere, having faith in Yorkshire planners that there will be a cut-through at the end that spits me out where I want to be.  Better than that, I find myself on the edge of the park where I was an hour earlier.

Instead of taking the straight-up-hill route I weave through some streets, gradually turning from detached, to semi-detached and into the terraces that I recognise.  More dead ends and cut-throughs take me to the old school building that I could see from the bottom of the park.  I wibble my way to my front door eventually, having reverted to walking for the last km or so.

My legs ache and all I want to do is take a bath in my new house.  It’s a damn sight more pleasant that the shower and bigger than the old house.  Satisfyingly so.  The rest of the day passes in a flurry of unpacking activity.  TSK and I head over to the old house to empty some more things away together and briefly check our e-lives.

We enjoy the drive home and look forwards to doing it for the last time.

Random running thoughts: the spice rack - who killed it?  Must eat oranges, post cards and fridge magnets, gardening tools from Bassett, compost bin, buy bike carry bag for Eleanor.

The bath was so much better than the shower. fully restored, I loaded the back pack on my back and walked out to Walkley. A well stocked grocer awaited at the top of the hill selling everything I expected - the best quality veg (mostly) - as well as everything I needed - lime curd, eggs and cereal for breakfast. I bought a lot (40 litre rucsac) of good food for less than £20.

Then across the road to the butchers for lamb leg steaks, pork sausages and rabbit for a stew £6.18 all together. I thought to myself it's proper shame that we don't get to shop like this regularly. Fun, cheap and sustainable. Then I realised we're allowed to. It could even be said that's what weekends might be for. It might even end up being a plan.