Emma rediscovers her inner athlete, full of hubris and a bit of overconfidence

YEARS ago I did a half marathon without doing any training at all, I flew around and thought I was a natural born runner. Big mistake. Massive. It was pure fluke, and down to whatever way the stars aligned, or the wind was blowing on the day; I also seem to recall a particularly handsome chap in my vicinity which helped me keep up the pace. 

Not long after, in pursuit of what I thought was going to be my hugely successful running career, I signed up for a 10km run which was an altogether different story, and let’s just say it was all downhill after that.

The second run was the annual 10km from Courtmacsherry to Timoleague, and a group of us said we’d do for ‘the laugh.’ Ha! I thought I had read those reassuring words ‘fun run’ on the poster but I knew I was goosed when I saw people at the starting line wearing those intimidating knee-high socks, athletic club vests and doing elaborate warm ups. There was nothing funny from where I was standing, not a person pushing a buggy in sight. 

Anyone who knows this route, will know it’s perfectly flat and while I know all 10kms are made equal, this one definitely feels longer. At least it did that day. You know that iconic scene from the film Chariots of Fire where they’re all running along the beach looking powerful and inspiring? It was nothing like that. 

I was ugly running. I was drooling and dribbling, and by the time I got to the end (much, much later than most people), I was slightly delirious. I still have a touch of trauma when I see anyone running the route it was that bad. Anyway, I hung up my Hookas after that and stuck to the powerwalking. 

The reason I mention my non-starting running career at all is that there was a 5km fun run for my local GAA club last Sunday. I knew it was coming up so thought it was as good a time as any to try out a ‘Couch to 5km,’ with the help of my marathon-running husband. Like most of my plans, I spent most of my time talking about it, and the only actual training involved us going out one single Sunday morning where I levelled abuse at him for urging me to keep running (kind of the whole point, you might say!). So last Sunday came and I fully intended upon doing my usual powerwalk, but do you know what, I started a slow shuffle (wouldn’t call it a jog, and definitely not a run), and I kept putting one foot in front of the other and with just a little walk in a few places, I got there.  If it sounds like I’m bragging, I promise you I’m not, it’s just that running 5km is a big deal for me ... I don’t run. 

It wasn’t all plain sailing mind. Around the third kilometre it did occur to me that I should upgrade my sports bra, and by the fourth kilometre I wondered if those vibrating chairs that are supposed to upgrade your pelvic floor actually work and where could I get one, but besides that it was all good, bar some minor dizziness and a touch of nausea. 

And there were lovely buns and lovely chats to be had in the local hall afterwards, once I’d caught my breath.

Of course now I think I’m the next Sonia O’Sullivan. I always do this. I remember the first time I skied down a blue slope I was sure I was headed for the Olympics; I’ve barely been on the pistes since. 

When I twirled around a skating rink a few Christmases ago I felt my inner Torvill come alive. At least I did, until I broke my ankle showing off. I tend to get a bit carried away, run before I can walk so to speak. My husband suggested that it’s because I like playing to the crowd. 

I would typically describe myself as the shrinkiest of shrinking violets but maybe he has a point? Perhaps I could gather a few wellwishers along my route to cheer me on and tell me I’m doing great the next time I’m heading out? A bit of water would be great too, otherwise I fear my new hobby will run aground before it ever takes off properly. Meanwhile, like lots of people I watched the first episode of Rebel Education: Inside Carrigaline Community School. The new series offers an unfiltered look at life inside a modern Irish secondary school, showcasing the trials and tribulations of teen life filmed over the course of an academic year. 

On Sunday night’s show, Bandon man and teacher Tadgh O’Donovan took on the task of tackling social media’s impact on mental health with his transition year class. Interestingly (well, not that interesting really), I’ve set a timer to limit my social media usage. 

I didn’t even know a feature that tells you how long you’ve spent on your various apps existed until my sister pointed it out and my smallie very ‘helpfully’ set it up for me (revenge, I assume, for me not allowing her play games on my phone). 

I’ve given myself a 30 minutes daily allowance on Instagram when I’d probably usually be hitting up to 60 minutes with mindless scrolling. So what am I doing with the time I’m saving? God only knows! 

Time is gas…a bit like space, you expand to fit it. Here’s an example: I was talking about needing to clean my floors for around three days last week but never ‘got to it’. 

Now, in case you think I’m slovenly, they weren’t really that dirty, not that I could see anyway thanks to my grey polished concrete. It hides a multitude, very good for your mental wellbeing; I thoroughly recommend it. 

Anyway, on day three I had a 20 minute window before I had to be in the car and on my way some place, and I finally got cracking and not only did I do the floors, I managed a fast hoover, emptied the tumble dryer, and folded some laundry. I nearly slipped and broke my ankle in the process and looked like I had been dragged through a hedge heading out the door, but I got it done. A personal best. 

Now that I think about it, who needs a 5km when you’ve mopping to do? And it’s gentler on the hips too.