Salvation Through Tuna

Of all the things to do it, I never thought a Tuna sandwich would be the one.

I was standing in the queue at the sandwich shop, waiting for my Ham and Cheese Savoury wrap. Not the unhealthiest lunch in the world, but it is not sausage and chips either.

Then in he walked.

I’m sure it is not just me that makes a snap judgement on someone on first sight, is it? Well this guy screamed “RUNNER”. Not only that but it was the markings of a good runner. He was about my height, close cropped hair, a ridiculously cool pair of shades on and a body fat percentage of about 5%. I think one of my thighs might have weighed more than he did. The ‘runner’ glided into the shop and went up to the counter.

“Tuna sandwich on wholemeal please.”

BAM!

It was light a lightning bolt came out of the sky and stuck me down there and then. The serving lady handed me my wrap which now felt like eating a lard butty with dripping chaser.

What had struck me was that whether that athletic looking man was a runner or not, at that precise moment he CHOSE to have that rather healthy Tuna sandwich over everything else the shop offered. When I had arrived at the counter I had exactly that same choice (although I was unlikely to choose Tuna blerrrggh).  I had chosen what I was craving, like some petulant child, not what would have given me the most benefit nutritionally.

It took me back to my first such “BAM” moment, back when I was 16 years old and weighing 17 ½ stone. I’d gone to London with a friend and we were walking around the Ted Baker shop in Carnaby Street. I’d gotten used to going into shops and coming out dejected as there was nothing in my (XXL) size, but at that moment I realised I was so unhappy with myself and my body that I have to change. So I subsequently joined Slimming World and 9 months and 3 ½ stone later I was in a much happier place.

Those of us who struggle with our weight and eating often liken it to a constant battle against the bulge, but is it? Really? Every moment of our lives we actually have free will and a choice of what to do. If I was to walk into that sandwich shop every day and order a wholemeal tuna sandwich, I would be making a correct choice, however it is only one of the many that I will make that day. Choosing whether to have cereal or bacon for breakfast, the biscuits that get passed round the office at 11am, the choice to raid the fridge on getting home from work, the finished wine bottle at the end of the evening. It’s so easy to make the wrong nutritional choices. It’s often easier to eat hastily prepared (or pre-prepared) shit, especially after a hard day at work. But we need to recognise that it is US that are actively choosing to do that. There is no great divine force pulling us towards the sausage rolls, just the inner caveman dragging us toward the quick gratification that they provide.

So what have I done about it? Well, I’ve tried to take some control back. I’m constantly aware that my food choices could be wiser. So I’ve enlisted a little help from the phone app MyFitnessPal. You log what you’ve eaten and drank and it shows you the nutritional make up for your day. I love it as it has stopped a lot of the mindless eating I was guiltily doing throughout the day.  It’s also very handy as you  an scan the barcodes of items to quckly get the info required. Much better than other apps I’ve seen in the past.

You also put in your exercise and it shows you how that affects your calorie intake for that day.

Yes, I’ve even logged my (occasional *cough*) glasses of wine on it.

Now I know it is not the answer to everything, but it’s a start. I’ve already been made aware after a few days that my balance of macronutrients isn’t quite right. I’ve got my mix of Fat and Protein percentages the wrong way round, could do with a bit less carb and a bit more Protein and that may explain why I struggle to recover well sometimes. I’m going to keep monitoring for a bit and see if I can make some good changes for the longer term.

I may never have the build of Tuna Sandwich Guy, but I can walk into the sandwich shop and order knowing I am making the best/right choice for me at that moment. What my body needs, not just what it wants.

Win Lose or Draw

AKA The Green-Eyed Monster

It has been a long winter, dear reader.  The cross country season was a bit of a right off personally, and Post-Xmas I seem to have been in an endless cycle of injuries, illness and grumpiness which hasn’t been fun for anyone involved.

That’s one of the reasons the blog has been a bit quiet. Whilst I know I’m not adverse to the odd grumble *cough*, six months of moaning is unpleasant to write and unpleasant to read.

One thing I would like to talk about though is a hardship we can seem to go through about this time of year. When the green shoots of Spring the start appearing, we all like to dust off those racing flats, don our vet-style short shorts and get out there and get racing. It feels good to be putting effort in at events we’ve spent many long dark months training for.

However, when you’ve been injured for a prolonged period, the weekends from late Feb onwards can be absolute bloody torture. Sitting there scowling with your leg raised and shivering under an ice pack, we see the endless parade off results coming in over social media in a blanket coverage that would have made the Luftwaffe proud. Admittedly, some are quite restrained, giving a time and not much else. Others are Facebook High-fiving for hours, maybe even days. When you’re friends with a lot of runners, Sundays can be tiring!

I have to ask is it just me that sees the endless stream of PBs flooding in and ends up just feeling, well shit. One of the joys of running is that we can celebrate the achievements of others, which is often down to a smidgen of talent and A LOT of hard work. The biggest difference between running and rowing, as I may have mentioned before, is that at the finish line, everyone is a winner.

I think it is hardest when the results are from those who you usually train with and are achieving times that you want to achieve.  Why is it that others winning can feel like you losing?

It seems a crazy question to ask, the rest of us will have our day at some point, and all runners are only one step away from their next injury. But it is hard enduring 6 weeks of “How the bloody hell did they run that quick!!” The answer is, of course, training, which some of us haven’t been able to do a lot off.

Before I appear like a complete twat, I do wish everyone well with their running, and I’m not sitting at home plotting anyone’s downfall cackling maniacally (much). In fact, I’ve turned it around into – If they can do it, so can I.

I've got some races coming up...and there's a job to do.

Like the Murphys…

Motivation

Motivation is a curious beast. Everyone, from Olympian to back-of-the -pack plodder will have their own reasons for putting themselves through the rigours of training an. I’m sure if you asked the participants on any start line in any sport what their motivation was, you’d likely get as many answers as there are discarded gel packs at the end of the race.

Motivation can also change over time. When coming into running, a lot of people (myself included) would cite weight loss as their primary aim. Over time, this can give way to improving PBs and general well-being not to mention stress relief and socialising with fellow runners and club mates.

However, is our motivation always a positive thing? When does drive become single-minded stubbornness. I’m going to let you into a secret, dear reader. One of the biggest reasons I had for putting down my blade and leaving the Rowing Club was to do with motivation. By this I don’t mean that I’d lost the will to compete or getter better, it was just that I realised what my motivation had been.

Anger.                                 

I realised I was angry at everything.  I was angry with the coach, I was angry with the club, fellow rowers, the system and above all angry with myself. I took a step back and saw that this wasn’t healthy for anyone involved. Somewhere along the way, I’d stopped rowing because it was an enjoyable activity that was improving me as a person and ended up rowing because I felt I had a point to prove. To whom I’m not sure, even now.

You wouldn't like me when I'm angry...

So I took a long hard look at myself and asked the question “Do I need this to make me happy?” The answer was a resounding, releasing “No”.  Of course, it was not an easy decision to walk away. As an obsessive character, rowing was pretty much everything to me. But it was only one part of me and it doesn't have to define me.

Some can use anger-as-motivation to great effect and boxers seem to do it all the time quite successfully. However, in the situation I was in, my biggest motivation was also my biggest handicap. I wasn't helping those around me and I certainly wasn’t helping myself. I needed to do something that brought me joy.

So I put on a pair of running shoes.

Now don’t think I’m floating a couple of inches off the ground happy-clappy guru-style. I still get angry. But I’ve learnt to look at the causes earlier on and deal with them. My best running performances have always come when I’ve been my happiest and most relaxed.

My gears really get ground when someone convinces themselves they have to be my rival for running times. I want to shout “GET OVER YOURSELF”. I’m not interested in you as a rival, I’m interested in you as a friend. Mutual support is so much better than competition.

Running is my happy place, even when it’s raining. 

Not so much when I’m injured though, that properly blows.

The Cheerleader

Possibly seemingly contrary to the path I've chosen with my training and coaching, I would say one of the best things your can do for yourself as a runner is to surround yourself with like-minded people.

That is not to say everyone should run along to their nearest running club - some people thrive outside traditional structures.  But a group of people to share the training load with can lighten that load considerably.

The banter (good and bad) within a group can be a great driver and motivator. As well as encouragement, it can be necessary to stay grounded when the Ego starts running away with itself. Your training buddies can always be relied on for that! However, within your group there is possibly one or two that are your biggest training asset.

This entity is so precious it is worth more than solid Gold. I'm talking about the Cheerleader.

These people are relentlessly positive about your training. They’ll seemingly whoop for joy when you have a good session, drag you up by the shoulders when things seem to go badly and seem to have never-ending armfuls of expectation and optimism when it comes to your future.

It takes a while (well it’s taken me a while) to realise that this praise is sincere and heartfelt. It’s possible to gain amazing strength from it.

I've been very lucky to have had (and continue to have) some great cheerleaders in my life. Of course, it doesn't only apply to training and sport, we can have Cheerleaders in many areas of our professional and personal lives.

This post is to say a big thank you to those. There can be so much negativity in training and sport (I'm looking at you ‘too cool for school’ crowd).  Your input is greatly appreciated, especially at the times I probably don’t deserve it.

Once in a while, have a look around. Who is your cheerleader? When you work it out, make sure you thank them.

Frankfurt 2014 – Dam-Busted (Part 1)

I’ve purposely not rushed to write this report. Marathons often take a lot out of you, more than the physical strain that covering 26.2 miles in one go places on the body. Ever since the race, my mind has been a swirling mess of thoughts and emotions which I’ve found hard to put into words. But here we go.

The best laid plans can often go completely breasts-aloft. Earlier in the year I’d had it all worked out. Training for Thunder Run will stand me in good stead for 12 twelve weeks of concerted training before Frankfurt. Having found a new home we wanted to move to back in January, we were due to move in June/July. This was also crucially away from Frankfurt prep, nothing was going to distract me.

Fast forward to the end of July. The training for Thunder Run had been a bit punishing. The double sessions at the weekends, whilst valuable, had taken their toll. The Thunder Run event itself was also a bit of a bruiser with the horrific temperatures and moments of team distress. Also, we had no signs of moving house, with obstacles and delays galore. Still, I was ready to start training.

It has to be said, I had a great August. I was consistently running 55 miles+ every week and was ailing the sessions. I had some great company on my long Sunday runs and things were looking good.

This run continued into September, buoyed by my success at Lake Vyrnwy Half Marathon. There were a few events coming up on the horizon, but I was ready to take them in my stride.

The amazing weekend events in London at the beginning of October have been documented already on the blog. What hasn’t been yet is my trip to St Mary’s University for a little Physiological Testing (I promise I’ll write that up soon).

The one down side to all that was that I really felt like I missed an important weekend’s run. Nick was cool about it all and adjusted my training plan accordingly, but there was a nagging voice in my brain berating me for going ‘off-piste’ so close to race day. About that time it also became clear that the house move was imminent and a lot of time was being taken up with sorting stuff for that. Also, news came through of an incoming reorganisation at work, nothing like a restructure to relax the mind…

I was trying to train as much as possible, but some runs were suffering. It culminated in a Wednesday session and I felt my left calf go. I knew it was a little tear an only rest was going to cure it. This was a couple of days before I was do to do the longest and most important run, the 35Km Shit on a Stick. I had to put it off and ended up trying to do it midweek (after a full day in work, in the pissing rain). Suffice to say it was possibly the worst run of my life. Code brown after 6 miles, I had to dive home, got out again and fucked up my Garmin. Twice. In the end, after 17 miserable miles I gave in and rang Steve from a phonebox to come and get me. I’d never done that before and it bit hard, but everything kind of came to a head and I realised I just couldn’t do everything at once.

Just to top it all off, I then went and had a crash with a bike. It was an ordinary Monday recovery run, two weeks before race day and was almost game over. No one was seriously hurt and I limped a mile home, nursing my right leg and got to my Physio as soon as possible. I’d got away with a ‘dead leg’ with a lot of pain and some mighty brusing. The Physio said that it was only my quads that stopped me having a broken femur (thank you Rowing). Another few days off didn’t do anything for my rock bottom confidence. In the week before the race I manage to get out a couple of times with some residual pain on my neck and back (maybe whiplash?).

We ended up moving house on the 17^th, one week before the race.  But that was lovely, hard work but lovely . Soon it was time to travel to Frankfurt.

As I’ve said many times before, I love Germany and I love Frankfurt. I’d forgotten how cool it is being in a city during marathon weekend. The buzz is electric. We busied ourselves with race preparations and sorted out things like race number collection.  I had a lovely last run along the river on the Saturday morning. It was just me and the Kenyans *gulp*.

We tried not to spend too long at the expo, but managed to catch up with Nick and Tom there. After resting in the hotel in the afternoon, I headed over to Nick’s hotel of a bit of a pre-race briefing. If you’ve not had one of these you are missing a treat and I was grateful for it. I’d told him that given the events of the previous few weeks I wasn’t here for heroics, just keep it steady as possible. A great Italian meal in the evening and it was time to get some rest before the race. 

I didn’t sleep too badly, but felt fidgety on Sunday morning. We headed over to the start and it was soon time to go. I had decided to stick with the 3:14 pacers for as long as possible and see what happened. This was slower than I’d been running in training, which I thought was probably a good thing. Of course the pacers were German, and I was too shy to say hello, but I kept close to them.

The race started and off we went, the two 3:14 pacers went off like bullets, one was slightly in front of the other and I decided to stick with the second one. The first few Kilometeres went by and to be honest the pace felt slightly feverish. I was manual checking off the Kms on my Garmin. Now I know that 3:15 pace is 4:37/Km. By my reckoning we were going at more like 4:30/km. I tried not too think about it too much at the time, but post-race it has annoyed me somewhat. Going round the inner city streets, it felt quite hot. I reasoned that was because the buildings were close and high. There were quite a few water and sponge stations so I tried to keep cool as best I could.

As we headed out of the city, the race fell into something of a pattern. Our pacer was running the race on the left hand side of the course, however most of the water stations were on the right. Therefore, in order to get water (in paper cups at Frankfurt) you had to cross the width of the course, pick up the refreshment and then try and get back into position. I would find myself 100-150m down on the pace group after every station and would have to work slightly harder to get back with them. I was conscious that it is generally easier to run in a group than alone so was keen to get back into position.

I was kind of forced to take a tactical decision just after the 20Km mark. My race number started coming off and I didn’t want to be disqualified so I had to stop and readjust. I also took on some water that was there and got going again. I was probably about 300m behind the yellow balloon of the pacer at this point. Looking at the starts after the race, I crossed the halfway point still within 3:15 pacing. With a stop. That’s how much the pacers were overclocking it,

I carried on, now alone in my thoughts…

Cookbooks

I must admit to a major internet transgression. I’ve totally lifted the basis for this article from someone else. The Internet Food Supremo that is Adam Roberts – The Amauter Gourmet posted his responses to these questions on his website

I’ve wanted to write about my cookbooks for years but didn’t know where to start. I hope you find something of interest below. Cookbooks are a wonderful thing, holder of memories, stories, laughter, love and tears. They tell our story through food. Here are some of my thoughts.

When did you start collecting cookbooks?

If you watched a film of my childhood, a large amount of screen time would be taken up with me pouring over the cookbooks owned by my Nan. My family have always communicated through food. There were meals of welcome, meals of comfort and meals of sorry. There still are. We’re all a bit obsessed with food.

The cooking bug didn’t hit me hard until after I’d moved into my first flatshare. I had a copy of a little Nigel Slater paperback (which I saved from a bonfire) and cooked the Sauages with Lentils. It was almost a religious moment. The quality of the ingredients, the time taken to prepare it was like an orchestra playing in my head. I was hooked. I bought a few more Nigel Slater cookbooks and carried on cooking.

My first cookbook

With the passing of my grandmother and my aunt (equally as epicurious as I) I found myself with some hallowed books I’d treasured for years. Then I just kept buying…Cookbooks are like storybooks, they put us in a particular time and place and with particular people.

I love quirky ones. I’ve got cookbooks purely for Jelly, Mince or Scones. About 500 in total, and I love them all.

What lesser-known cookbooks do you think deserve more love?


There is a bit too much reliance on the TV Chefs and cooks. The prevalence of ‘lifestyle porn’ photography is a real turn off. Turn to one of Nigella’s first books – “How to Eat” – No pictures and absolutely wonderful writing.
The traditional (dare I say old-fashioned) food writers tend to produce much better books (notable exception being Val Warner for his sheer genuine love of food.). “The Vicar’s Wife Cook Book” by Eliza Benyon is a real underrated gem, the result of winning a  competition for Waitrose. The writing is so warm, it leaps off the page. The books of Alice Hart. Tamasin Day-Lewis, Xanthe Clay, Diana Henry are also all recommended.

 

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What cookbook would you recommend for beginner cooks?


For baking there is one choice – Mary Berry’s Ultimate Cake Book. It’s All-in-one-methods all the way. No mucking about.

The first general-use cookbook I found really useful was Tom Norrington-Davies’ Cupboard Love – a great book for twenty-something folks living away from home for the first time. Gives you a great repertoire of simple dishes to cook.

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What cookbook do you turn to for inspiration?


I love the food of the Eastern Med/Middle East, so Yotam Ottolenghi is a big favourite of mine. Also Arto Der Haroutunian, and Sally Butcher have produced some brilliant books in this area.

I also tend to gravitate towards the calendar-year based books, such as Nigel Slater’s Kitchen Diaries or Elizabeth Luard’s Year in a Welsh Farmhouse”. But normally I’m looking through for recipes to match what I’ve got in the fridge and cupboards. For veg it’s Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Bible or The Riverford Farm Cook Book.

What cookbook really taught you something new?


I’ve yet to find a cookbook that hasn’t taught me at least one thing I had not known. Having such a collection now, I tend to stay away from general cookbooks now. You can only have so many recipes of something like Key Lime Pie.

What's your favourite cookbook overall?


It’s like asking to choose between children! Erm, probably my Nan’s 1960s slightly battered copy of Mrs Beeton’s All Colour Cookery Book as I’ve grown up with it in all its lurid flare. If the house caught fire as a result of some disastrous culinary experiment, that’s the one I’d save.

I’d be loathe to leave Delia Smith’s Christmas as well.

What newer cookbooks impressed you recently?


I’ve been really impressed by the cookbooks that have been released by former contestants of the Great British Bake Off. John Whaite Bakes is a great book, cooking by mood, something I think we all do. I also love the fact he wanted to call it The Moody Baker, he’s such a sweetie. 

But the ultimate has to be Mary-Anne Boermans’ Great British Bakes. The scholarly, accessible text had me literally running to the kitchen. Combining my love of history and baking, it reads and cooks like a dream. You can tell this is a proper cook’s book. She even lists the pans she has used. I love that. She’s great on twitter (@Wotchers) as well. Every cook should have this book.

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What older cookbooks do you love?


I’m partial to the cooking of Britain in the years between the two World Wars. The pre-Elizabeth David food of this country in that time was interesting, frugal and not completely obliterated by the fads of the continent. Wonderful pies and jellys, tarts and joints. The books of Mrs Hilda C.F. Leyel are the best examples of this – “Picnics for Motorists” and “Cold Savoury Meals”. I love the fact that the first line in a pie recipe is “Make a Pastry” – That’s it and it moves onto the filling. Everyone at that time knew how to!

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I hope you’ve found this at least a little bit interesting. I hope you feel an urge to pick up a cookbook and allow it to transport you to another place, a table laden with tasty treats. I’ll be there pouring the gin and tonics

A Family Affair

Family is a wonderful thing. No matter how strong the winds of life toss you about, they provide a safe haven and a reassurance that things are going to be okay.

As we get older, we find that families come in all sorts of guises. Of course, there are our biological families.  A sure sign of growing up is the point where we stop wishing that we found out we were adopted and come to accept the quirks and foibles that make up our own families. Allied with this is the family one gains when in a relationship. It’s a lovely thing to have a whole ‘new’ group of people to develop relationships with. To find out their hope, dreams and fears.

Historically, LGBT folk will often count their gay family as a separate entity in itself. This was often borne of a need/desire to stick together in the face of community or family-imposed isolation. I don’t see my own gay family nearly as much as I’d like. When I returned from Ghana in 2004, they were the ones that stopped me from going totally insane and I own them much.

Of course, mention must be made of our sports family .Participation in sports, especially team sports such as rowing, will mean that you spend an inordinate amount of time with your fellow teammates. The trial and tribulations of life will be spayed out for all to see and you juggle intense training, work, and home life – never an easy task. Your team mates will no doubt see you at your best and possibly worst in the course of time. There are often very few secrets that kept from those around you. 

The reason for this post is I’ve had a bit of a shock family-wise. The Hawkins family has dwindled somewhat in recent years. At my mother’s wedding a few years ago, a comment was made that I was the last Hawkins. I must admit it left me feeling a bit glum. Well, through the magic of Facebook, I’ve found myself connected with members of my wider family of cousins-through-grandparents and other relations. Last week we (Steve, myself, my mum and her husband) found ourselves just north of London at a family party. I’d been incredibly nervous about going and had been thinking about it for weeks. Most of the people there I hadn’t seen for over 20 years when I was a child.

It was one of the most wonderful evenings of my life. From the moment I arrived (slightly trembling) I just felt engulfed in a sense of belonging. Even if you’ve never met me in real life, I’m sure you’ve picked up in this blog that I’ve always considered myself a bit of an outsider. Well imagine what it’s like for an outsider to walk into a room of friendly faces, all saying “you’re one of us”. It was a pleasure to talk to everyone. I was able to share old family photos from my phone and Picasa. I was able to talk about relatives and everyone knew who I meant. I found out lots of information about my direct relatives I never knew.

I also got to meet a relative, Mick, who I’d heard so much about over the years but had never met. It was as magical as I thought it would be. I could talk to him for hours, days even and I hope we get to meet again soon. But the same is true of everyone there. We felt a bit isolated from the family up in Liverpool, but I hope we can now take the steps to stay connected with everyone.

So in the space of a few hours, I went from having a biological family that was tiny to one that is massive. We may not have the same surnames, but we’re all Hawkins. I’m so proud of that, I’ve walked a little taller since last Saturday.

Family is important, whatever form it takes. Look after yours.