Remembering Madiba

A week ago today the world reeled from the news that Nelson Mandela had passed away. I was sitting on this very sofa, catching up with social media nonsense when a tweet popped up with the news. Quickly verified by BBC, Al Jazeera, and every other major news player on the globe the news spread instantly. I was suddenly acutely aware that at 10:30pm here in London, I was probably finding out the news ahead of my family in South Africa, who would be in bed asleep, only to find out on the Friday morning. I had no idea how I would feel. Being far away from home both physically (and also emotionally it has to be said), having been in London for 10 years, the news hit me with an immediacy I had not anticipated. In that moment, phone in hand watching the world send tweets and posts and images and platitudes through the ether I was back in Johannesburg, trying to remember the first time I heard his name or saw a picture of his face.

I have often shied away from writing about my childhood in South Africa. I don't know why. Possibly because there have been so very many coming of age stories based in the New South Africa. We bore the 'born frees' senseless with our tales of transition through the 80s and early 90s. They're often told by children of the struggle movement who, having lived through the oral history of our parents who actually did the work, toyi toying through the streets, and getting arrested, we felt we were close enough to it. And a fair number of these prodigal children are often now living abroad looking back at their 'pastoral' youth with great nostalgia and naivety. In the US they call these children the Cold War Kids, so in South Africa being born around State of Emergency being declared – we have a similar backdrop to our ABCs.

But that day last week I was confronted with my 8yr old self, grief stricken by the news of the death of a great man.

I don't remember exactly when I first learned about this man, Madiba, who was in prison on an island off the coast of Cape Town where we were lucky enough to have idyllic holidays every year with our extended family. Growing up as a white child in South Africa in the 1980s, I have memories of a happy childhood. We lived in a bubble secured by military law, government legislation and an entire infrastructure designed to keep us separate and apart from the reality of the country we were born into regardless, to a certain extent, of our parent’s political leanings. A white washed illusion perpetuated by the Apartheid government, at great expense, the toll for which we will pay for many years to come. As Denis Hirson so beautifully described it, we lived in The House Next Door to Africa. And if you'll permit me to extend the metaphor, our house happened to have just enough of a back door left open for the 8 year old me to peer through and see that things were perhaps not what they seemed. 

My parents were both anti-apartheid supporters and activists, and I knew this as a child as I knew what a feminist was or a catholic or an economist. These were all esoteric terms in my head and I had no deeper understanding of what they actually meant. We had pictures of people like Joe Slovo and Helen Joseph in the study, my mother had a poster that proclaimed 'A House Does Not Need A WIFE any more than it does a HUSBAND'. There were Johnny Clegg cassette tapes and history books galore.

In the 1980's my mother worked for an organisation called Sached (South African Committee for Higher Education), a committee that worked to open up distance learning at university to level to all races, after the apartheid government closed university applications to non-whites in the late 50s.  So at social gatherings there were interesting people, who wore their hair in brightly beaded braids and wore t-shirts that said things like 'AMANDLA!' (Power!), or in my mother's case 'WOMANDLA!’ There were often discussions about The Struggle. As kids, we rolled our eyes and went off to watch Thunder Cats and play Dungeons & Dragons. Adults were boring always talking talking.

My first memory of realising that perhaps my parent’s worldview was radically different to that of my peer group was a school concert circa 1988. My mother, as usual, was running very late and barely made the assembly. I was furious that she was late and had made a bit of an entrance with the door slamming to the hall, and everyone looking while she found a seat. I was even more mortified when I realised she was wearing THAT ‘nkosi sikelel iafrika T-shirt, covered in flour (she had been making cheese muffins). But the final straw was watching her SIT DOWN through the entire singing of the national anthem, while all the other parents stood, belting out the words to Die Stem at volume. Looking back I want to high five my brave, stubborn, wonderfully unmanageable mother, but in 1988, I was red faced with the embarrassment of having a mother with ‘politics’.

But it wasn't until 1989 that it really hit home. On the 1st of May, an anti-apartheid activist by the name of David Webster was assassinated outside his home by the Civil Cooperation Bureau, a covert organisation of the Apartheid government. Being 8 years old I had no memory of meeting him, although I am told I met family at some point. But I do remember, clear as day, my mother unravelling with anger and grief, sobbing in front of the TV the night the news broke, my father speechless at her side. And I was now old enough to figure out that something was well and truly fucked up here in Sunny South Africa.

Alongside the 'House Husband' postcard came the back page of the Mail & Guardian featuring an image of David Webster, his back to the camera looking out a window ahead of speaking at an event. Head bowed, alone with the dates 1945 – 1989 in bold below. And perhaps this is why, 25 years later, I went back to that year as the watershed moment, a full year before Mandela was released. Not long after that I learned about what went before; Sharpeville, Biko, the 1976 riots, Sophiatown. 

Heading into the 90’s we went through Model C schooling (a brand of government and private school hybridisation that facilitated racial integration), Zulu being introduced as a language option (very badly at first, by teachers who knew less than us, to the hysterical amusement of the new black kids in our classes, hooting with laughter at the ill-timed clicks and awful grammar – school prank gold) and navigating the mind field that was being a young teen in a rapidly changing society. I was 10 when the schools started integrating, and 13 by the time the first general elections rolled around in 1994.I remember being furious we weren’t allowed to vote, but slightly relieved when we saw the queues going round the block. I remember watching with fascination as some of our peer’s parents prepared for civil war, and many left to live in New Zealand, Australia and the UK. We watched Madiba’s inauguration – the dancing and joy - and yet people were leaving, all in the face of amazing optimism it seemed crazy

Kurt Cobain also died that year so between the general elections and the loss of my first true love, it was a pretty epic time. Hormones aside.

By 1995, the year we won the World Cup Rugby and Madiba donned the springbok jersey and danced with the nation, this man had come to symbolise a calming force of nature that could fan flames of national pride across the deeply entrenched racial divides and yet cool tempers when change wasn’t as quickly affected as the people needed and unrest was sparked. By the time I started university in 1999 we were 5 years into democracy with one of the most forward thinking constitutions in the world. And Johannesburg felt like the most cosmopolitan place on the globe, with every possibility in reach. We were starting companies, discovering our own brands of deep house, garage and electro, writing controversial articles, making our new voices heard. The party had just begun.

I was even lucky enough to meet The Man himself while waitressing at the 70^th birthday party of yet another anti-apartheid activity, Amina Cachalia. I was so nervous I very nearly spilt spaghetti into his lap. Thankfully I was a better waitress than I thought and I managed to avert disaster, with a quick swivel on my heel. I also got to hear Graca Machel sing happy birthday which is a pretty special gem of a memory too.

So how am I here in London, paying my respects to a man who featured so prominently throughout my life, at Trafalgar Square rather than in Jozi? 

If anything the upbringing I was so lucky to have encouraged me to get out of my comfort zone, try new things, go to new places. Not get complacent with my thinking. There is nothing like travelling to make you  feel immensely knowledgeable and hugely humbled by your own ignorance. London has done both. I also happened to be in love and that will take you everywhere, although ironically enough that wasn’t to be the love that kept me here. I fell in love with London, and then married a cabbie. What else?

So I paid my respects in two ways. I went to South Africa House and signed the Remembrance book with my London born and bred husband. We queued with a myriad of people from all over London, many of whom had taken time off work to do so, many of whom have never even been to South Africa. It’s been amazing to see how our collective feeling has been truly global and how this one life touched so many people.

And then I went running through my adoptive city with 100 RDC members under the cover of night, the Christmas lights shining, and bridges lit up, all the way from St Pauls past Waterloo Bridge to the Madiba statue on the Southbank. It was so beautiful and I am no longer ashamed to admit I sobbed like that 8 year old all over again.

Rest in peace Tata. You were our inspiration as we grew up from children, taught us patience, courage and forgiveness as unruly teens, and left us as adults with a sense of pride and purpose. Hamba kahle (Go Well)

100+ Run Dem Crew with the Madiba Statue (photo credit Glenn Hanock)

Mo Running? No Problem! The Movember 10K (Greenwich)

Training this autumn has been fantastic. I joined the new season with Run Dem Crew in East London, got over my fear of Track (just), and shook it all up a bit with a muddy obstacle course or two for good measure. So what better way to to top it all off, than racing with over 100 fellow RDC members in the Mo Running 10K in Greenwich? YES!

This was to be my first race back from the ITB injury that has me on the bench all summer. Earlier this year I was guilty of making it all running and no strength training. Or stretching. Or rolling. Of course the inevitable happened and I found myself sobbing at my physio, AGAIN. Frustrated and fed up. I was doing the same old things and expecting different results. Definition of insanity right there.

This time I decided not to take my first race back race too seriously and just enjoy it. No stressing about negative splits and no worrying about the hills' impact on my time. To get into the mood I bought six different comedy moustaches to remind me not to panic and have laugh.  And even *I* couldn't take myself seriously in this get up. Stylin' 

Nadia and I repping the MO: Serious Business

I arrived at Greenwich park around 9am to meet up with the rest of the crew. Registration was seamless, with very little queuing and we had our numbers and race chips pinned on, lopped through in no time at all. 

This left plenty of time to choose a respectable moustache (I went for Hulk Hogan), have a pre race dance (Disclosure, on repeat, standard). Remember its about 3 degrees here and we're all wearing lycra. Brrrrrrr!

As we set off for the start line, I was introduced to Natalie who would be running her first 10K race, and we decided we'd take on this hilly, two lap course together. After almost losing each other at the start, (over 2,000 people!)  we found an acceptable pace and took on the race. 

We couldn't have asked for better conditions. The course cleared shortly into the race so there wasn't a huge amount of congestion, we warmed up really quickly and the views were just spectacular. 

What. A. Day. 

The Supreme Cheer Dem Crew, lead by motivational guru and running bad ass Chevy Rough, had positioned themselves on the trickiest part of the course - a very nasty hill -  and they gave it their all. Each and everyone of those whoops and high fives gave us the extra boost we needed to push through. In fact, you lot were so good, there were at least another three or four groups of people I over heard chatting on the train about 'that massive group on the hill' who gave each and everyone of them a lift. 

For all 10kms, Natalie was a total hero and soldiered through shin splints and my constant nattering with impressive resolve. That steely determination really came into play when we approached the finish line and we both upped the pace and flew over the line straight into the running paparazzi (looking forward to seeing if we made the FB page!).  Natalie clocked a great time of  1hr 8 mins for her first 10K and I was thrilled to get through without any injury niggles and a massive smile on my face. Winning!

Natalie and I showing off our new bling - well done Natalie!

That left us to get our bling on (my favourite medal so far), eat a bacon sandwich and collect as many cartons of Vita Coco as we could lay our hands on. What a way to start a Saturday!

A huge thank you to Glenn Hannock, all round legend and project manager extraordinaire, who not only motivated over 100 of us to get signed up ahead of the event, but sorted out training runs, meet up points, and also managed to set up RDC base complete with music, balloons and our own private bag drop! How lucky are we? Definitely IN for 2014.

Marvy Medal 

Survival of the Fittest: London Town

Four months ago, my crazy, mad, badass friend Christina, suggested a group of us equally badass, crazy girls form a team and get ourselves registered for Survival of the Fittest, in London. 'Of course!' we all said. 'We're really hardcore, we can totally take this'. We met once to discuss training and plans over dinner - and then, as with all best laid plans, life got a little bit in the way. There was work, and holidays, and injuries and well, it couldn't be that hard could it?

A week before the event I went into flat panic. I knew I could manage the running. But the obstacles? What if I fell and broke something? Or worse? What if I couldn't *do* any of them? Cue massive online crowd sourcing and googling - which put most of my anxiety to rest. Basic fitness should do. But only just. So that just left me time to paint my nails. Race day nails are a sacred tradition.

Saturday morning arrived and the day started with an alarm call at 6am, not my usual weekend routine (urg), and we were all more than a little bleary eyed in the cab ride from West London down to Battersea Power Station (thanks National Rail for your impeccably timed engineering works). But the cobwebs were briskly blown away by the Arctic temperatures we were greeted with when arriving at the site. It was BRASS MONKEYS cold. Even with five layers and a hoodie, at 7:30am the sun had made absolutely no impact whatsoever. My first thought was, how on earth were we going to manage an ice bath? And secondly what the actual f*ck was I thinking? No training! Freezing conditions! *meltdown*

But at least it wasn't raining. It is November after all, miraculous weather!

Well hello there Battersea Power Station, looking all sunshine pretty!

By 8am we had signed our disclaimers (favourite phrase: 'No Showboating on the obstacles') and located the bag drop. Other than having to pay an additional £2 for the bag drop (remember - this race cost £65 to enter...) the whole process ran like clockwork. Bags sorted, race numbers picked up (with safety pins included and they provided pens, luxury) and we were ready to go.

Obstacles! Strategy! *actual fear of death* 

The Mud Honeys: (L-R) Christina, me, Matlida, Tina and Chris

Just after 9am, we were ushered to the start line, and after a very quick warm up and debrief on safety ('Don't play with the traffic on Queenstown Road') we started at bang on 9:15, the allocated slot for Wave Two. We were right to pick an early start, thankfully very little mud at the beginning of the course and after clambering over the first obstacle of hay bales we were off to tackle the rest.

A bit of jumping, criss crossing, and clambering and we found ourselves at the Monkey Bars. Given I have very little upper body strength, I was dreading this one the most so was very pleased it came so early in the race. The actual bars happened to be rather high off the ground and I could not reach them without a jump off the base bars. My actual nightmare and while we were contemplating whether to jump and swing, the girl in front of us lost her grip, fell and and landed slightly askew on her ankle with a sickening 'crack'. White with shock, she said, very calmly 'I think I heard something crack'. We agreed. Again, the race was spectacularly catered for and huge kudos to the marshals, who got her off the course out of harm's way. They got her looked after very quickly, and it looked like she was in safe hands, so we moved along.

Tina, Matilda and I decided risking it this early on, wasn't good strategy, but props to Chris and Stina who missed the drama as they were already half way across!

Thankfully that was the only real drama we encountered for the rest of the race. We took a quick stretch break on the run in Battersea Park to support Christina who was soldering through with a leg injury (hero), and I need an extra boost (or three!) up some of the steeper walls.

The moment when I encountered what looked like a rather long drop off on obstacle -  and froze - wasn't a highlight.  I over thought the issue and got completely paralysed with my fear of heights, not able to jump down (for fear of hearing *that* crack) but equally I couldn't turn around and go back. This was when I was so thankful I was competing with a team. Tina calmly explained, while shouting up at me, that I just needed to turn around and lower myself backwards. Simples. It really was.

This issue comes up again and again with me, over analysing and then just getting stuck (sometimes literally, legs swinging off the top of a wall thinking the marshals would have to come lift me down after everyone else had finished). I am my own worst enemy, if I get out of my own way and just DO IT, the course goes so much smoother. These little epiphanies I have while covered in mud and sweat. Wish I could have them while sitting in my slippers on the sofa drinking green tea, but hey. I'll take my inspiration where I can find it. I tend to find it while partaking in mad, crazy, and usually strenuous, activities.

Having climbed up and over countless walls, we finally got to the ice baths and mud tips. By that point we were pretty warm and the freezing water wasn't nearly as bad as I had built it up to be in my head (at 3am this morning, debating my chances of survival). Another theme. It usually is never as bad as we make it out to be in our heads. But it was cold. My breathing went all weird.

This was followed by more water, climbing and clambering and finally we hit the last obstacle - the infamous Wall of Fame. This took some serious team work and bit of help from the general population, a boost up and then a pull over. Shout out to the large lovely ginger bloke who came to our rescue when we couldn't get Chris over  (thanks mainly to my lack of upper body power!).

And that was that! I think we did it in 1hr 15mins or so, not bad considering we had a laugh, took a stretch break (or two) and we finished together as a team 'Leave No Woman Behind!'. Heroes.

No photographic evidence as yet, but I'll update the blog post when the official pics come through. My knees are bruised and battered beyond all recognition (that Over & Under obstacle that we had to do FOUR times is responsible for that. OUCH). But otherwise, we were all high enough on adrenalin to vogue out, post race. Check it.

Matlida's face PRICELESS (2nd from right)

Bad Ass. And the sun is in my eye 

BLING!!

More for the collection

Scotland!

Rory and I escaped the big smoke for some much needed R&R up in Scotland for a week. Perfect time of year to go, crisp cool air and a surprising amount of sunshine. We couldn't be further away from chocked west London, delayed tubes and clogged inboxes.

It's been just over a year since I've been up to this part of the world, pretty special place for me as reminds me how far I've come with my fitness and running, this is pretty much where it all started.

I raced my first 10K up here in Glasgow back in 2011, supported by my two Aunts, one running with me and the other handing out much needed encouragement and bananas. Having just completed the couch to 5K program, Val suggested I get registered for a 10K, and Lyn chimed in recommending her local - the Glasgow Women's 10K - beautiful course complete with half naked bagpipe players. What more motivation do you need?

I had coped with running around 5K a couple of times a week, plodding around W10 and letting Stella run circles around me - surely 10K would be doable. Which it was. I hadn't checked the course before (which it turned out was a good thing - I would have panicked) and had no idea there were a few pretty killer hills, one in particular stretching from 6k to about 8k and having done no hill training in my life, it was a shock. Thankfully, the semi nude bag pipe boys where there to help me through though. Kilts and all. God bless Scotland.

One hour and twelve minutes later I had run my first race, thrilled with my blingtastic medal and flabbergasted I hadn't died or at least had a minor heart attack. I had quit smoking a year before and was still reeling from the fact I didn't cough every five minutes, huff and puff up stairs or come down with every cold going. I felt like superwoman.

2011 First Race (10K)

And that was that, I was hooked and promptly signed up for my first half marathon that September, keeping with the Scottish theme and registering for the Great Scottish Run.

Two years, three half marathons, five 10Ks, two ITB injuries and untold hill sessions later, it's wonderful to be back in Pollok park going over a few of the 'killer' hills I remember and catching up with the local wildlife. Unfortunately, no bag pipe boys to be found this particular morning, but we can't have everything. I settled for the astonishing lack of rain and pretty mild temperatures. 

You cannot beat Scotland when the sun shines, eat your heart out Hyde Park!

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Autumn - Let's be Having Ya!

New Look for A/W 2013!  Waddya think? Don't I look the professional blogger type? So shiny!

So with that, I am very pleased to announce I am back in training. New shoes, new look, new races in the diary - and the weather is near perfect for it. Cold, windy and a bit wet. As they say, if its not raining, its not training. This is also my excuse for not updating the blog, I have been outside, RUNNING! Yes you heard right, I'm back doing decent mileage too. It's been bloody brilliant.

Monday's finds me training with RDCWest, clocking up about 5 pretty steady miles with the crew. I'm not pushing myself too hard as I am incredibly paranoid I am going to injure myself for a 3rd time in less than a year - which would just be plain stupidity and I don't think BUPA would be terribly sympathetic. I'm reminding myself that speed is not the priority right now, time is irrelevant, its just about getting out there and getting my endurance and fitness back up to scratch.

Thursday's I've joined RDCWest's very own track mafia. Last night I survived my very first taste of track and did not puke, pass out or cry. I'm taking that as a massive win. I do have a slightly niggly knee, but the physio assures me that's not the end of the world, and a bit of ibuprofen and MORE FOAM ROLLING will do the trick.

Brand Spanking New Trainers (they even squeak)

CREW! Hitting Little Venice

Happy Endorphin Running Face = Mash Up

If all that wasn't enough, I've started sampling the free weight section at my local gym. The wonderful Jim Murphy  has designed both a lower body and upper body work out developed to support my running, and get my upper body stronger. Its pretty killer. I couldn't walk for about 3 days afterwards and discovered what DOMS stands for on fitness blogs. Yes those. I had them. D.O.M.S.

Serious Buns of Steel. OUCH

I am hoping the additional time in the weights room will pay off when I am hauling myself over massive walls and running through London Mud (ew) in the Survival of the Fittest event I am competing in on Nov 16th. This deserves its very own blog piece, but involves me and five other  kick ass ladies kitting up and showing the boys how its done. Or at the very least getting covered in mud and having a really good laugh making total asses of ourselves. New hobby it would seem.

So with Survival of the Fittest and Movember 10K taking me into the festive season, and the Brighton and Berlin Half to prepare for in the Spring, I've got plenty to keep me occupied, and hopefully, injury free!


Huge thanks to Michelle Allan for the awesome new header - she's a super talented design lady and all round bad ass running hero who is also raising money for Tommy's - check out her site, great offers on designs for a limited time, for a fantastic charity.

Motivation and The Mean Girl

Well into Week 8 of injury down time here at Conquest Towers. Initially I like to think I took my second ITB injury in my stride. I knew what to expect, and I hit the physio exercises hard, only throwing one or two full on diva temper tantrums. I got on the spin bike regularly and gave it 110%, and made peace with the Foam Roller Of Spiteful Death. It was going well. I even started climbing to keep me distracted

Climbing Heroes

What running injury?

This burst of positivity didn't last for long. I was hit with a fairly brutal summer cold, combined with a manically busy period at work and a very serious case of all consuming 'meh'. Typically my nutritional planning then went out the window as I reached for chocolate, sugar and caffeine to save the day, instant fixes and serious sugar comedowns. Add in a dash of 'I-just-can't-be-arsed' for good measure and you've got a very unmotivated and pretty pissed off person.

But it wasn't just the stressed out immune system to blame - officially giving up the Royal Parks place sucked. This was going to be the Half that I delivered a decent PB, and I'd wipe out the memory of literally sobbing through mile 8 last year, when the first ITB injury flared up in all its agonising glory. It was the race that would kick off a new season of 'proper running'. You know the stuff, training that is synchronised in perfect harmony with your schedule, where you cross train as often as you know you should, where PBs are beaten every month. I had a very clear idea that this would herald in some new era in fitness, and in turn I would finally become a 'Proper Runner' too. But I had to say no thanks. I'm on  the bench, I need to recover and rebuild recondition. And in my head I hear this:  I'm obviously just not cut out for this. My body is just rubbish, just stop. Its too hard

So here's the thing. I am still trying to convince that surly cynical sulking inner teenager of my youth that I'm actually capable of doing this. Every slower than expected mile, every ache, every twist, every injury  I can hear her sniggering from behind a fog of Marlborough, snapping gum and smirking, 'You don't really think you can do this do you? Making an arse of yourself out there wearing STUPID shorts and UGLY trainers, and you look a right sweaty mess, wheezing through a 15 minute run. What a JOKE' 

She's a total bitch.

I should know, I was her for a damn sight longer than I like to admit.

It's this long standing fiercely personal fight that's the hardest one. I've conquered my fears about running outdoors in broad daylight wearing VERY short shorts. I'm deliriously happy when I look in the mirror and I'm practically puce - I can laugh at the fact that I forget to take my mascara off and I look like Alice Cooper on a spin bike. I really couldn't give a flying fuck about what the blokes at the pub are shouting after me as I ran past. But if I spend too much time in my own head, I'll find a reason why I shouldn't bother. That insecure, bullying, spiteful voice gets a little louder and picks tiny holes in all my hard earned esteem.

Hence the climbing, the roller blading, the cycling. I suspect I may take up motorbiking too, that might shut up the Mean Girl in my head. Scare the shit out of her. I've also noticed making a total fool of myself and laughing about it, keeps her pretty quiet too - so there was this:

Harley Nerd

Combine the two, fear and being ridiculous and I give you Survival of the Fittest  in November. If that doesn't shut her up, it may just convert her. Get her to give up the snark and take up the pom poms. I need to become my own biggest cheer leader. Thankfully I've got a few awesome people around me, doing that job well. You guys rock (you know who you are!)

Long suffering spouse

Stella. Coach Almighty

Blink and You'll Miss It

Photography as always been something I have had a very avid (but amateur!) interest in, from disposable cameras in my teens, point and click compacts through my twenties and now the more obsessional cataloguing of daily life on my iPhone.

I suspect it's in my genes, something I picked up from my Mom. Ever the historian, she documented our lives from toddlers to teens, just like she does her beloved WW2 heroines on whom she is writing her doctorate. Perhaps with less of an academic flair, I'm hoping to capture more of my life in London, building up the bones of a history in the making.

Spending a few moments going through old snaps from school (short skirts, bad hair, too much make up) or that once in a lifetime holiday to Cuba (smoking cigars, waterfall jumping, huge lizards!) brings it all back and fills in the gaps where memory fails. I love the idea of having a great collection to sift through when I'm 90 and I can barely remember what I had for breakfast.

Plus, with social media becoming more visual (pics or it didn't happen!) and being able to slap filters on everything, arrange, collage, highlight and caption - I wanted to up my game and make sure the pictures I did take were more quality over quantity - in the midst of retro cups of coffee. So this starts with a proper camera and actually learn some of the science behind it. Cue R buying me a beautiful Canon for my birthday and my journey into becoming a junior paparazzi lookalike begins.

Coincidently, my first tentative steps testing out my new camera kit coincided with a running injury which meant I had to give up my space in the Colour Run. And what better way to make the most of a shit situation then to go and support the RDC runners and get all snap happy - and there was powder paint to boot.

Here are a few of the best bits:

Rose Tinted Chippy and Danielle 

Jason and Danielle 

Lizzy and Cory Smash Up the British 10K

Laura goes for he Group Hug

War Paint

Start Line of the Colour Run 

CREW!

These are obviously baby steps, nothing to grand, arty or special from a skill set perspective. But at the very least they capture a brilliant summer's day in London, supporting a group of people who literally keep me up and running.

As I'll be expanding on the photography vibes, I've started a new blog, Blink and You'll Miss it  here. Do check it out - would love to hear your thoughts but please note is still very much a work in progress. No whizzy html skills here yet! There will be less running and probably more random pics of the sky looking all pretty. And me being obscure and hispterish. Laughs come free.

Jim Murphy: Muscle Talk Championships

Meet Jim Murphy. The man who has single handedly turned around my entire diet (leading to my weight dropping nearly 20 pounds!), and even inspired my other half to give up the pastry and hit the gym (he's down 12 pounds). Jim has also been a huge help in managing my ITB injuries, both last year post Royal Parks, and this year when it reoccurred. With a mix of his ferocious sports massage and general aura of positivity he got me back up and running in no time. A tremendous inspiration and a great motivator.

Jim Murphy with his baby daughter

When Jim let us know he was competing in the Muscle Talk 2013 championships, Rory and I jumped at the chance to attend and offer our support. Having never been to a full on Body Building convention, we thought it would be a brilliant first time introduction to the fitness elite at their finest, and in all their self tanned glory.

And, well. WOW. On all sorts of levels. I am all muscled OUT. Diamond encrusted bikinis, blinding white teeth, and lots and lots of tanned, look-like-they're-sculpted-from-rock muscles. It's spectacular stuff. And with 8 judges to boot, no small amount of pressure on each contestant.

I couldn't help thinking the whole way through, that just those few minutes up on stage under searing hot lights, cannot do justice to the sheer amount of determination that goes into fuelling and building these bodies. It's testament to a dedication and discipline that strikes me like a bolt from the blue maybe once a year, when I've OD'ed on berocca. Certainly not every bleeding day for months and months. And no chocolate. Its impressive stuff.

But you have to see it to believe it. Here are a few of my best snaps from the day.

FLEX ! HOLD ! DON'T FORGET YOUR HAMSTRINGS (a few choice phrases from the supporters today)

Also, comforted by the fact the blokes wear less clothing than the women. And these ladies WORK OUT.

Ladies Physique Round 1

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Winner Women's Physique 

JIM! Over 90kgs Category

Professional Champ

Men's Physique

Climbing the Walls

Over the past month or so, my friend Christina and I have taken to the ropes and started climbing the walls. Many walls. Walls that are very very high. I'm not entirely sure what possessed me to say yes in the first place, I am terrified of heights. Given I've jumped out of a plane, a tad odd. But that feels totally surreal and, as it was a tandem, I had little influence of what happened. So you kind of have to just go with it!

Climbing is a different story. You tie your own knots, or you're belaying for your climbing partner -  so it's pretty imperative you know what you're doing with the rope - you know, to stop yourself or your partner plummeting to the floor. The height thing is VERY real. You're only a few storeys up, so you can see the floor and it looks very far away and very very hard. It's you and the rope and a few small blocks on a wall, and with my fear of heights, very sweaty palms.

I must be honest, I still find it totally totally scary. I'm enjoying it, but I'm not yet all that comfortable on the rope, although I've done the test falling, actually missing a hold when you don't intend to, or slipping is completely terrifying. I'm sure the more I do it the less nervous and anxious I'll be. Which is one of the reasons I am doing it. Literally confronting pretty visceral fear, and climbing through it.

Today, our third private lesson, we climbed in the Horseshoe which is more structured, but with no incline and slightly harder routes. Each route is graded on difficulty (lower the number the easier the climb). I'm still tackling grade 3 or just grabbing whatever I can get my hands on -  literally! What I have really noticed is that is much more of a head sport rather than a brute physical strength sport. Sure, strength and flexibility will help, but its the strategy of getting up and over and thinking what goes where and at what angle, that really uses the grey matter. And that's why I am enjoying it.

I had my first taste of proper fear of being stuck today. I managed to get half way up and just couldn't figure out where to go without falling, and my right leg, (which is currently running injured) was shaking like crazy. I very nearly threw in the towel. I remembered a trick I have picked up from running. Breathe, don't panic, just breathe. And found the next move. Its hugely rewarding to get to the top. I'm sure this is good for my head, and the adrenalin is pretty cool too.

The next stop is Stina and I passing the competence test and actually climbing on our own without the instructors and building our confidence on the more challenging  routes.

Smashed it!

Hanging around