The Trick the Treadmill Played…

Taking a slightly more upbeat, but still honest, discussion, this blog was inspired by a recent gym visit. There was something quite profound learned there.

If you’re a regular reader, you’ll know I’m having a time of it at the moment with my mental health. If you’re new here – hello! I’d also suggest you read the two posts prior to this one for context.

As part of my recovery, I’ve been going back to basics, digging deep into my existing toolkit, and indeed adding to it with new tools and resources along the way. I think back to my recovery period with my ME the first time (and worst time!) round, CBT was fundamental. Things like setting small goals for the week, looking for opportunities to change my mood or lift it even if for a moment. Whilst I’m very much using these, and others, the one that makes the biggest difference – which many will hate to hear, myself included – is exercise. In some ways I find it a dirty word stemming from embarrassing and painful PE classes in school. Always being the last one to finish, nearly dying during cross country, and countless attempts to get a note from mum and dad. I hated it. Tried my best but hated it all the same.

However, now that I’m in my thirties there is a heavy desire to take better care of myself – mind, body, and soul. Earlier in the year I started the couch to 5k programme. Weighing in at 20.5 stone it was daunting, but something that I had an almost out of place determination to do. I know. I’m as surprised as you. By October I’d completed my first 5k race and had lost 2stone in the process. But… then the episode happened, and it’s all came to a screeching halt for eight weeks.

I’m now in a place where I’m trying to regain what has been lost fitness wise, (as well as regaining a functional brain!) which is what this ponder is about. On Monday I’d spent the day pottering about the house drinking cups of tea and working through the small goals I’d set for the day. When Ade returned from work in the evening, he suggested we go to the gym. With little time to think, and knowing I hadn’t done any exercise that day, I said yes, and quickly got my things together.

Regardless, I kept pushing through, thinking “well maybe as I settle into the run, things will be better.” In the voice of Morgan Freeman “things did not get better.” But I kept pushing. My legs were killing, my breathing was heavy, there were even palpitations thrown in. The thought of a heart attack did cross my mind. By this point I was approaching the thirty-minute mark, and quite frankly had had enough of trying to run. So, I switched to a walk. I was 1.7miles in.

On the way to the gym, I’d set myself an aim – to hit the treadmill and to run a 5k. Spoiler – I did not run the 5k. I did complete a 5k, but did intervals of 60sec run, 90sec walk. Following my five minute warm up, I knocked the speed up to six and off I went. Except something wasn’t right. It was incredibly difficult, and it felt like my body was just not willing. My pacing is usually somewhere between six to eight kph dependant on the day, so when I was struggling with it today, I felt disheartened. Really disheartened. Even on my most rubbish of run days I’ve still managed to at least run for one minute. Cue the spiral of negative self-talk. Something along the lines of “I’ll never run again, I may as well just give up. This is awful. Why does my body hate me…” Familiar to many, I’m sure.

I was a sweaty, aching, dejected mess. It’s funny how we can spiral when things don’t go to plan. Despite my negative Nancy shouting through her megaphone, I was trying to still be upbeat – I made it to the gym, I tried my best. Looking for the things to celebrate. I looked at the screen again.

I paused.

I was 1.7miles in.

Miles.

MILES. NOT KILOMETRES!!

On hitting this revelation, I realised that the “6” speed on the treadmill was, say it with me – miles per hour. And not the kilometres per hour that I am accustomed to running, or thought I was running. The reality was I was walking 5.5 miles per hour and running between 9.5 and 10 miles per hour in the intervals!! In comparison my usual intervals are 5.5-6 (kph) and 8kph for the run. No wonder my body was struggling. It was trying to run a whole two kilometres faster than it usually does!!

In one tiny moment I realised my worst run had suddenly become one of my best, reaching speeds I dream of eventually being consistent with. By the end of the workout, I completed the full three miles, with almost two miles of that being the speedy intervals.

The point of this blog is to remind myself and you reading of the following…

• It’s easy to jump to conclusions before we have all the facts.
• It’s often a default to listen to the negative self-talk over the positive. Keeping this in check is important. I think of the things I would say to a friend who had just told me they had a crap run. I’d say things like “a run is still a run” or “you still made it to the gym. You tried your best”. I’m working on treating myself like how I treat my friends.
• I rarely regret doing exercise. It might be a mission to get started but nine times out of ten I’ll feel infinitely better for it. Therefore the summary is exercise must be a daily priority.

In conclusion, effort is still effort. Achievement is still achievement and I think it’s so easy to knock ourselves down when we definitely don’t deserve it! And remember to challenge your own thinking – your brain is pretty adept at lying to you. Mine is anyway.

As always, I hope you’re doing ok, and I hope something in this post resonates with you.

This has been a SmartPonders.
Thanks for reading.

Steph x