But I didn't jump!

Seems I should have been a basketball player, long jump maestro or maybe a kangaroo because my physio (now forced to see one following Doc Google debacle) says I have Jumper's Knee. But I don't jump. I barely hop from one foot to the other when running; in fact the other day when I was plodding the streets of Dodges Ferry I realised I was borderline walking if not for the tiniest bit of air gained between each step. This got me thinking - a dangerous side effect of running alone - what is it that separates running from walking?

Surely it has to be more than that smidgen of air between footstrikes that causes passers by to question why I look so pained. And that's difference one: running hurts, walking doesn't. Never have I been walking the dogs on the beach with an expression akin to a constipated individual attempting to pass a baguette, sideways. But add that bit of air between each step and I can scare young children into chronic agoraphobia. It's not that I move that much faster than somebody going for an evening stroll, so why the pain, and why do we invest so much thought, time and cash on preparing for the pain?

Next generation running compression to avoid cranial ballooning

Which brings me to difference number two: runners wear tights, walkers (men at least) do not. Runners compress themselves so vigorously these days in the never ending battle against muscle freakout that it's a wonder that our heads have not ballooned because they appear to be the only part of the body not swathed in Spandex.

Difference three has got to be the arms. If I waved them around like that while walking the dogs the poor little beasts would find themselves airborne at the other end of the leash...not a bad upper body workout though.

Can't think of any more right now; although there are those unique little things that plague us runners, such as the sensation of a hamster slowly nibbling your nipples whenever you wear a cotton t-shirt, but I'm sure there's more, and I'd gratefully like to hear from anyone who can justify the reason to run when walking allows one freedom from constipated grimaces, desires to dress like a capeless Superman, and the need to pump ones arms about like a lunatic.

This of course is all needless questioning for me, for my future as a jumper, not runner or walker has now been mapped out by my troublesome knee. Tennis elbow next week maybe?

Be applauded...you deserve it!

Thought I would share this little nugget of wisdom I discovered the other day...if you are going to run with your ipod, walkman or gramaphone strapped to your back, listen to something, anything, that's a recording of a live performance. Why? Because it means that every five minutes or so you get a rousing round of applause for all your efforts! Free motivation...can't be bad.

Scotty Jurek pimped my ride!

After dramatically declaring that I intend returning my shonky legs for a refund following discovery of imminent shin disaster diagnosed by the evil Dr Google, I have now concluded that I was wrong. Wifey does frequently warn me of self diagnosis using the net, and no amount of eye rolling and sighing dissuaded me this time from declaring that soon she would actually witness my legs falling off. To my delight, they are still there and the shin pain has gone. Turns out it was just mundane old shin splints.

But I did have some help, because finally I bought myself some new running shoes and oh for the difference they make! I ambled into the Hobart Sports Centre on my lunch break the other day and got a great deal on a pair of Brooks Cascadia 4s. I tried on a pair of the 5s but couldn't feel any difference for the extra $100 so went with the bargain of the day.

Thanks for the shoes...although the other guy, Arnulfo, beat Scott in a 50 miler wearing his huaraches

Took them for a test run yesterday and it felt as if somebody had strapped marshmallow-gorged kittens to my feet. So soft! But still with heaps of support. It turns out that long-legged trail god, Scott Jurek had a hand in designing the Cascadia's, and I figure he's man who knows a thing or two about shoes. So if he wants a pair of kitten slippers to get him up a mountain, then so do I. My test run was just intended to be a light 7km trot around the way but ended up beating my best time. The same happened today; I had to keep looking down at these alien legs pumping away like the clappers and ended up cleaving ten minutes off my 10km PB! Thanks Scotty, you truly pimped my ride! Apparently the new Cascadia 6 is coming pretty soon with even better cushioning. Marshmallow gorged polar bears? Maybe.

I would take an oath to never self diagnose again, but no doubt it wont be long before I'm thumbing through dog-eared magazines in Doc Google's waiting room again (make no mistake, more injuries will come, even with souffle stuffed bison fastened to my feet). I'll be all flustered over some obscure rumour claiming that shin splints give you dysentery and once again turn to poor wifey who will dutifully call the doctor before strangling me.

The wheels are falling off

I'm so angry...partly with myself for self diagnosing using Dr Web, and partly with my legs for their determination to send me couchward bound. first it was my knees, then my calfs and now it looks like I may, according to the Google Doctor, have a stress fracture on my left lower leg. Race day is just over a month away and stress fractures need 8 WEEKS rest. No fair!

Mountain Vs Car...Car limps off bruised and flustered

I took the trusty Nissan up the Mount Wellington course the other day...all I can say is there are a lot of hills in them there hills...oh and the car teetered on the edge of overheating when we finally reached the top. As far as I know, a 1.8 litre engine has just a little more energy than my wee little legs and lungs.

The pantry was just too far

But training is under way and mostly going to plan. It's odd this mountain running thing. After running a few meaty hills I find myself in the absolutely alien position of eyeing off anything that goes uphill and looks painful with a worrying amount of...er...lust. Yes this is odd, I'm lusting after hills as if they were the latest Hollywood vixen of the day wrapped in crispy bacon and dunked in cinnamon sugar for good measure.

But the odd stuff doesn't end there...why is it I can run a good few Ks up a hill and still be smiling, yet reduce myself to a wheezing jelly when trotting across a road during my lunch break? I can pound the streets for an hour with a smile on my face, but whinge like the Queen in a trailer park when traveling from couch to kitchen in search of hidden salt, oil and sugar deposits at the back of the pantry. Makes no sense to me, but what I do know is that feeling of purpose and sense when trotting through the streets at 6am. All is still, the new sun warms your face and your feet are doing their thing. Just got to learn how to run across the road and trek the three metres to the kitchen now...and maybe not think about my overheating car!

There's this hill...

It's a big hill, a mountain actually, looming over Hobart town in Tasmania. It's called Mount Wellington, it stands about 4000 feet tall and I'm going to run all the way from sea level to its pinnacle where children play in the snow and pelt hapless runners with ice balls.

The race is called the Point to Pinnacle, a convenient half marathon from sea level to summit. Yup there's easier half marathons out there, and considering this is my first ever race (I've not run more than 13km and race day is looming!) it may have been smart to enter the Ronald McDonnald bounce-around-the-flowerbed-for-five-minutes race instead. But where's the fun in that, and besides, I'm barred from hamburgers, chippies, pizza, cake and deep fried gerbils until I rid myself of the "hey I swallowed a bowling ball" physique. The way I see it, darts players, truckies and hairy wrestlers (you know, the really bad dudes with lots of hair, sweat and wobbly bits) rarely trot up mountains, but Kalahari Bushmen, Amazonian warriors and...er...runners, do. I don't know how I'll do it, and in all reality the bowling ball will no doubt cling on for dear life, but I do know that I will do it. It's just a hill...what could possibly happen?