Impressions From Her Brother

I never knew Eleanor could run. Even when she called me up telling me she’d entered a half-marathon I thought: “But she can’t run . . . she can’t . . .” and there I sat, receiver-in-hand and mouth open, muttering to myself how she couldn’t run, couldn’t run, etc. Yet, then, all-of-a-suddenly struck dumb, our childhood returned to me, flood-tiding its way from the thin voice babbling through the phone, down into hefty, overbearing waves, and so on and so on and so on. “Wait!” I shouted, leaping up, “she can run!” Her tinny voice from the other end said: “What on earth are you talking about? First I can’t run, now I can; I know I can run, that’s why I’m running this bloody marathon, and another thing . . .” At this point, I drifted along with the riptide of memory, finding myself clambering to the largest hunks of memorial debris to take me off, off, off . . .

Memories in Retrograde Order

Memory 1:

We’re sprinting, once again, to catch a bus. Eleanor, once again, runs ahead. She always manages to get a pretty good pace going even when she’s wearing a coat, carrying a handbag, talking on the phone, etc. I’m bearing little more than a measly, ounce-weight rucksack and I’m galumphing behind her with a frothing mouth. And yet I feel in this moment she could be, one-handed, weightlifting a large stove and not be breaking into a sweat. As usual, we miss the bus. She turns and asks, all-too-coolly, where I was. I’m on the floor.

Memory 2:

We’re having a race in the back garden. I, younger, leaner, full of vigour and vim, am slowly straining forward for a victory. I can see Eleanor just behind me, laughing casually as if she doesn’t mind being beaten. But little do I know the full extent of her dissimulations. For, just before the finish line (or rather, the back-wall bench: first to touch it is first to win), I feel the vine-like fingers of a hand spread itself over the shoulder of my pride. Suddenly, there’s a quick clutch, a swift scuffle, and I’m yanked by the t-shirt into second place as my sister, her once humble laugh now echoing out in full-blooded scorn, touches the bench in victory. She looks behind her, perhaps out of her last remaining sliver of conscience. I’m on the floor.

Memory 3:

We’re in the back garden again. I’m a small toddler learning to walk. Eleanor takes me out onto the grass and tries, with heroic patience, to get me to stand. She tries every trick in the book: coaxing, gentle pushes, and, of course, running ahead of me. She runs beyond the weathered reds of the play-fort and slaps her thighs at me to walk to her. I, with the little understanding I have, simply want to get to Eleanor with a bullet’s pace, so I unleash my mightiest crawl across the lawn. Eleanor sighs and shakes her head with a chuckle. I’m on the floor.

The First Is Always The Hardest.

I have not run or done any sport in over a month, not since I hurt my arm in Richmond Station; an embarrassing fall caused by a flimsy Waitrose bag and a large bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil. Before then my runs were a basically a tour of the beautiful large red brick houses in and around Turnham Green but were infrequent. I generally enjoy these runs, but more often than not I find getting into the habit of doing them, or creating the motivation to go out when there is so much else to do the hardest part. So the thought of training and doing 13.1 miles practically scares me!

At home in Yorkshire during the summer breaks from school and University I used to bike almost every day. Starting was always the toughest part; the hill at the bottom of my village through the estate up to St Mary’s church was always daunting, and right at the beginning of my journey. However every time when I eventually made it to the top without stopping it felt like an achievement… after the second or third attempt. The rest of that bike ride was generally easy; apart from a few other little inclines on the country lanes. Each day would get easier and my bike rides longer, till eventually it did not seem like an effort anymore and I even looked forward them.

That bike ride I feel is going to be similar to my journey to the finish line on October 9^th. The first runs will be painful but hopefully after a few attempts I will get into my stride, and perhaps those 13.1 miles won’t seem so scary anymore!

So this last weekend I decided was going to be the start of my training for October 9^th. On Sunday, Michael and I had a 4.5-milish trot back home from tennis at the highly recommended Pedro Academy of Tennis in Queen’s Park. Progress was impeded though by the persistent weight of an offensive jacket potato consumed a little while before. With this culinary disappointment sitting on minds and stomachs it was hard to concentrate on forward momentum and pace.  

Setting wise the run was disappointing at best; starting in the beautiful suburbia of Queens Park and Kensal Rise and moving unfortunately far too quickly on to an aesthetically limited landscape of drab low-rise offices and warehouses, interlaced by train tracks and a crossing of the A40. The leafy boulevards would have provided more inspiration for propulsion.

Despite these impediments we arrived home safely, thanks largely to my trusty IPhone maps, rather than the preferred written directions forgotten by Michael!

The first run was perhaps the hardest, but I think for now I will go back to my jogs around the streets of Chiswick, and perhaps a bath to sooth my re-awakened muscles.


As ever please sponsor me on http://www.justgiving.com/Eleanor-Herring for Bowel Cancer UK when I run the Royal Parks Foundation Half Marathon! 

What and Why

This October 9th I am running for Bowel Cancer UK in the Royal Parks Foundation Half Marathon. I have never attempted to do anything like this before, so this is a challenge for me!
  
A number of years ago my Father was diagnosed with and treated for Bowel Cancer a disease which killed his grandmother and has affected generations of our family. The years following his diagnosis were some of the hardest, especially for my Father, my family and those close to us.


Bowel Cancer is a very difficult disease to go through, and for some has life altering consequences. In England it is the third most common type of cancer and, in many cases not diagnosed till the late stages due to people either not recognising it, or finding the symptoms difficult to talk about to a doctor.


Bowel Cancer UK's mission is to help raise awareness of this awful disease and campaign for the best possible treatment and care while also providing practical support and advice for sufferers. I would like to raise money to help stop Bowel Cancer affecting people in the future, but also on a personal note to be thankful that my Father is beating his Cancer!! 


So please help me get my just giving page started by donating what you can, everything will be very much appreciated!!!!

http://www.justgiving.com/Eleanor-Herring