Of 24 photos that were taken of the undersigned's 10 km run through Oslo's streets last weekend, was this the only thing that went through the censorship.
I really dislike seeing pictures of myself in running action, because the hip is rare as in the picture below, where I run more or less upright and with my chest forward. The other 23 show hip fractures, and that running pose is not particularly worth watching.
Yes, every runner has his own style, and every runner has his own goals and ambitions. And it is the last two that I want to tackle. For me, the 10 km distance appeared to be the worst and for several years I have deliberately avoided participating in mile races, because I fear doing poorly, in terms of my own eyes. In my own head, I think I'm a 44 runner, while reality has time and time again told something entirely other.
The same thing happened on Saturday under 10 for Grete in Oslo Marathon. The warm-up should be properly, I had promised myself that, but my social antennae would have it otherwise. Of course I hit on acquaintances (thanks for the last one, Britt) and the desire to strike up a conversation won over at least fifteen minutes of warm-up. I managed a few 200 meter long strokes, before I got down to the starting area directly below.
Actually, I felt me downright nauseous while the Friskis&Svettis gang on stage tried to get the few and thousands who stood in the street to do high knee lifts as a matter of course. I couldn't lift my knee two centimeters from the ground, for the bloody seriousness lay over the shoulders like a heavy burden.
I registered that the start went and already after 400 meters I was annoyed because the trail started uphill. I think it continued to walk uphill for another couple or three km, but smiled a little when the clock beeped. 4.11. Far ahead scheme.
Flinkis beats slowed down quickly. I felt the nausea moving upwards and sensed after nine minutes running I didn't know how I was going to hold out for another eight kilometres.
While it was going down towards Skøyen, increased the time, and I quickly turned to scout for the 45 gang. I didn't see them, but maybe it was just pure imagination.
After 4 km I looked back again, and there came the gazelles in what seemed to me appeared to be pure sprint speed.
4.5 km - I was passed and parked. Spotted a photographer, corrected out the hip fracture as best I could and resigned.
6 km - I consumed a leaf of coffee and coke, served by Ali, and gave a blank if I spent 20 seconds swallowing the black goof.
7 – Aker Brew. Someone called my name and cheered. I forced a small smile. Looked at the clock and most wanted to jumping into the lake. It also didn't help that my watch showed 7.2 km instead of seven. It's fast one minute and well then.
8 km – Akershus fortress and new drinking station, which turned into a new 20-second break.
With two kilometers to go it was just a matter of finishing in the best possible style. I attacked the hill up past the fortress and set off towards Karl Johan. Not such a bad km time, but the race was run too fast anyway a long time ago.
I remember passing a lady who had been lying 50 meters in front of me for several kilometres, and it helped my mood a little when I tackled the last hill down towards the finish line. The blue carpet arrived vision and then it happens - no matter how angry, tired, dejected, irritated, disappointed and angry I had been in 90 percent of the race, then I just have to smile.
The same thing happened on Saturday under 10 for Grete in Oslo Marathon. The warm-up should be properly, I had promised myself that, but my social antennae would have it otherwise. Of course I hit on acquaintances (thanks for the last one, Britt) and the desire to strike up a conversation won over at least fifteen minutes of warm-up. I managed a few 200 meter long strokes, before I got down to the starting area directly below.
Actually, I felt me downright nauseous while the Friskis&Svettis gang on stage tried to get the few and thousands who stood in the street to do high knee lifts as a matter of course. I couldn't lift my knee two centimeters from the ground, for the bloody seriousness lay over the shoulders like a heavy burden.
I registered that the start went and already after 400 meters I was annoyed because the trail started uphill. I think it continued to walk uphill for another couple or three km, but smiled a little when the clock beeped. 4.11. Far ahead scheme.
Flinkis beats slowed down quickly. I felt the nausea moving upwards and sensed after nine minutes running I didn't know how I was going to hold out for another eight kilometres.
While it was going down towards Skøyen, increased the time, and I quickly turned to scout for the 45 gang. I didn't see them, but maybe it was just pure imagination.
After 4 km I looked back again, and there came the gazelles in what seemed to me appeared to be pure sprint speed.
4.5 km - I was passed and parked. Spotted a photographer, corrected out the hip fracture as best I could and resigned.
6 km - I consumed a leaf of coffee and coke, served by Ali, and gave a blank if I spent 20 seconds swallowing the black goof.
7 – Aker Brew. Someone called my name and cheered. I forced a small smile. Looked at the clock and most wanted to jumping into the lake. It also didn't help that my watch showed 7.2 km instead of seven. It's fast one minute and well then.
8 km – Akershus fortress and new drinking station, which turned into a new 20-second break.
With two kilometers to go it was just a matter of finishing in the best possible style. I attacked the hill up past the fortress and set off towards Karl Johan. Not such a bad km time, but the race was run too fast anyway a long time ago.
I remember passing a lady who had been lying 50 meters in front of me for several kilometres, and it helped my mood a little when I tackled the last hill down towards the finish line. The blue carpet arrived vision and then it happens - no matter how angry, tired, dejected, irritated, disappointed and angry I had been in 90 percent of the race, then I just have to smile.
At the same time came the realization that I am not a 44 woman, but someone who runs 10 km in between 46 and 47 minutes and which was number 11 out of 366 finishers in the 45-49 age group.
After all, it's not worst memory I could take home from a particularly great event.
However, the season is long from above. Local races, both 10 km and half-marathon are at the door and two foreign races await. In addition shall I use dark autumn evenings to plan next year's challenges and race trips.