Adventures in Kitchen Renovation: Part II: Renee vs. IKEA’s rubbish delivery company

I probably should not admit how much I stressed about my IKEA kitchen delivery. It shows just how privileged and stress-free my life is that this was the only thing I had to worry about. But I did worry about it. A lot. I lost sleep thinking about it when the delivery was still days away. Every day I obsessively checked Google Maps to see if roads were closed. On Sunday night, the night before the scheduled delivery, I was like a kid on Christmas Eve. I could not sleep. I kept thinking about what I could say to the driver to convince him not to cancel because of the traffic. I thought about what I would say to Alex our builder when I had to inevitably tell him the kitchen wasn’t coming for another week. I thought about what we would do if Alex rage quit, which would be completely understandable given the circumstances.

On Monday I woke up at 6am anticipating the call. Last time the driver called at 6:24am to say he was 30 minutes away, so I figured we’d be first on the list again. But 6:30am passed and no one called. At 7am I received a text message with a tracking link that showed me exactly where the driver was. He was near Heathrow and still had another drop to make before our delivery. I should have gone back to sleep, there was no way he was going to reach us before 9am. But I couldn’t sleep. Instead, I obsessively refreshed the tracking location, then put the location into Google Maps to ensure there was a clear route here. It seemed more roads were closing by the minute because of the queen’s procession to open parliament. I tried to get some work done, but I was exhausted and driving myself mad with the refreshing. Around 9:15am I saw that the truck icon was one street away and I nearly cried tears of joy. It was coming! My kitchen was actually coming!

I met the truck downstairs and spoke with the laborer. “Is it far up to the flat?” he asked. I showed him the way from the street through the lobby, around the corner and to the lift.
“It’s far,” he said. “They should have sent a three-man crew. We don’t even have a trolley,” he said.

You loaded a full kitchen order onto the truck, including three appliances, and didn’t think maybe you’d need a sack truck (which is British for dolly)? I wanted to ask.

I waited while the driver phoned the delivery depot. IKEA UK outsources its deliveries to a third-party company.

“We can’t do this delivery, you’ll have to call IKEA to reschedule and tell them you need a three-man crew. We’re running behind on our other deliveries and have to leave,” he said.

The old Renee would have said I understand, and then probably cried about it upstairs while listening to IKEA’s ABBA hold music for 30 minutes while trying once again to reschedule the delivery. But I was a new Renee, hardened by carrying massive tiles and wired on matcha, lack of sleep, and adrenaline. I was looking right at my entire kitchen packed up in boxes in the back of a truck. I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

“You drove all this way, I can’t let you leave,” I told them, wondering how in fact I was going to enforce that. Chain or glue myself to the truck like an Extinction Rebellion protester? “I am not rescheduling one more time, you are not driving away with my kitchen.”

The driver continued to strap up my fridge in preparation for departure. The delivery company dispatch called me and told me I’d have to reschedule. “I’m not rescheduling and waiting another week for my kitchen when it’s right here in front of me,” I told her. She continued to rattle on, so I hung up.

I could tell my pleas were starting to work on the laborer.

“Is there anywhere we can store it in the lobby?” he asked. We live in a posh building, the kind that normally doesn’t even let you make deliveries through the lobby, insisting they go through the basement, but these were desperate times. The porters could sense my frustration and despair, so they kindly moved some furniture out of the way so we could store our entire kitchen in the lobby. Not only that, but one of the porters started helping the delivery guys unload. I couldn’t believe it. I definitely owe the porters some fresh-baked cookies when I have a functioning kitchen.

I called Alex to let him know the situation. He was happy the kitchen had arrived, but not too happy when he found out he’d have to carry it up to the flat. He and Vinnie arrived a few hours later and brought all 122 items upstairs.

I definitely owe them cookies too!

Adventures in Kitchen Renovation: Part I: Rebellion v. Tiles

Ever since we moved into this flat almost three years ago, I’ve been wanting to redo the kitchen. Everything was outdated, there wasn’t enough storage space, and on the day we moved in there was literally a green onion in the oven and dog food on the floor. But the living room and bedroom took priority, but now it was finally time for the kitchen. I told Stephen I wanted to take charge of the project, which I think in my mind meant put everything away where I want it once the renovation was done, not handle getting quotes from builders and kitchen manufacturers, but I did. I did everything, and was determined for this project to go smoothly. We said we’d learn from the mistakes we made from renovating the living room while doing the bedroom, but we didn’t. So I was determined for the third time to be the proverbial charm and for one of our renovations to actually only take two weeks.

Things were off to a good start. After meeting with designers from various manufacturers, we decided on an IKEA kitchen. It was by far the cheapest, and from what most of the builders I talked to said, about the same quality as some of the more expensive brands. It all depended on the fitting, and for that I had found a respectable builder who came highly recommended. We ordered the kitchen before we went on holiday to Italy, and scheduled for it to be delivered on Tuesday, October 8. I scheduled Alex the builder to start on Monday, October 7, figuring it would take a day to demolish the kitchen. I also scheduled for the floor tiles to arrive on Monday, knowing I’d need the builders here to help me carry them upstairs.

We returned from a lovely holiday in Italy, I spent the weekend packing up the kitchen and we were all ready to go on Monday. But you know who else was ready to go that day? Extinction Rebellion, a radical protest group that decided the only way to get the government to act on climate change was to shut down all of Westminster for two weeks. Beginning — you guessed it — Monday, October 7, the first day of our kitchen renovation. The builders could take the Tube — we don’t have parking near us anyway — but I neglected to realize the impact shutting down the entire city would have on deliveries. Remember how people were going to storm Area 51, claiming “they can’t stop us all”? Well that was Extinction Rebellion’s tactics. Protesters greatly outnumbered police, so even though plenty of arrests were made, they could not stop the group from peacefully sitting in the streets, stopping all traffic.

On Monday the tile company called and said the driver couldn’t get to us, so we’d be on am delivery on Tuesday. Meanwhile, Alex’s colleague showed up and demolished our old kitchen in record timing.

On Tuesday I was awoken by a call from IKEA’s delivery company, saying they were 30 minutes away. I hurriedly cleared out the guest room so there would be room for all the boxes. And then 30 minutes passed. I called the driver and explained the situation about the roads. I texted him a map showing how he would have to travel in order to reach us. And then the delivery depot called me.

“We have to cancel your delivery,” they said.

“I was just talking to the driver, there’s a way to get here!” I told them.

“It will take too much time and we have other deliveries today. You’ll have to call IKEA to reschedule.” they said.

And just like that, my dream of getting my kitchen finished without a hitch vanished.

I was frustrated and exhausted, but I had to turn my focus to the floor tiles. I called the company every hour. They kept assuring me my tiles were on the truck and they were coming today, just not as quickly as originally promised. Meanwhile, after sitting on hold with IKEA for over 30 minutes, the soonest I could reschedule the kitchen delivery was for Monday, Oct. 14.

“Monday?!” Alex exclaimed with a frustrated groan over the phone when I had to break the news to him. I had just dashed his dreams of completing this project without a hitch too. He told me if the floor tiles didn’t arrive, there was no point in him coming the whole week since there was nothing for him to do.

“The tiles are coming, they keep telling me they’re on their way,” I assured him. But even I was losing hope. I spoke with the porters who said the building had only had a couple deliveries all day. Normally there were more than 20. Royal Mail couldn’t even get to us.

I wanted so badly to take a nap and forget everything, but I had to remain awake for the tiles. They could come any minute. But then I got a call.

“We’re so sorry, but our driver has just been turned away by the police and cannot deliver today,” the tile company said. “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

And with that I actually broke down and cried. Partly from sleep deprivation, partly from frustration and anxiety. The protest was supposed to last for two weeks. I could not afford to wait two weeks to work on the kitchen, especially right after we demolished it. There was no going back, and no way to cook or do laundry (yes, like most households in the UK, the washer/dryer is part of the kitchen). I couldn’t believe our bad timing.

I decided to take my mind off things for a bit and turned on the TV to watch some Netflix. And then my phone rang.

“Hello? I have a pallet delivery for you. I’m outside.”

I stuck my head out the window. It was my tiles! I almost cried again, out of joy this time. How had they managed to arrive?? I went downstairs to accept delivery, remembering one minor issue: it was a curbside delivery of 30 60cmx60cm, essentially 2 ft by 2 ft, porcelain tiles. And I was all by myself.

“Can I borrow the trolley?” I asked the porter.

“Are your builders not in?!” he asked. “Are you planning to carry all those tiles upstairs yourself?”

“Yes,” I told him. He offered to help. He lifted half of the tiles into the trolley, and I pushed it up the ramp and over to the lift. And then one by one I carried them by myself into the flat. I went back down to collect the rest of them, only to find it had gone from bright and sunny to pissing down rain. The tiles were packed in cardboard sleeves, which had all but disintegrated. I got soaked lifting the remaining tiles into the cart. But I did it, I brought them all upstairs, and Alex was able to get started on the floor the next day.

Stay tuned for part 2, in which IKEA attempts to deliver our kitchen a second time and I almost lose my mind again.

Getting back in the saddle, then wiping out

After nearly a month off from running, I finally decided it was time to get back out there on April 29. I took it slow, which was easy to do, because after a month off, my body had nearly forgotten how to run. It wasn’t my foot that was bothering me, it was everything else — my lungs, my heart, my calves. It was frustrating not being able to just jump back in to the fitness level I was at post-half marathon. Cherry was certainly happy to have me back in my running shoes, and took me for a few celebratory laps around our neighbor’s yard. She had a serious case of the zoomies and was absolutely loving it! I’d never seen her so happy.

As my parents talked to their neighbor, I chased Cherry around the yard. She zoomed from one end to the other, then made a sharp turn towards the backyard. I kept up with her, but didn’t anticipate the dip in the grass, and suddenly I was on the ground. I had completely wiped out right in front of my parents and the neighbor. I wish I could tell you Cherry sensed something was wrong and came to my rescue, but in reality she took one look at me, then took off running again. Thanks, pup. Thankfully because I fell on grass instead of pavement, I came out unscathed save for some grass stains on my jeans. It was hard not to take it as a omen that I shouldn’t be running yet, though!

That was nearly a month ago and I’ve been slowly building my speed back up. Because of the heat I haven’t run farther than 5 miles, but I’ve been focusing on running 5K. I know I have zero chance of breaking 25 minutes at the Hunger Walk 5K on Monday like I had originally dreamed, but that’s a goal I can continue to work towards. For now I’d be happy if I finished in the top 50 women again and got a medal… and if it weren’t oppressively hot or raining. Here’s hoping!

Rest

Since the Palace Half, I’ve been feeling this weird mix of post-race blues and euphoria. I was so happy that I was able to finish the race, but there was a part of me that felt like I could have gone harder and done better if I had only been in the right coral. And not gotten the flu. Not two days after the race I was already in “what’s next” mode, searching for another race to run. I wanted another goal to work towards. For months I worked on running farther, but now I want to run faster. I want a 25-minute 5K. Not even sub-25, just 25-something. I let my running fitness slide after my first half, and I was determined not to let this happen this time around. I continued to do a weekly long run of 6-8 miles and started doing speed work on the treadmill. My goal was to run a local 5K near my parents’ house on April 27th, as well as the Hunger Walk 5K on Memorial Day. Everything was going to plan, until I noticed some pain on the top of my foot during my long run on the treadmill on April 2. I chalked it up to my shoes getting old and maybe too tight, but the pain was enough for me to stop after 6 miles instead of going for 8. Then next day I took a day off from running, hoping whatever was wrong with my foot would heal. It didn’t. But I continued to walk and run like nothing was wrong. I had a cholesterol test scheduled for April 10, so I mentioned my foot pain to my doctor then. I told him it was likely caused by kicking the edge of the desk with the back of my foot while attempting to do a plank in a small area, even though hitting the back of my foot didn’t explain why the top of my foot hurt. He sent me for an X-ray just to be safe, and then I walked home 3 miles because I am a Fitbit step addict who doesn’t know how to rest. I kept racking my brain trying to remember what could have caused my injury. It felt like I had dropped something heavy on my foot. And then it hit me.

The plaster ceiling rose.

I pulled up my notes from our ongoing bedroom renovation and the dates confirmed it. We had ordered a giant plaster ceiling rose to hang in the guest room, but since we are only focusing on the master bedroom renovation now, we decided to move the rose onto the balcony to store it for a while. There’s a big step up onto the balcony, so while I was helping to move the rose, I steadied it on my foot, somehow forgetting the thing weighs over 100 lbs. That was on April 1, which explains why I first noticed the pain on April 2. I explained to my doctor what happened and he told me it was likely a soft tissue injury then, since the X-ray showed no stress fracture. And then he told me to rest. He didn’t give me an exact time frame, but I needed to stop running so my foot could properly heal. I was devastated. Happy that my foot wasn’t broken, but upset that a split second stupid decision could have such a debilitating effect.

It was hard not doing something that has become such a core element of my daily life. I kept telling myself that maybe I could still do the April 5K, despite the fact that I haven’t run in over two weeks and should absolutely not go for a PR with a sore foot. I suddenly found myself with more free time now that I wasn’t running, which I used to go shopping and buy more running shoes. I couldn’t wait to get back at it. I decided Thursday, April 25th would be the day I got back out there. And depending on how that run went, I might still register for the 5K.

And then at 3am on Thursday I got the stomach flu. Or maybe it was food poisoning. Or maybe it was my body saying enough is enough to all the candy and junk food I’ve been consuming since I got to the US over a week ago. Whatever it was, it was a wake-up call that I really needed to rest. I’m feeling much better today, but I’m still in no condition to run a race tomorrow. There will always be other races, but we only get one body, so right now my health needs to be the priority.

Palace Half Marathon Recap

There are a lot of decisions to be made before a big race. What do I eat? What do I wear? And, perhaps most importantly, what time do I leave?

To get to Hampton Court Palace from Waterloo Station I had two options: the 7:27am train, which would arrive at 8:03am, or the 7:57am, which would arrive at 8:33am. The race officially starts at 9am, but my wave, wave 4, wasn’t set to start until 9:12am. Did I want to get there too early and stand around, or get a little extra sleep and risk rushing to drop off my bag and use the loo before the start? Based on my experience with the Thanksgiving Day Race, it’s better to be early than late, so I decided I’d catch the 7:27 train.

I woke up at 6:05am and ate my usual race day breakfast of overnight oats with dark chocolate and peanut butter. I got dressed, braided my hair, packed my backpack and promptly realized it takes me longer to eat and get ready than I thought. I was already running late for being early. I only had to take the Tube one stop, so as I ran to the station at 7:10, I figured I could still be on time. Except I forgot one minor detail — it was 7am on a Sunday morning. Nobody takes the Tube at 7am on a Sunday morning, so the trains only run every 15 minutes or so. I hurried to the Northern line platform, only to find not even an estimate of when the next train was coming. So I ran to the Bakerloo platform. And that’s when I met Chloe.

“Are you going to Waterloo?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied. She was dressed in running gear, so I took a wild guess:

“Hampton Court Palace Half?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she replied.

Just then the screen lit up. The next Bakerloo train was coming in 15 minutes. We didn’t have 15 minutes. So we decided to give the Northern Line another chance, and raced up the escalator and down the corridor, burning precious energy we were meant to be saving for our impending 13.1-mile run. We could hear the sound of a train approaching, so we gunned it down the stairs and made it just in time to board. We rode for one stop to Waterloo Station.

“I’m following you!” Chloe said.
“OK, but I’m just following the signs!” I replied. Chloe laughed.

We walked quickly through the long passageways until we emerged in the middle of Waterloo Station. At 7:28am. One minute after the train left. That’s one more reason to aim for the earlier train — if you miss it, you have a fallback option. Chloe and I stood and talked while we waited. She told me this was her second half marathon, as she had run the Great North Run 8 years ago. That’s where she is from — “up north.” She didn’t tell me the exact town, which is just as well, because there was a 97% chance my American brain had never heard of it. She had stayed in London for the night with her family, who would be joining her later at the palace. We talked the entire train ride to Hampton Court, mostly about running. She had a charming laugh and laughed at almost everything I said. I remember my mom commenting that I was talking a lot during our drive to the Hunger Walk 5K last May, so I guess I’m a bit of a nervous talker before a race.

When the train arrived at Hampton Court, we joined the massive herd of runners heading for the exit. We crossed the bridge to the palace, which was hard to miss, and made our way to the event village at the finish line, which is where the bag drop and toilets were located. The map made it seem like the start and finish were close to each other, but it was definitely deceiving. By the time I actually made it to the start, I had racked up 5,000 Fitbit steps already.

“I’m in wave 5, do you think they’d mind if I ran with you in wave 4?” Chloe asked. I told her it probably didn’t matter, as there wasn’t even a clear marker of our wave on our bib.

“I don’t want to slow you down, so we can just start together,” she said. We queued our way through the bag drop and toilets, then started walking towards the start. That’s when we heard the announcement. “Wave 5 is starting, wave 6 and all remaining runners report to the start line.”

Not only had I missed my wave, Chloe had also missed hers, so we had to start with the last wave, full of those intending to run-walk and barely finish under the 3 hour maximum, and I’m guessing a few stragglers who missed the train and took too long to drop off their bag and pee, like us. The only thing good about the whole ordeal was that I was distracted. I was too busy talking to my new friend and going through the motions to fully realize what I was about to do. I was about to run 13.1 miles after only recovering from the flu a week ago. I quickly synced my Fitbit, opened up the MapMyRun app, and before I had a chance to question my sanity, we were off.

We left the palace and turned onto the tow path along the Thames. The weather was absolutely gorgeous for a race — 48 degrees F (9C), sunny, blue sky — but it had rained the night before, so the path was laden with mud-filled puddles. The narrow width of the path already made it difficult to pass people, but the added puddle obstacles made it nearly impossible. Chloe and I chugged along, noting the inspirational signs that were clearly meant for when we circled back on this path for miles 8 through 11, but we took them to heart none the less.

“Mile one!” Chloe announced.

“What’s our pace?” I asked. I had MayMyRun running, but my headphones weren’t on so I didn’t get the audio notification.

“11:05,” she said. Crap. I knew we were taking it slow, but that was really slow. Too slow. I tried not to have a goal for this race besides finishing it, but a part of me wanted to beat my previous time of 2:16, so I was hoping to maintain around a 10 min/mile pace.

I believe I said something like “I need to kick it up,” and hopped up on the grass to get around the guy in front of me. I picked up the pace a little and turned to Chloe to let her know I was going to go ahead, but she wasn’t next to me anymore. I kept looking back while dodging puddles and other runners, but by the time I finally caught a glimpse of her, she was too far back.  I still feel bad about how I left things with her — I wish I had said a proper goodbye and thanked her for the companionship. I even tried to look her up on Facebook to message her, but I couldn’t find her.

I was on my own now. And quickly realized I was… bored. I thought about listening to music, but music is for when I need to feel pumped up to set a 5K or 10K record. I didn’t need speed now, I needed a distraction. When I do a long run on the treadmill, I watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, but when I do a long run outside, I listen to the My Favorite Murder podcast. So I opened up the podcast app, and suddenly I was running through the streets of Thames Ditton listening to how Dr. Harold Shipman likely murdered 250 of his patients. We were no longer on the muddy tow path, which was good, but now we were on the pavement (“sidewalk” to you Americans) running alongside traffic, which, again, made it difficult to pass anyone. The podcast kept my mind occupied, but by mile 7 my body was already starting to feel it. I popped a Jelly Baby candy and reminded myself that I was already half finished.

By mile 9 the path was starting to feel less crowded, and I was able to settle into a groove. We looped back onto the original path by the starting line, and got a boost from the crowds cheering from above. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling. One by one the people around me stopped to walk, while I powered on. I was doing the math in my head and knew I was on track for a PR, as long as I didn’t stop. At mile 11 there was a tiny hill, then we turned onto a grass path that led back to the palace. The home stretch! And the worst part of the course yet. Mentally and physically I was actually doing fine — much better than I had been at this stage during my first half. But the muddy grass path prevented me from kicking it into high gear, as all my focus went into not slipping or falling. Finally we leveled out onto more even terrain and I knew the finish line was just around the corner. I paused my music so I could feel the full effect of the crowds. Instead of putting your number in big font on the front of your bib like most races do, the Palace Half puts your name, so as I barrelled towards the finish line, perfect strangers in the crowds shouted “You’ve got this, Renee!” and “Go, Renee!” I was already a bit delirious at this point, so it nearly brought tears to my eyes. The Jelly Baby I ate at mile 12 had kicked in and suddenly I had all the energy in the world to sprint to the finish. It was in stark contrast to my Richmond Half finish, when I took my one and only walking break right before the finish line.

After 2 hours and 14 minutes of running, I crossed the finish line triumphantly, put my medal around my neck, and grabbed my swag bag. I’ve only done a handful of races, but I have to say this one had the best swag set up. Instead of making you file through the line and grab every item until your arms overfloweth, they had tables labeled by shirt size, so you got a bag containing your correct shirt size plus snacks and other goodies.

It was hard to think clearly at this point. I knew from reading “how to recover after a half marathon” articles that I had to keep walking after I finished, but I also knew I had to drink something. And eat something. There was some kind of homemade flapjack (an oat bar in American English) in my swag bag, so I ate that as I stumbled over to the bag drop area. I’m not sure I’ve ever had a proper flapjack in my life, but in that moment that gooey, oaty, golden syrupy sugar bomb was the best thing I had ever tasted. I picked up my backpack and dropped a High Five Zero electrolyte tablet in one of the water bottles I picked up at the finish line. I had been sipping water throughout the entire race, but I knew to recover properly I had to rehydrate more. I also put on the sweatshirt I threw into my bag at the last minute because suddenly I was really cold. While I was running I had thought about waiting around the finish line for Chloe to finish, but now that I was done, all I wanted to do was get home and shower. So I took some selfies with my medal in front of the palace, then followed the herd towards the train station. My legs were sore at this point, but walking wasn’t painful. But then I sat on the train for 20 minutes waiting for it to depart, then sat for 30 minutes on the journey to Waterloo.

Then I stood up. Or, rather, attempted to stand up. If I may quote some Jim Steinman lyrics, “Every muscle in rebellion, every nerve is on edge.” The full weight of what I had just accomplished had set in and my hips, knees and legs cried out with each movement. “Just one Tube stop” neglects to mention the stairs, escalators, and ridiculously long, dear god why are they so long?!, passageways that connect the underground to the above ground world.

But I finally made it home.

“Good afternoon, madam,” the porter greeted me. I normally just smile or wave back, but this time I couldn’t help myself.

“I just ran a half marathon!” I told him. “And I am definitely going to take the lift instead of the stairs.”

I know 2:14 is a decent half marathon time for someone with sports-induced asthma recovering from the flu, but I can’t help but wonder if my time would have been better had I started in my correct wave. The tow paths still would have felt crowded, but I would have been stuck behind people aiming for a time between 2 hours and 2:20, not people walking. But maybe it would have caused me to go out too fast and then I would have blown up halfway through? Who knows. I checked Chloe’s time online and saw that she finished 30 minutes after me, so it was probably good I didn’t try to wait around. At least I did set a new personal best, and now I have a higher chance of getting another PB the next time I do a half… whenever that may be.

Half marathon training update

So my half marathon training was going well. Note my use of the past tense.

But it really was going well. Despite a busy work schedule and hectic bedroom renovation drama, I stuck with my training plan. There was only a handful of times that I questioned why I chose Higdon’s intermediate plan instead of the beginner, but I ticked off every long run, even when it got up to two long runs a week.

I was in week 10 of the 12-week program when I could feel the beginnings of a cold coming on. I had a bit of a cough and itchy eyes. Despite having never had a cough from allergies in the past, I convinced myself it was allergies and that my new pack of allergy pills just weren’t working. Despite not feeling 100%, I still went to the gym for my 11-mile long run. And surprisingly, it was one of my best runs yet! The time flew by (relatively), and I took minimal walking breaks. I felt like I glided home afterward, I was on cloud nine. I wasn’t even sore the next day — I went out and ran 5 miles.

And then it hit me that night. Fever, congestion, chills, cough.

I didn’t have allergies. I had the flu.

I can’t remember the last time I got the flu. I always considered myself low risk since I work from home and lead a healthy lifestyle. I never bothered to get a flu shot or jab. But this one hit me hard. Forget running, I couldn’t even work the day I had it worst. (And I can work from my bed, so that’s really saying something)

It’s been over a week now, so I’m definitely feeling better, but I still have this cough. This all-consuming cough that won’t let me go 5 minutes without reminding me that it’s here. I tried cough syrup for dry coughs. I tried cough syrup for chesty coughs. I tried taking both at the same time. I tried googling “what is the best cough syrup?” only to find out that no cough syrups really work and you just have to give a cough time.

Except that’s not really something I have now, time. The half marathon is in 8 days. I already took 8 days off from running. I went for an easy run on the treadmill a couple days ago just to see how I would fare. For the most part I was fine, but the cough was still there. This morning Stephen and I did our usual 4-mile route. I forgot to use my inhaler before I left, so I’m not sure how much of my struggle was from my sports-induced asthma or the cough. I survived though, and it wasn’t as rough as I feared it would be.

I’ve googled every combination of “cough running sick” and found a common theme: runners are crazy. I probably didn’t need to tell you that. I found everything from “running while sick is actually good for you” to “if you run while sick, you will die.” The general rule of thumb is that if your symptoms are above the neck — a runny nose, stuffiness, or sneezing — you can still run, but if they’re below the neck, you should rest. I knew I needed rest when I had a fever and aches, but now I feel fine except for this cough. It’s not one of those deep “oh god, there’s so much mucus, I am definitely sick” cough, but rather one or two productive coughs followed by “hey, we heard we were into coughing now, so let’s make a habit of it and do it every 5 minutes even if there isn’t anything to cough up” coughs. Which worries me because I know my coughing is irritating my airways, which in turn is making me cough more, and I don’t want to be stuck in this vicious cycle.

But now I’m not sure what to do. I’m pretty sure jumping back into my training plan and attempting to tackle a 12 miler would not be wise. But should I continue to try easy runs? Sit out from running completely until this cough is gone, knowing that could be weeks, meaning I’d miss the half? Or just rest until the half and attempt the race after not having run for two+ weeks?

I know I should follow the most common advice I read: listen to your body. Take things one day at a time. I think my plan will be to attempt some easy runs next week and continue to monitor how I feel. I would hate to have done all this training and paid the money and not be able to run the half, but I would hate it even more if I hurt myself attempting it because my body wasn’t up to it. Runners are crazy, but I’m not that crazy!

I caved and joined a gym

I resisted for a while. “Why should I pay to run on a treadmill when running in London’s gorgeous parks is free?” I always thought. But the one thing I didn’t think about when I signed up for a half marathon in March is that my training would take place in January and February, the coldest months of the year. While London’s “cold” is nowhere near Midwest and East Coast America cold, I still didn’t want to do my long runs in 30-degree weather. That, and we are finally starting renovations on the master bedroom next week (something we’ve been talking about for more than 2 years now), and I don’t want to run and shower while the builder is here, and don’t want to run when it’s dark after he leaves.

So I joined a gym.

I chose the gym nearest to me, which also happens to be the cheapest. It’s cheap because it’s no frills — there’s no pool or sauna, there’s not even someone to check you in. When you sign up online they email you a code, and you type that code into a keypad before you enter the glass chamber that permits you entrance to The Gym. That wasn’t a Trumpsque bout of random capitalization syndrome, that’s its actual name — The Gym.

I made my first visit to The Gym yesterday as a bit of a trial run before my 8-mile long run today. I am in week 5 of the Hidgon Half Marathon plan, which means my long run this week needs to be 8 miles. I didn’t want to just hop on a treadmill and bang it out, I wanted to ease myself into treadmill running, so I thought I’d knock off the easy 3-mile run in this week’s plan. I successfully entered The Gym through the almost claustrophobic chamber and immediately hopped on the first treadmill I saw. I didn’t want to be seen wandering with that newbie look in my eyes, I wanted it to seem like I belonged there. I started walking as a warmup and put on my new favorite podcast to run to, My Favorite Murder. It got me through last week’s 7-mile long run, so I figured it would make these 3 miles blow by.

I didn’t want my walking time to affect my distance and pace measurements, so I started a new session when I was ready to run. I figured I’d start at a 10-min mile pace, then slowly increase and bang out these 3 miles in less than 30 minutes. I set the distance to miles and the pace to 6. I started running, allowing Karen and Georgia to regale me with the tale of Rebecca Zahau’s murder… except it wasn’t working.

I watched the boxing class happening in front of me. I watched the people walking by outside through the window. But mostly I just watched the numbers on the screen in front of me.

Has it really only been 2 minutes? I wondered.

Then my thoughts began to wander. I needed to pick up mushrooms at the store on my way home. Maybe I should get broccoli too. I wonder who convinced the sheriff that Rebecca Zahau’s death was a suicide when she was so clearly murdered? Why do people tamper with dead bodies instead of immediately calling the police? I bet broccoli would be good in my new air fryer. I bet it’s been at least 5 minutes now.

14 seconds had passed.

I had forgotten how mind-numbly boring treadmill running was. Outside it was so easy to escape into my podcast or music and Pokemon Go, but here I couldn’t stop obsessing over the time and distance. Which, by the way, I realized suddenly wasn’t adding up. 10 minutes had passed and I hadn’t run 1 mile yet — not even close. I slowly increased my speed of 6 to 8.5. It said my pace was 7 something. “I am really flying!” I thought. “Treadmill running is easier than I thought! Now the miles will really fly by!”

Except they didn’t. I was still running slower than a 10-min mile pace. I googled treadmill pace cheat sheets and couldn’t figure out why my numbers weren’t lining up. What unit of measurement was 6 or 8.5 if not mph? Just “speed”?

I could think of only one reason why the distance wasn’t displaying correctly — the treadmill was broken! It was a cheap gym with cheap machines that were obviously not calibrated correctly. After the treadmill clock hit 30 minutes I started the cool down. I had probably run 3 miles even if the display didn’t show it. I hopped off and decided to explore downstairs, which I just discovered existed.

It was a lot more crowded than the upstairs, so I reasoned that was where the good machines were. I would do my 8 miles on a treadmill down here tomorrow.

The next day (today), I headed straight downstairs. I knew podcasts and music weren’t going to cut it for essentially an hour and 20 minutes of running in place, so I came armed with my iPad loaded with Netflix shows. I hopped on a treadmill that reeked slightly of body odor, so it had been used recently and at least wasn’t broken, and decided to do a little experiment. This thought occurred to me yesterday while I was running, but it didn’t seem right so I didn’t test it out. What if the distance was in miles, but the speed was actually in kilometers? So if I wanted to run 6 mph, I had to set the speed to 10 kmph. I tried it for 10 minutes, and sure enough my distance was 1 mile. Which meant that whole time I thought I was running fast yesterday, I was actually running really slowly. I knew it felt a little too easy, but I chalked it up to all my training. I settled in at 10 kmph, which is slower than I was hoping to run the half, yet still somehow felt strenuous. Man, I hate treadmill running. My iPad at least covered the screen so I couldn’t watch the time and miles tick by, even though I lifted it up to check every 5 or 2 minutes. I watched the first episode of Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, which I was hoping could become my new favorite running show, but I didn’t love the musical aspect of it (and I love Broadway and West End musicals, I know). It helped me kill 45 minutes though, and then I switched to The Great British Bake Off. I’m still deciding if watching a show about delicious desserts while you’re burning calories is the best or worst idea ever, but it helped distract me so I could power through. I ate Jelly Babies for fuel at miles 5 and 7 and pretended they were made of Victoria Sponge and not just cornstarch-dusted glucose. And I did it. I ran 8 miles on a treadmill!

The iPad definitely helped, but I still think treadmill running is the worst, especially on a treadmill that measures distance in miles and speed in kmph. Next week the long run on the schedule is only 6 miles, which I’ll be doing outdoors racing the London Winter Run. I run a 10K on Thanksgiving in Cincinnati every year, but I’ve never actually raced a 10K in London. I’m actually a little excited for it and pray the weather holds up. There’s no iPad and treadmill option for races!

How not to make peanut butter in a Vitamix

Longtime readers will know I have longed for a Vitamix blender since I became obsessed with smoothies at least 10 years ago. Who can forget the famous blender blowout of 2013?

I almost pulled the Vitamix trigger back then, but just couldn’t justify the expense. Instead I found a cheaper high-powered blender, which served me well… until it broke. And then I found another high-powered blender, this one claiming to be on par with Vitamix for 25% of the price. I even wrote a glowing review it here on the blog.  But lately I could tell it was starting to struggle to blend my smoothies, especially when I used melon or other large chunks of fruit. So when Stephen asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I told him I didn’t need any more shoes, purses or clothes.

I needed a Vitamix.

I ordered a certified reconditioned model on Boxing Day, so I got a great deal on it. I read reviews that said certified reconditioned models are often unopened returns, so they’re basically brand new. Plus if anything were to go wrong, it comes with a 5-year warranty.

I felt like a kid on Christmas morning when it was delivered, and made a delicious smoothie that day. I could immediately tell there was something about Vitamix that sets it apart from other high-speed blenders, especially my old Electriq iQMix. I could add ice to my smoothies again without worry! I even used it to make soup. But there was one thing I was particularly excited to try: making peanut butter.

I have a borderline obsession with nut butter. For a while I was buying it in individual portions because I couldn’t be trusted not to eat an entire container in two days. I’m trying to work on eating it in moderation, though, for my health, but also because good, pure nut butter is expensive! And according to the internet, homemade tastes even better.

I bought a kilo of raw peanuts in Chinatown and toasted them myself. I obsessively read recipes and blogs about how to make nut butter in your Vitamix. The top tips were to toast your nuts, which releases their oils, thus making them turn into peanut butter instead of peanut flour, and to allow them to cool fully before blending, as blending will heat them up as well and you don’t want to melt your Vitamix container. (Yes, apparently that can happen!)

I went into my peanut butter-making experience knowing all this… but I was also impatient. I decided to start the process less than an hour before I was scheduled to Facetime with my mom. I let the nuts cool on the tray, then put them in the refrigerator for a few minutes. They weren’t by any means hot anymore, but they weren’t chilled, which was another tip I had read — use chilled, toasted nuts. I was running out of time, though, so I decided the nuts were cool enough. I put the nuts into my blender, slowly increased the speed, then flipped the switch to high. The Vitamix started making noises as the blogs warned me it would, and I used the tamper stick to constantly push the nuts down the sides and into the blades. One blog said the whole process would take 1 minute, so when I didn’t have smooth peanut butter after a minute, I worried something was wrong. I stopped the blender and checked on the peanuts. They were more the consistency of cookie dough, not smooth peanut butter. They were also certainly hot, but my container didn’t feel like it was melting, so I went back to blending. And blending. And blending. Something felt wrong. The almighty Vitamix should not be struggling like it was, I thought. I opened the container once again and noticed some black specks in my peanut “dough,” almost like chocolate chips. But I definitely didn’t add any chocolate chips. Then I pulled out the tamper and was about to lick the end of it, when I saw this:

“Oh no!” I thought. I had done it. I had melted my tamper stick by not using chilled nuts. I poured my peanut dough into a bowl and starting picking out the chunks of plastic.

I texted my Vitamix-loving friend to show her what I had done. She told me to email Vitamix customer service since there’s no way that should happen.

I left the kitchen in a state of chaos, lamented to my mom about my peanut butter catastrophe, then spent the night sifting out pieces of plastic because there was no way I was just going to throw out an entire batch of what could be — might be! Should be! — perfectly good peanut butter.

Then I sat down to email Vitamix. But as I was writing about how there was no way the damage to the tamper could have been caused by the blade because the tamper can’t touch the blade when the lid is on, a thought occurred to me: I did briefly run the blender with the lid off. And I used the tamper. I thought the hole in the lid was somehow restricting the movement of my tamper.

That’s when I had a proverbial face palm moment. My peanut butter disaster wasn’t Vitamix’s fault. It was mine.

Looking back at the photos, it’s obvious the damage was caused by a blade and not by heat. I guess I just didn’t want to admit it at the time.

As embarrassed and frustrated with myself as I was, the good news was that my Vitamix wasn’t broken. And because my old blender was a Vitamix wannabe, its tamper is a perfect fit. I put my peanut dough in the fridge overnight and gave homemade peanut butter another go the next day.

And it worked!

I made delicious, homemade peanut butter, completely smooth save for the odd black plastic speck. Now that I know what to do (and what NOT to do!), I can’t wait to experiment with other nut combinations!

A look back on 2018

It’s that time of year again, friends. That time when I reflect on the past year and completely ignore the fact that I’ve neglected the blog for the majority of it.

As an adult I’ve come to realize days, weeks, months, and years all tend to melt together, but I have to say 2018 was a pretty great year. I kept two of my resolutions — I didn’t eat meat at all in 2018 (aside from fish) and I learned calligraphy. I didn’t manage to run a half marathon in 2018, but I just registered for a half marathon in March, so that’s my 2018 resolution sorted in 2019.

A look back on 2018:

-We renovated our living room, a project we’d been talking about for over a year and finally got done. It took approximately three months even though it was supposed to take 2 weeks, but we feel like we’re living in a palace now.
-I fell head over heels in love with calligraphy, particularly brush lettering and pointed pen. I amassed over 1,200 followers on my calligraphy Instagram account. I am by no means a calligraphy master, but my work looks a lot better than it did on day one!
-I got to visit my friends in Chicago and Milwaukee not once, but twice!
-I attended Milwaukee Pug Fest with my best friend
-I got really into skincare and spent a small fortune on it, but I was able to reduce some of the sun damage on my face caused by running outside. Always wear sunscreen, kids! Even in England in the winter.
-I ran a 5K race with Cherry in 90+ degree heat (well, I ran it, she walked it)
-I voted in my first U.S. primary and midterm elections and vowed to never not vote again
-I went to New York City and saw two Broadway shows (Come From Away and The Donna Summer Musical)
-I was in the studio audience for a taping of The Daily Show
-I survived the worst heat wave in UK history, but not without complaining every 5 minutes about it
-I reached level 40 on Pokemon Go, which is the highest level. I wish I could say I quit the game then, but I still play daily, though not as obsessively
-We traveled to Croatia, where we fed wild peacocks and bunnies, explored Game of Thrones filming locations, and learned the hard way that we are not cut out for sea kayaking
-I went home for Halloween and made Cherry a Wonder Bread costume
-I got a 10K personal best in the Thanksgiving Day Race
-We traveled to Tenerife in the Canary Islands where we fed monkeys and guinea pigs, saw dolphins and whales, and went on an epic buggy safari through Teide National Park
-I got a Vitamix blender for my birthday, something I should have done years ago
-I saw 9 West End shows, which was not a record, but still an impressive and enjoyable feat

2019 is already starting on the right foot. We spent New Year’s Day stripping wallpaper in preparation for our bedroom renovation. I pray once we get the builders in the job really does only take two weeks! Then maybe we can focus on the kitchen, which started as “Let’s just repaint and add some more cupboards” but has evolved to “let’s just completely gut it!” Gulp. Meanwhile I just finished week 2 of my half marathon training plan and crushed my 5-mile “long run,” so at least that’s going well. Ask me again once the long runs get longer than 6 miles though! I’m also still working on my calligraphy and want to try new things like iPad digital art with Procreate and making process videos. Maybe this will be the year I get off the proverbial bench and start selling my work and services(!). Addressing all 30 of our Christmas cards made me think I might be able to do envelopes and place cards for a wedding one day… a small wedding, at least!

Image courtesy Doug the Pug

Here’s to 2019!

My latest addiction

I have a problem. I am addicted to mobile live trivia games and it’s kinda sorta ruining my life.

It started innocently enough. My brother’s girlfriend introduced us to HQ Trivia. We were sitting around the kitchen table at my parents’ house a few months ago when her phone pinged at 2:58pm.

“Hey, it’s almost 3pm, we can play HQ Trivia!” she exclaimed.

We gathered around her phone as Scott Rogowsky asked us 12 multiple choice questions. The live aspect of it was appealing — playing against people all around the world in the moment. But the prospect of winning real live money was even more appealing. However many winners there are split the prize pot, which is usually $5,000 or £1,000, and on Sunday nights is $25,000 or £8,000.

After my brother and his girlfriend went home, both my parents and I downloaded the HQ app onto our phones. Because I have a UK phone number, I could only play the UK game. The US game (which apparently everyone in the world can play except for those in the UK) airs at 3pm and 9pm EST on weekdays and only 9pm on weekends, while the UK game has the same schedule only in BST. Which means when I was in the US I was playing 4 HQ games a day — the UK 3pm game at 10am EST, helping my mom with the US 3pm game on her phone, playing the UK 9pm game at 4pm EST, then at 9pm EST my parents and I would stop whatever we were doing to play HQ.

It was fun at first. It brought us together and gave us a chance to show off our random knowledge. On the Sunday night big prize games, UK players can play the US version, presuming they can stay awake until 2am, but it worked out well for me when I was in Kentucky. Each game each day brought a new thrill — maybe this time would be our Slumdog Millionaire moment, when each question relates to our own life experiences and expertise and we win big!

That’s part of why it started to become a problem. If any show could be my winning show, missing a show became difficult. I had to revolve my life around being on my phone at 10am, 3pm, 4pm, and 9pm. One night we thought about going to see a movie in the evening, but decided against it because we wouldn’t be able to play the special NBA Finals $400,000 prize game.

I thought things would be different once I got back to the UK and could only play twice a day. But then I discovered HQ isn’t the only mobile live trivia game. So I started playing Q Live at 1pm, HQ at 3pm, Q Live again at 8pm, Cash Show at 8:30pm, and HQ at 9pm. I had to plan my run or errands so they would fit between 1:15pm when Q Live ended and 3pm when HQ started.

“Maybe we’ll stop playing once we win,” my mom said a few weeks into our HQ obsession.

But then she and my dad both won on the same night — a whole 17 cents each. Because that’s the thing — if the questions are easy enough for you to win, they’re easy enough for a lot of people to win. The thrill of winning was sweet, but fleeting — we wanted to win a bigger prize.

I won my first UK game on August 1st. I was especially proud because the UK show is harder for me as an American — a lot of the questions are about UK history, football or TV shows I’m not familiar with. I won £2.65, which is $3.47. I was elated. But I didn’t stop playing.

HQ had a special 3-show night to celebrate its 1-year birthday on Sunday, August 26th. The first show started at 8pm EST, which was 1am BST, around my bedtime. But I stayed up to play. I got out on the 8th question, but my dad ended up winning — 40 cents! Then Scott said the next show would be at 8:30pm, 1:30am for me, but it was only 15 minutes away, so I decided to play. And I won! $7.22!

There were questions about Chinese culture and ancient Greek language — it was my Slumdog Millionaire moment! I should have gone to bed after winning, but there was another show in 15 minutes, and with my adrenaline pumping there was no way I’d be able to go to sleep before 2am anyway. So I played and lost.

Since my big win I’ve been trying to ween myself off. But they recently added a new feature that rewards you with an extra life (an ability to rejoin the game if you get 1 question wrong) if you play 5 days in a row. Way to reel people in, HQ. Besides, if I don’t play, I can’t win, and who’s to say the next game won’t be my biggest win yet?

Send help. And extra lives.