A few tales from our summer holidays in Greece 2016!

I’ve never been brave enough to run in just a sports bra.  Even when my brain was melting during the Clacton-on-Sea Half it never even crossed my mind to strip down and cool off.  I have always admired runners, that is no secret.  The image of a girl disappearing into the horizon in a crop top, with a bouncing ponytail, looking effortless, has long been burned into my mind thanks to popular culture.

But I am not that girl.  Aside from chopping off my hair, my stomach is still generous and wobbles an awful lot. Privately I am also deeply ashamed of how my abdominal area has turned out since losing weight. I convinced myself it’s okay to wear a bikini because, well, reluctantly, I am probably never going to look like Ellie Goulding so I may as well get on with it.  However, I am not sure there is ever going to be a right time to unleash my rippling, wobbling, magnificent beast of a stomach mid-stride on the world.

This counts as carb loading right? Delicious Greek Food!

Beach casual – because life is too short to worry about what you should or should not be wearing!

I was wrong.

I was fundamentally examining the wrong parameters.  It was not a matter of right time, or being the right weight, or looking like that girl, it was a purely biological function of wrong temperature.  It turns out that there is a point, where physical comfort overrules emotional discomfort, and that point for me was 32°C.

Yes. 32°C. Greece in July.  The sun has barely come up but it is already brutal. Hellenic heat, combined with practically no breeze, a tough hill coming up and I can’t bear it anymore.  The outermost layer has to go.  And yes, it is every bit as cooling and invigorating as I had imagined.  I am still nervously looking out for other people, expecting to be judged for this gross wardrobe oversight, but I feel so much better. Besides Andreas is here and he has given me a cheeky wink, a pep talk and a chug of water, so all in all, I feel fantastic.

And you know what – nothing bad happened.  I ran along the sea front of Nea Makri in a sports bra and it was great. I was great.  The sea, the sun, a comfortable stride, I’m feeling pretty idyllic –  even if I’m not the stereotype.

So my advice would be – you’ve got to be comfortable.  No one has the right to tell you what you can or cannot wear.  If you want to wear a crop top and go running in 32°C heat, or hell, 7°C – (which I’ve actually done now, because hot flushes are a thing if you’ve run your estrogen into the ground from prolonged calorie restriction – but I digress!) – then do it.  You be you.  You’re still running.  And if you can’t imagine it yet, don’t worry – maybe you’ll be sensible enough to avoid exercising in such extremes of heat!

AND hounds? Where do they fit in to this tale?

Well it was a surprise for me too.

Andreas’ Dad (Vaggelis) armed us with a long sturdy stick before our first evening run from his place (a small town up in the mountains by Athens) but I didn’t really think much of it.  Even when Vaggelis cautioned me directly about the stray and sheep dogs I still couldn’t take the threat seriously.  I mean who doesn’t love dogs?  If a furry canine wanted to say hello I’d be more than happy to comply.  I have secretly been feeding the cats and dogs at all the restaurants and petting them under the table when the other adults weren’t looking anyway.  However, Andreas took the stick with purpose – because of course he knew it was a good idea.

We set off, with limited sunlight left, but that was a necessity given how hot it gets in the daytime!  This is the town where Andreas grew up.  The streets are white concrete, dusty but firm and almost all of it is on some kind of steep incline.  We head away from the town to hit the mountain trails for a bit of off roading.  We get to the first long road out of the town and a lone stray dog barks excitedly as we pass.  It’s not a friendly bark though.  It’s more like what, what, what!

We pass unscathed and head further out.  The road is downhill, with tall trees lining it.  We’re counting tracks off on the right (we need the third to make our loop) and a few more stray dogs pop in and out of the verges.  They are sometimes silent but more often than not they bark that desperate, antagonised bark.  It’s not too bad, they aren’t chasing us, they aren’t even approaching us – yet – just letting us know they are there.  There is more barking in the distance.

Then, one or two dogs, rapidly becomes three or four, and before you know it, suddenly there is barking all around and it seems that whichever direction you look there are blurry furred shapes whizzing past, coming closer, closing that distance.  I counted eight on the right hand side alone before I gave up.  More ominous shapes are visible over the crest of the hill.  They are circling us*, some now only a few metres away, brave and defiant.

Andreas is a legend, carefully and efficiently navigating us back the way we came.  “Best not to run,” he says somehow a sea of calm, “don’t want them to give chase!”  We retreat and the pack does not pursue us.  Just as quickly as they descended the wild pack have disbanded.  The Cujo moment has come and gone so quickly I have to wonder if it happened at all.  But Andreas still grips the stick as a not so subtle reminder.

Rather than risk heading back past the original dog, we instead use one of the mountain trails which Andreas knows will join with the major road back into town.  The trail was great fun. Hard packed dirt, flowers, hedges, narrow paths and rocks to navigate, there is a steady climb and a pretty decent view from our vantage point at the top.  We even bump into some folk who recognise Andreas (and who may have be co-opted into taking a photo for us)!

Getting back alive and in one piece was an added bonus!  So my second piece of advice is to listen to the locals!  And if in doubt, bring a big stick.

*After reading this post, Andreas said “Circling us? Really? It wasn’t that bad.” I think he is just that cool.