Last week I decided to give up running. Well it was two weeks ago actually. My feet hurt, I felt too old and fat for it all and just couldn’t face it. I told Attila I didn’t want to do it anymore. He wasn’t having any of it.
I washed all the running gear and packed it away in the wardrobe – hitherto it has always lived at-the-ready on an old drying rack in my bedroom.
I went for a walk up the lane last week and almost wanted to run, but not quite.
Between tripping back and forth across the country for Mum and other things going on, feeling I wasn’t up to running was just the icing on the proverbial cake. Also felt bad as I’d invested in flash new trainers and now wouldn’t wear them. See, my mean streak pops up everywhere!
Friday – Attila pops round and says the trainers might be to blame. Give a wee run a try next week with Old Faithful on the feet. Decide that rather than just kill him there and then I might drag the gear out the wardrobe and give it a try. But just a jog, haven’t been out for two weeks, don’t feel up to much. Have little or no interest.
Saturday – Spot sign in Post Office re a 10k Fun Run for charity in the village next day. On wildly optimistic note I text Attila. What am I thinking of, I don’t want to do this. No reply from A so I continue on way to Musselburgh for visit and back in evening. Oh joy, a merry message from A saying it’s a great idea, let’s do it. Have horrible visions of self being stretchered off the road by paramedics who are unable to lift the bloody stretcher. Do not feel good about this. Well it’s cold and might rain, that should put him off and I can escape humiliation in own village.
Sunday – Fabulous weather. Beautiful and sunny, you wouldn’t even think this was Scotland. Happy text from A extoling virtues of wonderous weather and making point about it being perfect for a run. Resist temptation to pretend I am in Musselburgh and can’t possibly make it.
1.30pm finds us in the park gathered with about a hundred other lunatics. A piper pipes us off. The sun beats down. All those wiry pro harriers run off at a skelping pace and already I feel like a tortoise. By 2k I feel like a snail. Half way and I am almost at a walk. Perk up a little at thought that I am at least nearer finish line than starting place. Curse Attila, self and world in general for me doing this. People pass me with alarming regularity. I am no longer a tortoise to their hares, I am but a slug. The stewards en route shout encouragement, but to be honest the visions of being stretchered off are perilously close to coming true. I am seriously struggling. There is also the feeling of guilt that I’m making A look bad by him having to run so slowly to stay beside me when he can do so much better and run on ahead. Bless him, he stays at the slug pace and almost drags me over the finish line. A hot, sweaty, red faced wreck.
Am I up to this?