An epiphany.

Day 6 Saturday.

V is still recovering from her calf strain and I from excessive gin intake. 10.30am Metafit class.  The class is about 1.5 miles away and it’s pissing rain, freezing and I have a headache.  I choke down a Berocca and go before I change my mind.  I get in to the zone pretty quickly and my breathing – which is always a struggle – seems to regulate more easily.  I start to think that this crazy idea might just be possible after all, I could learn to love this running malarkey and that the finish line on 10 May may actually be in my sights.  Dog walkers smile encouragingly at me and everyone says ‘Good Morning’.  I’m so knackered I can’t reply, obviously, but it makes for a very pleasant start to the day.

I manage to make it all the way there without stopping  and I am thoroughly pleased with myself.  After taking a moment to calibrate the difference between a mile and half jaunt and a 13.5 mile slog, I feel slightly less confident. So much so, I neglect to check the time and blunder into  a weight loss management class.  It’s upsetting that the group take one look at me in my running tights and immediately assume I’m just late.

Metafit accomplished without any nausea or wishing for death. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I loved it, but I didn’t hate it either. Progress of a  sort.

It’s really lashing rain now but I decide to try the run home.  My legs feel like jelly after 30 minutes of non-stop squats, lunges, burpees and squat thrusts but the fact that my fellow class members have seen me preparing to run whilst getting in their cars, makes me feel I need to put on a show.

I take off at a ridiculous pace and make it about 40 yards or so before I start to feel faint.  They are just passing me on the roundabout and I display an outstanding commitment to road safety as I wait at the kerb for several minutes in pretence of checking that the achingly slow Nissan Micra full of pensioners has definitely seen me before I jog/walk across the road.  By that time they are gone, thank god, and I can continue on my hobbling, breathless way.

I have had huge amounts of advice from people much better qualified than me on things I need to do and buy to make this experience slightly less painful.

I am assured I need twin-skin socks, Gore running gloves, special blister plasters, immodium and high quality foot moisturiser and regular pedicures to stop my toenails falling off.   As I have already spent half the household GDP on Compeed, (the Hello Kitty plasters just didn’t cut the mustard) I put my online shopping spree on hold.  To be honest I can do without the gloves if it means keeping my toenails.

Day 7 Sunday.

Rest day.  Just as well, the high from my run the day before left me feeling invincible so I drank a whole bottle of cava and ate a huge steak dinner. I feel like shit today.

Day 8 Monday.

WE ARE ON FUCKING FIRE!  Just completed a 45 minute/6km run without stopping, cramping, feeling sick or gasping for air.  Have sorted out the pace I think and the strategy is to get a 10km run under our belts comfortably and then work on upping the pace and adding in a bit of tempo and more gradient.   I sound exactly like I know what I’m talking about.  I don’t, but that’s never stopped me talking before.  Feeling pumped and know  we are going to do this. No question.

Have reworked the mission statement from “We don’t have to be fast, just not last” to, (in the unforgettable words of JLo) “GO HARD OR GO HOME”.

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