Monday. Day 36
Still feeling the effects of copious amounts of alcohol and deep shame, tonight’s run is grim. Again, the weather is resolutely wintry and neither of us has the urge to train. It is now taking on average, 7 text messages between V and I before any arrangement is made to run. We both secretly hope that the other will call-off so we can stay on the couch and open that bottle of Rioja.
At this point, the fear of failure is the only thing keeping me going. Although how long my reserve will last is anyone’s guess.
We blunder on through 6k or so, amid a cacophony of swearing.
Tuesday. Day 37
I receive a text from V while at work which reads, ‘You still on for tonight? *please say no, please say no, please say no…*’ Maybe we should make this the new mission statement…?
We go anyway because fear of public humiliation is a great motivator. But we grouse about it the whole time and vent about anyone who so much as looked at us the wrong way in the last 48 hours. There are several character assassinations during this training session. It’s bloody.
I’m plagued with pain from aching calves which I am trying to ignore but somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m wondering if I should be resting. The panic of breaking the schedule is too much though as I still cannot see a point where we will comfortably run even close to the full distance.
There is a constant sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, although that is very likely at least 50% due to over-consumption of gin.
Thursday, Day 39 – Saturday, Day 41.
Away on a family half-term trip so have done nothing since Tuesday, unless you count 7 lengths of the paddling-sized pool at the hotel and the energy it takes to shovel in a full Scottish (with fried bread, toast, tea and cereal to start) every morning.
Have decided to earn it today however, by heading to the hotel gym to use the treadmill. It is screaming hot in there and I only have outdoor running gear. I consider taking off my top after 3k, but decide the elderly gentleman doing lunges will not be fooled into thinking Doreen is some kind of high performance athletic top, designed to hug the contours of the body for maximum support and mobility. She’s hugging the contours alright, I can hardly bloody breathe.
Sadly her function is clear, she looks exactly like what she is, a foundation garment for well endowed and slightly portly ladies of a certain age. He probably sees enough of that carry on at home with Mrs Elderly Gentleman, so I soldier on sweating profusely and turning an alarming shade of purple as I clock up the k’s.
Treadmill running is mind-numbingly dull and there is nothing to look at. Aside from myself. The mirror in front of me tells a thousand tales. All of them from the horror genre.
The vision I believe I present when running is so far removed from reality, I expect a crash team or a concerned vet to arrive at any moment to perform resuscitation, or to put me out of my misery for good.
Either would be welcome, but not before my fry up.