Monday. Day 29, Day 30, Day 31, Day 32, Day 33…blah, blah…
We run. It’s wet. It’s windy. It’s freezing. I am bored of this shit.
There are no highlights this week but many, many lows. I know runners are supposed to hit the metaphoric “wall” but I had understood that to be actually during the race, rather than slap bang in the middle of training.
Undertaking a run in snow while Rugrat 2 is at sports class turns out to be one of many lapses of good judgement. Even the stalwart G, peels off when we pass close to her house in search of tea and a hot shower. I plough on to the village hall in a blizzard. V’s mum passes me in her car and the look of horror and bewilderment on her face will live with me forever.
I sit dripping and shivering all over the caretakers newly mopped floor waiting for the rugrat. She is obviously thrilled. The other mums are laughing and joking with each other and survey me with amusement and thinly veiled pity as they play Candy Crush in their warm and dry clothing. I now truly understand the meaning of the word “embittered”.
I get home to find there is no hot water and feel like killing someone. Preferably myself.
Saturday. Day 34
V and I have scheduled another 10k lochside route and it turns out to be the worst run we have ever had. The fault was all our own as the conditions were excellent. No wind, clear blue sky, dry and bright. Should have been great. It was anything but.
It turns out that there are two new things to consider before embarking on a 10k:
1. Empty your bladder
2. Do not eat McDonald’s or taste test around 30 of the 200 cream-filled profiteroles you have made for a party this evening
We stop/start almost the whole way while trying to find a suitable toilet-stop spot on one of the busiest public walkways in central Scotland. There are none. Perhaps if we were more hardcore, we’d just have done a Paula Radcliffe, but the thought of meeting a friend or one of our children’s teachers while squatting in the undergrowth is just too much to bear.
Typically, this is the run where we seem to meet almost everyone we know. I suspect they are now all deeply suspicious of any previous comments made on our fantastic progress as they observe us ambling along at a pace that wouldn’t challenge your average snail, whilst casting furtive glances at clumps of bushes.
There is very little to be positive about today. Except of course that it wasn’t me who ate the McDonald’s.
Sunday. Day 35
If yesterday was bad, today is off the scale. Death would be welcome and ironically, I’d do anything for a McDonald’s.
I attended a 40th birthday party of epic proportions last night (see 200 profiteroles above) and used the disastrous 10k this morning as a poor excuse to drown my sorrows. I have little recollection of the event aside from the rabid competitive spirit that overtook me when it came to the ‘No1 Hits of the Last 40 Years’ Quiz. I fear I may have lost some friends in the process.
It was a fantastic night ( I am assured) and the details are hazy but it appears I have,
a) agreed to take part in a second-hand baby sale
b)decided to write a book
c)proved I cannot hold my drink.
That should read ‘second hand baby goods sale’. I haven’t got any second-hand babies, just a couple of shop-soiled ones but strangely, I am rather attached to those. And in my defence, it was a HUGE amount of drink so I feel I can hold my head up there.
If only I could actually hold my head up.
The Reluctant Athlete 