July

[Sweder]

I was determined to have horrible run this morning and hey presto! a real trudge. Such a shame, as the good Lord had made every effort, dousing the hills liberally throughout the night before hauling the sun into a clear blue sky. Clouds hovered nervously on the horizon not daring to set a fluffy white foot nearer less that foot be vapourised in an instant. A cooling breeze out of the west completed a near-perfect scene, yet still I lumbered, rusty, grumpy, determined to suffer all the way. It was criminal really, my inability to embrace the gifts laid out before me, but there it is; sometimes you're just not up for it. Guilty as charged, M'lud.

After a lacklustre stretch I spent ten minutes under the shower letting the water hit me, easing the temperature control towards cold so as not to carry on sweating afterwards*. I felt like Bob Hoskins after he'd murdered Charlie from Casualty in The Long Good Friday, the camouflaged evidence of my crime swirling around the plughole. Now, if only I had Helen Mirren waiting to comfort me . . .

Yesterday's visit to the gym was no different. Everything felt like an impossible task. I even hit the treaddie - usually a no-no - in an effort to spice up the session, but every one of the fifteen sweat-splashed minutes was purgetory. I'm going through a tough patch but it looks like I'll have to get in line for my tea and sympathy.

Five warm hilly miles in well over fifty minutes. Ugh.

[SIZE="1"]* Is there anything more annoying after a run?[/SIZE]