I was always going to Connemara, that was a given. Claire has never been to Ireland, and I’ve been often enough to know that the craic is worth the trip alone.
No, what was weighing heavily on me was whether I would go and actually run the half-marathon I’d entered. Time was a-marching and I’d become an A* grade procrastinator. An arm injury sustained in December had curtailed my tennis for most of January and obviously I couldn’t run with a dodgy arm, so general sloth and work dominated. And here we are in February, just about two months from the gun and my few treddie sessions in November were all I’d undertaken between the Brighton 10K and about 6pm this evening.
The other day Mr Swede of this parish phoned me from Lisbon airport (or was it Houston) whilst he was awaiting a connection home, to enquire how my training was going….He knew the answer as well as I did. Grrr…
So tonight was the (re)start. Yes I know that my periods of err….race recovery are somewhat legendary, but tonight I donned the gear and huffed the seafront for two miles, and bloody easy it was too!
See, the thing about lengthy lay-offs is that one tends to forget the fantastic post-run endorphin hit. Maybe it’s why runners have to up the anti, but whatever - It’s here with me now and it’s WOW.
I’ve been in this game long enough to know that I’ve got to build on this, and yes my recent record of continued plodding isn’t exactly great. But I did two 10K’s late last year, basically on the back of bugger all training I’m well aware that the half is a different kettle of oysters.
It’s a start though…So c’mon guys, kick my ample lardy arse and don’t let up until I’m up to at least 10 miles….please.
Cancel (the) Connemara Kop-out
