Some runs are better than others. Today’s was a bad one.
It was a hot, sunny afternoon. I’d not warmed up or stretched. I was sleepy. I had just consumed a can of ginger beer (albeit the best there is: Sainsbury’s Diet version). And I expected to run 9 miles without any trouble. Silly bugger. I knew after just a few steps that I had a battle on my hands.
My main problem, in truth, was yesterday’s exertions in the garden. It takes about 2 hours to mow the front garden with the petrol monster I inherited from my father, and 3 hours to do the back (it’s too bumpy to get a mower across it, so it has to be strimmed and raked up). I also cut the hedges and did a few other jobs. By the evening I was completely knackered, and had to be led back to the house in a state of distress and disorientation and fatigue. This morning I ached all over. Not great preparation for the weekly long run.
M drove me the 9 miles to Thatcham, and dropped me off by the canal. I didn’t fancy the usual long up-and-back, and this seemed a good way of seeing the stretch of canal beyond my normal range. I did manage to run for an hour before stopping for a 3 minute walk. After that it was always a struggle, and I finally got home feeling like a broken man. Sweat poured off me from start to finish. I sweated so much indeed, that I’m certain the canal rose a good couple of inches during those couple of hours. Hope I don’t get into trouble about it.
