Sometimes a run just jumps out of nowhere and ambushes you.
Today, after spending all morning and most of the afternoon lounging in front of a computer, still in my dressing gown, I glanced out of the window and saw the first signs of darkness. With some reluctance, I decided that a short run would be a good idea. I can barely bring myself to confront the calorific calamity that lies in wait for me tomorrow. Perhaps if I can go into the day with some kind of calory defecit from today, it might help, I thought.
The plan was to do a quick three miler before M returned home. If the timing was right, I could do just enough hoovering and washing up to convince her that I’d been hard at it.
But the quick three miler turned into an eight mile run. 8 miles! How did that happen?
I set off along the canal, turning back at the point where the generally sound tow path turns into a mud-swamp of a field. But approaching home, I realised that I wanted to continue, and headed off up one of the local lanes.
Last week, I had some correspondence with the administration office of the local baronial estate. This had been the location of the 10K race I did in August. I emailed them, asking if I could have access to some of the paths across the estate. To my surprise, they didn’t send a gamekeeper round with a shotgun to warn me off making further impertinent enquiries. Instead, I had a courteous reply, pointing out that there were some permissive paths that I was allowed to use, and even a suggestion of a route that would form a loop of about 4.5 miles.
Today seemed like a good opportunity to explore this suggestion, so I tacked it onto the end of my initial three miles. It was quite exhilarating to find myself running on good paths away from the traffic. The only problem was that it pitch black by now, and I had little idea where I was going. At one point I followed a path past a huge detached residence in the grounds of the estate, and into a farmyard, where I found myself trapped. There was no option but to retrace my steps. Fortunately, there seemed to be no one at home – or I really may have got a shotgun embedded somewhere pretty painful.
Eventually, through the darkness, I heard the ethereal sound of carols being sung, and could make out the steeple of the tiny fifteenth century church that sits on the estate. I knew where I was now, and turned towards home — though there was still about a mile and a half to go.
After getting back and showering, it was 6:15pm. Perfect. This left me 45 minutes to nip down to the Sainsbury’s Savacentre to buy all my presents, cards and wrapping paper to get me through the next couple of days. I’ve never understood this nonsense about starting your Christmas shopping at the start of November. I’ve always done all mine in the last shopping hour of Christmas Eve. As long as you have a rough idea of what you want, what’s the problem? It gets a bit like Supermarket Sweep, admittedly, as you career round the aisles, throwing things into your trolley, but it’s better than agonising over it for weeks on end.
Today I received my number (508) for the Hyde Park 10K race on New Year’s Day. Part of me resents the constraints it puts on my New Year’s Eve carousing opportunities. But it’s an important marker for the year ahead: starting how I mean to go on, and all that stuff.
And anyway, if I do well in the race, I might just treat myself to a glass of shandy on New Years Day evening instead.
