What goes up must come down, they say. This is certainly true of the runner’s self esteem. It’s been a truly dreadful week. I’m writing it off and starting again.
Tuesday’s rapid three miles was a good start, but it stuttered from then on. I missed my 5 miler on Wednesday, for no very good reason, and struggled to a sweaty, flabby, panting 3 miles early on Thursday. The plan was to rescue Wednesday’s 5 miles by doing them on Friday but no, this didn’t happen either. Instead, they popped up yesterday morning, Saturday. This was a grey and listless run along the canal. It was a foggy and strangely blank morning.
I kept telling myself that I would get up early today and do my planned seven miles, thus completing the week’s target mileage after all, but even as I told myself this, I knew that it wouldn’t happen. Instead I got up late, pottered about for a couple of hours, then went off to the pub to meet up with some old friends for a Sunday roast and a couple of pints. Not running fuel.
At least we managed a good stroll round the local lake after lunch. I’d never been here before, and was startled to discover that it’s a celebrated haven for birds and, by extension, birdwatchers. Richard surprised me by whipping out a pair of binoculars and revealing that he is a keen twitcher – a secret he’d kept concealed from me for the last 25 years. It means that I now know what a Goldeneye Duck looks like, and a Wigeon and a Pochard. And so do you:
| Goldeneye |  |
| Wigeon |  |
| Pochard |  |
The path was muddy and soft, but I did think that perhaps it would make a good running route in drier months.
The rest of the day was spent munching chocolate and cheese, so I’m likely to feel out of sorts tomorrow. Fat, to put it another way. Monday is normally a day of rest, but tomorrow I have no excuse. I need a decent run to get back on track.
