Autumn, that’s what it is. Has anyone else noticed how fed-up everyone is at the moment? The last two weekends in particular have been orangey-brown and windswept. The garden is cold and dying, and nothing has gone to plan.
We’ve passed this way before, though it’s previously happened only after a marathon or an injury. That sense of anti-climax that results in me not doing anything very active for far too long. It’s only been a couple of weeks this time, but given the plans I had for the next month or two, that’s too long.
It hasn’t been a totally inactive period; I did manage a 4 miler the Saturday after the race, and I’ve walked to the pub a few times — but that’s about it.
Last night, after a frustrating weekend in which almost nothing got done, I decided it was time for yet another fresh start. So this morning, despite waking later than intended I still managed a brisk 25 minute jog: enough to keep me dripping through the train journey to work, and to convince me that happy days are here again. It wasn’t as long as I’d hoped, but it was enough to remind me how good it is to run first thing.
Next Sunday is the Great South Run: 10 miles in and around Portsmouth. The earth won’t vanish into a black hole if I don’t turn up (at least I don’t think so — it wasn’t mentioned on the application form) but it would be good to collect another medal and start to feel holy again.
Here goes.
