That final question resonated throughout Wednesday. After oversleeping and not running, the day became a kind of minefield, which I lurched across without a care, and from which I didn’t emerge intact. Too much crap food and beer.
Yesterday was much better. I didn’t wake up as early as I wanted to but I decided a run was worth getting the later train into London. I didn’t feel great as I set off. After the excesses of the previous day, I felt listless and miserable. But again, for the final mile of the three and a half, I found myself almost bouncing along through a flock of open-mouthed schoolkids, with a smile on my face.
And something similar happened again today. I don’t normally run on a Friday, but as I’d decided to work from home today it seemed too good a chance to miss. That first, dreadful mile. How horrible does that feel? It was quite a cold morning. Everyone I passed was wrapped up in overcoats and hats and gloves. And there I was, plodding stiffly past them in my underwear, pretending I was a normal, middle-aged person, with a mortgage and a vegetable plot, just like them. Have you ever had one of those anxiety dreams where you find yourself standing naked at a bus stop? Well that’s me. Every morning. And it isn’t a dream.
But even though it isn’t a dream, I do eventually wake up, and it’s the knowledge that I will wake up if only I hang on in there, that keeps me going. Somewhere between a half mile and a mile into the run, I realise I’m much warmer and looser than I was when I left home. More relaxed. Not exactly happy, but less wretched. The thin-lipped hatred I felt for everything, and for myself, just five or ten minutes earlier has started to dissolve.
As I get to the deer-park I’m feeling quite pleased with myself. I’m on the return leg now, and there isn’t long to go before that toast and honey and banana and coffee and shower and warmth and energy are mine to enjoy. Lovely, lovely, lovely.
