As Reading Gaol’s most famous alumni once remarked, “I can resist everything except temptation”. I seem to have the same… opportunity.
So there I was on Tuesday, almost drowning in self-congratulation about my ascending good health, when the little matter of a football match came up. QPR were due to play our affable neighbours, Brentford, and I had a difficult decision to make. My habit is to meet up with a mate for a few beers before the game, though this didn’t sit very comfortably with my new health regime. What to do? After an afternoon of agonising, I decided that it would be unethical to let him down. More than unreasonable, it would have been nothing less than an act of wanton cruelty. And so I suspended the new me for a couple of hours. Just long enough to squeeze in five pints of Guinness, a gargantuan portion of fish and chips, and three bars of chocolate.
But at least we won the match, and I retained a friend, so the sacrifice was worth it.
I hadn’t run since Saturday, so I didn’t really deserve a night off. But it’s happened, and there we have it. Not surprisingly, the next morning (yesterday) I felt no enthusiasm for the idea of getting up at daybreak, so this morning’s run was the first for five days. Not really good enough, given the recent resolution — and especially as I’ve signed up for a 10K race on Sunday, and should be honing my body to an Adonis-like degree of perfection.
I lay awake this morning at 5:45, not quite certain whether I was still resident in this body. It seemed I was floating about an inch away. The leaden body was still snoring softly, while the shadow was alert, and eager to get up and get out there. Eventually they merged just long enough to let me leave the bed, but I crept downstairs with a terrible sense of uncertainty and reluctance.
Sometimes you just know that this running lark is total nonsense. A cruel trick we play on ourselves, and on each other. This morning, standing shivering in the lobby, peering out into the cold, pitch-black world, I knew for sure that I was mad. How could I be contemplating handing myself over to such a dangerous, hostile enemy? From the kitchen behind me comes the siren aroma of a newly baked granary loaf, while the central heating creaks into life. How about a cosy, leisurely breakfast instead, with a pot of steaming coffee, a slab of toast and marmalade, and Radio Four?
A minute or two later the knife is twisted as I trot disconsolately past the local hotel. From the open window comes a rich, pungent miasma of frying bacon. Oh God. I could weep. And here’s the landlord of the Red Lion, arriving back from the village with his newspaper and pint of milk. I thought about calling out a greeting, but knew that if he recognised me he’d never allow someone as clearly deranged as I must be, back into the pub. On I trudge.
But… but sure enough, the slow magic begins, and ten minutes later I’m bouncing along, grinning like a shark, grateful to be alive this morning under the blazing moon.
