Less than four weeks to go to Copenhagen, and at last – the start of some good old dry-mouthed terror to report.
Saturday’s droopy 18 miler seemed like a gloomy portent, and marshalling at the London marathon on Sunday was another – at times. If I shut one eye it was a joyful experience. If I opened it and shut the other… well, it was like peering from the shadows at my own funeral.
On the positive side, I had an unexpectedly good 5 mile run this evening. Learning to appreciate the special quality of early morning outings proved to be a long and painful apprenticeship. Since then I’ve rarely run in the evening. Tonight I did, and it reminded me how cleansing it could be. Just as running early in the day sends you off to work with a tornado-like sense of internal energy, running late can be gorgeously cathartic. It’s a different gift to yourself, but just as valuable.
