The shadow of Paula Radcliffe’s marathon failure has been everywhere today. There’s been a lot of sympathy, but I’ve been slightly shocked by some of the negative opinion that’s been doing the rounds of the radio phone-ins and the canteen. At lunch today, I heard two plump women on the adjoining table mumbling their disgust through mouthfuls of chips. "She was like a spoilt child", said one. "Just because she didn’t think she’d win a medal, she couldn’t be bothered anymore. "Yeah. She could of at least finished", whined the other, wiping the ketchup from her moustache with the back of her hand. "But she just couldn’t be arsed".
I suspect that in the puffy eyes of these two, Paula Radcliffe’s real crime was to be thin. I almost said so, but thought better of it.
Today’s supposed to be the first day of my revitalisation, and things haven’t gone too badly. No run was planned. I had to drive up to Leeds at the crack of dawn, and anyway, it’s against my religion to run on a Monday. Instead, my mission was to kick-start some sort of, sigh, sensible eating lifestyle. Only 3 toffees in 240 miles was about ten percent of the usual rate, so that was a successful-enough start. A salad for lunch and just fruit this evening rounded off a good day.
Tomorrow morning I’ll run. It’s got to happen. After Paula’s flop, it has become my responsibility to fly the flag for British athletics once again. I’ve laid out my gear, set the alarm for 6:15, and plan to have an early night.
Come on you fat git, you can do it. A couple of unscheduled weeks off isn’t a crime, but it’s time to get to work again.
