Another written-off month.
No, hang on, let’s make a slight alteration there:
Another written-off month?
That question mark makes all the difference.
Today I’m hope-gathering, and today I need that question mark.
Let’s have a bit of straight talking here. I’ve fizzled out again, and I want this to be the last time it happens. This cycle must now be broken permanently. I know from the emails I get that there are plenty of people out there who can relate to these difficulties. I’m grateful for the encouragement these give me, and I’m pleased that my own patchy performances make others feel better about their own troughs. We’re all glad to hear that we’re not alone. But it worries me that the joke will wear off eventually.
It frustrates me intensely that I can’t seem to sustain a long spell of proper training. Look. Running is great. It makes you feel good about yourself; it’s energising; it blows away low self-esteem; it hands you mental clarity; it makes you strong and confident. It’s a fine feeling, and I want it back again.
I can make excuses. I can rationalise what’s going wrong, but essentially I come back to this fact: that I consistently underestimate the amount of self-discipline required to succeed. It’s struck me recently that I’m on a mission, yet I’m not equipping myself properly. Succeeding requires a shift in mindset similar to the one that it took to stop smoking cigarettes 9 years ago. Before I finally stubbed out that last one, I had to confront the task intellectually, and it was only when I’d made that engagement that I finally cracked it.
What am I trying to crack here? Hmm. Not such a straightforward question. Stopping smoking has a clear and measurable aim. This running lark isn’t quite so black and white. I don’t want to become a wild-eyed zealot, but there have to be targets to make success measurable. I’ve recently read through the entire three years of running logs on this website, and it became clear that I don’t have any obvious goals apart from completing a splatter of races here and there.
I always fancied the idea of being properly fit. I always liked the idea of running being a lifestyle thing, and races being part of a continuum, not just some badly rehearsed trick to perform on special occasions three or four times a year. Instead of these peaks and troughs, I want a flatter trend line.
Alcohol will have to go. Chocolate. Late nights too.
Tomorrow.
Right now I need to find a glass for my Taylor’s 10 year old Tawny. My last glass of booze for a while, so forgive me if I sign off.
That fizzy late night silence, a glass of decent port and a big fat question mark to chew on. What an unbeatable combination.
See you next month. Fighting fit.
