A day off after a race is mandatory. Two days is a bit naughty, but I’ll let it pass for anything over a 10K. But three days? What d’you take me for, Boy? EH? EH?
This is what I said to myself yesterday evening, after getting back to my Dartford hotel. Suitably chastised, I dutifully detogged, changed mode, retogged and decamped.
It was a new route. Inspired by my discovery that last week’s hotel had a secret escape hatch into the local community, I tried the same thing with the Hilton. I made it through the wire before the alarm was raised, and was away. Dark, raining lightly, the first mile was almost countrified. Then it was back to reality with a bang as I hit part of the high street. Then a long plod past nondescript shops and takeaway emporia till I reached Dartford’s outer limits. Left at the roundabout, left at another shortly after, then cutting through the business park, back to the hotel. The two roundabout are known locally by their traditional old romantic names: McDonalds Corner and Burger King Junction.
The run was bang on 4 miles, and it knackered me. Why? Well the cynic will say that I took too much time off after Sunday. But I think it was my shoes. By mistake, I’d packed an old pair – the ones I used for the London Marathon. These old things have lost their bounce, and it was always going to be a struggle. This morning I called in at the gym instead, and borrowed some bounce from the treadmill.
It isn’t the same, but anything that draws sweat has to be welcomed.
