Plodderata, God of Plod, I beseech you.
I beat my chest, I offer up my last Lucozade Sport energy gel, I pull clumps of sweaty hair from my head.
Why?
Why, why, why?
This morning I got up early, breakfasted, pulled my warm and dry kit from the washing machine, got dressed and set off on my 16 mile long run.
It took 2 or 3 minutes for the first suspicions to arise. The day was grey and blustery. A carrier bag chased me up the street for a hundred yards before edging ahead. Last week Haile Gebrselassie, this week a Tesco carrier bag. I felt lifeless and demotivated.
Once I’m into it, I’ll be fine, I said. But I never got into it. Two miles in, I knew it wasn’t going to work. I turned off the canal, up to the main road and headed back home. 4.23 miles of gritty, blowy plodding.
And now of course, the house is flooded with golden sunshine. Sigh.
There are compensatory thoughts ahead. The breadmaker has just beeped and delivered a warm, crusty loaf. Two thick slices with a poached egg in between, dripping with ketchup. Then the trip to Loftus Road for the visit of Preston North End. A good win today and this morning’s run will be forgotten.
I’ll run long tomorrow.
