Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. I didn’t go for my long run today.
Actually, my dad didn’t mind, and didn’t even seem that interested in my confessional when I called to wish him a happy Father’s Day.
Phew, what a scorcher. I rarely believe anything that Texans say, but I should have taken the advice of those guys from Austin we sat next to at the pasta dinner in Chicago, the evening before the marathon in 2002. When it’s hot, y’git out at fo’ in the mo’nin’. Yes, their running club meets at 4 a.m. for their hour-long runs.
A couple of times, I looked at the hazy garden through an open window. Later, later… But the grass never did get cut. That bed never did get dug. We spend 90% of the year pining for long, hot, summer days but when they arrive, most of us grumble like hell and retreat under our stones. But if it gets me out of garden duties, I don’t mind at all. Trouble was, it also made the prospect of a run deeply unappealing.
So the first week of my Loch Ness training has passed without a long run (even though a ‘long run’ at this stage of the game means no more than 6 or 7 miles). Not a great start. When I should have been running through the twilit countryside I was on my 4th pint, and the only running going on was that of the ice cold beer down my gullet.
Things, as they say, can only get better.
