A day of hobbling round the office, cursing those famous slings and arrows. Frustrating. After a lethargic summer, I finally manage to heave myself off my backside and into my trainers, only to pick up some sort of injury, or at best, a painful, temporary shackle.
No point in thinking about a run today, and it might even be next week or beyond when I get out again. In the meantime, I’m developing a slightly worrying interest in a local race planned for the end of March. The Compton Downland Challenge winds around the hills above and beyond Pangbourne and Streatley, not far from the greatest pub in England, the Bell at Aldworth. It’s a hilly trail race, and said to be friendly and laid back and well-worth doing.
The one thing against it is that it’s 40 miles long. Forty hilly miles. It seems more than likely that this time next week I’ll have forgotten about it again, so I’d best not over-milk the idea. But I need something to challenge and frighten me again, just like the London Marathon did in 2002. The thrilling thing about that race was that until the day itself, I really had no idea whether I’d manage it or not.
How good it would be to be shaken up like that again…
