Two runs in three days that have yanked me out of my comfort zone.
On Sunday afternoon I started with 3.6 miles. The greasy granite sky I found myself moving towards was the output of the Hemel Hempstead fire, but it might just as well have been a grim augury. I reached the gym, spent 40 disconsolate minutes bobbing up and down like a drowning man on various pieces of machinery, then set off to jog back home. It was a mistake. By now it was dark and very cold – well below freezing. I was tired, and found it hard to crank up the energy needed to carry on. A couple of miles on, and bizarrely, I seemed to hit the wall. Or a lesser version of it. More a box hedge, perhaps. Suddenly, all energy had drained away and I started to sweat furiously. From nowhere, a great hunger and thirst descended like a bird of prey. I came across a petrol station and tried buying something to eat and drink. I say I “tried” because it was a struggle. With 8 people tutting behind me in the queue, I couldn’t unzip the pocket at the back of my shorts. Eventually I got there, and 4 energy bars and half a litre of sports drink later, I was able to walk the final wretched mile or so.
An interesting and useful experience. The long break between the two runs was an error. Doing more than I was ready to do was an error. Going back into the big bad black frozen world after I’d cooled down, with the same sweat-wet clothes on, was an error. Running while dehydrated, after too much beer and wine and cheese and ice cream the night before, was an error. But we all know that that which does not kill me… makes me breakfast.
Or something like that. I have feasted on this one.
Tonight I rejoined the local group that I ran with from January to July of this year. Man oh man, it was hard. I did 5 hilly miles with the middle group. For the final mile I was on my own. A bleak and wearisome mile it was too, which told me just how unfit I am. The others were decent about it, though I doubt if their patience is limitless.
I need to think about Saturday. I’ve agreed to meet up with Antonio d’Almeria, and take 21 of his 17 year-old Spanish students for a walk in London. If they were a year older I could make it a tour of historic pubs. So near, yet so far.
