Something untoward to report. Work. After fairly stately progress with my task in recent weeks, I’ve had to accelerate a bit this week, squeezing my running time.
A pathetic excuse, of course. Shame on me for pulling that one out of The Lazy Bugger’s Book Of Flimsy Excuses. The week has been busy, but there’s always time to run, just as there is always time to read – despite what people say.
Maybe it isn’t so bad. For whatever reason, I didn’t get out yesterday, but I did manage 20 minutes early this morning, and another 25 this evening, on the treadmill in the small hotel gym. Sorry, the “Leisure Centre”. First one I’ve come across since those delightful days in Dartford a few weeks ago. Does treadmill running count? I suppose it must, but it seems sort of wimpy, and even adulterous.
Something I’ve resolved in the last week is that I won’t be taking part in the Dublin marathon at the end of next month. I’d revived my enthusiasm, or rather, the delusion that I could do enough to make it, during that successful burst of exercise a couple of weeks ago. But my gloriously gluttonous week in Ireland poured a bucket of ice-cold Guinness over the idea, and there’s no going back now.
The decision also simplifies plans for the weeks ahead. A local 10K in a couple of weeks, the Cabbage Patch 10 miler in mid October, and quite possibly the Stroud Half a week later.
