It’s getting boring. No, not running per se, but the debilitating stabbing pain in my chest when I start a run. Tonight it happened yet again, though like last night, I managed to run through it until it eventually decreased after about 2 miles (but in a 3 mile expedition, no great consolation). I’ve grown accustomed to the notion that it’s connected with food and the unhealthy elements thereof, but could it be exacerbated by the size and the timing of meals, rather than just their content? Over the past week or so, during which it’s been particularly persistent, I’ve been eating much more midday than usual. Meals. Healthy ones, yes, but more mountainous than the usual salads or sandwich. Maybe I’m overfuelling. Next week I thought I’d try running in the morning before work; perhaps this will be a useful time to experiment.
This evening was cold again – one degree below freezing. Not horribly cold by most people’s standards, but when you are prancing around in the bare-legged darkness then yes it is cold and yes, horribly so. Tonight I passed a bloke dressed like a cross between Ernest Shackleton and Michelin man, in a great white padded jacket and scarf and woolly hat, acting out some private Antarctic hell. He walked in short halting movements, like a scrunched-up potato sack traversing a windy carpark. I’d only just left the house, and was still in pre-run amble mode. A few moments after we passed something made me glance around and there he was, static, staring at me as though unable – or just unwilling – to absorb this data. Ha ha! Cold then, yes, but by 40 minutes later there is panting steam pouring from this hole in my face and hot sweat is streaming down my neck in adhesive rivulets. Another day ends in a daze of private glory.
