April 9th 2018
Today I went for a run for only the third time since January. I’ve just checked through my activity history on Strava, and I didn’t realise I’d run that infrequently this year until just now.
In terms of excuses: I had a cold for like a month, and then it was cold for like a month.
Because fuck running in the rain, you know?
I don’t know why, but after a week of eating fry ups for breakfast and pizza for dinner, and only drinking beer, I woke up this morning feeling particularly eager for a much-needed cleanse.
So I did something that I’ve not done in a while: I packed my running stuff in my work bag. And, when I got to work, I found out that today happened to the day of the monthly 5km race that’s organised by work’s running club.
So of course, I signed up to the race to ease myself back in. I set myself a target for the race and, to my surprise, I accomplished it. My target was simply “finish the race”. And I did that.
I mean, it took me possibly the longest time it’s ever taken me to run five kilometres (27 minutes 17 seconds), but I was more focused on achieving the distance rather than recording any sort of respectable time.
It is a race, so naturally it was a bit disconcerting to see literally everybody run past me — particularly the ones who a few months ago I would’ve left in my dust — but I didn’t really expect to be capable of turning up and running anything less than 25 minutes after two months off.
I might have expected slightly less than 27 and a half, but again, I was more pleased with the fact that I finished than how quickly — or, more accurately, slowly — I completed the race.
Until tomorrow, if anyone is keeping score, my finishing position was ‘dead last’.