Today I proved a point to myself. I achieved something. I achieved it due to sheer persistence, perspiration and a little perversity. I achieved it through anger, pain, frustration and a little love. And compression socks.
I have only ever run two back to back 100 mile months. I had wanted to do more of this in 2009, partly as a result of reading Murakami’s book, partly to have a target but mainly for… well, for ‘me’ or my sense of ‘me’ anyway. Something I could control. Mostly. In a world where I more often than not feel at the mercy of others, including my duende (gypsy tradition in Spain has it that every person must battle their duende — devil — all their lives. This is what makes them sing, or dance, or fight, or steal hubcaps and scare small children).
This time last week I was on 44 miles for the month and feeling bloody sorry for myself (as per bollocking usual).
Right now, I’m sat in disgustingly smelly kit, with sweat pouring off me, as my wife and my friends enjoy themselves in the pub. I have just finished my 60th mile for the week. That’s the most I’ve ever run in a week. It wasn’t fast, and most of it was indoors. But it was 60. Blessed. Miles.
In a short while I will have salad, a glass of milk and sit down to watch NCIS. And I will feel like a winner.
No matter how much I may let others grind me down, or do the best to sabotage my own happiness, I am Monki.
And I am a runner.
