Running yes, writing no

Hmm. And again, hmm. And thrice hmm. Hmm hmm hmm (wasn’t that a song?).

First, some apologies:
(1) To the couple standing opposite me at a crossing after I’d been running 17 miles. The hysterical laughter was in fact at the pain, not the bloke’s hair. Though it was funny.
(2) To the driver of the silver merc that I was charging at like a bull rhino without realising. What can I say – I was in the zone. Nice of you to stop though. Chicken. :o)
(3) God. I swore a lot at you today.
(4) Women. Generally. Especially those with lovely legs. I don’t mean to drool. Honest. But you do take the edge off a long run.
(5) The bloke I ended up racing up a hill. Yes, it was fantastically childish. But hey, every loser wins. Or so Nick Berry would have us believe.
(6) Anyone I have ever recommended this training regime to.
(7) My legs. That’s two weeks on the trot that my legs have told me to eff off and leave them in peace after 2h 20. Sadly today I still had four miles to get home. Sorry legs. Although they are quite lovely and are by far my best physical feature.
(8) My sanity. Despite eating a large bowl of weetabix, two large coffees, two gels and nearly 2 litres of water I was 1kg lighter after my run. I guess I was steaming in the heat. 2900 calories according to the HRM, once I’d finished the post-run shop (whyohwhyohwhy don’t I go before)
(9) The sunshine. You were lovely. Let’s do lunch.
(10) The wind. You rocked. But only on my tail. Blowing a gale down the only big hill in Cambridgeshire is neither big nor clever. You’ll regret it one of these days.

I will obviously have to rethink my ‘no runs except for a long run’ policy. It’s not working. I started this because I didn’t want to get injured. I guess I could just throttle back until I’m really back in shape – perhaps another six weeks at this rate. But that’s simply not the Fetch way….

Runners, I salute you. I feel honoured to be among this mental, obsessed and ever so slightly-smut-obsessed web gathering.

And now to my M&S gastrotreat, as there’s not a power in the verse that will make me cook now and I can’t imagine walking again – ever- or to a decent pub. Plus it’s my weekly flirt with the smirking sales assistant. If by flirt you mean entering your pin number a bit riskily.

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