I’ve written before about the run that’s no fun. There’s no real telling when it is going to happen, it isn’t as predictable as feeling tired, unmotivated or injured. In fact some of the best runs are the ones that start with an almighty effort to get going. No, sometimes a run just surprises you with an unremitting awfulness for no good reason. You may have guessed by now that I didn’t really enjoy my run home this evening. I will give you a snapshot of the internal monologue:
This is hellish, I just want it to stop. Why is it so bad? Because everything hurts, it is too hot and muggy and my legs feel like lead, and this bag is too heavy, what the hell have I got in there. I could stop. I can’t stop. I never stop. Just how slow am I going? [glance in reflection in shop window] Hm. I look like I’m hating this run, but I’m not actually going that slowly. Maybe I can write about how shit this run is later. Is that really all I’ve got to motivate myself to carry on? Plod, plod, plod, plod. God this hurts. How long to go? Not far, this is a very short run. Come on, sort it out. I should try one of those motivational mantra things. Be the person you want to meet. Is that right? God, that’s embarrassingly awful. If I repeat that over and over, I may actually jump in front of the next bus. Oh look, there’s Sarah. [wave] Oh dear, that was an aggressive wave. More like a nazi salute. I bet all those people in those cars think I’m a running nazi. Oh god, am I there yet?
And it goes on and on like that, really. Not good is it? Like an episode of Peep Show without the light relief of Jez interjecting. On the plus side, it is done. And really, after a run like that there really is only that to be thankful for.