I have agreed to do something unthinkable.
I have signed up for a half marathon. This really is remarkably out of character, and the only reason I am writing about it is to ensure that I don’t shamelessly bail out.
Dear reader, please do not think I am becoming one of ‘those’ people. You know the ones – they wax lyrical about how wonderful running makes them feel and use words like ‘free’ and ‘rush’ and ‘relaxed. I feel none of the above. I feel only sweaty, red in the face, and closer to death than I’d ordinarily like.
No I am not one of those people. I rarely feel the need to push myself, experience any kind of burn or commit to punishing schedules. In fact, now I am wondering how I can get out it - I do have an old knee injury come to think of it.
In January a friend announced that he was going to run the Great North Run this September. He has just emigrated to Australia. I wonder if I will go to similar lengths to avoid my ordeal?
Surprisingly this will not be my first race. A few years ago I ran a 10k. Well I say ran, jogged is a far more representative verb. Anyway, at the end of the run (no doubt due to endorphins and hysteria) I felt like I could have kept going. Please remember that it is very easy to say that you could have kept going once you are wrapped in tin foil and sipping lucozade. It is on this hunch, 3 years ago, that I ‘could have plodded on a little further’, that I have signed up to run 13 blooming miles.
This is a disaster.
I will be humiliated as my bottom wobbles in my joggers. I will become a running bore who is only able to talk about ‘distance tracking’. I will probably have to do a little more than download the Nike Plus app and buy a new running bra. But that can wait until tomorrow, I've made a start at least.