Today dawned FOUL.
As a trudged through horizontal rain doing the morning round of food for all the animals on the farm my motivation for running was dangerously low. Thankfully after a couple of bowls of Sugar Puffs (well, the terrible French equivalent, let us call them Le Sugar Puffs) I was raring to go, and did another 10km.
I’m a little slow at the moment, though. My aim for this year is to finally get my PB for the 10km below 40 minutes. At the moment I’m running 55 minutes, so I think the two months of inactivity and stuffing my face might have impacted my athletic performance somewhat. Still, barring horrible injury, alien abduction or me making the Olympic rowing team (unlikely, as I’ve never rowed) I should be back on top form by the end of the month.
I couldn’t find any especially interesting photographs, so here’s one of my current running shoes.
I think they’re Asics Gel Kayano 17s. Whatever they are, don’t buy shoes like these. They’re heavy and have Delorean build quality. I often think I’d be better stapling two copies of the Radio Times on my feet and running in them. Terrible, terrible running shoes.
Seeing as we’re talking boring, I suppose now would be a good time to point out how bloody boring running is to a non-runner.
You might not think it is, and I don’t think it is, but to a non-runner any discussion about running is about as exciting as peeling an orange.
They have a point I guess. Running is a fairly tedious sport because it really is quite simple. You put on trainers, you move your legs, you cover a particular distance, you stop. For sure, there’s a flutter of excitement about which brand of Garmin you choose to wear and whether full length lycra leggins should ever be worn by a man (answer: no, never) but by and large running is brutally straightforward.
When a person first takes up running there’s a torrent of achievements. e.g. The first time you manage to run 5km without stopping and vomiting on a passer-by. The first time you run 10km in under an hour and go home and demand sex off your girlfriend as a reward (before she punches you in the face for being cheeky). The first time you outrun another runner, possibly a man in lycra leggins (answer: no, never) and flip them the bird while laughing like a Bond villain. Each of these milestones (or kilometerstones) is something that means a great deal to the runner, but nothing to friends and family. Try to tell a nearest and dearest about any of these achievements and unless they’re a runner themselves the likelihood is that their eyes will glaze over and they’ll absent mindedly start poking themselves with a spoon. Or even worse, they’ll look at you with the cool air of someone who thinks you’re getting ahead of yourself. That running isn’t really a sport for the masses, but an ungentlemanly pursuit that only whippets and Northeners should engage in. It’s hard when you realise that nobody really cares about pace, pronation, cadence, footpods and space-age wicking material like you do. It hurts.
You also have to blame Eddie Izzard for devaluing the marathon distance (“you’re only doing one?”) I felt almost embarrassed to admit that I was only going to run a paltry 42km and then have a rest for a few days afterwards. So not only am I engaged in a boring sport but my end goals are also boring (“you’re not running for 17 consecutive days through a Chilean rainforest dressed only in your Y-fronts? So why should I sponsor you?”)
To top it all, I’m even finding writing this blog post is boring me!
So I’ll stop.