If only you could see the way my fingers are dancing across this keyboard. People have mentioned that the sound of my acrylics, hitting the black keys sound like rain. I like the rain.
The post just smacked the doormat and within it is a hefty magazine from the London Marathon posse.
I haven’t even read it. Just kicked at it with my trainer.
The only way I am going to get through the next month is to totally disconnect myself from all the hoopla. I am tired of crying, being hungry, agitated, scared, tired, crying, hungry and then being agitated again.
People often ask me what the ‘best’ bit of training has been. Honestly? The bits when I’m not running. Or thinking about it. The best runs seem to follow that attitude also.
My favourite season has sprung and the scent of change is so thick, I need a gas mask.
I want to tell you that this entire journey has been paved with rainbows and glitter and that my little ponies come down from the heavens to make me feel better. But that would be a lie. It’s all been quite shit. Very shit in fact.
But I have to swim through the shit. Like dude from Shawshank Redemption, I know that the swimming through the shit part is the hardest but that’s cause I’m close to freedom. Freedom from well wishes and cheerleaders. Freedom to run when I want and how I want.
That’s all I’m craving right now.
I am surrounded by people who are still in their honeymoon phase of running. I’ve filed for divorce numerous times. The kids no longer like us being in the same room. But then somehow, when I’m least expecting it, running surprises me and plays nice. Fair. Easy.
Being the masochist that I am I let that suffice. When really all running is really good for at the moment is knocking my confidence.
Has he won?
Going for a 10k in twenty minutes.
This is some heartbreaking shit.
But I’m addicted.
DO DA TING!