Today I took another step forward in my running training. I joined the running club at work. I’ve steered clear because I can think of nothing more demoralising than trying to keep up with a lot of perky young things bouncing down the street or hot blokes who cover more ground in one stride than I cover in a whole block.
So I did it. I joined the running club. And I dragged along a friend from my team so that I had someone to share the pain with. Thankfully they were all women in the group. But not long after we took off, one had already bounded off across the Thames. I was.. well.. at the back of the pack. Yep. Last. Huffing and puffing my guts out. No surprises there.
Then came the pain. Out of nowhere. I felt like I’d been stabbed in the ribs. A stitch so bad that passersby were looking at me in pity. Stop they were saying. (They weren’t really.) Then my mind wandered back to last night and the.. 3.. ehem.. glasses of wine that had been forced down my gob at the bar.. i mean restaurant. Yep. I fell off the wagon. And I paid the price. Pain.
But since I’ve given up the booze I’ve lost 3cm off my waist. Thank god. Because when I arrived in London after 8 months of eating South American fish, white rice and manky salad, I developed a nasty habit of eating nothing but cheese and hot chips. So my girly waist line was starting to look.. well less girly. In fact, it felt like I was trying to stuff a sausage every time I put my Skins on.
So I learnt my lesson. It’s time to get serious because the countdown is now on to the big race. I know that eventually the chafe, the flimsy toenails and the pain will all be worth it. Even more so for my charity (MS Resource Centre) who will be the ones that really benefit from me running. C’arn Lodgey. Better find that wagon…