After declaring Sunday’s effort to be a bit of a disaster, I decided that I would learn from the mistakes that I made and this week make sure that I:
- Run more than four miles in total
- Don’t get led astray with lovely ale
- Eat properly before I go out
- Save my weights sessions for the days after long/fast/hilly runs
With the amount of walking that had crept into the last 3 miles of Sunday, I took up Ginge’s suggestion of considering that to be my 5 miler and do 8 miles tonight. Clean, sober and well snacked on half a bagel and a yoghurt, I’d done nothing more taxing than a big shop at Tesco yesterday and I set off with a spring in my step and Radio 4 in my ears*.
The spring in my step lasted a couple of miles and then I felt hot, knackered and quite frankly disturbed at the sheer number of slugs that I was running around/across/next to. It was hideous. The warm and wet have made it a slug’s paradise out there (we came home from our holidays to find that the garden was mainly stalks and have had to raid the nursery for bargain end of season bedding plants to make it feel jolly again). Tonight it appeared that SlugFest 2012 (are we allowed to say 2012 or does it contravene some kind of LOCOG bylaw?) was being held in the surrounding fields and they were all en route to party – big, small, fat, thin, black, brown, orange, frilly, smooth – all oozing their slimy way across the pavement, only stopping off to gorge on organic matter of dubious matter as if they were calling into the motorway services on their way. Bleurgh.
I carried on (pondering on a good collective noun for slugs and settling on “a devastation”), debated turning back at 3 miles before carrying on and taking a couple of water/walk breaks every couple of miles. Annoyingly I know that a lot of this ‘need’ to keep stop-starting is in my head, so much so that there’s this little insistent part of my brain nagging me, going “you can do this, bloody try again on Thursday you slacker”. This part of my brain is clearly an idiot and so I am ignoring it. I have since taken some comfort in the fact that Ginge (who, professionally, is more inclined to know what is going on outdoors with weather and stuff) has informed me that (despite the rain that poured down before and since) the evening had been the warmest part of the day.
I am assuming that this would explain why I felt so hot, rather than it simply being a question of me being mardy. We shall see.
*Today’s Desert Islander of choice was Tim Minchin followed by a Play of the Week about a dying man who wants to be buried in his ex-wife’s garden, which wasn’t quite the laugh a minute that you might expect