Following complaints that I haven’t written anything for a while (apparently it’s the only way that my immediate family know what I’ve been up to – hello mum), last night I started to post about how my running has been a bit on and off recently because I’ve had (to use the technical medical term) ‘generalised wonkiness‘.
But then I watched the Olympic athletics on the telly and heard Mo Farah say that he runs 120 miles a week (and he’s not even doing Juneathon), which quite frankly made me feel a bit mardy for whinging that I’ve had a bit of a cold. I turn 33 next week, so I presume that I’m not quite the generation that the Olympic legacy should be inspiring, and I certainly didn’t expect to get caught up in all of the coverage, but I have. I sit and marvel at the human form – the women are basically made up of the same component parts as me, we have the same basic arrangement of skin and bones and muscle groups, but they’re just assembled so, so differently. The effort and commitment that goes into being an athlete (of any sport or discipline) like that puts into context the grumbling about getting out after work or resisting a lovely biscuit (she says typing with fingers made sticky by jam tarts).
And I love the fact that even though there’s all sorts of super-technology going into race kit, they still have to have their race numbers safety pinned to their fronts like us mere mortals (but somehow I doubt that any of them have had an over the boobs/under the boobs pinning debate pre-race).
So how to get into the Olympic spirit even more? Well, with a visit to Bradley Wiggins’s actual golden postbox with Stan the knitted pigeon, that’s how.
PS. Since my last post, I’ve discovered that the actual collective noun for slugs is ‘a cornucopia’ – I wish to register a complaint about this.