There are a few things I have in my favour over Jean Valjean. Ready access to carbohydrates, no history of hard labour and tiger balm.
It's rare that one has the opportunity to write about both running and the French Revolution, though both seem equally les miserable at times, but sallenson has upped his game in the classical prose stakes, so a little linguistic largess of my own is needed, but it's tricky also to mix humour with convicts, prostitutes, premature death, child abduction, heartache, despair, thieves, anarchists and the police.
It's also not easy to keep a steady pace when you switch rapidly from Fantines quivering and gut wrenching soliloquy to the jovial nonsense of the Master of the House and the triumphal marching of Javert.
However, the non stop sobs of Eponine and the proletariat cheered me, miserable bugger that I am, and singing along to the brilliant score detracted me for more than the alloted 25 minutes. My limbs for once did not complain indecently, the rain just about held off, ASBO didn't attack a horse, I found a good rhythm early on and sang out aloud when the breath permitted. I was even seen to hold my arms stretched out wide in exaltation as I broke the virtual finishing tape!
Nonetheless, on completion of my run today I did feel like a beaten, destitute peasant.
The barricades are in sight now. I shall have to clamber over the littered carcasses of my previous attempts to do something good for myself yet, but when I get there I shall shove Marius off that barricade, wave a flag, drink expensive French wine and claim all the triumphant glory for myself!
#let them eat cake!