So there it is then. W1R1 done...again. I'd like to say I've risen like an elegant phoenix from the ashes, but given the further degradation since my last go 'round, it'd be fairer to say I've reemerged. Like yesterday's curry.
It took 3 people to get me into the base layer and then we had to get the neighbour 'round to prise me back out once I realised it was back to front. I thanked her and told her I'd return the favour any time, but she just tutted, called me a cheeky sod and marched off. She's got a bit of a rude streak, our neighbour.
So once I was strapped up, laces tied, "L" plate taped to my back, I was ready to go W1R1-ing and go have it all over that pavement again...gawd, I've missed this.
Right, before we proceed here, I probably need to set the scene a bit by way of introduction, as all of my previous partners in crime from C25K round 1 have since graduated and are off marathoning somewhere. So in order for us to bond over this blog, you need to understand one thing and then everything will make sense: I'm an idiot.
You may've had your suspicions, but it's confirmed.
My brain and body have pretty polarised opinions as to the current state of my fitness. My brain thinks I'm still in my 20's and able to wheelspin around a football pitch for 90 minutes with no warm up and a hangover. My body, on the other hand, knows I'm first on the spit if marooned on an island, Lord of the Flies-esque. It knows it's burst its banks. I mentioned in my last post that I'm mushrooming out of my trousers and I'm not talking about your off-the-shelf dainty little button mushrooms, oh no, I mean the sort that lit up Bikini Atoll.
The problem is, my brain is loud and domineering and my body is too fat and lazy to argue back, so it just does what its told and we end up in a metaphorical ditch, covered in our own blood with my brain saying, "Well at least we know that there's nothing we could've done to avoid this".
So now the scene is set. We're all glad-ragged up in running gear so garish it can be seen from space, and out the door saying, "Remember last time. Too much, too soon, buggered the knee" followed by, "Do we really need to go all the way to week 1? Let's just go at it and see when we collapse and then we can judge where to slot back in" and then followed by, "Come on, let's do this properly. Build ourselves up again, trust the programme" and then followed by, "Oh look, Strava still has our W1R1 from last time. I reckon we can beat it".
And we did beat it. By a whole min/km. Pop the kettle on and make room for me on that injury couch, I'll be with you momentarily. My bet is before W4. Can I see it coming? Yes. Can I stop it? No.
I told you. I'm an idiot.
I'm disappointed with my run-route though and need to do some serious tweaking. No just because of that bloody great mountain that requires a Gurkha Guide to conquer (luckily I had a reprieve today as MJ gave me the nod to walk [climb] halfway up) but it's all more boring than a pair of nun's knickers. By my old house, I had what I called Perverts' Pass, which was a row of houses all with lights on, no nets. I love gawping into other people's mundane moments for a split second. This time, it's all country lane and that's not going to get me through those tough K's.
Plus, I run past a Chippy and my God it smells horrible and greasy. I desperately need to avoid that as I'll be doing my homeward leg blowing on a saveloy.
I'm on a diet as well. Until about 8pm most nights when my resolve cracks. Last night it was Christmas cake. I got a hamper from work and it was the last thing in it, I convinced myself over Christmas that I don't like Christmas cake, but suddenly remembered that I do. A lot.
Actually, it was more of an epiphany than a realisation. Loneliness is like a white noise that stealthily builds up all around you, like a buzzing fridge it's unnoticeable, even at its crescendo, until it suddenly stops! And its absence is deafening. That's what happened when me and this cake locked our gazes. I looked into its two cherries, surrounded by raisins, and saw love. Love which soon became destruction. Of it.
The more I think about it, it should make me fitter, right? I've seen these gym goers, walking around carrying weights and heavy chains draped over their necks. I'd like to see them run for a minute, eight times in a row with an extra 15kg strapped around their midriff. It's good for building up the leg muscles.
W1R2 scheduled for Monday. Happy running you bunch of sadists.
W9R2 - two down, one to go!
Dug out my trainers. Here we go...
W6r1 - running round in circles ...
One Year On
