No, that’s not a summary of my love life, but thanks for the optimism.
It’s a place. In India. It looks like I have to go there. I’m not happy about it.
And do you know what the very first thought that popped into my head was?
Can’t run.
Honestly. That somehow catapulted itself to the forefront of my consciousness, flooring mental images of my wife and kids on its way through. It’s addictive stuff, this running lark. It’s like a fitwit’s crystal meth. And to be honest, my post-run highs over the last week couldn’t have been far off a big ol’ dose of The Ice. I’d imagine.
If social services would’ve seen me hanging off of door frames, slurring expletives with my eyes doing cartwheels in a repeated attempt to catch sight of the back of my skull, they would’ve had the kids away in a snap.
It’s like someone has shoved a firecracker down the back of my trollies on each of the last couple of runs. I’ve been like a snarling stallion, let out of the stud with a slapped arse and sent on a mission go and tear up the very fabric of time and space. I left vortexes in my wake.
Hang on, vortexes?
*Opens Google*
Vortices. I left vortices in my wake.
I’ve been an angry boy of late. Right up on the Hulk end of the angry scale. Have you got any idea how difficult it is to maintain anger whilst wearing man-leggings? The feeling seems to lose all credibility. It’s like getting into a fight at a fancy dress party when you’ve gone as Mr Blobby. But this time, it’s had staying power.
Work has been hurtling me towards despair. It’s been like getting a lobotomy without the complication of surgical intervention. I used to be quite clever y’know, now there’s a team of do-gooders trying to match me up with a load of villages that have lost their idiots. I’m yet to be claimed. If I were to create a self-portrait based only on cognizant, I’d be painting my eyes at ten-and-two and would whack enough dribble on my chin to have viewers feeling hopelessly compelled to go at it with a Kleenex.
Plus, I’m giving up smoking. I’m in week 3 of that at the moment and have dropped the patches. I’m left only with ‘mints’ that taste like chewing on a nuclear warhead. Throw into the mix the sleep deprivation that comes with having a six-week-old, restless, colic struggling baby – one so loud it sets off car alarms – and a three-year-old that magical appears in our bed at every witching hour, like some kind of perverse spectre, and wallop! You get me. You get the temperance of a cornered bull. You get the sensibility of a drunk elephant. You get this string of meaningless metaphors and analogies.
I’m so glad I’ve started running again. Without it I’d have nothing to take it all out on. I’d be hitting an effigy of my parents with a baseball bat whilst uncontrollably sobbing, “Why didn’t you buy me that pony”. I’d be dressing up in woman’s clothes (and I don’t just mean the leggings) and clumsily stumbling around Waitrose, collapsing a pair of stilettos that are two sizes too small and with a basket camply draped off a limp wrist.
I think the local magistrates are pretty relieved I started running again as well.
The problem is though that I’m stuck back in this age old ying-yang battle of fatty doesn’t know his limits. I’m pelting around, sending parked cars flying as I clatter through them with all the manoeuvrability of an oil tanker. I’m getting tangled up in dog leads and profusely apologising to both dog and walker as I drag them behind me for two miles. I’m running + walking much quicker than I should be running. I’m near doubling the distances that a man of my physical disposition should be even contemplating. But you know what? It feels great.
The flare stack is getting lit and I’m burning off all that negative energy. My reward is a momentary higher state of consciousness, caused by oxygen starvation and a heart rate that sounds like a jar of marbles being spilt down wooden stairs. My mind detaches itself from this flabby form and shoots off through the stratosphere, gives Mars the finger, whooshes past the gas giants and hurtles off into the Ort cloud, before zipping back like an unlocked tape measure and slamming back into my skull cavity, just in time to hear my wife tell me baby needs changing. And to have a shower, for God’s sake.
As an aside: There’s no point to this post by the way. There’s no direction and no destination. It’s just me going at my skull with a tin opener and glooping out the soft, moist contents with a dessert spoon. I thought I’d better mention that just in case you had your heart set on me getting to some kind of point. It ain’t gonna happen. Not today.
Going back. I’m not actually in too bad a shape after it all though to be honest. A few niggles here and there, but nothing halting.
An example of how backwards I am as human being is that it’s the walk breaks that are crippling me. I’m fine when I’m running, but when walking I can feel my mid-calves pulling. I’m what the Latins referred to as Flattus Footus before they went extinct. God was clearly between goods receipts when he hashed me together and was evidently just utilising the stock. My feet are not matched to my body; they’re about three inches longer than they should be and half as thick; like I got steam-rolled up to the ankles. On the bright side though, strap me to the back of a couple of horses and I’d make a bloody good plough.
Tonight is my last run of week 4 and then it starts getting a bit more serious so I need to find a way appease myself somehow in the very near future and get myself back to a more zen state of mind. I say “back” like I’ve actually been there before. Not since being weaned off the breast, I don’t think.
I’ll try and go slower. If only to tauntingly bait the perverts hiding in the bushes after dark. Let them see the goods sauntering by in slow-mo for a change. Give them a paunch version of the Baywatch bounce.
Come on! What did you expect from me? Sense? Pffft.
Happy running you bunch of stalwarts. Or angry running. Just go run. Tease the perverts.
Post Grad Run 2! Lost in the Forest! 😳
Did somebody say... GRADUATION?
Expected the news from physio but it’s not great. 🙁
First post - week 9, session 2 complete
Loving this running malarkey 
