I. Am. A. Runner.
Yesterday morning, Michael Johnson told me personally and I almost shed a tear. I'm not going to let it change me though. I'm still Paul from the block.
Week 6 was forged deep inside the Devil's anus and plucked forth into existence by a diabolic vet, reaching elbow deep. Without even a cursory washdown, it was slapped violently in the middle of this cursed programme with the sole intent to crock my knee, but Ha! Not this time, you vile piece of Beelzebubic excrement; you will not expel me to the injury couch. You will not park me back on my arse with all the grace an upright cadaver whose been kept in the warm. I. Am. A. Runner!
Onward to week 7. If it takes anything less than 18 months to overcome, it's going to be an absolute joy by contrast.
"So what happened?" I hear you ask, "What about all this 'uglh, I think I need a week between runs' you were harping on about?"
Well, let me tell you...
...you're lucky I've got other things to do today, so this is the abridged version...
I got better.
Right, I'm off for some mirror flexing. It's great being a runner. I feel so strong and healthy. I've drawn a six pack on my belly, it's just for the next couple of days before the real one shows up, I'm guessing there's a 24 hour delay or something.