Let me introduce myself. I'm a fat, late 30s chap with two oversized feet on the end of skinny short legs and seemingly long flopping arms. (Should I fold them? In pockets?) I'm not designed to run. I don't really know what I'm doing.
I blame the olympics and the constant torch relay coverage.
So here we go, I'm about to step up for team GB and do some actual running! Yesterday, I went out and bought TK Max's cheapest trainers then found a dusty old unworn tracksuit in a bottom drawer. Today, I actually wore them. First thoughts: tracksuit bottoms actually skin tight, probably more accurately described as actual 'tights'. I've never worn them before, now I know why.
I can't remember the last time I ran. It was probably that day I did what can only be described as several mild skips as I attempted to run across the road to avoid an oncoming little street cleaner van. I've probably forgotten how to actually run. Worried I'll be a skipping, flapping, red faced idiot clown as my wide heavy feet slap the tarmac and my arms flop aimlessly around like deranged thunderbird puppet. Yeah, I'm self conscious and that was before I put on these tights.
I drove, I know I know, to a more secluded country lane. Just cows and sheep for company with small winding tarmac roads through the hills. There's that word, hills. I forgot about hills. First 15 mins were okay, I followed Lauras instructions. I then turned round to head back to the car for the 2nd half. I honestly thought I was going to have a heart attack, it wasn't a very steep hill but I could hardly move my feet at all. The tiniest most pathetic little steps as I attempted to jog up the hill. Eventually I made it back to the car utterly exhausted, covered head to toe in sweat. I downed one of those sports drinks, which made me feel very olympian, and collapased into my car seat.