It was a struggle – as usual – to get me out the house this morning, but not as hard as it’s been sometimes. Perhaps all I have to do is not give myself a choice.
So there I was, jogging away, meditating on the benefits of running, hoping I could run through the niggle at the back of my left heel, the bottom of my Achilles, that kind of area. I ran up to the highest point and really felt good about it. There was the usual consideration about walking some of the way, but that didn’t kick in until I got to the path going round the back of Tescos and the playing fields.
I got attacked by a giant spider: it had spun a web across the little pathway cutting between the roads so I am sorry but I had to dismantle its web so I could get past: the risk of it sticking to me as I went by was just too great. I’m sure it'll be fine. I noticed that someone’s been along there with a machete so I didn’t get too whipped by brambles and nettles: it has crossed my mind to bring secateurs with me on my next walk, but that kind someone has beaten me to it.
But the pain was getting worse: running through it wasn’t working. So I walked home. Limped really.
It’s so gutting – I think I can blame the new shoes being slightly different from the ones I was using before, the ones which I have run in for years without them causing problems. The new ones are more off-road which means less padding but they’re better for the back roads and paths.
So now I’m sitting with my leg out in front of me resting on an ice-pack of peas and hoping that my stupid old carcass can heal and get me back on the road.
Am I just kidding myself? I mean, I'm in my mid-50s, an irregular runner, overweight – why do I assume I can run? Even at a very slow easy pace am I just expecting too much? The women my age I see running are lean and gazelle-like, not stumpy, flabby and knock-kneed.
