Yesterday, 5pm, 5 miles. That was the plan. The plan that slipped gently into the bin as I snoozed on the sofa, open book resting on my chest, glasses sliding up onto my forehead.
A rest is as good as a run, I told myself, particularly if one has enjoyed the company of two sets of house guests in one weekend, and has several chocolate gifts to consume. In that case, a rest is not only as good as, but is also considerably more likely than, a run. Especially if one has had a drink or two the previous evening.
Back to work today.
It was sunny and I took my kit to work. To go out for a run after getting home this evening would have required running the nap/chocs gauntlet I failed so miserably on yesterday. The flesh was weak. I knew I would have to run straight from work or not at all.
I did all the things that make it harder to wimp out of a post-work run: I told everyone I was going to do it; I ate a big lunch AND a mid-afternoon snack I would feel guilty about not ‘running off’; I saved an episode of my current favourite podcast ( ‘This American Life’) for it; and I finished work dead on time.
There was no reason not to go. Today, 5.30pm, 6 miles. That was the plan and that was what I ran. It was great.