Weekend off

My name is Gina and I’ve just had a weekend without running. It’s been eight days since my last race. I feel the urge to make this confession in public and be absolved.

I made a brief visit to the gym on Saturday morning, but walked right by the treadmills on my way to the weights from the cross-trainer. On Sunday, I walked to Alexandra Palace and then got the BUS back home. Many runners passed me, looking hot and sweaty, but I felt nothing. No guilt, no envy, not even admiration. I was on my way to buy cakes and flowers and they were on their way to pain and chafing.

At 10am on Sunday morning when I would usually be running, I fell back to sleep and woke up to find a cat (my cat, don’t worry), sitting on my shoulder. He purred. I smiled. Neither of us was counting lampposts in order to get through the next mile without stopping to dry heave.

This is my confession. It is a dangerous one for a self-proclaimed running evangelist to make. Is the exception that proves the rule, or the thin end of the wedge?

(said cat)