Non, rien de rien…

I did not want to run this morning. I wanted to stay in bed. I wanted to eat my breakfast. I wanted a cup of tea and the nudge of a passing cat on my shin, the Today programme, an unread section of Saturday’s paper, the view of my garden.

I did not want the struggle into a too tight sports bra, the forcing of contact lenses into half-closed eyes, the gulp of stale water from the bedside table. I did not want the shiver of morning air on my bare arms, the arthritic drag of stiff knees up Crouch End Hill. I did not want the thunder of passing buses or the attention of curious dogs on their morning walks. I did not want to run this morning.

I did run this morning. I ran 5.5 miles and 4 of them were not awful.

When I had woken up I remembered something a wedding guest said to me on Saturday, that you never regret going for a run. I suppose this is a cliche, but I had never thought of it before. It is entirely true, and knowing that is probably the difference between a beginner and someone like me. I run because I know I will be glad to have done it, no matter how badly it went.