Hot Hot Hot

Yesterday was the British summer. That was it. It was already 25 degrees by 9am and, just a few days after midsummer, the sun was high in the sky. Mr N and I girded our loins with as few items of clothing as possible and headed out for a 9 mile run to Regent’s Park. 

Along with my good sense, I left my water-bottle-belt-thing at home because the belt needs to be tight and if it’s on tight then it makes me really hot. I realise that this was not good logic on a hot day. I always dismiss runners carrying drinks with scorn, “bottle w@nkers,”  I judge them, “they’re probably running for 20 minutes, what are they going to do, die of dehydration in that time? Ha ha”. Well, the joke was on me yesterday, and I didn’t even have any money to buy any water either. W@nker.

It was a terrible run. We clung to the shadows of tall buildings on the way to Camden and veered from tree to tree in the Park, but I still came back with sunburn. My leg strength had been used up by a long walk on Saturday so it felt like there were swinging sandbags attached to my knees. Nearing the Park exit, we stopped to dunk our whole heads under the taps where a couple were washing their panting dog. With a soaked vest slapping against my back I forced my flailing body onwards, onwards, up the hill towards home and a cold, cold drink.

Next summer I will take the bottle, remember the sunscreen and not be so mean about other runners.