No Guts, no Glory. Or something.

At the weekend Mr Notajogger and I bought a Christmas tree at a garden centre in Highgate and decided (ok, I decided) to carry it home rather than try to get it on a bus. Mr N sighed, slung the tree over one shoulder and headed up the path. “I guess carrying a whole tree makes you a real man or something?”, I asked in mock awe. A well-dressed lady passing by turned and said, “I like ‘or something’ “.

I helped carry the tree for about 100 yards of the two mile journey home. My hand hurt. Mr N shouldered the tree the rest of the way. This is roughly equivalent to our running skills at the moment. However, I will not wimp out. I will shoulder the tree and get it home eventually, no matter how long it takes.

This morning I braved the dark, the wind, and my sore lungs for another run. I tried not to walk, but gave in when I got to the Arsenal stadium steps. Today was not the day for Rocky heroics. I used the opportunity to check out the new statue of Thierry Henry as an excuse to keep walking around the concourse for a bit, then reluctantly picked up the pace.

As I headed down the final two streets I was fighting the need to stop with every step. I panted, grunted, and finally shouted “come on!” to myself out loud. I made it home, insanity intact.