I switched off the alarm at 6.10am this morning and immediately got out of bed. Congratulations were due – I had succeeded in carrying out last night’s plan. I wouldn’t be leaving my running gear in an accusatory pile on my bedside chair today, no way.
Feeling smug, I fed the cats, brushed my teeth, drank half a glass of water and got dressed. I headed out into the dark London morning. I started my stopwatch, pulled on my gloves and grimaced at the drizzling rain. Dodging the piles of dogshit, I headed up the nearest hill and settled into a podcast (a vintage Adam and Joe number). At the top of the hill I head across a zebra crossing and down a poorly lit side street by a wood. It’s always a bit spooky and today was no exception – a man was loitering by the recycling bins – dog walker or a potential rapist? I usually imagine the latter, it helps with motivation. I ran past the dog, who was mid-business, and down the hill past our old flat.
The next bit is fairly flat and dull, but before I had reached the end of the street, a mere 7 minutes into my run, an ominous feeling surfaced. Actually it was less of a feeling and more of a painful and familiar urge, verging on urgency. My thoughts went roughly as follows: I can’t “do a Paula” this is a bus route; I’ll have to walk home and will have got up at 6.10am for nothing; I might not make it home, I might have to go in someone’s garden; what if the security light comes on while I’m mid-squat…; don’t think about squatting. The next five minutes were some of the longest of my life. I fought the urge – the urge did not control me, I could master it. Pain is fear leaving the body. No! Don’t think about anything leaving the body.
Thankfully I made it through to the other side – the urge subsided. After a few minutes I could even attempt some light running and I managed a few laps of the block around my flat, taking today’s mileage to a massive 3! Woop.
Tommorow: strong bowels and a proper run, cross fingers (and legs).
Not a Jogger 