In the weeks leading up to Christmas, my marathon training had been going well. I’d printed off a plan and was, by and large, following it. Heck I’d even cracked 12 miles. Looking good. Then along bounced the festive frivolities. Days of eating, drinking, sleeping, unwrapping presents, copious amounts of television and generally lazing about. A sliver of running here and there, but nothing to write home about.
I think there’s something about holiday time that makes you delusional. “Of course in the new year I’ll be able to pick up my running like nothing’s happened. I will be a speed demon. It will be a breeze.”
Fast-forward two weeks. Back in London, the alarm’s blaring as I poke my head out from the covers. Eurgh. The room is still dark and I can hear the rain beating against the window.
After approximately five minutes getting ready and a further 30 faffing about, I make it out of the flat. Trainers squelching, wind blowing, rain still thundering down…this is going to be harder than I thought…
I manage six miles, but it’s a struggle. My leg is sore, body and mind are tired. And I’ve only ended up running half distance I had previously conquered. However, I’ve found there is one constant with my running: No matter how hard it is to get out and do it, no matter how hard the run itself is, when I come back I’m always glad I’ve done it. Okay, so my mileage has dropped, but I’m planning to pick it up again as the weeks go on. Hopefully I’ll be able to run the marathon, that’s my aim. But even if not, the joy that I get from running is a prize in itself.
Happy New Year.