D-Day is upon us. Well, me. And the "D" in this instance stands for death. The big run in which I have been "training" for is on Saturday. This Saturday. I don't quite understand how this can be the case, I've lost track of the weeks a little, but I just don't believe it's been 7 weeks since I first started whingeing about this run. Admittedly, I first thought I had 8 weeks, but after consulting a calendar, realised that I actually had 7. Can the calendar be lying to me too? Have I been robbed? It seems they are all out to get me, whoever "they" are, but a great conspiracy has unfolded, I'm sure of it. Bastards.
Before I get into the swing of panicking, firstly, my apologies for the lack of updates of late, which may indicate that I haven't been doing anything to write about, but let me assure you, that assumption is only partly true. The last time I wrote, I had been a rather busy boy, although admittedly I'd spent too much time on the bike and not enough on my own two feet. Well I've partly rectified that problem and not been out on the bike since. Problem is, I've not done much running either. I did have a really good week, which started with a return to the reservoir for a few laps. After the warm up lap, I smashed my previous best of 12.25 which a new record of 11.06, and followed this up with the usual lap of mixed running / walking but with considerably more running than previous attempts. That same week I also had another little run out around the local park / graveyard, but these were nothing compared to what can only be described as my finest hour. Well, 1hour 45minutes(ish). Recruiting the only other person I know who does a lot of running, as James seems to have died since our last visit to the reservoir, I met up with my friend Rebecca. Now Rebecca is a real runner, not a slob rookie like myself, so I knew this was going to be hard, I mean, she does marathons, real ones!! Surprisingly, 7 and a half miles later, and some massive hills conquered without too much fuss or walking, I returned home triumphant. As far as I'm concerned, that was a definite result. Ok so the pace is a little on the slow side, but considering how the last time I attempted to go for a run with Rebecca (over a year ago) I got as far as the end of the street, got a stitch, spat my dummy out and went home to play on the Playstation, this was a result.
Unfortunately it all went downhill from there. So much so, that I haven't been out since. The weather was a bit ropey the following week, and as much as I'm beginning to enjoy running, I'm not prepared to suffer the weather and run for the sake of running. This may seem like a bit of a washout as far as excuses go, but that's fine. As with most things, if I don’t enjoy doing something I just don't do it. So I didn't.
So, D-Day. Saturday. The day of days. No turning back now. I'm all packed, as I'm sure I'd never live down the excuse of forgetting my shoes. I'm not ready, but I'm as ready as I can be. However, there is a problem. A huge problem. I have officially being self-diagnosed with the most life threatening of illnesses, known as Man Flu. It's ok, it's ok, calm down. I'm sure I'm over the worst of it, my condition is stable, and my odds of pulling through are beginning to look favourable. Man Flu (medical term being manfluenza) is without a doubt worse than any condition a woman can contract, which is why they mock us men, out of envy, followed closely only by child birth (fact). People still die from Man Flu! This particular strain of manfluenza has manifested itself as a very snotty nose and a chesty cough, and an achy back which I think is as a result of all the coughing. Being struck down with this disease doesn’t bode well for my chances on D-Day, and I'm certain I'll get not an ounce of sympathy from dear old HMC, so the run will go ahead interrupted only by my dieing. Perhaps a more apt description of this series of blogs would be "trails of blood, sweat, vomit and mucus".
So, my imaginary friends, this is it, the final curtain, so to speak. It's been nice knowing you. Remember me, not as a man who died, but a man who lived, tried, failed and then died. It'd make my mum proud less ashamed.
