Last night there was a charity 5k/10k race around my way. It was a fundraising event for a chap called Mark Pollock who has a story that would make you think twice about complaining about your sore toes.
I, however, didn’t take part in the race as I was at a “residents’ meeting” where we did a lot of talking loudly and sharpening our pitch forks. I’m angling to be the pitch fork/flaming torch organiser for the group but its early days yet.
I realise that being in a residents’ association is a sign of getting middle-aged but previous posts have pointed that out already so I’m not going to make a big hullabaloo about it here.
Acceptance comes after anger which comes after denial or something like that.
The real purpose of this post is to up-date you on my running plans for next year. Or, to put it another way, my plans for my plans for running next year.
To borrow from my previous allegory/metaphor/fable (delete depending on how much of the dictionary you’ve swallowed) of the boy on the beach, he had finished his custard cream and was about to head back down to the water for another few hours of adventuring when his mother told him to get dressed. He complained and she gave him a clip around the ear and told him they had to go back to the caravan (the kid with the Granada and the frisbee had a mobile home) to put the tea on for his dad.
In that version of the story the mother was the significant person with breasts in his life (wife) and the tea for the dad was anything but running.
But you knew that already.
It went like this:
Scene: Saturday. The no-man’s-land between midday and 3 O’clock. Open plan kitchen/living room. Man sitting on couch with cup of coffee. Staring into the middle distance with the look you see on the faces of tired fathers and soldiers who have seen combat. Wife standing at the kitchen work top.
Wife: How would you get to Santiago De Compostela?
Wife: No, not by walking. And don’t say by motorbike. (referring to a past adventure by the man).
Man: I don’t know, I suppose Ryanair fly to somewhere near there. So I suppose over to London or up to Dublin and then down to Santiago. Why?
Wife: Oh, dad is 80 next year and we, the kids, were thinking of taking him on our own to Santiago. We were talking about it last night (referencing a Friday night in the sister-in-law’s house where the man watched football (euro-qualifier) while the sisters-in-law chatted at the kitchen table).
Pause. Man still stares into middle distance.
Wife: We were thinking of going around easter or April next year. You’d have to stay behind and mind the kids. D’y’have a problem with that?
Man: No, that’s grand, sure I’ll just trade you that trip for an ultra next year.
Improvised ranting and screaming by wife.
Man makes vague efforts to back-pedal but forgets to dis-engage mouth and says things that should be kept for the blog.
Man gets up and retreats to the shed for about 3 hours as he’s getting picture no sound from the wife. Man plays with chainsaw and nearly ends his running ‘career’.
Scene ends – fade out.
If you see me at the start of any race next year that is over 5k in length you will be able to rest assured that my skills are as wasted on running (you knew that already as well) as they are on blogging (you’re arriving at that conclusion as well).
My main skill will be diplomacy.
For any of you still wondering, the running is going as well as I could hope. The injuries are settling down (I’m learning to ignore the pain) and the pace is below 8:00/mile almost all the time.
I’ve run every day for about a week now with most runs being just for aerobic fitness (4 miles) and one or two reaching up towards 10 miles so I can’t complain. Not from where I am. Coventry.