It was 10 years ago that a younger (and saner) version of me decided that swimming up and down a pool wasn’t the only way to keep fit. The worrying pace a which the chlorinated pool water was wearing out my budgie smugglers made me think that there must be a healthier way of keeping fit.
And so, around this time 10 years ago, on a Friday afternoon in November I slipped on a pair of “trainers” and decided to go for what I though would be a long run (2.5 miles).
After about a half mile I was sweating like a glass blower’s arse and doing that “holding up the wall” stretching that novice runners do as an excuse to take a break. Still, with only two more “quick, quick the wall is falling down!” stretching breaks I made it home.
And that was that.
Hooked. A runner.
Through numerous injuries, stupidities, adventures, dark nights of the soul, life defining moments, body destroying races, triumphs, revelations, obfuscations, scares and above all tonnes of fun I am a runner.
The 2.5 miles has turned into 62.5 miles and the urge to shine a light into the furthest corners of my psyche remains undiminished. It’s not about being fit, it’s about being alive.
I was out recently at a major family event (happy birthday mum) when my brother-in-law remarked: The way you commit to things – that’s not normal.
I started my usual defence but I let it peter out. I though to myself: That’s fine, who wants to be normal?