It turns out that if you do three gigs a week, write 500 words of novel a day, start a new exercise regime and keep up with your day job, you don’t get made Head Girl Of The Grown Ups, as I had previously assumed. All you get is a chest infection. And then you can’t run, or write, or do anything at all except for lie in bed, wondering if your lungs have somehow worked out a way to cry blood. So, only two runs this week, and one of them I’m not sure whether to count, as it was the slowest, most resentful run ever, when I was already ill (top tip – DON’T GO RUNNING WHEN YOU’RE ILL. You cannot “run off” a cold. You are already delirious. Go to bed.).
According to the Internet, this kind of thing happens a lot – beginners get sniffles, push too hard, knacker themselves and give the whole thing up for a bad job. But NOT ME, I am too clever (stubborn) for that. I am going to give my bronchioles time to scab over before I get back on it.
It’s easy to see how it happens though – even though I’m nowhere near the stage where running is anything other than a massive pain in the ass (and calves, and knees) I do kind of miss it. It made me feel clean, somehow. And like a badass. I miss feeling like a badass. I keep mooning around other running blogs, sadly thinking about how good it would be if I’d already been for a run today. Still. No running for me, breathing first, always.
One other thing I found out this week – the non horrible run was first thing in the morning, and it was glorious. I felt like I’d been turbo charged for the rest of the day. All high on good circulation and endorphins and smugness. I’ll see if this continues, and report back.