The worst has happened: I can't run. Through no fault of my own, I hasten to add, and thankfully not through injury. It's snowing. The pavements have disappeared. The schools are closed. People are wearing wellies to work. My running routes are impassable.
At first I panicked. I had a half marathon in two weeks' time! A program to follow, a PB to break! I went to the gym and morosely slugged (snailed?) away on the treadmill; a miserable tempo run and then some reasonably satisfactory speedwork. But neither workout felt like a proper training run. On screen they were perfectly reasonable efforts, and equal to anything I would normally have done during the week, but mentally it wasn't enough. I didn't even bother stretching afterwards.
Today I didn't even go to the gym. Later in the evening the snow started to fall again, thick feathery clouds of white lit by mystical streetlight. And you know what? It was the best thing that happened all year.
I went home and looked out at the snow, by now a thick blizzard. I put on a casserole and some Christmas music, plugged in the fairy lights, and had a night off. I didn't even talk about running. Because, in the fine words of Slade, “It’s Chriiiiiiist-maaaaaaaaaaas!”
At first I panicked. I had a half marathon in two weeks' time! A program to follow, a PB to break! I went to the gym and morosely slugged (snailed?) away on the treadmill; a miserable tempo run and then some reasonably satisfactory speedwork. But neither workout felt like a proper training run. On screen they were perfectly reasonable efforts, and equal to anything I would normally have done during the week, but mentally it wasn't enough. I didn't even bother stretching afterwards.
Today I didn't even go to the gym. Later in the evening the snow started to fall again, thick feathery clouds of white lit by mystical streetlight. And you know what? It was the best thing that happened all year.
I went home and looked out at the snow, by now a thick blizzard. I put on a casserole and some Christmas music, plugged in the fairy lights, and had a night off. I didn't even talk about running. Because, in the fine words of Slade, “It’s Chriiiiiiist-maaaaaaaaaaas!”
Comments
Post a Comment