I spent a very pleasant NYE at a potluck dinner party reunion with the Brightsiders, my crew from my schooldays, returning home at about 11 to see in the new year with my parents' infinitely more tasty prosecco stash and another viewing of 'A Knight's Tale'. Yeh, I'm boring. I know.
Perhaps I consumed too much prosecco (this is a definite) because I was really not keen on going out for a run today. It felt like I was the last survivor of a zombie apocalypse when I got up this morning, awoken very early after I kicked the wall very hard in my sleep, and staggered to the kitchen for life-restoring orange juice.
Yet drag myself out I did, especially when I realised I would have to blog guiltily tonight if I didn't go. So I recruited my tall ginger brother so that I would feel accountable, and set off.
Oh it was horrible. It was terrible. I had to face my mid-run nemesis of the Hill. I hate the Hill. It mars the middle of my lovely 5k route with a desperate sense of being unfit. Oh, Hill.
Today the Hill meant that I felt incredibly ill all the way up it, as the challenge is to get up at the same pace as running the previous downhill section, regretting that final glass of Chablis last night. Yet after that, for the second half of the route, and after the run itself I did feel much better, testament to the recuperative powers of exercise. And smug. Very smug.
Alright, it may have been a mere three miles ish, but I still felt that lovely sense you get when running of being somehow so intensely in the moment that you are in fact out of yourself, where you zone into something altogether bigger and everything clicks. It's nice when that happens, and it is often when you push yourself through a barrier of discomfort that you get that sensation.
Mo' running mo' miles tomorrow. See when I see you, Hill.
Mile count: 3
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