slow

Why I run (when I'm not particularly good at it).

I’ve just come home from a 23 km run jog plod. I got up at 4:50am to start, in a bid to beat the horrendous Victorian weather expected this weekend and so I would be finished in time to do regular family stuff. The 23kms took me 2 hours and 34 mins. Anyone familiar with long distance running would probably, and rightfully so, regard that as a pretty slow pace.

I’m no superstar runner. And I’m not new to it either. I have been running since my mid-twenties (I’m now mid-thirties) and have trudged my way through 6 marathons.

I haven’t gotten any faster. I haven’t lost any weight. It’s stupidly cold at this time of year. My toenails feel like they’ve been trodden on by a Clydesdale. There's a good chance I’ll become incontinent before I’m 50 and (if I listen to my mother), I’ll be lame by 60.

AND running actually feels like an incredibly unnatural thing for me to do.