Amnesia

Several times over this last week I have called into question my ability to remember things.

And, judging by that first sentence, I’m calling my ability to phrase things in the style of Yoda into question, too.

Right – start again.

I’ve questioned my ability to remember things several times this week. Forgetting what I’m saying half way through a sentence isn’t even a surprise anymore, but the running annoyance today revolved around deciding not to take a bottle of water on the jog.

Only going out for three and a half miles doesn’t warrant a bottle but, by the same token, if I fancy a drink then not having anything even for a short blast is frustrating to say the least. After two miles I fancied a drink. Mulling over the not having a bottle, I started to try and think of the word that was on the tip of my tongue for how it felt to not have a bottle, keys, fruit, jelly babies or anything else I needed for the long outings when I could run properly.

It took until three miles exactly until the word “liberating” popped into my head. A mile of head scratching to come up with such a simple term. Was this due to concentrating on running form, having started with a bit of pain in my shin, or was it simply because I’m rapidly turning into a fuckwit?

I’ll not know, but the run was summed up as 3.5 miles; 7.49 average pace; bit of pain in the first 300 yards but fine ever since; felt nice and easy; wanted a drink for the second half of the run; didn’t slow or speed up over any of the slopey bits; happy to be home and drink a glass of water, eat a plum and a damson picked straight off the tree (and be surprised that the damson was waaaaaaaaaaaay tastier than it had any right to be!).

Work tomorrow, so back to a hill session on Tuesday or Thursday (I’ve yet to decide which). Oh, blow.

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One response to “Amnesia

  1. travellinghopefully

    If it’s fuckwitage then I’m in trouble. A while back I came out with “you know, that word that means that you’re good with words” (articulate) and more recently, “you know, that woman, bicycles, with the womble man, I don’t like her” (Katie Melua). I suspect I’m turning into my mother.

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