Today, I have mostly been moaning about having a cold.
I retired from attempting to continue making my windows in bit of a sulk knowing that every winter day I lose is a day in the spring when the garden/motorbike/mountainbike/anything else, frankly, will be more attractive. But I also know when my concentration is so low that mistakes will be made. Shopping was dull. I measured all the windows before heading out for a plod, hoping the use of time when too low to be productive will pay off.
But really, I just want to get rid of the cold and get on with enjoying the year. One of my mates has been in bed with flu all over the new year so I know mine is a mild hiccup but I still feel sorry for myself and am rapidly running out of handkerchiefs.
The run was a weak affair reflected in the pace. Averaging only 8.03/mile I had plenty of time to appreciate the hedgerows, fields and verges as I ran my favourite all-time route. Well, I say ran. I stopped twice to try to cough up a lung and considered walking after the last pause (1.5 miles from home. I couldn’t really walk from there, could I?). I plodded on.
Sadly, I don’t think I’ve even benefitted from the slow pace – it feels as though I’ve jarred my legs in my plodding, my thighs now joining the chorus of Janathon aches and pains that only a pause in running in 26 or so days will make go away. Lordy knows how the legs of those running proper mileage are feeling. I feel such a lightweight.
Ah, well, at least there was only a trace of rain in the gauge to go with my 6 miles.
Roll on a good sleep and a better day tomorrow. If tomorrow is rough, too, and I feel better on Monday for the working week, am I permitted to curse?