How, despite doing an active job, running every night, leaving home for work at 6am and not getting in before 7pm, cooking, eating, washing up, blogging, sending an e-mail, unloading the washing machine, and loads of supplementary bits (watering the greenhouse, counting cucumbers…), do I find myself at 10 to bloody 4, looking at my clock, eyes watering they sting so much with tiredness, but in contradiction, so awake I get up so as to stop the panic i’m feeling about being shit at my job making me depressed before the day even starts. Surely I should at least be able to sleep like a log for the 6 hours I find myself in bed for?
So, after a (long, so long) day, the run was a relief. 4 miles along the seafront contemplating my ability to fail at something i’d so like to succeed at it hurts was paradoxically relaxing to close out the day. One of those things that is completely out of my hands provided a thought-track that absorbed all the pain in my shins. Which, by the way, is quite blinding at the moment. The knowledge that, no matter what belief I have in myself, no matter what abilities and talents i’ve developed over my life, no matter how much energy, passion or will I put into something can change an outcome, completely filled my thoughts for half an hour. It was quite nice, in a way, but now I am left pondering again how things could be better given a chance.
I’d like to throw away the promise i’ve made to myself when the counting cars rule equates to zero. That will be a sea change in life I don’t know whether to look forward to or fear, but I guess it’s in my destiny. Shame one so unsuperstitious believes in destiny, I guess, but that’s me. And whatever lies in wait will be clearer in 352 cars’ time.
Happy Juneathon. I’ll be better tomorrow and my ramblings might become a reflection of me again. I don’t think i’ve lost it yet, but sometimes I wonder.
Ah, Thursday. Which unfortunately doesn’t mean an end to running dilemmas but does at least mean, barring last week like late notice, an axtra half hour in bed on Saturday. Actually, that may be an hour – no need to get to the parachute club early since they’re doing a gay competition. That’s not to say the contest is for gay’s, just it seems a touch queer. 10 people touching each other in a set shape, on camera, as fast as possible upon leaving the aircraft. It’s probably jealousy that i’m not qualified to take part – ask me next year. But i’ll almost certainly still pass, thanks!
Oh, and the addition of my brother to the comments page can only mean a drop in the quality of banter for which I apologise. Maybe he’ll start running and beat me at the Stelling Minnis 10k next year, at which point i’ll consider his abuse valid. Until then, bollocks. No capitals.
Unfortunately after last night and the sprinting aching legs, tonight was always set for disappointment. Setting off from site again, my legs still felt sore. Both calves this morning were tight as the aforementioned skydivers buttocks will be in a dodgy clinch, which hadn’t eased. So I promised a 20 minute run. Seeing two women shovelled into too-tight white trousers, proudly displaying massive black pants complete with cordury seams beneath (why oh why does Hastings attract such horrors?) only strengthened my resolve. So when I got to the new unfinished cafe thing in the middle of the prom, I turned and headed home.
Spot on 22 minutes. I’ll find a mapping device sometime so I can verify the mileage (or drive the route and round down the tenths if I can be arsed sometime), but unless the wheels fell off and I ran slower than ever, I’ll happily say a safe as houses 2 miles as far as Juneathon claims go. Or is 22 minutes counted as valid?
369 cars. Some great cirrus formations (clearly some high altitude atmospheric disturbance this evening) but no rain. Got to love cloud spotting.