Those of you who read this on any kind of regular basis will probably have worked out by now that I love running. I run lots. I run more than I possibly should. I don't care. I love the feeling of being in motion, the calm clarity if brings to my mind, the buzz when I've finished a hard session, the peace when I've had an easy one. I like running with people, I like running alone. I run for fun, to get fitter, to get faster, to be able to go for longer. I run because I'm happy, I run because I'm stressed, anxious, unhappy or fractious. I run to things, I run away from them, I run up stuff and I run down the other side. I don't mind if people describe me as obsessive because frankly, I don't really understand the difference between obsessive and passionate anyway. The way I see it, there's a lot worse stuff I could be doing.
I know that to those less passionate/obsessive than me, my apparently endless enthusiasm for the sport probably seems hard to fathom. I'm the annoying bright and breezy runner that glides past those hauling themselves through yet another 45 minutes of torture along the canal with as much confusion with regards to their pained expressions as they have for my euphoric one. I know I probably make it look easy, like I put no effort in, that it comes naturally, that, excuse the cliché, I was 'born to run'.
Well I wasn't. I struggled when I first started running but I kept at it. Then when the bug bit, I struggled a bit more to get a but better, a bit further a bit faster. And then again, pushing just a little more, digging a little deeper, trying a little harder. Through that effort, i have genuinely arrived at a point where i honestly want to run almost every day. Yeah. That's right. Almost. And on those almost days, the chances are I might still run anyway. On Friday I wanted to do a speed session, probably my last really hard one before I try and break 40 on a 10k in about a week. I didn't really feel like it but I did it anyway, after quite a bit of prevaricating, then I drew this picture of what it was like inside my brain. Enjoy.
I know that to those less passionate/obsessive than me, my apparently endless enthusiasm for the sport probably seems hard to fathom. I'm the annoying bright and breezy runner that glides past those hauling themselves through yet another 45 minutes of torture along the canal with as much confusion with regards to their pained expressions as they have for my euphoric one. I know I probably make it look easy, like I put no effort in, that it comes naturally, that, excuse the cliché, I was 'born to run'.
Well I wasn't. I struggled when I first started running but I kept at it. Then when the bug bit, I struggled a bit more to get a but better, a bit further a bit faster. And then again, pushing just a little more, digging a little deeper, trying a little harder. Through that effort, i have genuinely arrived at a point where i honestly want to run almost every day. Yeah. That's right. Almost. And on those almost days, the chances are I might still run anyway. On Friday I wanted to do a speed session, probably my last really hard one before I try and break 40 on a 10k in about a week. I didn't really feel like it but I did it anyway, after quite a bit of prevaricating, then I drew this picture of what it was like inside my brain. Enjoy.
