I got out of bed this morning with every intent of doing a run. It’s almost 8.30pm and I’m still trying to pry my butt off a seat. Why is it that we only feel like doing the things we’re not supposed to, and vice versa? If I woke with the intent to, say, nosh down eight Milky Bars and a packet of Liquorice Allsorts every morning, would that mean I suddenly wouldn’t want to? Or more to the point, if I pulled myself out of bed saying “I will not study, I will not study”, would I end up doing a good day’s revision? Today, in fact, I used study as an excuse not to run. Told myself I’d do it later. Now I’m writing this in complete avoidance tactics.
The ironic thing is that I love to run. It’s just that I know I’ve a marathon in less than two months and suddenly my mind’s like, “don’t frickin’ do it you crazy loon”. And by that it means train, prepare, Boy Scout stuff. Like going to a cash point without a card, I’ll be hitting Holyrood Park with a pair of wimpish legs under my waist. On Sunday evening I was spread across my bed on the phone to my marathon buddy. She was exhausted from the 11 miles she’d done that morning. I was exhausted from everything I hadn’t done all weekend. Just the thought of it is catching up with me now.
Needless to say, we hung up and I threw on my trainers. I didn’t cover much mileage but at least I made the effort, after countless attempts to excuse myself. It’s scientifically proven that running aids mental health. There must be something in that constant battle that builds up the mind’s retaliation. It filters rejection and pumps me with endorphins. Despite the pathetic distance I’ve covered these last few weeks, it’s addictive. Give me an injury and I’ll give you a very angry, frustrated runner. There it is again; wanting what you cannot do, and vice versa.
Alas, it’s now dark and I’ve just turned on the dim light to my loft bedroom. Out of the skylights I can see grey and spats of rain. It’s supposed to be spring, dammit. There’s nothing about this evening’s run that is inviting. Still, if I think about trudging through the streets of Edinburgh, stumbling along at the back of the pack, I can feel a rise in my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s nausea, or excitement. What I do know is, it’s about time I heaved my sorry self off this stool and did something worthwhile. Like a run, as if you hadn’t already guessed.