What a penitential slog that was…

THAT wasn’t such a good run. Some weeks the feet fly along but not today. More of a penitential slog this morning.

The truth of it is that I felt old and fat. Now in fairness to myself, I am not either of those things, or not exactly. The weights and measures account goes like this: five foot eight inches when last set against a ruler (a very long time ago) and 11-and-half stone when last weighed (not so long ago).

It is possible that I weigh a little more than that. Our bathroom scales are ancient and not entirely accurate, but I don’t mind. My wife keeps saying we should replace those scales, but who wants to know exactly what they weigh? A little ignorance can he a happy thing.

As to the calendar, people are kind enough to tell me that I don’t look the age I am. My wife is kind enough to tell me that I am slim. My own estimation would be slim but with a bit of a belly. Or slim for an ordinary person but not for a runner. Or not as slim as I was ten years or so ago when I ran those half marathons.

We are made of many parts, good and bad. The running is the healthy side of me, always on a Sunday and occasionally once more. The Sunday run generally takes place after the unhealthy side of me has had a night in on the wine. Some Sunday mornings are less bright than others, but a run does wonders.

Last night’s late whisky was barely more than a tot, but wasn’t perhaps the best race prep. Not that it was a race this morning, or if so only with myself. Two other runners, younger than me without being freshly podded, ran past at different times, going at quite a pace. I went at my pace.

The running is part of my routine, something I have always tried to fit around whatever else is going on. My new work days are Friday and Saturday, then part of Monday, with the other days left free for freelance work and writing. Sunday runs can therefore remain sweaty sacrosanct.

Normally I play squash twice a week too, cycle here and there and have a badminton session with friends. Last week one squash game was off and I skipped badminton to go and drink beer with two writer friends. That wasn’t so good in the health sense, but very enjoyable in other ways.

The good part of me would do more, but the bad part likes beer and wine and the occasional whisky, generally leaving a few alcohol-free days in the week. My slim self thinks I could do with losing half a stone. A half doesn’t sound so bad. A half is doable and sometimes drinkable. And doable and drinkable sounds like a reasonable motto.

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