Sooo...

As you may or may not know, I like to run. To date I have "raced" a 5k, two 10k's and two half marathons. I plan to do another half marathon and another 10k in the autumn, when the weather cools a little.
    However, this does not mean I am any good at running. Oh no, no, no. Sure, I can make it round a half marathon without stopping, but by no means can I complete a race speedily, or with style. For the sake of this post, when I say "Run" imagine me going at a pace which would not look out of place on one of these:

'Sup?

Often when I'm out on a run I will draw concerned glances from passers-by. The glances usually range from  "Why bother running when she could be overtaken by a snail with a respiratory problem?" to "Oh god, oh god... what the hell is that? It looks like an Ork. Is it an Ork? Should I run away?" The longer I run for, the less I resemble any sort of human form and the more I run, the more I resemble I pink, sweaty, hot mess, not dissimilar to a blancmange that has been left out on a really hot day. Honestly. Mothers hide their babies from me. Children weep in despair as I pass. More than once has a grown man burst into tears. On several occasions I have been offered medical help by those brave enough to approach.

     You see, it all starts off so well. I enthusiastically tie up my trainers and head outside. My attitude is positive and my posture and stride are confident. I am convinced that I am a good runner and that I truly love and enjoy running. I don't worry about pace because, pah! who needs pace when they're running free, enjoying nature? Not bloody me! 

I've drawn a picture so you can see what I look like at this stage in my run. If you don't like stick men, then I advise you look away now, or you might get annoyed. 

You honestly wouldn't believe the amount of effort I put into this.

After a couple of miles a little bit of self doubt begins to creep in. I realise that I am hot and sweaty, and my hair is plastered to my forehead. I begin to regret not pacing at the start of the run, and my stride and posture take a turn for the worse. My pace has slowed and I'm not so much running as doing a swift shuffle. I round a corner and have to side step to dodge a man walking towards me; the man shouts something that sounds like "Uargh!" and drops the coffee he was holding. I begin to notice my breathing is worryingly laboured and there is an odd pain in my leg. With the painful realisation that I am around seven miles from home, despair begins to build. However, I LIKE running and I WILL carry on. Because I am just that awesome. 

By the time I reach the top of my street the chances are that I am trailing a puddle of sweat, unable to breathe and absolutely convinced that nothing positive is left in the world. There is nothing beautiful about enjoying nature; nature is a pile of arse- trees are shit, birds need to shut the hell up and children need to stop laughing and playing and get back up the chimneys and in the work houses where they fucking belong. I hate everything. 

By the time I reach my doorstep I am either crawling or staggering, and usually dreaming/hallucinating about joining my pet hamster- Noodles Pencil Clark Stevens (RIP) in heaven. 

But at the end of the day, when I'm showered, recovered and rested, I begin to feel smug again. I forget all of the pain and anguish, and suddenly remember my run as being pain free and joyful. So the next day I go out and do it all again...