Last week was one of those I’ll look back on in years to come and think, That was one hell of a week. I might even be pushed to say I felt proud.
My friend Henry and I have been training for a marathon. We’ve been running. Long distances. And, as Dave Bedford said, running is a lot like life: only ten per cent of it is exciting; ninety per cent is slog and drudge.
We’d been focused on slog and drudge for quite a while when we suddenly realised, after Henry had made a comment in passing, why running could be so exciting.
Leaning our hands on our knees, breathing heavily, we were exhausted. We’d just finished the last run of the week, a painful fourteen-mile slog. A rearranged training schedule meant we’d also ran sixteen miles six days earlier, with an eight-mile run in between. Henry mentioned how many miles we’d covered.
Then it hit us.
Thirty-eight miles, in six days. One-and-a-half marathons, in six days.
We’d so concentrated on running we’d nearly missed the achievement. Six months ago I wouldn’t have believed it possible. It felt fantastic. The nipple-rub, the aching limbs, the dry mouth, the blisters; they were suddenly all worth it.
It was one hell of a week.