This isn't the post I'd planned to write. I should say that now. I had something else entirely planned for this evening. I was going to, well, I'll tell you another time. Instead, I'll tell you about my evening. Pull up a chair, there, and I'll boil the kettle.
A bit of an introduction wouldn't hurt, I suppose. A lot of you know this already. I've been running lately. This past few months, I've been pushing myself further and further. Back in November I did my first 5K run. Was happy with myself. Kept at that for a while, got a bit faster and then I pushed up to 10K. That was a fairly big jump for me.
Sure, you could say "Well couldn't you just run 5K then... do it again?" and that's a good point. Really, it is. Do me a favour and go fuck yourself. Anyway, it took a while to build up more. The weather was against me. My nipples bled at one point. I'd a blister. My runners were all the way over there.
January 30th I did my first 10K run. Kept at it, ran a little less, ran a little more and, on Wednesday there, I did my longest ever run. Fifteen kilometres. And I was RUINED. Barely fit to stand. I was happy with that. Was gonna pull back for the next while, not try to kill myself altogether.
With that in mind, I left the flat just after eight this evening and set out to do a 10, maybe a 12K run. Wouldn't be easy but, hey, what good is easy? So off I went, listening to me Scroobius Pip and hobbling slightly as my right knee was a bit... off. Fifteen minute later, the knee had sorted itself out and Scroobius had gotten less angry with his music. A quick switch to Daft Punk and I kept at it. Forty minutes down, and I was wrapping it up. Sauntering along Portobello/London Road with a spring in my step. My flat was fifteen minutes away, the cans of Carlsberg in my fridge nicely chilled.
Then something happened at the fifty minutes mark. I could've kept going towards my flat. Straight ahead, I'd be home in no time. But I turned left. I swung in towards Arthur's Seat, a big f**king hill/mountain in the middle of Edinburgh. I kept going, knowing that this detour would put an extra 2/3K onto my route. At the bottom of the Royal Mile, near Holyrood, I'd my second stroke of genius/madness. As before, I had an easy out. Instead, I went off up the Mile towards Edinburgh Castle. I'll be honest, it wasn't the nicest part of the run. The hill beat me senseless. Everyone I ran past was drunk. People smoking on the street pretended to try to trip me, or shout stuff. Losing my focus (and, indeed, my will to live), I swung into a corner shop for some Lucozade. Paused my watch for forty seconds and pulled a two pound coin out of my shorts' zippy pocket. Sue me.
Electrolytes replenished, I powered on up the hill, crossed down to Princes St., ran west a bit, down to Queen Street and back towards my flat.
17K done, and I was finally coming near my flat. At this point I was happy. Content. I'd done 17 fucking kilometres, which anyone (bar a horse) would be happy with on a Saturday night. This was the most I'd ever ran. I felt good. Too good. Excellent, even. Legs weren't overly sore, I still had all my toes and me Avicii album was just getting started. I'd be a fool to end it here. So on I went.
I realise now I'm starting to sound like Forest Gump.
So on I went. And twenty minutes later I arrived at my flat with just over 21 kilometres behind me. Half a marathon. Twice what I'd planned on doing. It felt a bit like when you go out for two pints and wake up in a wheelbarrow. But a bit better.
Fuck, looking up there, that's a lot of writing. If you're still reading this, well done. Even I don't want to read that again. If you've skimmed it and jumped to the end, I'll sum it up:
I went for a run. It got out of hand.
I'll tell you about the time I played ping pong for the USA another time.
A bit of an introduction wouldn't hurt, I suppose. A lot of you know this already. I've been running lately. This past few months, I've been pushing myself further and further. Back in November I did my first 5K run. Was happy with myself. Kept at that for a while, got a bit faster and then I pushed up to 10K. That was a fairly big jump for me.
Sure, you could say "Well couldn't you just run 5K then... do it again?" and that's a good point. Really, it is. Do me a favour and go fuck yourself. Anyway, it took a while to build up more. The weather was against me. My nipples bled at one point. I'd a blister. My runners were all the way over there.
January 30th I did my first 10K run. Kept at it, ran a little less, ran a little more and, on Wednesday there, I did my longest ever run. Fifteen kilometres. And I was RUINED. Barely fit to stand. I was happy with that. Was gonna pull back for the next while, not try to kill myself altogether.
With that in mind, I left the flat just after eight this evening and set out to do a 10, maybe a 12K run. Wouldn't be easy but, hey, what good is easy? So off I went, listening to me Scroobius Pip and hobbling slightly as my right knee was a bit... off. Fifteen minute later, the knee had sorted itself out and Scroobius had gotten less angry with his music. A quick switch to Daft Punk and I kept at it. Forty minutes down, and I was wrapping it up. Sauntering along Portobello/London Road with a spring in my step. My flat was fifteen minutes away, the cans of Carlsberg in my fridge nicely chilled.
Then something happened at the fifty minutes mark. I could've kept going towards my flat. Straight ahead, I'd be home in no time. But I turned left. I swung in towards Arthur's Seat, a big f**king hill/mountain in the middle of Edinburgh. I kept going, knowing that this detour would put an extra 2/3K onto my route. At the bottom of the Royal Mile, near Holyrood, I'd my second stroke of genius/madness. As before, I had an easy out. Instead, I went off up the Mile towards Edinburgh Castle. I'll be honest, it wasn't the nicest part of the run. The hill beat me senseless. Everyone I ran past was drunk. People smoking on the street pretended to try to trip me, or shout stuff. Losing my focus (and, indeed, my will to live), I swung into a corner shop for some Lucozade. Paused my watch for forty seconds and pulled a two pound coin out of my shorts' zippy pocket. Sue me.
Electrolytes replenished, I powered on up the hill, crossed down to Princes St., ran west a bit, down to Queen Street and back towards my flat.
17K done, and I was finally coming near my flat. At this point I was happy. Content. I'd done 17 fucking kilometres, which anyone (bar a horse) would be happy with on a Saturday night. This was the most I'd ever ran. I felt good. Too good. Excellent, even. Legs weren't overly sore, I still had all my toes and me Avicii album was just getting started. I'd be a fool to end it here. So on I went.
I realise now I'm starting to sound like Forest Gump.
So on I went. And twenty minutes later I arrived at my flat with just over 21 kilometres behind me. Half a marathon. Twice what I'd planned on doing. It felt a bit like when you go out for two pints and wake up in a wheelbarrow. But a bit better.
Fuck, looking up there, that's a lot of writing. If you're still reading this, well done. Even I don't want to read that again. If you've skimmed it and jumped to the end, I'll sum it up:
I went for a run. It got out of hand.
I'll tell you about the time I played ping pong for the USA another time.
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