Crash, Bang, Wallop!

Run number two was like floating on air, I had some great tunes pumping in my ears and I was ready to take on the challenge of stepping up to eight minutes running. I was enjoying the feeling of beads of sweat running down between my shoulder blades and was focusing on my breathing, my posture and my strides. I got to the end of my time with a big grin on my face feeling like I could take on the world, endorphins whizzing round my body at breakneck speed and a sense of clarity that I’ve not felt in a long time.

Fast forward to run number three and it was like another universe. I’d forgotten to pack socks in my gym bag, I’d forgotten a hair band and had to stick my hair up with a Bic biro that I found, I had a bit of a headache and frankly couldn’t be arsed. I got started and after two of the run portions I had resorted to gritting my teeth and repeating ‘JUST FUCKING DO IT’ in my head. The urge to get off the treadmill and head home to the sofa was overwhelming, especially when Spotify packed up and I was left listening to the sound of myself panting like a dog. Once I slowed to a walk again I thought I’d take the opportunity for a little multitask by sorting out the music situation so I could drown out the sound of my desire to quit. There I was merrily fiddling with the phone attached to my left arm when…

CRASH, BANG, WALLOP!

My right leg got a bit slack as my brain was trying to do too many things at once and before I knew it, I’d crumpled like a paper bag and shot off the back of the treadmill causing the man to my left to leap out of my way as my arms and legs all akimbo cruised past him at speed. On the way down I thwacked my shin bone and skinned my knee and also mortified myself in the process and just wanted to curl up and die of embarrassment. It was what I call, a complete Miranda moment. Tall brunette with sizeable arse makes arse of herself in klutx like fashion. Toppers!

I picked myself up, dusted myself off, popped a gracious smile on my face as the elderly gent next to me advised that I should probably wear the emergency stop strap until I got a bit more competent (at walking…!) and then I told myself ‘MTFU Wetpants’ and got back on the horse so to speak. It was a real struggle to get it done and by the time I completed it I was in a total fouler, unable to pat myself on the back for my latest accomplishment. My lovely Leeds lass (the marathon champ) keeps telling me that I’ll start to love it and yet when asked if she does her responses tends to range from a death look, to an emphatic ‘Oh God no!’ so I’m very much hoping that I get more like run number two than I do three! And I thought the twos were supposed to be the terrible ones…

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