You’ve all probably heard of the film ‘127 Hours’ where a climber gets trapped under a boulder and whilst attempting to survive the elements he examines his life and finds he has the courage and wherewithal to extricate himself by any means necessary. Yes, I am about to draw comparisons between that man cutting his arm off and my journey to the start line of the Great South. 107 days ago I couldn’t run for a bus. I stepped on to the treadmill with a mix of fear and loathing and totally convinced I was going to hate running with the fire of a thousand suns and thus spend the next six months trying to break a limb so I wouldn’t have to take part.
I’m glad to say I couldn’t have been more wrong because I’ve got the fever. My temperature is a hundred and run°! (see what I did there?)
I guess the signs have been there for a little while but the fact I could barely tear my eyes away from the World Athletics Championships whilst in a room full of my closest friends catching up; my being most excited about my Florida trip because of the Nike outlet and the chance to get some obnoxiously bright new kicks; debating taking my trainers on a boozy weekend with my friends; subscribing to not one but TWO running magazines and now regularly boring the tatas off my friends by wanging on about it ALL THE TIME have really hammered the point home.
Last night I took myself off to the gym having pussied out of my local running club’s long run because I was convinced I couldn’t run the 3-4 miles that they would be doing and I didn’t want to be a failure. *rolls eyes* When will I learn that I’m the only person who judges me as a failure for things like that? Everyone I know is proud of me even lacing up my trainers to jog round the block, let alone anything longer. So I got on to the treadmill wondering if I could push myself to do 4 miles and made a pact not to look at the clock by focusing on my breathing and my movement. I won’t say ‘before I knew it I’d done 4 miles’ because that would be a bare faced lie, but half an hour came and went and I was still there busting my arse. My mind got to thinking about how great it would be to say to people that I’d pushed myself all the way through to 6.2 miles (10k) and lived to tell the tale so I kept going, and going, and going.
Well fuck me gently with a chainsaw if I didn’t bloody well do it – me, previously super morbidly obese Ally ran for a whopping SIXTY TWO MINUTES non stop and lived to tell everyone I’ve ever met about it, including getting a fist bump from the lady on the treadmill next to me who complimented me on being ‘sooooo fit’… I’ll admit, I laughed a LOT at that description.
I just wish I’d started running sooner, it’s making me glow from the inside out and the terrorist head chatter I normally suffer so badly with has definitely been reduced to a dull roar drowned out by the sound of my feet slapping the ground and the breath coursing round my body. In short, I feel like a total invincible badass and I’m going to shout it from the bloody rooftops! I am runner hear me roar!