Quackers

Apparently there are millions of reasons why women run. I’ve got an entire book on it at home. Why do I run? Well, frankly because I like what it’s doing to my mind and body.

I like having a hobby that’s making my calves look pretty damn good.

I like being outside.

I like the sense of achievement I feel when I’ve clocked up more mileage than the previous run.

I like running.

And then there was yesterday.

Dread is the only word I could use to describe what I was feeling yesterday. I was dreading going for the five mile run. Running and a social life do not seem to mix. Or if they do I need to find the healthy balance, like sensibly, going out the night after the five mile run not bloody before.

I got back from work and Scotty boy and Fizz were cwtched up in our lovely warm living room whilst I donned the daps, knee straps and waterproof top ready to brave the famous Welsh weather.

I decided against Bryn Bach Park instead favouring Cyfartha Castle. Being only five minutes away from the house it was the more sensible choice. Also, Cyfartha holds a bittersweet memory for me, only a few months ago I actually got overtaken by a duck whilst lapping the lake. A duck! A quacking, waddling mallard, which had the cheek to sneer at me through its stupid beak.

So, I take Jesus (our Ford Focus) and head to the park before I could talk myself out of completing the run. If anyone drove past me yesterday, I apologise, I was the miserable looking bitch swearing and sighing. And then, what I can only imagine as being fate, the heavens opened. And when I say opened, I mean, it pissed down.

I phoned Scotty Boy.

‘It’s really raining.’

‘And?’

‘And!’

‘You’ve got to do it girl.’ I pressed the red button and cut him off. OK for him to have the ‘just get on with it’ attitude he didn’t have a hangover, hadn’t been to work, didn’t sign himself up for a bloody marathon.

‘Don’t do it.’ My brain screamed. ‘Go home.’

I could have gone home and I would have felt even more shit than I was feeling pre run. I’d feel guilty. I’d feel chubby. I’d feel like crap.

I got out of the car.

The pond or lake or whatever it bloody, is at Cyfartha, is exactly half a mile in diameter, which meant ten laps. Seemed like an epic task as I limbered up. Ten laps.

The rain had stopped pouring for the time being and sort of dribbled finely. It felt reasonably cool and something clicked (not literally thank god) I could do it, I would be fine.

I wasn’t banking on there being many people at the park, and this is why one should not assume. Didn’t assuming kill the cat or something like that?

Apparently there is only one thing to do in Merthyr on a Saturday in the rain; go fishing!

Around four million rods decorated the entire one side of the pond along with four million dads and sons alike. And then to top it off I clocked the super sized coach and equalling the four million anglists was four million OAP’s complete with Zima’s and wheelchairs.

Great; an audience.

I started off nice and slow, easing my way into a comfortable rhythm careful not to get caught in a fishing line or support stocking.

By the time the first lap was up there wasn’t a rain drop in the sky which made for pleasant jogging and a bit more of a positive outlook.

I like running, I thought.

I really like running.

Why didn’t I want to come running?

When I hit the half way mark I had really found my stride and my confidence and I had only very nearly been tripped up twice by the same guy and his same walking bloody stick.

The problem with running when the entire cast from Cocoon are having their Saturday strolls is that; old people can’t hear you pounding behind them. I’m massively paranoid that one day I’ll kill one of the buggers. Death by fright. I can imagine the headline in the Merthyr Express; Pensioner startled by chubby runner. Witness’s say ducks found it hysterical.

I’ve invented a few tactics to try and warn the golden-ager’s, such as coughing, slamming my trainers that little bit harder on the tarmac, I’ve even considered purchasing a whistle, you know, to give a few hoots well in advance of me actually passing them, but I think that would be drawing way too much attention to myself.

I can’t understand how they can’t even sense someone running behind them? I’m by no means a dainty little runner with matching tracksuit and cute hair do’s (hate those) I’m actually the over weight, panting heavily, covered in sweat, type of runner; not an easy vision or noise to avoid.

Anyway, I managed to complete the five miles in just over fifty minutes which was a bit slow for me but in my defence I was suffering from a hangover, slightly paranoid about killing a geriatric off and dodging fishing hooks and father/son bonding sessions alike, so I’m not going to beat myself up about it.

I was more than happy i had overcome that niggling in my brain and got out there and ticked another five miles off my mileage chart.

So, as for the running plan, I have to walk for an hour today (piece of piss) and that’s the first week done and dusted. Complete. Kappesh.

The plan of attack for tonight is a walk after work with Scotty Boy and then a few Jack Daniels for the football this evening. Rest day tomorrow, and depending on the severity of my hangover, I may go for a little splash in the pool. We’ll see.

I’m off now to explain to a service user why it’s not OK to tell me he loves his guitar, wanking and me, in no particular order, even though he’s clarified he never mixes these things together.

Happy Sunday.