I am jaded.
Well, technically I’m Hannah Phillips but I have well and
truly lost my running mojo. (If I ever had one! Get out the violins!!!)
And believe me I’ve been looking for it far and wide. On Saturday
I even trekked Pen-Y-Fan to try and find my bloody motivation to no avail
whatsoever.
I got cold ears, stronger calf’s and a massive feeling of
satisfaction but no real urge to get my trainers on!
And talking about trainers have you seen my new daps?
Pink and orange.
Need I say anymore?
Yes I do need to say some bloody more because I’ve bought
new trainers, have less than two weeks for this half marathon and I’m meant to
be keeping bloody audio diaries for the BBC and I no longer want to run.
What a kerfuffle!
Anyway, let me go back a few days. I completed the thirteen
miles and felt bloody epic. Better than epic I felt amazing. Thirteen miles is
quite a way after all.
I let myself have a few days off to get everything rested
and back on track and then I stupidly set out in one bra.
In the words of Julia Roberts; ‘Big mistake! Huge!’
The one bra jaunt only lasted two miles because my tits did
not cooperate one bit, or two bits, however you want to look at it.
But later that night it wasn’t my boys that hurt, oh no, my
neck, my chest (bit above the boobies) and my poor, poor shoulders were in
agony and I mean agony.
And those of you shaking your head right now need to know
that I have a huge pain threshold, ask my husband, he’s bent my pinky (not a
metaphor, I’m talking about my little finger) back so far that he thought it
would snap off before I gave in and told him to stop. I’ve also got myself into
various scrapes without complaint. (The falling over the pumpkin debacle and
breaking my wrist without realisation. The loosing in cards and kicking the
chair breaking my toes without realising! I’m a tough little bastard.)
I tossed and turned in bed and moaned and groaned, and no I wasn’t
pumping, I was in pain. Full on, horrible pain.
I will never, ever go out in one bra again.
FAILURE.
Then came the Pen-Y-Fan stroll which to be fair might as
well have been a run because Scotty Boy practically frog marched me up informing
me half way, as I panted and sweated in places I didn’t know existed, ‘No one
can overtake us mind!’ And they bloody didn’t, even the army clad muscle
machine with a back pack the size of me hanging from his rear didn’t stand a
chance. I married a Gurnos boy, he has fast feet. Trained in legging it!
When Sunday rolled round I felt more than ready to tackle a
four miler which I completed but didn’t enjoy. Although to be fair, I think the
lack of enjoyment came from the fact there was a weird bloke in the bushes half
way through.
Now, I know I have an overactive imagination, I will never
try and deny that, and I know I often convince myself someone in my close
proximity is a serial killer but this bloke was seriously creepy and it sort of
puts you off then. Everything looks like a threat.
That was three days ago and I have since made up every
excuse under the running sun not to actually run.
I did walk for an hour and a half tonight but that’s no good
is it?
I need to get back on track, back in the game, back out on
the bloody road.
So, tomorrow id D day and I mean that. I am taking my vast
amount of kit, complete with brand spanking new tub of Vaseline (see what I did
there) and I’m getting my groove back.
I also need to start getting some sponsorship…and like my
groove I need it bloody fast!
So, here’s the link to my Just Giving page and feel free to
donate!
Anyway, I’d like to wish my father a very HAPPY BIRTHDAY and
wish myself GOOD LUCK!
Keep posted.
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