I started running (aka, jogging, very slowly, on strictly flat surfaces) just over a year ago, after reading Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running. Yep, not only has Murakami written 13 novels, been translated into 50 languages and won masses of awards, he's also run at least 25 marathons AND one ultramarathon (and seems to squeeze in quite a few triathalons too).
I borrowed the memoir from my friend Sarah and, thoroughly inspired, we decided to find out what all the fuss was about and go for a jog (under the strict agreement that we wouldn't try to chat at the same time).
We had a glass of wine before we set off, a slice of cake when we got back and managed at least half a mile! I wouldn't say I caught the running bug exactly, but it was a nice way to spend time together and I even bought myself an actual pair of leggings from TK Maxx. I hadn't worn leggings since about 1993. (FYI: I've since discovered that running leggings are called tights, which is just one example of the befuddling, yet rather alluring, world of sportswear; a world where the most reliable way to identify if something is for women is that it's got pink bits on, and where you find yourself trapped in a changing cubicle, ensnared in a sports bra you don't understand, wondering how likely it is you'll need to dislocate a least one shoulder to get out of it.)
By autumn we'd reached the dizzying heights of 2 whole miles, with conversation and the odd hill thrown in for good measure (and a shared slice of millionaire's shortbread at the end). It was quite brilliant. I had a vague idea it might be nice to be able to manage 6 miles, but that was probably enough and something I might accomplish in the distant future, around the same time I finally knit enough squares to make a whole blanket or learn to make gravy.
Then Sarah suggested we sign up for the Bournemouth marathon... and I said yes.
I was slightly alarmed, but it was almost Christmas, other parts of my life were going awry and I thought running a marathon seemed like the sort of thing the Kate Slater I would like to be would do without a second thought.
And it is quite handy, really, because when the question "what on earth am I doing with my life?" pops into my brain in an inconvenient sort of way, I have a ready answer: "I know! I'm running a marathon" which appeases my inner Spanish Inquisitor a little bit.
I am a gazelle. A gazelle in running tights. But really I fear I am more like one of the cows when they're let out in spring. Full of joy, rather ungainly, and you know it won't last.
Either way, I'd be eternally grateful if you could sponsor me, here.