The non-runner dragged me out on another run this Saturday, and I mean literally dragged. I clung on to her belt for dear life as she tried to master pace setting on the bike. It’s obviously fairly tricky cycling at my running pace and more practice is clearly required. I’m pretty sure that we hit the giddy heights of 8 minute miles on some of the down hill sections. I couldn’t verify it on the garmin as any downward glances were destined to lead to messy “running shoe – in – bike spoke – acrobatics”.
It gave my lungs an unaccustomed workout though and my legs couldn’t believe what was happening to them.
By Monday the legs were moaning in that positively satisfying, muscle torn way. Every time I had to stand up I’d feel a rush of self-satisfaction and accept another Quality Street, safe in the knowledge that I jolly well deserved it.
That got me thinking today. How much better would Christmas feel if I dragged myself up on Chrimble morn to feel the achy thighs of a self-righteous, long distance, runner? I could hobble down stairs and start on the nuts from the crack of dawn and not even feel a hint of guilt at my festive excesses. Excellent plan. So I headed out this morning for quickish pootle along the river to M&S to buy nuts. At 2 miles it perhaps doesn’t count as a long distance run but I’m hoping I did it fast enough for my legs to ache and provide the necessary sacrifice for bone-fide excess offsetting.