Last night saw two less than eager runners imbibing carefully measured doses of liquid carbs. It was the night before the much anticipated Kingston Breakfast run and we were supposed to be having a nightcap but ended up winding each other up.
For some reason the Kingston race had been declared a music free zone – the organisers had specified a no personal stereo rule and I was pissed off. Then Dan cast the killer blow when he announced that the race was also t-shirtless.
One more pint of the carb load and we had hatched a plan. We were to sleep through the 5am alarm, rise just as the Kingston race was finishing and head across to Richmond Park for our own 8 mile race, followed by booze and pies by the river. Far more civilised.
It was a glorious day for running round Richmond Park, full sunshine and a tiny chill. I opted to run clockwise and sent Dan in the opposite direction so that we could meet mid run and swap notes.
I’d been running for 1km when I spotted a couple of walkers up ahead. Walkers always trouble me as I feel the need to compare my speed to theirs and it never feels flattering. I came up alongside them and felt a firm punch in the side of my arm. Turns out one of the walkers was my boss. We swapped our pleasantries and then I had to carry on and face the tricky task of running ahead of someone you know is going to check your arse out for wobbles.
I had to pick up my speed to get out of the wobble zone but then of course I started to heat up and was threatening to explode. I had to push on and on until I felt I’d gone far enough to be out of sight. It shattered me and I had another 8k to go.
I finished with 12k on the clock and staggered to the nearby ice cream van for a teeny 99 while I awaited the return of Dan who was pushing on for an 18k target.