Today was back to 4×10 mins with 1 minute of recovery. I’ve done this before and after Friday had gone reasonably well (ie I could still stand unaided and breathe at the end of it) I thought maybe I’d see a bit of progress and improvement. Errrr, no.
Woke up at 6.45am – so by the time I got out the sun was coming up, it was already really warm and I knew things were going to get a bit uncomfortable. I also had one of those events which must happen to every female runner where you realise ow, that, ow, you’ve not got, ow the right, ow bra on, ow.
Apart from this, it all went as per usual: massive effort rewarded by minimal impulsion. I have started overtaking people though: woman-with-pram, fit-looking-bloke-walking-to-the-ferry-very-slowly and Asian-lady-doing-Tai-Chi (yes she counts). Old-man-walking-dog from Week 1 saw me coming and veered off onto another path at the last minute so I was denied that particular satisfaction. It’s going to happen though. We both know it.
Giving myself a little pat on the back for being so brilliant, I was overtaken at a brisk clip by some young woman in designer sunglasses and full make up. She wasn’t even sweating. By this time I was on the last leg of the 10 mins and was slogging along in my own personal puddle of sweat and discomfort.
It was the pony tail that did it; mine was stuck to the back of my neck – hers was still flicking about jauntily. First thought: shove her under the 464 bus. Second thought (and much more satisfying): give her another 5 years – those thighs have got a one way ticket to Cellulite City; first stop Cankle Central.
That cheered me up no end.