The Running Week (17-23 October)

THERE wasn’t much running at all last week. By Friday, I’d only done two and a half miles. I had, however, written an essay on Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard, completed a two-day coaching and mentoring course at work, and survived a very long day of team building.

I staggered home on Friday evening with only one thing on my mind. Not wine. Not chocolate. Running!

Here’s how the week looked.

Monday: I started writing the Chekhov essay for my Open University degree.

Tuesday: I ran half a mile before my strength class, did the strength class, and then ran for two miles afterwards.

Wednesday: It was an early start and a late night at work. When I eventually made it home, I had to get the laptop out; Chekhov was calling.

Thursday: After work, I had to focus on finishing my essay and handing it in before the clock struck midnight. I submitted about half eight, had a bath and went to bed. My brain was exhausted.

Friday: Trainers on, and off I went, only for Mr Wells to mistake me for a horse (see my last post).

Saturday: This was a day of school-boy errors. I had a massage. I had lunch. I went out for a run immediately after the massage and lunch. This is not a good idea. My lunch almost reappeared on my second lap of Notton woods. My legs never appeared. They were clearly still recovering from the deep tissue massage. You’d think I’d know better by now. I mean, I’ve only been running for 15 years.

Sunday: I met my friend and went horse riding. I thought it would be a relaxing morning just me and Zoe and the horse, but one of my mum’s neighbours had lit a fire. Horses and fire do not go well together. Blaze was terrified. I was terrified. We fell down a small banking, but recovered to ride another day.

blaze-oct-2016

In the evening I did an interval session of 4 x 4 mins. Given all my runs up to now had been a disaster, I was very pleased to have what I would call a decent run. It wasn’t amazing, but it was okay.

Despite a slow start to the week, I managed 21 miles, as well as the Chekhov essay, which really was a test of endurance.

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