It felt like watching the new recruit tell his embittered sergeant that he couldn’t wait to get home and see his beautiful wife and baby boy. You just knew he was going to get a bullet in the very next scene. That’s how I felt starting out yesterday evening.
I felt good, great in fact. Fresh air. Warm evening. Bright skies. And not even sight of a midge! A week, more not being able to run all the while noticing every size, shape, age and ability of runner out clocking the miles. And now I was back. I was moving. I was running. Sure something had to go wrong. I had to get the bullet.
That’s what happens when you get a string of injuries. They become normalised and running complaint free no longer feels natural, so you wait to feel what pulls first.
But nothing did. One kilometre, two kilometre, three kilometre, four! And I was on the way back along my usual route. I even began forgetting about the injury and the weeks of missed training for a while and then home came into view again and I felt grateful to be able to run and hopeful that this is just the start again.
40 mins, 7 and a half k.