Ten miles down the canal today and a serious error of judgement for me with the temperature. Partially because it looked a wee bit parky and predominantly because I’m a lazy sloth and couldn’t be arsed to paint myself my usual preferred shade of radioactive terracotta, I threw a pair of long tights and a t shirt on.
This was a decision I regretted approximately seven minutes into the run when my entire body turned to liquid. Coupled with this I was test running a Buddy Pouch which seemed intent on pulling said Pants of Doom down causing me to semi moon the canal dwelling community of North Liverpool. Thankfully Marc was with me and helped me reposition the pesky pouch to a very comfortable location on my hip.
It was on the whole a challenging run as a combination of humidity and a stiff headwind made the first five miles tough to establish a decent breathing pattern. At the halfway point my legs began to tire and I knew the return section was going to be a grind. With Marc’s encouragement and hauntingly beautiful songs we pushed on for home but with the breeze now at our backs the temperature rose. I have a heart condition and I’m also in early menopause so the heat is my greatest running adversary and I knew I had no choice but to take drastic action or quit.
Now I’m quite tall and slim but I’m by no means in killer shape. My deep and abiding love of pretty much anything coated in lard means I have some bits that create a tsunami like effect when I move quickly. Added to that I’m getting on a bit, I have a very large birthmark on my mid to lower back and a couple of visible scars from surgeries. Oh and I’ve had a kid and she was effing mahoosive (seriously, she popped out in the birthing suite then stomped off down the corridor in search of a Pot Noodle) so my midriff and hips would benefit from a steam iron. So naturally I momentarily thought I’d be mortified but my fear of melting overtook my fear of humiliation and the T shirt came off.
And I cooled down immediately.
The funny thing was that not one singular person looked twice at me as I ran by and apart from the slapping sound of my right armpit (I appear to have just one bingo wing-hurrah) I elicited very little attention. The rest of the world got on with their day and I finished my run if not comfortably (because my legs were bloody killing me) then at least without incurring a cardiac trauma.
The moral of the story for me was that no matter how vain I think I am, the love of the run comes first. On the road my wellbeing matters more than my modesty and the ultimate object is to enjoy it, not endure it. And also, people care less about your appearance when you’re running than you think they do, they’re either busy being lost in their own universe or just a bit impressed that you’re out there toughing it out and getting the job done.
Also of course, they’re probably transfixed by boobs.
Either way, it was a good run and as always it was made extra awesome by having an awesomely supportive and helpful running buddy there to silently will you through the final mile when he knows you’re barely hanging in there. But hang in there we did and racked up another double figured debacle.
Rest day for me tomorrow whilst I figure out how to burn off the 22,000 calories I’ve consumed in Pie, chips and cider tonight. It’s all about balance 😉
Wherever you’re running tomorrow I hope you have an awesome time and embrace your own badassery.