So I thought I’d take advantage of the not completely shit weather early this morning and head out for a long one. The thinking was that I’d run ten miles out then see how I felt. Turns out that ten miles is a very fucking long way from home (ten miles precisely for all you pedants out there) when you have in fact already run ten miles.

At 11 miles whilst running on the endless Liverpool waterfront (anyone who has run Liverpool R&R will understand) I said out loud ‘well this was a fucking stupid idea Nicky’.

And it was. Despite distractions from what seemed to be a gigantic maritime hoo har on the river involving helicopters, boats and a lot of police, I was in effect dying as I staggered towards Albert Dock with still over six miles left to run. A fellow female runner trotted alongside me for a minute or two, I really wanted to tell her to fuck off but it seemed impolite. As it was she passed some faintly bitchy comment about not understanding how anyone could be bothered to wear as much make up as I was for a run then turned off. Hopefully directly into the pathway of a heavy goods vehicle.

At 15 miles I paused the Garmin, had a Vimto and a stern word with myself about badassery and pie. I also had a protein ball. Now, I don’t have much experience with proper running food, I usually find a Vimto and some starburst or a double decker does the job, but I thought I’d try something less nutritionally bereft.

Enter the protein ball.

This is a dense ball of goo coated with some healthy looking shit that purports to nourish and revitalise the weary runner. Sounded bloody perfect. The thing is that after running 15 miles I was so massively parched and drastically tired I was physically incapable of chewing, and these bad boys definitely need a chomp. I macerated on a ball until my jaw hurt but alas it would not crumble. In the end I swallowed chunks whole and hoped for the best. But I’d had a brief respite and so marched on with a renewed spirit.

This physical and emotional epiphany lasted a good nine minutes at which point I lost all sense and reason (and feeling in my legs). I decided the best course of action was to call Marc to come rescue me. After all, I’d run 16 miles and that was more than respectable. The plan seemed to be a flyer until Marc uttered the words ‘I think you can do this’. You see Marc is my inspiration, he does epic stuff and then it makes me want to do epic stuff. Added to that I’m always secretly thinking how proud he is of me if when I conquer a fear or do something out of my comfort zone and this spurs me on.

And then there’s you guys, I watch what you do and how brave and strong you are. And I mean all of you, those running ultras along with those starting couch to 5k, you guys who are fighting through injury and those of you who are hitting top form. I see what you do and it encourages me towards overcoming my own self imposed obstacles. So yes, I’m blaming you for all this shit.

Anyway I had no choice because he knew that I’d be so pissed with myself for giving in with just four miles to go. For God’s sake I could drag my arse four more miles.

And that’s basically what I did, I hauled my behind along the bustling dock road looking terrifyingly demented as my mad hair broke free in the wind from its tethers and gave me that much sought after Mad Scientist look. And bugger me with a marrow it hurt, not so much my legs but my feet and my shoulders. I felt comprehensively knackered and with one mile to go, actually delirious. I was singing (screeching) Taylor Swift songs demonically at the top of my voice (one of which was a bit sinister which I thoroughly enjoyed) and staring wildly and desperately into the cold eyes of strangers. Panic rose in my throat as I realised I may have misjudged the distance and so be slightly short which would involve the impossibility of running past my own house but with mere metres to go the Garmin buzzed.

Thank fuck.

Twenty miles is a long ass way, it definitely takes more than balls.

3 thoughts on “Slap

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