Well, I thought, eyeing the other patients in accident and emergency, that escalated quickly. One day I’d been entering my first relays with the club and relieved to find I’ve not lost all my pace, the next I’d noticed a mild discolouration on my calf, and then the next I somehow end up sat in A&E wondering how I got there.
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I love London Marathon weekend, it’s probably the only time of the year when the nation turns its eyes to a sport I love.
It seems strange to think that just three years ago I’d never taken part in a race. I was in training for the London Marathon, in a distinctly inadequate manner, and a friend asked me if I’d be interested in running in a trail race in the Lake District a couple of weeks afterwards.
I’d been driving west for about an hour and a half when it happened. The A66 swept round towards Keswick and Blencathra appeared majestically on the right, a healthy dusting of snow on the summit and the ridge lines. I’m not ashamed to say I eased off the accelerator and whooped for joy. That view is like the gateway drug to the Lake District and to see it with just the right amount of snow, on a clear day, is pure joy.
I would tell you how many blogs I’ve had over the course of my life but I honestly don’t know. But I could tell you how many kilometres I ran last year and (of course) how many hours, not to mention how many metres of elevation gain. You have to remember the numbers that count, right?