I’m going running in the morning. A nice gentle 20km and back by 9am for a late breakfast.
If you’d told me eight weeks ago I’d be running even 2km I would have gone slightly pale at the thought.
For those of you who don’t know the background to this it’s nothing earth-shattering but I spent a large chunk of June and July on antibiotics for pleurisy and bronchitis. Any runners reading this will know that anything of a vaguely upper respiratory nature is not a good thing to throw into the running mix.
*insert apology to anyone who already knows this stuff here*
A few weeks prior to getting sick I entered the Cape Town marathon to give me something to work towards over the winter. I had a half-hearted training plan in the back of my mind and I figured with a bit of luck and a following wind I should be ready in time for September 20th.
Then I got sick and wiped out about five weeks from the plan.
In a moment of drug-addled weakness I revised the plan and ramped it up a little. My intention was that I’d make a bit of a song and dance about it all, make a valiant attempt for a week or two and then get sick or injured.
And yet…seven weeks later I have covered 349km and am viewing the 20km up to the top of Constantia Nek and back tomorrow morning with a modicum of disdain. I did 35km by myself last Sunday so this should be a walk in the park.
Assuming your park is hilly. And 10km long.
Of the 33 runs I should have covered by now I have managed 30. I missed one 8km run because the weather was so foul I thought I might get sick again and I missed two 8km runs on a different week because I could feel a bit of a knee twinge. Otherwise I haven’t skipped a step. In fact I’ve even done more than planned as I always have to run a little bit further than my Garmin measurement in order to counteract the rounding-down-bastardness of RunKeeper.
So, amazingly, I find myself on the home stretch. Tapering has started, and it really is downhill to race day.
I have no idea how I will go on the actual day. I may turn an ankle tomorrow and all bets are off, who knows.
Whatever happens though, I’m proud of myself.
It’s funny. I’m forever proud of other people and their achievements but it’s very, very rare I admit to being proud of myself.
I guess this whole thing has become a bit of a big deal for me.
And once the race is over…how hard can writing a novel be…?