WHEN RUNNING SPOILS A GOOD WALK
The sun shone bright in sub-zero temperatures upon the snowy Winter wonderland of Roddlesworth Woods with Connie the dog. What was not to love about that for a morning training run? Connie loved it, that's for sure. But for me it was a struggle and that summed up the rest of this third week of the comeback of nobody in particular.
No depth of lung capacity, no spring in my stride. American writer Mark Twain takes the credit for famously observing that, ''Golf is a good walk spoiled''. More a case of running spoiling a good walk in this instance. A hopeless plod around potentially fast trails did spoil what would have been a very beautiful walk indeed. The thought of rearing up to walking pace did seriously cross my mind at about mile three, but the onset of moderately damp perspiration under just thin layers of running gear would have allowed the Arctic breeze to get the better of me. I had to plod on regardless just to keep warm.
I don't know if it's this cold snap of weather, a backlash from man flu, or just some other underlying bug going around, but I'm just not feeling it. Persisting to train most days just to see out a meagre low octane thirty mile week has been a considerable battle in itself. Mentally more than anything, because runs have been chores and I've not felt well enough to run hard enough to get a single endorphin circulating.
All runners have many a reason why they run and some of those reasons will be more important than others. What this particular outing around Roddlesworth did highlight for me was that the simple practice of just being out running is not always enough. If it ever was, it isn't any more. I need some exhilaration from it and when there is none in supply, I seriously question what the hell I'm doing. So I didn't feel at my best and certainly at my age accept I can't go out and smash every run at a pace to thrill, but I was tired and fed up of running out here when I shouldn't have been. It really did spoil a good walk.
A high point in more ways than one was sucking in an incredible view to the North that spanned from Black Combe rising out of the Irish Sea on Cumbria's South Western tip, from which eastwards the whole of the snowy Lakeland mountain range was on show, the southern face of the Bowland Fells, a distant Ingleborough, a closer Pendle and then the immediate hillsides of Darwen Tower and Cartridge Hill to complete an impressive left to right panorama. Aside from that moment, I didn't really have a great time and limited what should have been a longer run to just over six and a half miles. I was relieved to get back to the car. It shouldn't have been like this, but it was.
At least the day after, oxygen supply improved and allowed the legs to get more of a wriggle on. But again, it wasn't quality and I didn't get much of a buzz from it. All I can do is carry on and wait and see if things come together at some point. Being a bit down in the dumps already with my running this year doesn't bode well. The pessimist within is saying, ''Face it Sutty, time's up''. The optimist tells me, ''Keep on keeping on, the tide will turn eventually''. The realist is saying, ''It could go either way''.