The Qwer Old Fella's Marathon Method

5.30 am – 3.6 miles of graft, including the Fat mile.

So, I was up and out of the scratcher before the alarm had a chance to slap me about. Good omen. My feet told me – honest, they did – that they loved their new Nike Pegasus trainers. ‘Incredible cushioning and comfort,’ they said. ‘These shoes fit like a glove. We’ll fly in these.’

But when I stepped out into the morning darkness, my feet whispered, ‘Oh dear.’ The wind howled and growled and gave it root-toot.

‘This is going to be ugly,’ my left foot said, yawning.

‘Tell me about it,’ my right foot scoffed. ‘It’s hard enough lumbering around at this time of the morning with that 170lb burden. And now the wind’s going to make it even harder.’

'Yep,' my left foot said. 'At least he hasn't got a hangover.'

How right they were. My legs felt dead and every ‘stride’ felt like the last I’d take. Perhaps, I’ve lost a few pounds and my glycogen levels are low, I thought. But when I crawled through the front door and eventually summoned the strength to step onto the scales, my much hoped for explanation was dismissed with a simple reading that told me, no weight lost, fat man.

I remembered the fifteen minute window and gobbled a banana and gulped down a glass of apple juice. I removed my new shoes and threw them across the room.

'Tetchy,' my feet said in unison.

And then, my right achilles groaned, ''Will you two ever shut up? Imagine being me.'

Depressed, I checked my blog. Low and behold, two new comments, both encouraging. The zap and zest and zing of energy lifted me, and now I can’t wait to get out there again tomorrow – even if the wind fancies it’s chances.

RHR - 64