I used to be a runner. I started in 2011, to try and perk me up a bit. Turns out, I’m pretty good at it. Half marathon last October: 1:41:47. That’s something to be proud of… and now I’ve stopped. I’m disappointed in myself. Also, it’s something I used to share with my Dad- we ran together, or discussed our times, or he’d sort of coach me on what to do to improve. It’s a bit sad not to have that anymore.
When I started the MA, I made myself these promises. I’ll join the uni running club. (They seemed a bit snotty.) The hills will be good for me. (I don’t know this place.) It’s a nice looking city. (It’s a town, and it’s tiny. What if I bump into someone out of context- massive fear.) I’ll join the gym! (Or: I’ll convince myself running is cheaper and more fun, while I drink the equivalent of the monthly fee.)
Today, my mum said I should start running again. And I should. I know. I might feel better about myself. It’d give me something to share with my dad again, something that’s the two of us. It would stop me trying not to eat, or looking at myself feeling (unreasonably) nauseous. I don’t weigh much- that’s because the muscle is turning into flab. And fat doesn’t weigh.
One day I’ll take it up. When the New Year Runners are gone. When I can go more than 8 hours without alcohol. When I stop being so ridiculously, irrationally scared.
No-one not from London (or similarly big city) would understand this- but I felt so much safer there.
My running blog: http://www.onbravado.wordpress.com