I’m just going to spit it out: I don’t like running any more.
In “getting better”, running has played an enormous part. I have probably written very similar words to these before, so excuse the repetition, I’ll be brief. When I first moved back to London in 2011, I was an absolute wreck. I hadn’t been eating, and weighed a mini amount. Running helped me value health over size, and to be a good runner I realised I had to be well, and well-nourished. So while the calorie dial kept me satisfied I was doing enough, the desire to be a better runner made sure I wasn’t overdoing it.
It was also something I could share with my Dad. He is a marathon runner, pretty hardcore. He helped me to reach a really good speed- 5k in less than 22:30. And we bonded over times, practices, interval training. Sometimes we ran together for his “slow run” and my “oh my god this is quite intense” run.
When I moved to Canterbury, I ran much, much less. There were months where I didn’t run at all; I couldn’t afford the gym’s upfront payment system, and I had lost some of the inclination. I still wonder if I would have become less ill, had I kept up the physical side of looking after myself. I’ll never know. Then, in February, I got a tax rebate and joined the gym again. Gradually I built my speed back up- a frustrating process.
And blah blah blah blah blah….
Here I am. I don’t enjoy the gym at all. I don’t enjoy running. Today fifteen minutes was all I could stomach before I had to give up. Putting on weight is something that absolutely terrifies me, yet I can’t seem to get motivated to run for half an hour. I don’t know why. I guess running has always given me thinking space. I guess I no longer like my thoughts.