I've been trying - really, really trying - to rediscover my running mojo of late. And given that Bedders is now in Brussels, I really have no excuse. Not that he's anti-running. Oh no. But now I am Master Of My Own Destiny (and Master Of What Time I Eat My Tea).
I've been out on the mean streets of Kirkstall and Headingley (via West Park) four times last week. Prior to that I hadn't been for a while. It's fair to say that I'm not quite at the 'loving it' stage. More of the 'grit your teeth and hope against hope it'll be over soon' stage.
But anyways. I laced up my trainers and I procrastinated. I debated the virtues of one particular route over another. I stretched (I never stretch). Then I bit the bullet and Got The Hell On With It.
Cue the Rocky Theme tune. Grrr.
The route I'd gone for involves a Massive Hill. Massive Hill really is a bugger. I was running for 6 months before I got the the top of it without stopping. It probably took me another six months to not stop dead at the top of it and mentally congratulate myself/treat myself to a little walk.
Today I ran past a gaggle of teenagers at the bottom of Massive Hill - two boys, two girls. They were about fourteen. The boys thought it'd be hilarious to start running alongside me.
So there we are. Running together. Me and two fourteen year old with ratty faces and bumfluff on their chins.
Oh, you twats, I thought.
"Lovely weather we're having!" said one in a falsetto.
"Indeed!" chirped the other.
Oh God. Cue the Benny Hill theme tune. It was like going back to a PE lesson circa 1996. The degradation. OK, so perhaps that's a strong word, but I did die a little inside.
I ran through my options. Stop? Nah. I'd become an immediate target for abuse. Cross the road? Similar. Tell them to piss off? Come on, I'm an adult.
"Careful, lads," I said. "This bit coming up's tough."
Ah, the always-reliable competitive nature of boys. No sooner had I uttered those magic words and they'd raced ahead of me, cackling to themselves. Pah! They spat in the face of my sloth!
And then they hit Massive Hill.
And they kept racing. But they hadn't reckoned on the power of Massive Hill.
They slowed. Rat Face The Uglier's jeans were falling lower and and lower. He held onto them with one hand.
"Haway lads, pace it!" I cheered them on from behind.
Rat Face The Marginally Less Ugly was panting. He'd dropped his cig. Smart arse no longer, he stopped and bent double.
Rat Face the Uglier was fighting a losing battle with his jeans. He stopped too.
"I can't be arsed," he said in his normal voice.
"I did warn you!" I trilled, sailing past them. Then I waved.
I've been out on the mean streets of Kirkstall and Headingley (via West Park) four times last week. Prior to that I hadn't been for a while. It's fair to say that I'm not quite at the 'loving it' stage. More of the 'grit your teeth and hope against hope it'll be over soon' stage.
But anyways. I laced up my trainers and I procrastinated. I debated the virtues of one particular route over another. I stretched (I never stretch). Then I bit the bullet and Got The Hell On With It.
Cue the Rocky Theme tune. Grrr.
The route I'd gone for involves a Massive Hill. Massive Hill really is a bugger. I was running for 6 months before I got the the top of it without stopping. It probably took me another six months to not stop dead at the top of it and mentally congratulate myself/treat myself to a little walk.
Today I ran past a gaggle of teenagers at the bottom of Massive Hill - two boys, two girls. They were about fourteen. The boys thought it'd be hilarious to start running alongside me.
So there we are. Running together. Me and two fourteen year old with ratty faces and bumfluff on their chins.
Oh, you twats, I thought.
"Lovely weather we're having!" said one in a falsetto.
"Indeed!" chirped the other.
Oh God. Cue the Benny Hill theme tune. It was like going back to a PE lesson circa 1996. The degradation. OK, so perhaps that's a strong word, but I did die a little inside.
I ran through my options. Stop? Nah. I'd become an immediate target for abuse. Cross the road? Similar. Tell them to piss off? Come on, I'm an adult.
"Careful, lads," I said. "This bit coming up's tough."
Ah, the always-reliable competitive nature of boys. No sooner had I uttered those magic words and they'd raced ahead of me, cackling to themselves. Pah! They spat in the face of my sloth!
And then they hit Massive Hill.
And they kept racing. But they hadn't reckoned on the power of Massive Hill.
They slowed. Rat Face The Uglier's jeans were falling lower and and lower. He held onto them with one hand.
"Haway lads, pace it!" I cheered them on from behind.
Rat Face The Marginally Less Ugly was panting. He'd dropped his cig. Smart arse no longer, he stopped and bent double.
Rat Face the Uglier was fighting a losing battle with his jeans. He stopped too.
"I can't be arsed," he said in his normal voice.
"I did warn you!" I trilled, sailing past them. Then I waved.
Running top, Nike via JJB, 15 quidish
Trainers, Saucony via a running shop in Lancaster, £85 quidish 2 and a half years ago (err, should maybe be getting some new ones)
Feeling of delicious triumph and righting the wrongs of a PE lesson 16 years ago? Priceless.
(and if you would like to read more about righting those PE lesson wrongs you probably should read this, written by a friend who I really hope ends up writing more).
HA! Go you! I too hated PE with a vengenace, and totally sympathise. Well done on outrunning the ned, sadly if that was me, I would embarass myself further by not being able to make it up the hill! I love reading you blog, makes me chuckle. I've been given a liebster blog award, not entirely sure what it's about, but I've also awarded it to you, so head on over and check it out! http://paperblossomstationery.blogspot.co.uk/
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