I wanted to run last night. But it was damned hot here in London, so I decided to wait until a little later in the evening before heading out for a four miler. But Kasia had other plans.
“I’m going out for my run at 9pm,” she told me, “I want to do one hour.”
I tried to work it out in my head. Kasia normally runs a little slower than me. “How many laps is that?” I asked, giving up rather too quickly. The laps in question are a 1-mile route we’ve worked out.
“Six,” was her curt reply.
I spluttered a little. Six? I’d not planned on running more than four tonight! The two words which seem to define my existence over the past few months crept forth from my lips. “Challenge accepted,” I stated, rather boldly.
“Catch me if you can!” she said, and left for her run. I was not even ready.
By the time I left ten minutes later, I knew I’d have a job catching her within a reasonable distance.
But run I did, a steady 7:40 mile, followed by another. I passed Kasia towards the end of the second lap, getting a rather too hard slap on my behind for my troubles.
A third lap, slowing to 7:50
The fourth down at 8:00
At the end of the fifth, my stopwatch read 39:59. I averaged it out at 8:00 a lap, even though the fifth had been much slower.
One final lap. Let’s gun it.
I pushed harder than I’ve run in a long, long time.
Towards the end, I passed Kasia for a second time. No slap this time, just a few choice words shouted in my direction.
Lap / Mile 6, 6:22. I near collapse against the wall next to our door.
This was a good, good run.