I didn’t run last night. That seems to be a fairly regular statement I make on here. But yesterday was different.
I didn’t run. Not through injury or fatigue. Not through lack of time not circumstance. I didn’t run because I didn’t feel like it. Sure, I was full of good intentions on the way home. I was going to do a six mile run. I was going to go hell for leather and get as close to my personal best as I have in years. I was going to own the road.
But then, I got home. I started to cook dinner (you see, I wasn’t lying). Some vegetable gyoza and Kai Lan, with strawberries and homemade banana-berry vegan ‘ice cream’ for dessert. I made the dessert at the weekend, so I really didn’t have to do anything for that. The rest is a fairly quick meal, and oh-so-simple.
But as we sat down to eat, and we began looking for a new place to live (we have to move within the next two weeks), I felt the drive to go and run leave me. I was slowly losing interest, and started to justify not running to myself. I’ve still got a little pain in my left calf. I should rest it anyway. It’s 8pm. Remember what happened when you ran at 8pm yesterday? Yeah. Best wait.
You’ve just eaten. Give it until 10pm. 10pm? Far too late to run now. Let’s watch Netflix or browse Imgur until sleepy time.
OK, so maybe I didn’t say sleepy time. Maybe.
And I felt bad, actually. I love running. I enjoy every pain-soaked, sweat-caked moment of being free and having nothing to worry about except the next mile, the next sip of precious water, the two seconds I shaved off my last lap.
And I woke up feeling a little guilty. Kasia was at work early, so we were awake before 6am. I don’t have to leave until 8:30 to get to the office.
I could run now, I thought. Four miles, I’ll still be back before seven.
But then six turned to seven. A bow of Muesli, a cup of coffee. A browse of the news. A little core workout to ease my guilt. A Facebook update. Seven turned to eight. And then.
And then I ran down the stairs. What for? I can’t even remember. I do tend to run places though. Even when I don’t need to, I’m rushing about. I walk twice as fast as most people. I’d rather get where I need to be and wait for ten minutes. I’m one of those – I’d rather be twenty minutes early than one minute late. Even if my former employers would tell you otherwise…
So I ran down the stairs, because that’s what I do. And I slipped.
Not far, only five or six steps. But I panicked a little. I really didn’t want to hurt my legs. The thought of not being able to run rally worried me, so I stuck my arm out to stop myself.
My right arm hit the banister and snapped back behind my head, grazing right from my armpit, all the way down the inside of my bicep to just past my elbow. I’m making it sound worse than it is. It’s the physical equivalent of man-flu.
I like to think that this was karma, kicking my ass. No excuse for laziness. Get out there and run, Trevor.
Except tonight, we’re viewing a house at 8pm.
Where am I going to find time to run now?