I’d love to begin this with some sort of motivational quip, some inspiration that will hit people square in the face, that will leave some sort of legacy on the world. Instead, I’m absolutely f*cked and in need of a lie down.
It started well. Admittedly in the cover of darkness – the best place to run when you’re this size – I headed out for my first run in preparation for this year’s Great North Run. My plan is to run a mile a day all week, then add a mile the following week, and so on until I’m running around 10 miles by the week of the run. So tonight, the plan was simple – one mile. An app on my phone would tell me when I’d run half a mile, at which point I could turn around and head back towards home.
And it worked a treat. Five minutes in, I heard a lifeless, disinterested lady shout that I’d ran half a mile. It seemed easy at this point, so easy that I even toyed with sticking a finger up at The Man and going further. Then I remembered – the outbound part of my journey is downhill. Good god, running uphill is difficult. The second half of the run is a constant but ever so slight incline, but essentially uphill for most of the way. With nothing but the sound of my heavy wheezing, it felt like a constant struggle.
Halfway home I nearly stepped on a frog, as it hopped merrily across the path. I nearly shat my pants and if my pulse could have increased any more, it would have done. God bless the Northumbrian wildlife. Despite the uphill section seeming slightly hellish, once I was into the rhythm, things got a bit easier and I completed a mile in 10mins 50 seconds. I don’t think the elite athletes competing in September have much to worry about, but the fatties planning on walking it had better watch out – I’ll be running at least one of the thirteen miles, suckers!