Let me give you a kilometre by kilometre breakdown of my very-much-anticipated first run. My thoughts went a bit like this...
Km 1: This is bliss. What a perfect morning! I love running. I love life. This feels amazing. I run past a fellow exerciser and we make eye contact above our buffs. There is an immediate and deep connection. Don't get me wrong- it was nothing romantic, but we were definitely experience soul mates. Wonder how I ever felt running to be difficult. Remind myself that I've been running downhill for the whole kilometre.
Km 2: Wave at friendly strangers that I pass (all the residents of Zimbali seem to have taken up running). Life is beautiful and everyone is wonderful. Legs start feeling a little tired, but I'm going uphill now so that's to be expected. Buff starts to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Make a mental note to remember to brush my teeth after my morning coffee before my next run- my buff appears to be very effective at trapping and amplifying my coffee breath. Feel momentary guilt for subjecting various running partners to said breath over the past ten years.
Km 3: Still uphill. The shin splints that I developed after skipping enthusiastically for an hour on the first day of lockdown seem to have made a reappearance. Buff is now frankly horrid and I feel like I'm breathing through an altitude mask. Still wave enthusiastically at strangers. Wish that I'd brought my phone because some music now would be good.
Km 4: Downhill, thank God. Lockdown fat on my arms and tummy starts to jiggle disconcertingly with the downhill. I'm used to the jiggle because there's nothing like skipping to bring out a fat wobble, but I've never had it before while running so this is a new and not very pleasant experience. Distract myself by looking at the scenery, which really is stunning: rolling golf greens with the sea in the background. It's wonderful to be outdoors and running free. Feel blessed.
Km 5: Shin splints are really starting to hurt now. Running takes on more of a hobbling quality. Buff is now wet with sweat and sticks disgustingly to my lips with each inhalation. On the plus side, I've discovered it works really well as a handkerchief.
Km 6: Decide that it's okay to walk the uphills. Realise that doing some body-weight exercises and skipping every couple of days during lockdown did not, in fact, help me maintain my fitness. This is probably exacerbated by the extra couple of lockdown kilograms I'm carrying. Still, it's wonderful to be outdoors and away from the children for a while.
Km 7: Wish I had my phone with me so that I could call Malcolm. Or an ambulance.
Km 8: No longer waving to strangers.
Km 9: Bless my wonderful husband. He doesn't enjoy running (that's me putting it euphemistically), but he's come to meet me. Quality of the run improves dramatically. The world is wonderful again, apart from my buff which is now covered in sweat and snot.
Km 10: Realise that this run has been all that I want from a run: some bliss, some beauty and some pain; some alone time and some company; lots of joy, but enough grit to keep me grounded. Plus, when I got home Strava told me I'd got a PB. Just goes to show that 5 weeks of carboloading works.
*Photos from our family walk post-run...but wanted to share the beauty.
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