My loathing of running is well-documented. I love the idea of it, being free, in the open air and feeling the world rush by as I pound the pavements, but in reality, the stitch and the feeling that my lungs have filled with blood put me right off.
But my friend Darren (who frankly hardly had to worry about the love-handles anyway) has embraced running this year. He’s lost a stone and is suddently super-hero fit – running between six and twelve miles a night (although why you’d do that when you could watch 24 escapes me). He’s lined up to run two races in the next two weeks – one a half marathon and one a 21-mile jaunt.
He’s never felt better and I am almost tempted to give it a go myself. I might wait til it gets a bit warmer though, and no doubt I’ll find a number of other reasons why I shouldn’t. There’s a little park/nature reserve thing about half a mile away from home, so in theory, I could start with a Sunday morning stroll and work my way up.
I could be one of those revoltingly fit women you see all kitted out in lycra and iPods jogging along to Beyonce or something. I do like the idea.
Hmmm. Watch this space.