Ah no, it is not the end of the world… I know that.
I also know that “I’ll be Back” and I’m fully aware that “Two Oceans will be there next year”. After a good few years of running I am also quite aware that injuries happen and that running isn’t everything. Suggestions that I fill my time with something else also drive me mad… I am a mom of three, I run my own business, take care of three dogs, three cats, a home and a fiancé… and am a dedicated believer in from-scratch cooking. I didn’t have the time to run when I could, I stole it, so I’m not exactly swanning about with free time to burn.
I just miss running.
I miss it because it is part of my daily rhythm. That rhythm balances the crazy out a little, and adds sparkle when domesticity paints the sky grey. I miss it because it is hard, and therefore rewarding. I miss the training programme that offers a bit of a blueprint when everything else feels uncertain.
Wednesday: Run 20km, hilly route, max effort.
Would be great if everything else had such a simple instruction attached.
Wednesday: Your teenager might crash in to the wall outside your home. Your son’s teacher might write to you about his lack of commitment to Afrikaans homework. One of your clients needs to recall a press release that might already be published. Your newest rescue puppy might toss a pot plant in to the pool, which could be the reason for the pool pump packing up but it MIGHT be that the pump needs a service and either way…the pool is now Cream Soda green so sort it out between buying groceries and cooking dinner. Oh and whoops you nearly forgot to fetch the kids from aftercare. Loser.
I miss it because even when it requires waking at 4:45am, wearing a headlamp to avoid falling in to potholes and dealing with your running group’s bad jokes, it is the simplest part of the day. It is sweat, sunrise, a puddle. It is the mountain stream, the dogs’ wagging tails, the post-run beer in the car park. It is just 20km, hilly route, at max effort and it is the reason that I don’t write notes like this back to my son’s teacher:
I know that he did not complete his Afrikaans homework. We started the worksheet at 18:02, seconds after his cricket match ended, while my youngest wailed with hunger. I fed the household stale bread and sour milk, and grabbed a glass of wine. By 9pm we all had scurvy, I was pissed and we had invented a new language; a hybrid of Afrikaans and Drunk Mommy.