I’ve always liked the idea of running. It always seemed so much cooler than some of the other Olympic sports (sorry, shot put and discus). And I gave it a fair go as a kid, spending Monday nights at the local athletics track fighting a stitch and looping the track as fast as I could, a champion in my head but in reality being outrun by just about all the kids around me. As a teenager I’d wish my parents farewell, promise not to talk to strangers and sprint off down the road, only to return after about 10 minutes because my lungs felt like they were bursting and I was sure I could taste blood.
Like I said, I liked the idea of it. But I never really ‘got’ running, and for years I just assumed that it wasn’t for me and that I was never going to be any good at it. I decided that my physiology (short and stumpy legs, flat feet, bunions, weak tendons…) had been trying to convince me of this and that it was time to finally take the hint. So I stopped running.
Until 4 years ago, when suddenly everything changed. Continue reading