Nine weeks. Nine weeks of intermittently hating and fearing a computer voice. Nine weeks of sweating more than any other time in my life combined (including that Death From Above 1979 gig I went to years ago). Nine weeks of cursing my knees and my joints, of being so out of breath it hurts, of limping around my office and grunting like an old man, of confusing dietary advice and grim determination or an approximation of it anyway. All to be able to run for half an hour solid. Doesn’t seem like much but it sure as shit feels like a lot.
That up there is my new ‘I’m going running’ t-shirt and I think it’s partly responsible for this week becoming, dare I say, somewhat enjoyable.