A Journey Of A Thousand Miles
You know that quote “a journey of 1,000 miles starts with a single step”? I like it when it’s figurative. Not literal. It really doesn’t help to think about the enormity of all this. Reduces me to an anxious mess.
Been testing out my running gear and I don’t look right in any clothes or none. If space aliens wanted to represent the oversized human head they could use mine and draw some arrows with captions reading “this is where the vomit comes from” and “this is where the hope dies”.
Tomorrow is none of my business.
I’m not running 1,000 miles tomorrow. I’m doing this bit by bit and hoping at some point I hit flow. I’m not gonna be pushing myself. I’ll be running with ease and stopping regularly. I want to run across some trails but I’ll be sticking to B roads as much as possible. I’m a fucking road runner and I only struggle when it comes to fields with cows, paths with tree roots and all that other mad country shit. I’m not gonna lie. I fucking hate stiles. That’s what killed Isle of Wight for me. Stiles everywhere in a place looked like a bad mixture of Silent Hill and Fawlty Towers.
It can fuck off. I honestly hope the place sinks. I paid almost £26 for a return ticket to that place from fucking Portsmouth. A place no-one should ever have to visit. If I had to choose between Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight I’d choose the bottom of the fucking Solent every time.
Thanks to Rob and Mike for highlighting that I’d missed baby wipes for cleaning up the old back hatch in times of emergency. I need a panic light in case I get caught short in the dark. Caught shitting in the middle of a B road by a farmer who’s fucked and bollocked off Scrumpy, sees my headlight and thinks I’m St Elmo’s Fire or a Will O’Wisp. Immediately drops his trousers with ‘There Must Be An Angel” by Eurthymics ringing in his ears, edging him ever closer to Hallelujah.
I don’t want to become the cowgirl of a West Country gent.