Alive And Kicking In West Dulwich. This Post Is About Why Worrying About Races Is Ultimately Useless.
On Monday morning I moved out of my house in Tottenham and brought my huge rucksack containing all of my worldly possessions with me on my rush hour commute on the Victoria Line.
That was not fucking fun.
Thankfully I got a seat but since there was no luggage space I had to keep my backpack on which meant my body was hanging precariously over the edge.
At Finsbury Park about 140 motherfuckers all got on at once one fellow (read: cunt) went as far as to push me back into my seat.
Sorry cunt, but if I moved that way I’d be doing porno.
Monday was probably the best day of the week. I was dreading the move but when the morning came I relished the uncertainty of it all. On that same day I was offered a room in a house that I snapped up and celebrated by staying overnight in a hotel.
It was great being able to use my own en-suite bathroom for once. I’ve been very self conscious about waking other house guests up with thunder in the night.
New digs and another new start.
I’ve been living here in West Dulwich now for the last 3 nights and it’s been great. The area is ideal for running even if it is taking a while getting used to all of the hills.
On my first night here I wanted to go out for dinner to celebrate but I couldn’t find anywhere suitable so instead had a packet of pickled onion Monster Munch and a pint of Aspall Cider in Dulwich Wood House.
Yesterday I went out at 6am and ran 9.2 miles at an unconvincing pace of 9:58 min/mile.
I do worry I’m going backward again.
My mind is too much of a mess at times and I sometimes think I need some some sort of fucking help that doesn’t involve 12 steps, Jesus or marijuana.
The truth is I’m still settling. 5 house moves in 8 weeks is unsettling.
I could have stayed at home running laps of my provincial town for the next 40 years but I wouldn’t have solved anything in my life.
I’m happy here when I’m not panicing about the 100k race.
Worrying makes me less willing to run. I fall into the trap of thinking like this.
“Well what’s the fucking point of running now? You haven’t trained enough! You were meant to be extraordinarily fit by now but yet here you are sweating about the thought of having a wank. You disgust me. At this stage of training you’re pissing into the wind and that breeze is gonna turn into a gale someday. “
Those thoughts are absurd. First of all I AM me for fucks sake. Who the fuck am I arguing with?
Secondly I’ve felt this way about every single race I’ve entered before. I remember running the Belfast Marathon for the first time and being incapacitated with fear that I hadn’t trained enough.
So I talked myself out of running when I could and should have ran.
When it came to race day I was filled with regret that I didn’t run on those occasions. I don’t wanna feel like that at the 100k. I’m probably ridiculously ill-prepared for it but I’m not giving it or giving up or fucking off.
I’m here to stay cunts.
Worrying doesn’t help but running does.
Guess what I’m gonna be doing over the weekend?
P.S. If you’re feeling generous today you can sponsor me on my 100k London 2 Brighton challenge over on Justgiving.
Any donations are greatly appreciated.