One of the first things I did when redesigning my blog last week was to try to make a conscious effort so that, although it kept a link to Seeph Vs Marathon, it wouldn’t be seen as a direct continuation of it. I thought it might be a good place to perhaps explore other subjects, other things that make me tick. Other interests, other ideas. Whims and fantasies, hopes and aspirations. There’s more to life than running, right? And let’s be honest, you’ve probably all had enough of reading endless tales about me being a sweaty, wheezing mess, stumbling around South Manchester attempting to try and make myself ever-so-slightly faster at running preposterously long distances.
Well fuck you, dear reader. I got an email this week from my good friend Mr. RunKeeper telling me I’ve logged 100 activities on there since I signed up last Godknowswheneveritwas, and I’m damn sure I’m going to tell you all about it. That’s a bloody century. One hundred runs in just over nine months, totalling 717 miles. What on earth am I playing at?
I honestly have no idea how all this has come about. A year ago I was a reasonably normal human being. I got up in the morning, went to work and talked about the football and the shite TV programmes I hadn’t watched. Sometimes, occasionally, I did my job at an acceptable standard. I played football for a local side, I socialised. I went to gigs, I went out for meals, to the cinema, to football matches. I sat on my arse and played Grand Theft Auto on my PS3. Sometimes I even went for a little run on an evening, if I could be bothered. A little one, around three or four miles, to keep my fitness up for football at the weekend, before drinking eight pints of Stella the night before kick off and subsequently being hauled off at half time, barely able to prevent myself vomiting on the pitch. And that was that.
12 months on though and I’ve somehow run 717 miles. On 100 occasions, I have decided that a good idea would be to go outside, and just…run. For an extended period of time. I’ve run a bloody marathon. And you’d think that that, right there, would have been the end of it; I certainly did in the few days after I finished. Staggering around like a crippled giraffe, unable to sleep properly because of the ENDLESS PAIN IN EVERY SINEW OF MY BODY. No more. NO MORE.
Obviously not. I’m still doing it. I’ve clocked up another 18 runs since that fateful day on Merseyside, and I’m still going strong. It’s started to take over my life all over again. Finishing work, getting home, and going out for a run, at least three evenings per week, and then more on the weekend. It’s ridiculous. On Wednesday, I got home from work at gone 7pm, and my training plan said I had to go out and do 10 mile; the furthest I have run since Marathon Day. I staggered in at 8:30pm and was eating my dinner after 9pm. This is not normal behaviour.
Last night, even though it was a relatively short one and I most of the evening free, I didn’t turn my PS3 on to attempt to battle through the last stages of Uncharted 2; I sat at home reading reviews of running shoes (mine are worn out, again) and then wrote yet another blog post about it. Someone save me.
I can’t even say it’s because I’m doing this one for charity, because I’m not (although if you want to make a donation to the mighty Children’s Heart Association then I’m sure they’d be incredibly grateful). I’ll try to stop writing about running, I really will. I’ll throw in a few other subjects I think, and then probably end up talking about running anyway. But having received the Centurian email from RunKeeper with these exact words…
“Congratulations, you’re a workout machine! You’ve been dedicated to staying active and fit, and we’re impressed with how far you’ve come. We think this achievement is pretty cool, and it’s important to celebrate milestones you reach on the road to your goals.”
…who am I to argue?