Highs and lows

Six months ago I was on top of the world. Running at my absolute peak, I achieved a lifetime ambition after the greatest run of my entire life, the culmination of a decade of planning, trying, failing and trying again. After eighteen months of training, I finally got the sub three hour marathon I’d always wanted, but never thought I could achieve. My proudest ever moment.

Naturally after that, in the weeks to come my running dropped off a little, but by January normal service was resumed and 40-mile weeks were back on the agenda. All eyes were on a possible triplet of half marathons in March, May and October with maybe one of them being a PB attempt and all in all things were ticking over very nicely indeed.

Then I got Covid.

Locked down

After a grim old 2020, I’ve spent most of this year trying to be generally quite optimistic about things. I’ve kept telling myself (and others) that better times hopefully on the way, and so it appeared to be. But then, right at the peak of my optimism as I received my first pint of Pfizer last week, a reminder that actually we still have a way to go.

An enforced week of isolation, and unlike the national lockdowns we’ve all lived through on and off since last March, an extra kick in the nuts as my own personal quarantine meant I was unable to even do one of the few things which helped me cope with all the shit last year: go for a run.