Suffering

There was a massive storm last night, which kicked off about midnight right overhead, the lightning bleaching our apartment white again, the thunder echoing round my empty head, and the wind blowing dust and grime in over the floor I'd only swept clean yesterday. So instead of waking rested and ready to run, my stomach full of $80 asparagus from last night's unfeasibly expensive Chinese meal, I overslept and crawled out of bed three hours late, then lost another hour and a half wasting time on the xbox.

Eventually I dragged myself out and went for a run, in the lovely sunshine. Sunshine, of course, is one of the last things you want when you're out running; I was already suffering before I was overheating. I made the mistake of listening to my ipod, and there's nothing like the combination of physical strain and Canadian folksongs to leave me running along the edge of the bay, tears streaming down my face, sweat dripping down my back. This happens every so often; I go for a long run, and find my mind wandering, worrying if I'm a bad person and then weeping, not that anyone would be able to tell, given all the other liquid seeping out of my face.

I managed nine kilometres before reaching collapse, then staggered home. Maybe this counts as tapering down before the race in two weeks' time.

Having trundled home, I spent the afternoon asleep, waking only to read Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children, and wasting more time on the Xbox, and finally going out for a massage, which was incredibly painful, as expected. My masseur finished by grabbing hold of my head and pulling as hard as he could, which was ... Nice. Just what I was looking forward to.