I miss the plod plod plod

You know when, during a conversation with someone, something they say just clicks and seems so obvious that you wonder why on earth you hadn’t realised it until now? I had such a moment recently and the clarity of what was said was quite startling.

I’m mourning my ability to run.

It’s quite a simple sentence and, without wanting to belittle anyone who is mourning the loss of a loved one, quite a powerful statement. Powerful enough to make me request a physio appointment to try and get my knee sorted (any ability to exercise it would be good), powerful enough to make me decide that I should be doing some base exercises to improve my flexibility and strength, powerful enough to get me thinking about my diet and hopefully to make some proper inroads into weight loss.

The constant nagging reminders bounce past me on pavements, lithe and flowing like I never did despite picturing myself that way. Toned and controlled muscles in perfect motion I was not, but I miss the high, the achievement of a run in wild weather when sensible people are tucked up at home, the thrill of distance and speed, the banter and chat, the shared goals and breathless pain. I miss having that constant nag telling me to get to bed earlier, eat right, watch my posture, drink plenty of water, the little voice in my head that for once had a real chance of being heard, the angel in running shoes.

I miss being god of the morning, I miss it all.

But this isn’t a sad post, nor a plea for encouragement or help. Instead it is a public acknowledgement that I’m trying, that I’m doing what I can. I’m shouting into the void, the full fury of pent up frustration unleashed, leaving my desire quietened if not sated. It is a not a gushing, out-pouring of angst (honest, it’s not), but a quiet realisation that things change, as they always have, and that getting on with getting on is about all that can be done.