The Finish Line

I’m not a runner; it’s just not in me.  I lack the physique, the mentality, and, apparently, the capacity for runner’s buzz, that elusive euphoria that I’ve heard makes dragging one’s lazy hind-end around a track of a Saturday morning vaguely worthwhile.  My nose has a better chance at this marathon than I do, running, as it does, with an unparalleled enthusiasm, throughout every ill-conceived jog I attempt.

And it’s not for want of trying that I find myself with a week to go until the Hairy Haggis Marathon Relay and no nearer to athletic prowess. I’ve been running, more or less consistently (maybe less more than more though) for over a year; pounding pavements, parks and my head against the nearest wall twice weekly – and weakly twice.  But to no avail. Running, to me, is eating soup with a sieve: it’s a constant struggle, I can almost taste success, but I still end up with a sticky top and a burning chest.

That one time when running was fun.

So much so that I’ve finally admitted the obvious: it’s time to step out of the day-glo clobber and scrub jogging off the list of Things To Force Myself To Do Today.

After next week’s big relay then, I’ll finally give my trusty running shoes that carriage clock they’ve been dreaming of since our first pitiful outing together all those months ago.  And the local parks can again chirp without the pained sounds of me creaking and wheezing along their once peaceful paths.

Am I sad to be coming to the end of my short-lived running career?  A little, I suppose, in the same way that I was sad when they cancelled Eldorado. I’ll miss the bright clothes, the heavy breathing and the lacklustre performances. But, like watching the mighty show itself, I’ve finally come to realise it was never the most productive way to spend my early evenings.

Please consider sponsoring Team 4ply’s marathon efforts in aid of MS Society Scotland – and give my awful running career the last-minute meaning it so greatly needs.  Thank you!