I’m hardly running at the moment, having more or less completely exhausted myself by running two marathons in quick succession.
It was a controlled risk, not without benefit and certainly not without consequences.
I’ve been out on the bike in the evenings a couple of times recently, if only to keep up the regular summer consumption of flies inhaled along the River Wey towpath, but beyond that I’ve been sore, limping and listless recently. In the past month I’ve rediscovered lager and my dormant golf game, with both of these distractions offering potentially dangerous and perhaps one day terminal implications for my running career.
Never mind. In the spirit of a rainy day at Wimbledon, where the misery of inaction is often accompanied by the sometimes unwelcome chance to relive some of the scenes from earlier in the tournament, this wet and largely inactive London July provides a welcome resting space. Below my house, the River Wey runs by, and I know I’ll be running alongside it again soon. Maybe it won’t be tomorrow, but whenever it is, the riverside path will welcome me just the same.
Related articles:
76. A year of running, rainily
62. On the links
45. T-I-R-E-D
83. Seven Bridges Road – the Wey floodplain
52. The Edge – from Sicily to Surrey
24. Things I have learned… #267
roads of stone 