Norman Wisdom moment

Yesterday I braced myself for the usual Friday two-lap horror-that-is the long run.  11 miles was my intention.  First lap accompanied by my trusty running pal and her sturdy Jack Russell-type terrier.  He puts us to shame.  For every mile we do he probably does two, cantering randomly off into the fields and woods and pelting back at high speed.  Of course the downside is that he invariably materialises just in front of me, causing me to hurdle him like Jessica Ennis (not!). 

For the second lap I find myself alone and, having forgotten the ipod, have to call upon every mental strategy going.  Consequently after 9 miles I start to feel a bit desperate..  Scoff a couple of jelly babies.  Plan to run to the next tree.  Take an extraordinary interest in how many conkers are on the tree.  Count my footsteps.  Concentrate on breathing out for longer than I'm breathing in. Visualise the skinny latte I'm about to imbibe at the cafe after. As a result when it comes to the last mile I find myself dragging myself along like Norman Wisdom, one arm punching out in front in an attempt to push my body forward.  All I need is to wail 'Mr Grimsdale!' to complete the effect. What a state. How on earth are the last two miles of the race going to feel?  I'll be Norman-Wisdoming my way up Broad Street, Birmingham in full view of all.

Oh well.  One plus is that I seem to be losing weight at last.  Good job really, I've got quite enough weight to carry round that course as it is.