Daniel-Day Christy Brown and his foot can fuck right off because I got my own left body part bit going on and it is this that we shall discuss today.
It's a bit of a Goldilocks cunt, this left knee of mine. This concrete is toooo hard! This damp grass is toooo soft! This tarmac is just right! Any variation during what appears to now be my regular four mile run from this knee's surface of choice produces little dissatisfied squeals and squawks, minute mutterings of rebellion. And so I'm trying my best to tough it out on the tarmac and cling to the occasional and equally acceptable stretch of firm trail.
But I'm running. Running, like I say, regularly. Not a great week, last week, just managing to get out once and in Januarys past that would have been the death of the experiment. But I've come back strong this week, banging out eight solid miles at an acceptable 7'40 pace between Monday and Wednesday. Out again on Friday is the plan and the first two in a row on Saturday.
And now I dream as I run. Dream of glories past and the vague, vague possibility of races future. Oh so very, very vague. I have no idea what kicking it all up to even 6'30 is going to do. But in April, folks, all those many moons away, there happens the oldest road race in Ireland and also the first race that I ever ran.
The Clonliffe 2 Mile. 2002. Through Glasnevin. I fucking hoor downhill for the first three quarters of mile thinking to myself 'Ha! This racing lark, what a fucking breeze! Easy peasy lemon squeezy!' I pass old lady after old lady cackling internally. And then I hit the other side of the valley and my lungs weep and my feet wail and my legs turn to sticky shit as old lady after old lady takes me back, cackling externally.
13'20 it took me. And now all I want, seven years later, oh Jesus how can it be seven years, is to beat that time. I could do it tomorrow if my left knee, my stupid fucking career wrecking left knee, wasn't almost certain to irreparably explode at the very idea.
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