Rush job


15k around the bay
This morning I had arranged to meet a friend for a run, so I didn’t drink any beer last night. I used to carb-load on lager, but my wife/coach told me not to, and so I thought when I got up this morning, I’d be hearty and hale. Somehow, I was still hungover even though I hadn’t been drinking. There’s no justice.

The air was muggy and still. Normally I’d feel quite comfortable for the first few kilometres but I was already overheating before I got as far as the Gardens By The Bay. At 4k I had to squint to see, there was so much sweat running down my forehead into my eyes; my ears were full of sweat too. I suppose at least it wasn’t going up my nose. I had to run about 8 km to meet my friend, so by then I was either warmed up or warmed over.

Luckily, when I reached the rendezvous point the two of us ran at a much more relaxed pace. Well, no we didn’t. We took off at an even harder pace than when I’d been rushing to get to my friend on time. My heart rate was rocketing up to almost 180bpm, but I didn’t feel after getting my friend to get up early that I could slack off.

Shame and guilt aren’t very good motivators most of the time, but given how rotten I was feeling and how hard the pace was, if I hadn’t had a reason to carry on I would have packed it in and taken the train home. Instead, I managed 15 kilometres, then ground to a halt and walked home.

http://connect.garmin.com/activity/345613978

Having not done much running recently, I came back exhausted, and despite eating a big breakfast and taking a nap, I’ve been broken for the rest of the day. I managed to write a bit more of my horror novel and reconfigure my screensaver, but beyond that my mental energies weren’t up to much more than eating cheese and burping my daughter.

I did feel that running and eating cheese were fundamentally selfish activities so I tried to put in some quality time with my daughter. Apart from burping her, which amusing though it is to hear a small baby belching like a sailor, probably won’t be her happiest memory of her father in years to come. So I read to her from a set of reviews of Spanish children’s books.

I’ve got a Spanish accent which is apparently convincing and soporific. Our daughter, after a few hours complaining of gassiness, went to sleep, happy with the constant repetition of the phrase "Está construido en tapas duras y en cartón". I’m just sad that I couldn’t find a Spanish translation of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. El Gordo Caterpilleros, perhaps?


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