Warming-up: in more ways than one...

So. On Wednesday, I went for my very first run in a long while, which marked the beginning of this thing for me. Unlike James, I’m not entirely a running virgin, but I am pretty inexperienced. My ‘running career’ (pffft) up to this point has mainly revolved around a well-known charity race, which I’ve done a handful of times now (you can probably guess which one from the colour of the shorts shown below). But, somehow, this feels very different. I am running alone, without an ally, and without a friendly group of Zumba instructors at hand to do a warm up. Where’s the inspirational messages pumping out over a loudspeaker? Why can’t I hear David Bowie’s ‘Heroes’ playing in the background? And why, oh why are there no stewards around to hand me much-needed bottles and snacks?

I guess I’ve been living in a fairytale running world, up until now. This is reality, I think to myself. This is gritty. This is what it’s like to be a common jogger.

I tried to make it as fun as possible for myself. I can’t really do exercise unless it is heavily sugar-coated, and disguised as something completely different to its painful reality. Okay, so I didn’t exactly go running in fancy dress, but I did make sure that I would have every chance to look as nice as possible by buying some snazzy new sports gear. 

I'm not sure why I bought these, either.

It’s pretty difficult to get excited about Lycra, but prior to leaving I honestly thought I didn’t look too bad at all; almost a bit professional. Perhaps my attire alone could make a super-runner out of me, and I would have the ability to fool the whole world (or at least the population of Aberystwyth) that I know what I’m doing.

However-it took a mere 2 minutes for the illusion of my capabilities to fade. The weather wasn’t exactly helping me along-with the sun beating down at 24 degrees, my little Welsh body was being stifled by a humidity which felt entirely alien. I became tired very quickly, and was sweating buckets; literally dripping with sweat, which isn’t attractive by any degree of the imagination. Then, things gradually got worse-I was granted with the mother ducker of all stiches, I felt sick, and I was sure that I was going to throw up on someone’s front door-step any second. ‘It wasn’t meant to be like this’, I kept thinking to myself sadly. ‘I’m meant to feel on top of the world, not like I’ve had a fight with a dodgy kebab after one too many jagerbombs’.

When I got back home, I had to lie down in a darkened room for 25 minutes, playing dead, in order to make a full recovery. When I finally felt like a human again, I went downstairs to the living room-and  quickly descended into becoming 75 year old by falling asleep in front of the telly. Pathetic, really, considering I’d ran a grand total of 0.5 miles.

However-the experience wasn’t all bad. I ran into a handful of people I knew on the seafront (not literally, may I add), and although this had previously been something I was dreading they actually cheered me along a bit. That’s one of my favourite things about running-that feeling that everything and everyone wants to push you along, to help you out in your personal mission, in a non-committal manner.

I also learnt that putting your belongings in your socks is a great way to keep them safe whilst running; my house key didn’t budge. It’s the little things.

So-run number 1 was interesting, to say the least. If this heatwave continues, I’ll stick to shady areas next time-gaining a local recognition as being ‘the beetroot-coloured girl’ is something that I’d like to avoid.

Hope xx