For semi-normal people like me (i.e. those who don’t (currently) aspire to run races like Comrades) this is the time of year where you kick back, drink beer, eat donuts and wait for the onset of winter. Perhaps you might do this wearing a Two Oceans Ultra medal of some description or perhaps you don’t.
Perhaps your medals will be safely tucked away in a shoebox along with loads of other random medals, a weird running vest that could only possibly look good on a 40kg Kenyan and a collection of slightly salty race numbers that have accumulated over the last three or four years.
I’m not going to tell you how to live your life but if you ask me the shoe box thing is a winner. You can bore your kids with it every few months plus you can turn the contents into a handy collage for blog header image purposes if you so choose.
Anyway, the point is this.
I used to be one of those semi-normal people.
Until, that is, I met a bunch of crazed individuals who plied me with craft beer and convinced me that taking on a couple more races through winter would be a good idea.
I should just pause here and point out that this post is being typed in the southern hemisphere and as such, to quote my good (albeit dead) friend Ned Stark, winter is coming.
And while I’m pausing and still infected with the spirit of pointing in an outy kind of way I suppose it would make sense to give you a potted history of my running history (historically speaking). But sense was never my strong point so I’ll save that for a future post and just admit to having run half a dozen or so marathons with a PB of 3:47 and two 56km/35mile Ultras with a PB of 5:14 (including an unofficial marathon crossing time of 3:37). I should also point out I was wise enough to only start running seriously in my late thirties which means I can spend my forties setting PBs.
Oh and I’ve also done one trail race.
Which is of course ample preparation to tackle a gentle little 50km mountain jaunt called The Beast (got to love that name. I’m particularly looking forward to tackling The Gorge Of Certain Death that leads on to the Valley Of Lost Achilles)
In six weeks time.
And then of course it really is all downhill to the jolly 80km stroll known as PUFfeR in mid-August.
“There will be more about these wondrous events in future posts,” he said in a tone that suggested he was already mentally preparing excuses for sporadic future scribbles.
So what’s the point of all this drivel (I’d hear you cry it if I hadn’t already overplayed the widget joke on my about page)…
Well, I figured I’m overdue writing down a few memories about the countless* hours I spend on the road. I’ll no doubt throw in a few pictures and the odd bit of advice but mostly it’ll be more of the same kind of loosely-connected rambling you’ve suffered through on this opening gambit. Selfishly (just to distinguish myself from all those selfless, non-needy contributors to the blogosphere) I’m also hoping that the simple act of getting back into the writing habit will reignite the wet embers of my storytelling daydreams.
*fine, they are easily countable by any bog standard app or GPS watch but it’s hardly the point.
I guess it’s all about ambition. Ambition to do more, to see more and to have some tales to tell my kids.
Why else would you get up early and run?
(That was your cue to put an answer in the comments. Or abuse as you see fit.)