This time last year I was ready. Ready to run my first, and in all likelihood my only, marathon. I had conscientiously trained, over a long hot summer, to get 20 miles into my comfort zone. I had run, fallen, taken time off to recover; then run some more, before taking more time off to walk coast to coast. I was definitely ready.
I was confident that, having run 20 miles, the finishing line would be achievable. In my head, I broke the run (run, not race: this was just for myself, a personal achievement, not a competition) into chunks: 10 miles (twice), followed by a final 10k. The physical training and mental strategy worked. I finished the run, enjoying every step.
Having trained for the marathon, it seemed reasonable to sign up to run 10 miles, just once, around Derwentwater. A tough run within a couple of weeks of the marathon. That completed, I would take a month’s break from running to recover. The break began with a holiday in Rome; lots of pasta, gelato and walking. Then Christmas, winter, my birthday, the break grew longer. A handful of Parkruns and a couple of undulating 10ks passed with little training.
Mr A signed up to run the 26.2 miles this year. He’s risen to the challenge and is well and truly prepared for a good time. Overtaken by the fear of missing out, I signed up to run the 10 mile route. Somehow, a year has passed and the numbers have arrived. It’s nearly back in the comfort zone; but for today, ‘justtenmiles’ is feeling easier said than run.