Last week I travelled.
First, to Newcastle and onwards to the coast, unplanned, but easily managed by train. A pre-arranged journey would have taken longer, there’d have been waiting time. I’m not one to plan for sprinting between connections; I succeeded nonetheless to make swift changes. My running for the week was mainly at York station.
Then, back from the coast, to the edge of Cheshire for a reunion with two school friends. That journey, planned ahead, presented problems. Trans-Pennine trains proved unreliable. I went by bus. It was worth the effort, years rolled away as we recalled memories of the life we shared half a century ago. After I left I realised that no-one had taken a picture. I need to remind myself it happened, despite not being recorded.
Monday afternoon brought news by email. ‘Huge congratulations, YOU ARE IN.’
That risk I took with my running ambitions, a ballot entry to the Great North Run, has been rewarded. There’s 28 weeks of training time (and the arrival of two new grandchildren) before I stand in fear on the start line. They’ll play Mark Knopfler’s Going Home; I can hear it already. It’ll be with me as I head back to the coast. It won’t be a sprint, not even that final stretch along the seafront at the end; but it will be an achievement for a granny who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, run at school. Wish me good luck… and strong knees.