Runnin' down a dream

I went for a run today. 4.5 miles to be exact. It was first run since Xmas and Man, did i feel it. I have, only recently, started running again , after a 10 year lay off through injury and it has been somewhat start/stop, if you will excuse the pun. After the first 3 months, I injured my ankle and was out of action for 16 weeks through the entire summer. The only positive was that summer had absolutely no intention of showing up last year, so I didn't really miss any great, scorching days to go running on, but, I never got to rest my ankle in a bucket of ice whilst guzzling down beer in a sun filled garden either. From september onwards, I felt like a train and was hitting the forest trail 3 times a week. Then, my old mortal enemy, Asthma, decided to turn up on the doorstep, laden with suitcases full of coughing fits and wheezy chests and, then, proceeded to stay for the next 2 months.

Todays little jaunt around the park was the first time that Mr. 'H', Mr. 'S' and myself have run together, although the sublime Mr 'S' has been a somewhat, errant training partner of mine for some time. Mr. 'S' is also French and runs like he is on rails, or has his trainers modified to allow him to whizz around a'la "The Jetsons". The 4.5 mile run (or crawl, in my case) left me feeling as if I were breathing through a straw, and not a nice, fat McDonalds one, either, but, more like one stuck to the side of a kid's juice carton. As I struggled on, lagging further and further behind , I realised that it was just another example of that belief that we all subscribe to as we get older - namely, that we are still 16 years old and utterley invincible.

As we said our goodbyes, discussing the run and, in particular, the Frencman's mercurial abilities, Mr 'H' turned to me and, with a knowing smile, said " Do you know what? When he was alongside me, I couldn't even hear him breathing!" I hate the French......