Hope

In one of the last episodes of the final season of The Walking Dead (yes we’ve watched them all, I’ve had zombie fatigue at times but himself as pushed me through), Ezekiel and Negan have a discussion about how to revolt in a prison camp. They discuss fear, but ultimately decide that hope is a stronger weapon.

A couple of weeks ago I wrote about being fed up and uninspired but for many (many!) months I’ve been feeling like running is just not working for me anymore. I’ve been struggling for motivation with writing and with running, I even mused that the two things are connected.

The running failures (or struggles at least) go back to the evil cold from hell back in February. Ever since then, I’ve been trying to get back to that peak of fitness I felt at the end of January. I’ve done run every day for a few weeks, I’ve done plank challenge (incomplete), I’ve taken breaks when I’ve had more colds, I’ve had COVID in June and my lungs aren’t get fully recovered, I’ve used an inhaler and I’ve battled the mental block that hits me at 2km every bloody time.

And then…. oh and then!

Yet another Friday came around and I gathered my determination to force myself out of the door.

My feet took me down a familiar route that I haven’t felt able to face for a very long time. I didn’t watch my times particularly, I loved my tunes from my playlist, and I realised at 8km that I was on for a sub-hour 10km. At 9km, it was looking good so I paced myself along at a good rate, coming in at 58min48s.

And that time showing on my watch gave me hope.

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Just a spark, that I can get back to where I was, that I will be able to run a half marathon again. That maybe I can do even more after all, maybe I can bring in a half marathon in under 2 hours.

Hope, for the maybe.

And then…. oh and then!

Then himself and the kids disappeared off for the day on Sunday and left me to my own devices. So, riding on that wave of hope, I pulled on not only my running shoes but also my camel back, stuffed with a gel, and set off to retrace Friday’s steps.

Except I got to the 6.5km mark and, instead of turning for home, I kept plodding. 7km, 8km, stop for a gel at the ford, and keep going, keep going. I didn’t stop until I hit 16.1 km. 10 miles.

The slowest 10 miles I think I’ve ever done.

But I did it. Even a month ago I wouldn’t have believed I could do that again.

So I have hope for my running.

And, as predicted, I have several blog posts in progress too. So there’s hope for the writing too.

Thanks for reading. Please absorb a little of my hope and apply it as needed to your life.