With the finish line a couple of hundred metres in front of me I sprinted (well, as fast as you can after 13.1 miles) to the end. There it was, the sweet victory of finishing eight minutes under my goal time, the official photographer capturing everyone’s moment of glory, and the best crowd any first-time racer could ask for. This was runner’s high at its very best. I was in love. My face resembled a beetroot, but I was so in love.
In the 11 months since then the love story has derailed. And it’s not for a lack of trying. Sidetracked by a bad knee, no amount of playlist switch ups or exciting fitness clothing purchases have been able to put me back on track. Maybe it’s the frustration of knowing I can run 13.1 miles only to struggle with running 10K these days (damn these knees). Maybe I’m just making excuses for myself. Whatever it is, the fallout of this love is real, and I’m desperate to feel the love again. I suppose I’m calling to you guys for some help: how do I fall back in love with running? This cold, dreary weather certainly isn’t helping my case. Either way, I think it’s time to recoup and recover, but watch this space, I’ll be back.