Monday I did 11k. Tried to keep cadence over 180 while running slow. Tried to keep my VO down. It’s hard as fuck. Hardest run of the week. Some people (let’s call them stupid people) don’t understand how a run can be hard without it raising your heart rate. They think a hard run means a fast run. Tuesday I ran 13 miles in the morning. In the evening I ran 2.5k to the 5k race and then I ran 4k afterwards. Wednesday I did the same as Monday. Thursday I ran 18 miles because it was sunny. Friday morning I ran the same as I did on Wednesday and Monday. Friday afternoon I went around the reservoir. That run was tough. Nice though. Fucking love that run. Saturday is a day off running so I did 30 minutes running with Gilmour and James just for fun.
“Why not have, I dunno, origami, trampolining and…”
“Wanking?” I offered because he could only think of two things.
“Yeah, origami, trampolining and wanking. Call that a triathlon. Make a swan, do 15 somersaults and then crack one off, all against the clock. It makes as much sense as this fucking ridiculousness.”
We were at West Park. And it was this morning. It had been a real pain in bagels to get to West Park because all the roads were closed for the Jersey Triathlon. We could see the swim from the shelter where we met. Gilmour was only 12 minutes late, if anybody had that in the sweepstakes for this week. 12 minutes
“That’s harsh, Gilmour. These triathletes might not excel at any one sport – and that’s being polite – and yes doing multiple disciplines is an easy way out and gets far more respect than it deserves but at least they’re trying their best.”
“Their best is shit. Look at that fucker. She can hardly swim. Go on, drown, you silly cow!” he shouted.
“Hey, this is the six to eight year-old category, Gilmour, give them a break. The adults start in a hour.”
“No. I think triathlon is shit and so are all the people who do it.”
We watched them for a bit longer, the kids. In silence. Him stood shaking his head as if he was witnessing one of those Medieval battle reenactments they sometimes have on the sand dunes. “That’s so fucking pathetic,” he said eventually and we started running. James wasn’t there. James is training for the marathon so this Sunday he was doing a short run. Without James there Gilmour could happily slag off marathon runners too. “Big deal, you finish half an hour behind the world record? Fuck that. What’s the point? It’s pathetic!” He said that two miles into our run. He didn’t speak again until we’d finished because he was suffering so much. After he got his breath back he said that the run we’d just done had been very easy indeed. I ran 15 miles. He ran 13 miles.