Been really banking the miles the last few weeks. I’ve been hoping it would pay off. I’ve felt pretty good on it. On the extra miles. Instead of feeling fucked everyday I actually feel pretty fresh. It’s good. I like it and yesterday I was flying.
For 12 miles I had been simply running. With Tom. I’d not even stumbled even though it was well more dangerous than last week’s south coast adventure. We spent the run talking about how great it was going to be at Dan Romeril’s BBQ. Last week, while exhausted, Dan Romeril had invited Tom and I to his going-away-BBQ. Dan’s Jersey’s very own Christiano Ronaldo so Tom and I could barely contain ourselves thinking about how glitzy the whole shebang was going to be. I’d bought a new shirt just for the occasion. From Top Man.
We went to St Catherine’s Breakwater from Jardin D’Olivet. I wanted to do 16 miles but Tom didn’t have a clue how far anything was from anywhere. So he was no help and going back it looked liked it was only going to be about 13 miles. Unless we went past where we started.
Though the route was so tough 13 miles would have been fine with me.
Heading back we climbed a massive hill and as we came around the headland Bouley Bay and the rest of the north coast came into view. Looked kinda beautiful.
“Makes it all worthwhile, almost!” I said.
“What?” asked Tom.
“I said, makes it-“
Must have suddenly been going about 2:30/km without even trying. Yeah, like I said, flying. But then I landed, and then I slid for a bit. When the dust cleared I saw Tom’s face asking me if I was dead. “Are you dead?” asked Tom, kicking me gently. I lay on the path for a while trying to work out if I was or not. I should be, I thought. After a few minutes it was apparent I was not dead, just seriously injured, and whether it was the thought of Dan Romeril’s BBQ or just incredible mental toughness I somehow got to my feet.
I managed to start running again. I ran behind Tom for this bit so he wouldn’t see that I was crying. I thought we’d go the fastest way back to my car. You know, because of all the blood coming out of me but no. Tom fucking decided to stick the longest fucking steepest hill on the island as the fucking footnote to our run. Literally thought I was going to die going up there. Had to get up, though. Had to get home. Had to get ready for Dan Romeril’s big sexy BBQ.
He hadn’t mentioned sex but he’s a good-looking guy so there were bound to be loads of drunken hot babes there too, ones with low moral standards and few inhibitions. Probably a jacuzzi, too.
Anyway, somehow I was back at my car. Told Tom I was going to get cleaned up and wait by the phone for Dan to call. Tom said he was going to go home and rinse his dick in the sink. I asked why he didn’t get a whole shower. He said because JACUZZI and we high-fived.
The act of high-fiving really hurt but who cares.
I looked like this.
My watch looked like this.
I was in pain but I figured that the cuts made me look a bit like Rambo which would increase my chances of scoring at the BBQ and I drove home crying with a massive stiffy.
“What happened to you?” asked my wife.
“Did he phone?”
“Dan Romeril, of course!”
“No. You should go to hosptial.”
“Well, it’s early, he will.”
I got a shower and drank half a bottle of TCP medicine for my cuts. And then I sat by the phone. I sat by the phone until 7:45pm. Fucker wasn’t phoning. I wasn’t at a big sex BBQ and I wasn’t going to one. I’d smashed my watch and my arm. And my chest. I was 6k short for the 140km I’d wanted to do for this week. My stiffy went.
Worst day of my life. I was glum. Really fucking glum.
So I put my trainers on and ran 6km. So at least I had done 140km. So at least something had gone right this week. It really fucking hurt, actually. Running. Well, breathing. Breathing and running. Doing them both together was pretty painful. But 140km!