I've been tossed about a bit, this week. Not quite in control, about a half a step behind from where I actually am, more an observer of what's just happened, than seeing anything coming. And then there's been the running. Training on Tuesday a bumpy session that spat us out at the end somewhat bewildered and not quite knowing what hit us. The result is that I've seem to have been volunteered for the Cheshire Road Relays tomorrow. Wilmslow are putting 2 teams in and I've fallen into the final vacancy. I'm such an idiot.
I could have said no. In fact that's what I meant to say, but it's the lightly suppressed Tourette's in me that wins over in these situations. I'm sure it'll be fine, but these events are seriously mixing it up with the big boys, the sort that wear those skimpy flappy short shorts, not like any I've ever seen in Decathlon. I'm doing what has been sold to me as the 'Glory Leg'. That means the last leg, when everyone else has gone home to their slightly more interesting lives, and I'm left there looking like a bit of a cock as I puff and wheeze home across the finish line.
