The cat is perched on top of my shed, throwing me a look as if to ask 'what's your problem?' It's a curious relationship we have. He views it one way, me another. Who can be sure? It's not even my cat. Whereas I'm outraged by its behaviour, to him, I'm barely a minor distraction. I blame my dad for even caring this much, but the preference was for birds in the garden, not a cat. His approach was to launch his car keys across the garden. This involved getting up, the inevitable miss, followed by the walk of shame! Cat wins.
This thing we do. Running. It's described to me as 'my sport'. A part of my pie. For sure, it has felt like sport on occassions. On others more like recreation. Sometimes merely an aspiration. Even the most hardened and motivated of athletes endure their peaks and troughs. Training is timed so they can perform their best when it counts. Then comes rest and recovery. I can't expect to be on it at all times. And I can't endure the disappointment that Pete enjoys. Prospectively, I'd have said something like I'm going to have an 'easy'week.
There's probably a more technical term that describes what I'm retrospectively accepting as being a bit of a shit week. The outcome is the same. No running. It's not been the plan. So there is a sense of dissatisfaction and guilt. But I've actually been ok with that. I last ran on Saturday, with James who is now sporting a full set of Adidas apparel, making use of the current Mrs Eyres new job and her discount code. Expect me to be doing similar any time soon. Around the airport perimeter we ran, and damn windy it was too.
Whistling and blowing through the security fencing, watching the planes take off almost sideways, it was quite a sight with sound affects to match. We enjoyed a good breakfast and a better chat, while outside the weather window we didn't know we'd been blessed with had now closed as a blanket of cloud rolled over. And then it rained and I went home and put my feet up. I'm not sure it's a good idea to ever completely stop doing your sport. It seems this period of 'rest' and quiet has allowed the moans and groans of my body to be heard.
The hypochondriac in me tells me to pack it in, and hang up my shoes while I can still walk. Drastic! But the realist tells me to enjoy my break, get my shoes back on, get out and enjoy what it is I do when I'm ready. I'm now on my way to Eindhoven for a bit and my shoes are packed. Symbolic gesture, or deliberate intent? Only I can decide. There's a lot of New Years motivational 'material' being peddled just now. Helpful or not? Surely there just needs to be balance. Be happy with what you do, not unhappy with what you don't. You decide.
