I’ve come to terms with wrinkles and saggy bits and the fact that my hair needs to be coloured every four weeks. I’ve come to terms with 10pm being a hell of a late night and 11pm positively wild. I’ve come to terms with the fact that if I go over two glasses of wine it will take a couple of days to recover. But there is one teeny tiny part of me that finds it hard to come to terms with the fact that I have gotten so slow.
Six years ago I cracked a 2:17 half marathon and a 4:59:32 (insert sheepish grin) full marathon. Today my half is always between 2:45 and 2:50 and my marathon is likely to be 5:40 to 6:00.
At the Hillcrest half yesterday, waiting for the marathoners, the racing snakes were talking about pushing hard, getting dizzy, wanting to stop and vomit, lovely stuff really. I, on the other hand, rarely allow my heart rate to get out of zone 2 – too uncomfortable. I also have the time and energy to smile nicely for every single photographer en route, as opposed to a quick snarl if I was working hard.
So I know what my problem is – I have not built the mental capacity to suffer, and certainly not for two hours non-stop. I keep lining up little rewards for myself if I get my time down to 2:40 (not a big ask) – a giant chocolate brownie or a slab of salted caramel Lindt. Stuff I would never normally even look at but would love to earn. And what happens? I get to about half way and I think “Fuckit! Do I really need that chocolate/brownie?” The rot sets in – the little devil on my shoulder says “Enjoy yourself, take in the scenery, smile! A hill? WTF just walk it!
The bottom line is I really do not want to vomit on my own shoes. I need to work on this – a bit of vom on the shoe is clearly a badge of honour.