This is how I felt yesterday afternoon:
I know 70 kilometres per week is not a lot for a strong runner but for a geriatric tortoise that is verging on signing up for bowls it is flipping epic. But I am sore and I am grumpy and I hate life. I hate the fact that my glutes are painfully sore and the fact that my Old Goat can breeze out for a walk with the dogs after 32km of trail. Why oh why am I not drinking copious amounts of whiskey at inappropriate times and smoking cherry cigars? Why? It sounds like more fun.
But it’s taper time so maybe, just maybe, over the next few weeks I will think that 92km over three days at Three Cranes in the Karkloof is a good idea. I certainly hope so. It should actually be called Four Cranes and the fourth crane should be a gadget that hoists me onto a physio table at the end of each day. But I seriously hope that I freshen up physically and mentally in order to enjoy this beast.
Then this morning I saw this:
And I thought what the hell am I moaning about? Granted this was 4 ibuprofen tablets later, but still. I am alive and the sun is shining. I am still able to move forward unaided (if we discount the drugs), so move on, tortoise, move on!