I change my original plans to drive to work and do the weekly food shop, instead I cycle to work. No, I can’t carry the shopping on my bike. Panniers you say... don’t even go there. We’ll all have to starve... I feel I need to crash course my base fitness.
As I rejoin my fellow Mamils, L runs to work. ‘Pure junk miles’ she says and appears rather proud of it. Junk miles are supposedly miles that you run purely to clock up a certain weekly or monthly mileage total. I say there’s no such thing as junk miles. If I run thirteen and a bit junk miles in... let me see... 26 days time, I will have completed the Nottingham Half Marathon.
After work I go to the pool for some junk lengths, thirty of them. On twenty eight I somehow bash my toes on the side of the pool as I turn. I limp, if you can limp whilst you swim, the last two, probably looking a bit like a crab.
On closer inspection I think I’ve dislodged a toe nail. I stop closer inspecting; it’s not a pretty sight and I feel slightly faint.
I still manage to hobble a few junk metres around the garden to get a bit of junk training in for MD over the hurdles.
After which I’m knackered, which is a good excuse to talk L into an early night. Junk sex? Of course not, no such thing.
(Tuesday 17th August)