Day 249/365 (21July2024)
Sunday, the day of rest and resurrection, or so they say. But for me, it was more like the day of the living dead, dragging myself out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a zombie at a cardio convention. The morning mist on Reigate Hill did little to dispel the gloom, serving only to remind me of my past life as a jet-setting consultant, a life that now felt as distant and hazy as the view through the rain-soaked trees.
Later that day, after a brief interlude of chores, it was time for my evening run. Now, I'd like to say that this was the moment I triumphantly rose from the ashes like a phoenix, but alas, it was more like a chicken flapping around in a hurricane. Despite feeling like a million bucks (or at least a few hundred thousand), my legs decided to throw a temper tantrum and channel their inner sloth. 4.4km later, I crossed the finish line with a pace that would make a tortoise blush. It seems my attempt to switch up the playlist from Metallica to a more mellow mix of Muse, Elbow, and Foo Fighters backfired spectacularly. Apparently, my legs are metalheads at heart.
So, here I am, humbled by my own body's betrayal, left to ponder the mysteries of running motivation and the importance of a good soundtrack. But hey, even Frankenstein's monster had his bad days, right? Tomorrow's a new day, a fresh start, a chance to resurrect my running mojo and blast some heavy metal until my legs beg for mercy.
