Resolution Running

My limbs are rubber and my breath comes like treacle. I'm running like a fucking fish.

Two and a half years ago I could run a hundred miles a week. More. I was hard and fast and lean and mean. I was a middle-aged motherfucking running machine.

Now I'm gasping like a gut-punched pensioner.

The doubt started when I opened the front door at nine thirty this morning on the second day of the year 2012 of the Common Era. It was cold. I went back upstairs and changed into a long sleeved top. Back downstairs I sat on the front step pulling on my running shoes and wondering if I should go inside again and fetch gloves.

Forget the gloves. Get going.

There's only one way to do this. Run slow. I know. It's obvious. I channel George Sheehan. Find the pace at which you could run forever. Forever? You're joking, right?

But I do it.

I make my steps as short as my breath. The old man shuffle.

Trying not to look like a new-year-resolution runner.

Don't kid yourself, buddy. That is exactly what you are.