This was going to be a whole other post. Literally. It’s saved as a draft that I will delete at some point. And as much as this blog side-steps the absolute truth, the other post is now an utter lie. Or at least the ending is.
What you need to know is that I’m not running the Paris Marathon next weekend. I trained for it and I trained hard; that much is true. Through rain, sleet, snow and flood I ran 430 odd miles along some of Cheshire’s crappest B roads. I was running greater than two half marathons a week and recording some respectable times. Regrettably, I’ve had to pull out through what I will only describe as a highly unfortunate injury.
To say I’m heartbroken by this is an understatement. I tried to convince myself that I could still do it. I almost believed my own ignorant optimism. But in the end I consulted a professional. It was a flat non-negotiable ‘no’. Since you need a signed medical certificate to compete in French races, I had to concede defeat. But not without a lot of bellyaching about it, of course.
In fact, running was altogether off the agenda temporarily and this alone made me irritable. Running soothes me, takes the edges off life’s personal disappointments and makes my ass look good. I missed it immediately, like the love of my life had walked out without so much as kiss goodbye. I was bereft.
But as they say, worse things happen at sea (literally, where’s that bloody Malaysian plane?) and while I’ll be sidelined next weekend, I’m still heading to Paris and will be doing my best to drain their supply of champagne. I’ll picnic like a tourist at the Eiffel Tower, queue at The Louvre and gaze lovingly at The Husband (especially after a few glasses of decent fizz). Because, like listening to heavy rock, it’s hard to get too upset strolling the streets of such a beautiful city.
So, crib notes here is I’m not running the Paris Marathon. And that’s all I want to say about that.