* * *
I dosed up Joey, bundled him into bed and retired to the comfort of my own duvet, peeping out at the ceiling as a million thoughts whirled like a snowstorm in my head. What a humungous, momentous evening. I savoured the lingering buzz of endorphins from my race home, remembering how addicted I’d once been to my daily fix of happy hormones. How good it used to make me feel. Strong and purposeful and kick-ass. I wanted that feeling again.
And that other sensation, buzzing about inside, I poked it a couple of times to try to figure out what that feeling was, dug into my brain’s dusty filing cabinet of positive emotions.Ah – yes! I remember you from days of old: pride. I felt proud of what I’d achieved that evening. Andthatfelt so darn good, I cried.
And as long as I was feeling all those good feels, I could try to stop my thoughts loitering around soft grey eyes, a shy smile. The zap of electricity that I was pretty sure had nothing to do with chemistry and everything to do with being utterly bereft of adult male company for a decade. When human beings are attention – affection – and friendship-famished, it seems a random interaction with a stranger can lead to wild thoughts, outlandish fantasies and dreams that cause blushes to last right through breakfast.
Phew, I really needed to get myself a life.
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Sixteen
Within a couple of days, Joey was bouncing back to school. The day after that, a Saturday, I set my alarm for six-thirty, wriggled into an old pair of leggings (fascinating how they managed to be both stretched to capacity and sagging all at the same time) and dug out a pair of Joey’s old trainers.
I filled up a water bottle, tucked my phone and keys into my hoodie pocket and boldly whipped open the front door.
Oh. Too late! That was definitely dawn creeping up over the house opposite. I could manage a quick run anyway, couldn’t I? Ten minutes up the road and back?
No. Apparently I couldn’t. My feet remained frozen on the doorstep. I managed a giant hot chocolate and a cream cheese bagel instead.
Not part of the Programme.
I wondered about running at night, but when I wondered this out loud to Joey over dinner, he shook his head. ‘I thought you were going to run in Top Woods so you didn’t see anyone? You wouldn’t let me run about in the woods at night. I’ll be sat at home stressing about you.’
‘I’ll try again tomorrow morning.’
10
Stop Being a Loser Programme
Day Nineteen
In the end, it took three more days before I set my alarm early enough, and thanks to the same anticipation I used to feel when heading off to pre-dawn training sessions managing to overpower the simmering fear, I headed out.
I warmed up by walking until I hit the tiny lane that led to Top Woods. This comprised several miles of footpaths set across the old colliery site, weaving in and out of huge conifers and the more traditional English trees, interspersed with brambles and bracken.
‘Right, here goes.’ I clicked on the ‘Awesome mighty warrior champion’ playlist Joey had created for me, flicked on the head torch I’d bought online and got my flabby, neglected, scared little legs pumping. I discovered that one benefit from running in the near-dark is that I needed to concentrate so hard on not tripping over a root and snapping my neck, or stumbling off the path and down a sudden drop into black nothingness, that before I knew it twenty minutes had passed and I was back at the entrance to the lane. I estimated that I’d ran a third, marched another and limped the rest. Not bad for a first go.
To my simultaneous disappointment and relief, the woods had not been deserted as I’d expected. I’d passed three people walking dogs, their spaniel and labradoodles greatly intrigued by this huffing, puffing, lurching beetroot on legs. I was also overtaken by two men sprinting past. One of them twice, so I guess he lapped me. Well, maybe if I had their high-tech jackets, streamlined legging things and fancy-schmancy trainers I’d be overtaking them.
Or not.
I did so hate to be beaten.
I was going to have to do something about that.
Showered and changed, I rolled Joey out of bed and made us pancakes with blueberries and banana, grinning so hard I could barely chew.
It had been tough. My muscles protested, loudly. I had wavered between anxious, terrified and just about coping the whole time. I hated feeling weak. Clumsy. Uncomfortable. But the truth was, I’d been feeling all those things for years, I’d just buried it under an anaesthesia of robotic, mindless monotony. It was only as I staggered the quarter of a mile home that I acknowledged quite how taxing it had been, pretending things were not that bad, finding ways to live with the wretched reality of my condition, and all that it had stolen from me. Yes, I had cried – bawled – as I’d pounded through the trees. My pain and anger had combusted together to power me up and down the slopes. I had a mountain of grief and regret still to work through, but for now, this run was enough. After every race, before the analysis comes the celebration, embracing the sheer joy of having got up and at ’em and given your all.
I added a scoop of chocolate ice cream to our towers of pancakes.
Joey gaped at me. ‘I think you should go running every day.’
‘Really? I’m not sure this breakfast is on Cee-Cee’s diet sheet.’
‘Cee-Cee’s not the one who won a medal.’
