I’m not a runner. Never have been, never will be. At school, my PE teacher made comment around the lack of times I had actually participated in the class. Faced with this nowadays, my eyes would roll as I suggest she look at my feet and form her own opinion, which incidentally should take note of said feet not feeling the need to move faster than a leisurely walk – unless there’s chocolate involved, of course. On that, the 100 meter record would be mine any day if a Terry’s Chocolate Orange was on the finishing line. Who cares about a gold medal and a bunch of flowers, give me the sweet stuff and get out of my way.
OK, I should be more fair, I did play hockey once, maybe three times, bounced on the trampoline a couple of times, and reluctantly plodded around the track at Junior school when teams were being picked for sports day. Those who know me may well say I did more, but my defense mechanism of blocking out anything unpleasant can’t recall any more than that!
Suffice to say there are no medals in my cabinet, nor empty spaces gathering dust where trophies should be placed.
Bearing in mind the above, you can well believe my hubby rolling his eyes yesterday when I announced my participation in a 10km run in two weeks time. And bearing in mind my own acceptance of being a non-sporty-do-me-a-favour-let-me-watch-on-the-tv attitude, you may well be surprised to learn my shoulders rose, my brow frowned and displeasure at his response was voiced.
“How dare you suggest I’ll be out there longer than 3 hours,” I said.
He backtracked. “Well, maybe 2.”
I’ll not be telling him this, but my retort was well laced with panic. What the heck was I thinking! 10 km without a car? Do I know how far that is to walk/run? That’s a long way. A very, very long way.
So this morning, at my desk, I checked my entry details for a get-out-of-this-you-idiot-clause. Relief flooded. My registered distance is 5 kms not 10 . That should be easy . . . shouldn’t it?