I ran for 30 minutes last night. I am quite pleased with myself.
Can I just say that running in November kicks the ass of running in July? When it is hot and steamy and you’re sweaty before you start? Give me a slightly cool fall evening any time.
The only downside is that I can’t run by the river any more, because it’s dark before I get a chance to leave the house and running by the river by myself in the dark is, how you say, fucking daft.
That leaves me running through the city and this has two downsides.
- Smokers! Smokers! You know what I love, smoker? Yeah, that’s it, taking in big lungfuls of air as I’m running by you and your fucking stinky smoke that is hanging in a broad and inescapable miasma of evil over the street and sidewalk. Jog jog, hack hack. When every public space becomes smoke free, I will be the first person dancing on the table drunk out of my mind with joy.
- My outfit. I would never be caught dead wearing in my normal life what I wear in my running life. To wit: tight black leggings; running shoes; bright white running shoes; ankle socks that do not meet my leggings; bright white ankle socks; a wind-jacket that is two megans wide. When it was warm, I wore less embarrassing clothing. By the river, I hardly met anyone I knew. On my first city run, however, I ran into Johnny and Rosa to start, and Colin to finish. Sadly, they all recognized me, even with my extenda-torso and blinding footwear.
The first time I ran for 30 minutes, I ran along the river heading towards parliament. It was misty outside. A mist that turned into a light drizzle through which I persevered. As I walked up the Empress stairs on my way home, drenched, sweaty, and bedraggled, in the very dark nearly-winter evening, I realized I had become one of those Crazy Jogging People that I always used to make fun of.
Maybe next I’ll start wearing formal shorts with lacy calf-length leggings.