Where’s my running mojo gone?

I’ve stopped running.

I’ve noticed this as a slow decline in mileage over the last couple of months, to the point where I am managing to complete a short run about once a week now. I feel awful about it.

It’s never a pleasant feeling going through a running low. This has been one of the longest dry spells I have ever experienced, and it’s literally like my brain is telling me I do not want to go out and run. 

Walking, that’s ok. Just about.

Running? Nahhhh.

I miss my trainers, but at the same time, actually, I don’t. My mind and body are torn.

I wonder if it is route exhaustion that I am experiencing, or whether I have to jazz up my fitness routine with something new instead. Is it because the weather hasn’t been that great? Is it because there is something wrong health-wise? I just don’t know.

I wish I could regain my enthusiasm for pounding the pavements.

I really do.

As for the marathon I was preparing for – well the decision has been pretty much taken out of my hands now. I haven’t trained for it at all. Disappointing, but at the same time, somewhat of a relief.


Mileage Freakout

I am one of those runners that gets worked up about managing to fit enough mileage into each week. I don’t set myself a particularly high bar – trying to total up 40km/week, but when you have hours like mine, it can make fitting them in quuuuite tricky.

Not being the most motivated of individuals after a hard day’s graft, I prefer getting my runs done and dusted first thing in the morning. However, when you’re getting up at 6am anyway, a 5am start seems a little too sadistic for my liking. So with the shortening evenings, I’m finding myself trying to fit the runs in the dark hours.


Anyway, it’s terribly ironic that I took up running to deal with my stress, and now I’m getting stressed out by my running! I am obsessed by mileage, speed and my competitive nature getting the better of me. That unfortunately means getting into a tizzy when I see other people running longer, faster and further.

Anyway, it’s around 6 months until my marathon, and I’m having a mini freakout. That’s because the longest distance I’ve ever managed to run is 13.1 miles, i.e. half that distance. And I can’t even imagine the possibility of covering 20 miles, let alone the killer 26.2.


A whole lotta love


You hear it being used all the time. I love that, I love this, I love her, I love him. I love you….

I love running?

There’s something so free about pounding the pavements, choosing whatever speed you want to go, where you’re heading, how long you want to run for. The escape from the indoors, outside, exposed to the elements, sweating in the heat, soaked to the skin, face whipped raw with the wind.

Oh my god, it’s just amazing, and I’m not even one of those runners who can claim to be any good at it either.

It keeps me sane, it keeps me happy.

And yet, I used to hate it with a passion. Cross country was one of the most dreaded activities of the school sporting calendar. Then I started exercising in earnest as a way to deal with my increasing stress levels as A-levels approached. Instead of a slow jog around the village, I was heading up towards the hills and hitting the trails. They weren’t long runs but they were just the right length for me. In London I missed the open emptiness that had characterised my previous runs, but I learnt to love running alongside the river, and the parks. I was spurred on by all the other people out there doing exactly the same thing, and I plucked up the courage to enter my first race.

Now I’m still here, running away, marathon training, and does it feels terrifying! There are always days where I don’t want to drag my legs outdoors, where I say I’d rather zombie out in front of the TV. But in the end, the bug always comes back, and the itch needs to get scratched! Because deep down, I know I love running, and I’m so glad for that first day when I laced up my trainers and headed out of the door.