I feel disappointed and flat at the end of this week’s fitness goals, such as they are. I set myself a 5th week goal of cycling 50 miles and missed it by 6 miles, simply because I forgot about it, and by the time I remembered on Sunday night I wouldn’t have made it before midnight (and therefore the start of the next week) if I’d tried. Disappointed is one way of putting it, pissed off is another more accurate way of describing how I feel.
In fact I don’t feel like I’ve achieved much at all this week. I’d planned to test my ankle again with a mile or so’s run and guess what, forgot about it. The only area I’ve exceeded my expectations this week is with the amount of walking I’ve done, one of them being a ‘big’ walk, the first of the Cornish Coast Path walks I’m doing with my partner in crime Katie. As much as I adore the walking and as tired as it makes me feel, it doesn’t give me the adrenaline rush I crave (not yet anyway). And without that rush I don’t feel like I’ve done anything (I probably need to be cut off by the tide or fall down a cliff face…).
I think my feelings of flatness are exacerbated by the fact that loads of friends from my running club were running in a popular local 10k race today, and there’s all the post race Facebook talk of PB’s and how great everyone feels. I also seem to have discovered a major side effect of the new drug I’m taking: sleeping too much. 12 hours at a time too much. I frequently then need to add to that with another couple of hours after a visit to town or a bike ride, or even just washing up. I just feel like I’m sleeping the entire time or permanently yawning. It’s driving me nuts.
It seems wrong to be feeling so down about it all after just a month; I don’t feel like my levels of fitness have increased much and I’m craving a big goal, something mad to aim for. I know I’m planning on walking 300 miles of coastline over the next few months, some of it pretty challenging, buuuut, it doesn’t feel enough!!! In some ways it feels like training for something else, but what?
Yesterday I picked up a book by the poet Simon Armitage called Walking Home. He describes walking 256 miles along The Pennine Way, the so called backbone of Britain, in about 19 days, paying his way with poetry readings en route. And I’ve just discovered that last year he did the very same thing around the very same coastline I’m planning to walk with Katie this year. As I sit here typing this and feeling miserable he’s probably writing the sequel to the first book that he promised, remembering the good times with a big fat smile on his face. Bastard.
I’m half way through the book already and I love it, barely able to put it down between bouts of sleeping, but it’s really not helping my craving for adventure or desire (need?) to do something more physically demanding, something I feel like I’d have to grit my teeth to get through to the other side of. Maybe it’s an age thing, a belated mid-life crisis? Whatever. I just know I’m restless. Big time.
Will tell you more about the book next time, when I’ve finished it. Back soon (and hopefully less grumpy with it).