Oh.
The scales do not lie. Since October, I've packed a whole stone back on. A stone of booze, crisps, chocolate, mince pies, and many other sins. I have, I suppose, some detail to fill in.
You will recall that the London Triathlon was a success. At a smidge under 13 stone, I was the lightest weight I can ever remember, by some distance, and I felt good for it. Sights were set on tackling the Bournemouth Half Marathon once again, and bettering the 1:56 from last year. Long runs became a feature of the weekend, and gradually I got back to 7, 8, 9 mile runs, albeit with some post-run soreness, particularly in my right knee, but it wasn't bothersome after a day or so. Two weeks before, I set out for an 11 mile trot, circling around the back of St Catherine's Hill, to the river at Hurn, and circling back via Throop and Charminster. The previous day, I had set a new Parkrun PB of 21:59 - an average pace of 7:12/mi - so I was feeling rather pleased with myself, and with a target half mara pace of around 8:30/mi (a 1:51 finish), went off at a fair canter.
Around 1.5 miles, at the top of Marsh Lane, I missed the turning that would take the track to Avon Causeway, and instead continued merrily along Dudmoor Farm Road, until I reached a point where it became obvious that I wasn't heading in the right direction. I turned and headed back, feeling that soreness in my knee starting to gnaw away. By the time I got to the turning I'd intended to take in the first place, I had no choice but to stop and stretch against the gate. After a couple of minutes rest, two other runners came past, and I set out behind them, but it only took a few seconds before the pain rose again and I was forced to stop. I tried a couple more times, but it was clear that this wasn't a passing twinge. Cursing, I made the decision to abandon the run, and started the walk back home, heading over the top of St Catherine's Hill. From time to time, I tried to break into a jog, but nothing more than walking pace was comfortable.
I rested the knee for a few days, and decided that a 10k run the following Sunday would be the decider - if I could comfortably complete 10k, I would go for the half, otherwise I'd call it off. Safe to say, the run was another disaster, barely making it to 5k before a repeat of the previous week and a long, lonely, grumpy walk home.
So started the decline - feeling sorry for myself, and with the darker nights setting in, it was easy to forgo exercise, and without an event to aim for, to allow the odd glass of wine here and occasional chocolate bar there. The odd glass became a regular bottle, and the occasional bar became a regular couple of bars. Then you're into Christmas and the house is full of food, and you've already given up any willpower you had so what's another few calories on top? Although that suggests it was a slip of discipline, when in actual fact it occasionally swung into positive malice, a teenage rebellion sticking two fingers up to diet and exercise.
Not surprising, then, to find myself in this predicament. But standing on the scales brings an epiphany, and I make a pact with myself to get back on it. I start with a couple of runs and a gym session, and start to remember the endorphin rush that comes from finishing a good run.
Finding some events would be useful, more on that soon...
