Last night, I experienced a timely reminder of why running is good for you. I saw a man being chased. Seconds later he was on the floor and his attacker was, for want of a better phrase, kicking ten tonnes of sh*t out of him. I was midway through a 999 call when a fellow bystander shouted that the police were on their way and the assailant ran off. Thankfully, the victim was able to get up. And I made my way home, still unsure as to whether this had actually happened or whether I had just been watching too much CSI of late. Quite possibly both are true.
Nevertheless, it was an abject lesson in why running can, quite literally, save your life. Not just from a spare tyre and type 2 diabetes, but from bears and lions and bad people who want to kick your head in. Thankfully, I've never been pursued by any of those things. And (fingers crossed) never will. But should that day come, I would like to think I'd have a good go at fleeing. Flight is definitely my survival instinct of choice. I don't like fighting.
Which is why, when I woke up this morning I went for a run. The first one since the half-marathon 5 weeks ago. And it was great. My knees hurt, my hips hurt, my feet hurt. But it was a pleasure. It's quite overcast out, but surprisingly warm and I'm currently relishing my beetroot face. It's not been that colour for a while. Except when I fell asleep in the sun.
I think I'm going to spend today looking for another half to sign up for. If my speed needs a boost, then I need only remember that man being chased down the road. As they say, the fox is running for his dinner...
(New stats: 4.34 miles; 44.36 minutes; 10.16 minute/mile. Not bad for the first time in 5 weeks, though not sure I'd outrun the fox at that pace.)
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