The perils of the sea

This week has not been a good one for running.

I fell at the first hurdle when I failed to do a long run on Monday.

I fell at the second hurdle when I also failed to run on Tuesday.

I finally made it out on Wednesday, determined to do 11 miles along the south-Devon coastline.

I did 1.4 miles. A triumph in nobody's eyes.

I blame my parents. They wished me a good run, then pointed out the perils of the coastal path, flanked as it is by the sea and a train track. They warned I could end up blown off into the water. I pooh poohed this, but the pooh poohing soon came back to haunt me when I arrived to the highest tide I've ever seen. In places, it was virtually covering the path. So I was already twitchy when a train whooshed past, sending me leaping out of my skin and almost into the Atlantic. In what is fast becoming my catchphrase, I gave up and went home.

Friday and I was back to pounding the safe streets of London. It was nice to run without the risk of a high-speed drowning. I'm aware that compared with me a frightened rabbit looks like Andy McNab but, as my mum says, 'he who hides and runs away lives to hide another day'. Or something like that.

(Stats (for the London run): 4.09 miles; 41.48 minutes; 10.12 minute/mile.)

(Pics: Danger everywhere: high tides and fast trains; falling rocks; crazy golf.)