Down Bad

I have done everything the physio has told me: endless calf raises, run/walk laps of Bartlett Park, graduation to a 37 minute parkrun and finally, tomorrow, my big test: a 10k race in Regents Park. If I can do that, I can give the Yorkshire Marathon a crack. I should be feeling pretty jubilant right now, my dream rescued from the ashes, bouncing on that start line. But instead I’m in a slump of post-averageness that I can’t pull myself out of.

Your spirit can change in the blink of an eye and for the most seemingly insignificant reasons. Of course I know that tearing a calf muscle, in the great scheme of things, isn’t a big problem. Losing out on the marathon performance I wanted isn’t a problem. Leg heal, there are other marathons. In fact people live entirely satisfactory lives without marathons (some without legs, for that matter). But maybe this is the root of the problem: I don’t lead a very satisfactory life, without running there isn’t a lot to it at all. I have a job where my employers still spell my name wrong after 20 years. Not only do I have no partner, I cannot imagine a situation where I could co-exist happily with another person without losing my mind. I have no money and own nothing signicant. Worst of all, I don’t have a dog.

I’m aware that I always feel in the doldrums this time of year: it’s the anniversary of my father’s death and of the cataclysmic end of my worst relationship. I associate the onset of the grey and cold and shrinking days with loss and endings. This year the fear of bereavement and having to continue my life knowing some of my friends won’t be there with me should I be lucky enough to live the long life that seems to be in my genes is very real. The boundary between the sparkling summer, where I thought I’d said goodbye to fat, funny Suzi for good and could escape my not-very-successful life for at least as long as it took me to run to Broxbourne was marked very abruptly by the Surrey Half Marathon. Now, in the words of Taylor Swift, I’m down bad, crying at the gym! What will I be if I can’t be an average runner after all? Was I stupid to think I ever could?

Maybe tomorrow the sun will come out and I’ll feel differently. Maybe I’ll be able to line up in York with the sparkle back in my eyes. Maybe I’ll only manage a kilometre tomorrow before my leg gives up for good and I will have to find some other hobby to give meaning to my life. Maybe I’ll write a blog. Oh.