Ladybower Reservoir: The Widowmaker

18 weeks to go (23 December)

As every year I forget that the last week of work before Christmas is one of the busiest and have a torrid time trying to juggle running with work and social commitments.  A jog down Oxford Street in rush hour is only a marginally worse idea than a jog through the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park on a Friday night but one way or another I claw my way to a credible weekly mileage. 

I’ve never been that easily embarrassed but jogging has taken it to the next level and my hygiene absorbs most of the blow.  I happily show up at the Nutcracker or to see the hilarious Clever Peter sketch show [http://www.cleverpeter.com/] soaked in sweat and smelling of old goat, carting bags of wet pants cheerily around with me wherever I go.  Since making a conscious decision to let myself go in September I’m impressed to have pushed back the boundaries even further: With the iron stolen, the hair ever-longer and only my worst suit in London it is no surprise that I am eventually taken aside by a colleague and asked if, you know, everything’s alright at home?  “We haven’t got a fucking home”, I snap back in reply, referring to the difficulties of house hunting in London but likely confirming their worst suspicions about my recent slide in appearance.

A heavy Friday night in Brixton Academy, a panicked dash to the train back up north and a night on the tiles in Sheffield isn’t the ideal preparation for my last big run of the year.  Nevertheless I struggle out of bed first thing in the morning and arrive at Ladybower Reservoir as the sun comes up – about midday, this far north – before setting off on the trail loop.  It’s 12 miles round and buoyed by the success of last week my plan is to do one complete lap and then two smaller loops, a total of 21 miles.

It’s a nightmare. 

Less than a kilometre in I contemplate turning back.  My stomach is in agony and each step feels like I’m ripping through the lining.  I get stitch after about twenty minutes that stays with me for the rest of the circuit and the first slight incline I come across almost kills me.  I’m so tired I can’t even raise my hand in greeting to a local farmer at the top of the hill and his look of horrified astonishment will haunt me for the rest of my life.  I’ve half a mind to go back and kill his kids, in the name of science, just to see if it’s possible for his face to show any more pure loathing than he’s already bestowed on me.

I go through every album on my iPod to try to find some motivation.  Nothing works and I draw on my old faithfuls Jedi Mind Tricks and Masta Ace to get me round, but it’s still no use – exactly halfway round the loop, as far away from the car as I can get, I have to slow to a walk for a few minutes.  I convince myself it’s only psychological and plough on, vomiting in the bushes from time to time when the pain gets too bad.  I conjure up as many semi-legitimate excuses as I can to give myself temporary respite, stopping to photo uninteresting masonry just to catch my breath back. 

Somehow I make it back to the car.  I turn off my Nike+ and immediately drive home, not daring to check the run’s stats until I’m on a happier emotional plane.  Sure enough, a banana and a winding country road home eventually buoys my mood enough to check how the run went: A little shy of three hours to do 11.9 miles, averaging out slightly slower than regular walking pace.  It’s game over when I get home, too, tiredness and flu and the chaos of recent months coming to a head and knocking me sideways.  I’m wiped out.  The rest of Christmas is spent in bed, and not in a good way.

I hope no one’s got me running gear.  Fuck this.