I’m coming up to the halfway point in my training for my first-ever marathon (Bristol + Bath, on 25 October) and I’ve gone and thrown a massive spanner in the works by going on bleedin’ holiday to Spain for two weeks.
There are two key problems with maintaining my four-times-a-week training schedule while I’m out here: firstly, it is hotter than Satan’s blast furnace, even late into the evening, and running in 31°C is like running through soup. Secondly, I’m constantly either drunk or hungover, and neither of those states are conducive to vigorous physical activity.
(You may well be saying to yourself, “You don’t have to drink and vape yourself into mini-oblivion every night, you massive idiot” – but there’s where you’d be wrong, because I’m on holiday, so I do.)
However, because I am such an amazing person and an inspirational hero to millions, I’ve pressed on with my training, albeit at a somewhat reduced intensity. I usually bristle at being called a “jogger”, and I’ll correct people with a haughty, “Excuuuse me, I don’t jog, I run.” But what I’ve doing out here? Yeah, that was essentially jogging.
I’m constantly either drunk or hungover
Still, at least I’m clinging on to the plan, even if it’s just barely.
Now. I’m off to get slowly-but-surely wankered by the pool again. Eviva España.
High point of the week: Completing a 105-minute ‘long run’ in searing Spanish sunshine felt pretty hardcore. If there was a Rocky-style montage of all my weeks of marathon training, that would definitely be in it.
Low point of the week: Rehydrating yourself with water that’s gone hot from being gripped in your sweaty paw is rough. Blargh.