King of the Ill

It only happens once a year. A bit like the tax return, or Christmas, but last Friday afternoon, just as the weekend came into view…I got ill.

I managed to get up fine on Saturday and go to the ParkRun, probably running quicker than I should have done, given how I was beginning to feel. I started off steady and got competitive! What started out as a “making up the numbers, pleased to be here, just going to enjoy it blah blah” run, turned into a pretty intense sub-20 minutes 5k. Again, despite feeling on the brink, I went for a walk in the afternoon, trying to keep illness at bay. I have a very strong “get up and go” attitude when I’m ill, preferring to carry on as normal and just get on with it. By Saturday evening however, things were looking bleak. My get up and go attitude seemingly had gotten up and gone. Being male, I was the most unwell person in the world. I took to the sofa, then bed, and began going over my Will and insurance policies. With all that over with, I slipped into a paracetamol-induced coma and spent ten hours having trippy dreams, with surreal shapes whizzing about and having conversations with dead relatives.

Eventually, after what felt like the longest night, morning came. As odd as it sounds, I still harboured ideas of going for a ten mile run with my 20kg Bergen. Over the course of the day, my attitude adjusted accordingly, and not wanting to fail RED January right at the end, I went for a lung-burning, mucus-moving, ill-advised 5k run in the late afternoon.

I look back now, partly thanks to the miracles of what could be found in the chemists, and I’m glad I went out. Granted, if it wasn’t RED January I more than likely would have stayed in. On Monday evening, I barely scraped a mile and wore more layers than I would if I were in the mountains. But just as a friend reminded me, it’s only a mile, but they all count. Strangely it was only the cold that worried me. Once I got out there and saw that the ungritted pavements looked like glass, it dawned on me that I might actually slip on my arse. I’m surely due one soon as I believe it was 2017 that I last got on the wrong side of Jack Frost. But sure enough, my self-proclaimed nickname of The Cat, lived up to its hype. I stayed on my feet with dignity in tact. In fact, The Cat nickname is more likely down to my past reputation of scratching at the door at around pub closing time, looking for milk.

As I now reach mid-week, I’m almost back to normal and inevitably I’m thinking, “I could have ran 3 miles instead of 1”. Better look at that Will again.

Author: myoutdoorlivingroom

Thirty-something years old. I love running, cycling, photography, nature, being outdoors and wearing shorts all-year-round. Looking for ways and experiences to disconnect from the hum of what we accept as 'living', hopefully inspiring others to do the same! https://www.instagram.com/_br3ath3_/

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