Recovery

Sunday morning I ran a 10k I was particularly anxious about. I don’t run more than 45 minutes these days and I rarely run straight through – usually I’m doing some sort of speed or hill work and there are plenty of walk breaks. I also don’t run nearly as often as I used to, and despite small improvements, my pace is only slightly faster than an anemic turtle. I’d just agreed to run the race – a friend’s company’s charity run – on Wednesday, and I only realized on Saturday night how small the field was (maybe 100 runners) meaning there was a good possibility I could come in last.

Which I know would not be the end of the world as I know it, but I wasn’t looking forward to a flashback to my school PE days (only without the horribly itchy maroon shorts that were uncomfortably tight on me.)

The run, which was two laps around Regents Park, turned out to be glorious. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I was able to enjoy it, in part because I don’t run so often that it feels like punishment. I suspect it also helps that I’ve been eating carbs for weeks now (99 days on the day of the race.) I think they may slightly have messed up either the timing or the distance of the race, because somehow I finished in less than an hour, not last. (Although not all that far off it – I believe I was 109 out of 127.)

When I picked up my goodie bag, the guy handed me a size medium t-shirt without asking me my size. Bless.

I went and met a friend for Sunday lunch, which included an indifferent Yorkshire pudding I took a couple of bites of and left without giving it much thought. I realized I wasn’t far from Ottolenghi, and that maybe I could get my favorite cake – which I have not eaten all summer, for one reason or another – for a snack. I debated calling to make sure they had it, because some locations don’t (the one closest to me never does), and I knew I’d feel slightly rage-y if this one didn’t. But I was also scared of eating the cake, and told myself that if I walked over there and they didn’t have it it was a sign I wasn’t meant to eat it that day.

On the 15-minute walk over I decided I didn’t really feel like eating the cake, which – I know, I know! – I couldn’t decide if were the actual truth or just fear of what might happen if I did. I decided I was eating it if they had it.

They did. I bought it, but my hands didn’t shake the way they sometimes do when I buy things like it. It was 45 minutes before I got home, and en route it didn’t feel like I was carrying a bomb. Nor did I feel the need to eat it immediately, the way I often have in the past. I thought briefly about whether I should try to only eat half, but I let it go.

I got home and ate the cake maybe a little too fast, but without panic. I didn’t cut back on dinner or on my evening snack. I didn’t decide I needed to exercise more to compensate. I felt – and feel – curiously… fine.

Not every day is like that. But I’m hopeful if I keep going, more will be.

Day 101.