Monday, May 10, 2004
Home Stretch
Eleven minutes.
Stride. Wider steps.
Fatigue. The body begins a gradual muttering in protest. Not enough sleep, not enough time off my feet. Home at eleven pm, up at six am.
Eight minutes. Faster. Faster.
Argh. A traffic light. Another two minutes gone.
Six minutes, no time to dally. I start to run. Strangely, there is an odd sense of exhilaration as I begin my sprint down the final stretch. There always is, when I run. Something about me seems to enjoy sprinting.
Five.
Four. The extra weight of my bag and overcoat begin to remind me why running in London is such a chore.
One. I dash through the closing train doors and collapse in a heap onto a chair, lungs on fire and heart hammering fit to extrude through my chest. My legs are exploding in pain. Agony.
Um. Was that me saying that I enjoyed sprinting?
Stride. Wider steps.
Fatigue. The body begins a gradual muttering in protest. Not enough sleep, not enough time off my feet. Home at eleven pm, up at six am.
Eight minutes. Faster. Faster.
Argh. A traffic light. Another two minutes gone.
Six minutes, no time to dally. I start to run. Strangely, there is an odd sense of exhilaration as I begin my sprint down the final stretch. There always is, when I run. Something about me seems to enjoy sprinting.
Five.
Four. The extra weight of my bag and overcoat begin to remind me why running in London is such a chore.
One. I dash through the closing train doors and collapse in a heap onto a chair, lungs on fire and heart hammering fit to extrude through my chest. My legs are exploding in pain. Agony.
Um. Was that me saying that I enjoyed sprinting?
