My lungs are burning and every breath tastes like sucking on the end of an exhaust pipe. Running to work and back, although on paper seems a great way to train, during a period of the week which is otherwise wasted on mundane articles in the Metro, has opened my eyes to the London’s pollution problems. I know that compared to Shanghai, Dubai or Mumbai we have exceptionally clean air, but when so many of us have taken to the bicycle and varying fines are imposed on vehicles entering our hallowed capital, burning lungs after 3.1 miles cannot be a good sign.
Because of this, for my 10 mile medi-marathon, a trip to Sussex for the weekend is planned. Saturday I hit the road at 08:00 and with the crisp, clean sea breeze circulating through my body the first three to four miles sail by. It’s between the fourth and fifth mile, a distance that I’m usually quite happy with, that my mind starts wondering to the five miles still left to go.
Obviously this isn’t the fabled Wall that seasoned runners talk about but there is a small psychological battle being waged and I’m not overly determined to win. Setting myself the halfway roundabout as a goal before I pause for the break I’ve resided myself to, I take a swig of Lucozade and plod on. Before I know it the neighbour’s patriotic flagpole is in site and it appears that the simple act of setting achievable goals throughout the run has got me home and dry. An important lesson has been learnt.
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