(Originally published on 10th April 2013)
Um… Yeah you read that right. My suspicions that Newport is secretly a wannabe holiday destination were proved completely correct yesterday when I got out of my building in the morning and was hit by warmth and the smell of the sea. It was almost like I imagine living in Cornwall, except nobody speaks Cornish and there’s unhealthy food on every street corner. Actually, scratch that. It’s exactly like Cornwall. Or nice holiday-ish places, at least.
It was very good timing as I have foolhardily signed up for both a 10k run and a half marathon next month. And no. No, I am not ready. I daresay I can get round a 10k course and probably beat my own record, but that’s because it’s really flat around here, and therefore a piece of piss compared with running from the bottom of Stanmore Hill all the way to the top without giving yourself an asthma attack. But, well, a half marathon is still 13 miles and change. And that’s still a long way.
I wouldn’t feel concerned about it, except this Sunday just gone I was supposed to be in Paris doing a full-on marathon with a bunch of French people. Probably wearing onions. Definitely drinking wine. I like to blend in. Obviously, a few things have come up in the meantime which meant I just plain didn’t bother. so instead, I was in Chicago at the weekend, and I spent my Sunday doing the following:
- Having one giant lie-in.
- Eating chocolate pancakes.
- Having a little bit more of a lie-in.
- Eating multiple slices of pie.
- Eating tamales.
- Feeling very smug that I thought to bring an entire pizza with me in my bag for my flight home.
- Wondering why all of my luggage smells like cheese.
As you can see, not a huge amount. But I’m reasonably sure I’ll be OK. I mean, this half marathon is taking place in Brooklyn. I have faith in my ability to keep up with a majority of people with big hair and tiny jeans. And as we can see from exhibit one, I am definitely on top of the carb-loading.
The nice weather also proved a blessing on Monday when I had my first (I’d like to say ‘last’ but, well, I didn’t choose the thug life, the thug life chose me) police drama of the trip. It basically involved a giant gas leak, and the total evacuation of a major commuter train station. But you know what, Britain? Despite my train being delayed for 45 minutes, I still got through my front door at exactly the same time as I normally would. And that’s without rushing. Booyah!* Let that be something to grumble about.
*That’s actually a lie, because I had to go to the supermarket first, but the point is that I would have been home on time had I not been a terrible person who was more interested in going off on a jolly to Chicago than keeping her cupboard well-stocked.
As I write this, there’s a giant thunderstorm indicating that the warm weather will be gone by the morning, but these past couple of days of smugness have been well worth it.