I’ve started running. I call it running but my bloke says I’m just walking fast. Blokes are nice like that. Anyway, I’ve bought a water bottle with a handle, so.
And I’m teetering on entering a 10km race sometime soon but that would mean I’d have to run 10km with my lungs about to explode through my hair.
I may not be fast. I may resemble a puppet with broken strings. I may even look like my mum running for a bus. But, with the weather on my face and the forest beneath my feet, I forget. About bills not yet paid, that the world isn’t really fair and the bestselling novel I must write before I’m, oh God, just before.
Does this make me a real runner? Who cares. It makes me happy.