Wednesday, 20 April 2016

How a really lazy girl fell in love with running

 I have tried for years to be a runner.

Before that, the idea of running when it wasn’t completely necessary (train leaving in three minutes and the next one will cost an extra £50; the limited buffet is now open) was foreign to me. Running conjured up images of myself at seven years old on a damp school field, slipping on wet grass in black plimsolls, panting at the back of the class and pretending I’d run four laps already so can I go and sit down now please?
 
No one has ever looked like this whilst running

By secondary school, with boobs and a heightened sense of vanity and a fear of running mascara, my list of excuses on cross-country-running days were well trained and rarely let me down. I knew how to fall in just the right way to secure a trip to Matron (my best friend Alexa happily linking arms with me and ‘helping’ me off the muddy field) without accidentally attracting a call for an ambulance or worse, my mother. An ice pack and a knowing look seemed like a small price to pay not to run round that field again. A dislocated knee at 13 sealed the deal (and a lifetime of sorry-I-can’t-do-PE notes) and I figured I’d never run again.

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