YOU know when you just can't be bothered.... I'd put off a run on Satuday, preferring instead to go Sunday morning. Then Sunday morning turned up.
After what can only be described as a terrible 72 hours, for the first time I really felt like I had better things to be doing. Part of me really didn't care...
Sitting watching Match of the Day with the girls, for what seemed like 20 minutes it was a case of 'I'll just watch the end of this game, then I'll go'.
Then Match of the Day finished, forcing my arm. Reluctantly I went upstairs to get changed and wake Anna up. She, of course, just said: "Well don't go, go later..."
But, as I've already discovered with training, later never seems to happen. There's always something better to do, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet.
It was cold, biting cold. The lad I normally train with had already pulled it, citing an attack of severe wuss-itis. In other words, he couldn't be bothered either...
But I had to go. It was bitter, the ducks were walking along the canal, meaning it was below zero or I'd seen the second coming in aquatic form.
Still, those are the mornings when you feel particularly proud when you get back, and contentedly lay in the bath, feeling smug if not a little achy.
I'd tested myself, putting in a good nine miles on the flat, and managed it in around one and a half hours. In all that time, I saw just two other people...