What? It gets worse?

Oh, good grief.

So, last time I posted, loyal reader, you will recall I was feeling pretty good about the improvements seen and the 35 minute run that I’d tucked under my belt when I was not at all certain I’d manage it. After that, the big interval training session with Steve also went surprisingly well even if it did leave me in a heap on the playing field thinking I was going to throw up (I didn’t. I’m all about the dignity).

So I went into the next long run fairly chipper, feeling like I was actually getting somewhere and that one day, in the far distant future, I might somehow stumble over the finishing line of a half marathon.

What a fool.

I fatally indulged in a little pride. I looked at the stats produced by my fancy-pants Garmin watch on the computer and noted how much faster my average pace had got. I told everyone who asked, and several people that didn’t (checkout ladies, taxi drivers, waitresses) that I could run for 35 minutes. I put on a pair of shorts that I had consigned to history because, until now, my knees looked too pudgy in them. In short, I behaved like a showy offy, look at me, peacock.

And then I crashed. Because pride, my friend, comes before a fall.

My last two runs have been worse, so so much worse, than anything at the beginning. Even though I coped with 40 minutes on Sunday, they were so slow and so painful and so miserable that even the glorious weather seemed grey and evil and I didn't even feel smug for having done it by 9am, just empty and grumpy.

I convinced myself that one bad run didn’t matter, that I would go into the next run (a straightforward 20 minutes) with a positive attitude and a spring in my step. But if anything that run was even worse, because I feel that if I can drag myself round for 40 minutes, 20 minutes should be a piece of cake, and it’s still not. It’s painful and boring and embarrassingly slow.

I'm slower than I was when I started (despite Steve and his whistle), hating each step with more venom and feel like every additional 5 minutes I'm able to keep going isn't progress, it's just an extra five miserable minutes of my life that I'm not going to get back.  Oh. Except that's probably not even true. It's fucking good for me. Bollocks. I can't even hate it unconditionally.

BUT I WILL KEEP GOING. I will. I will. I will keep going for several reasons, which I’ll just quickly summarise to remind myself:

1. Even shitty, hot, slow embarrassing running is better than having cancer or an unhealthy set of heart and lungs. Get it in perspective, whinger.
2. You have made a rule that you will do this, so do this you must. Stop being so whiny and knuckle under.
3. Brook is a fabulous and important organisation and this week alone you have seen so many reasons to support their work fighting for young people’s rights. Get a grip, princess prissy.
4. Lots of lovely people have sent you messages on Twitter (@rosylight says thank you, @ohIdoliketobe @Thoughtcat @Dernolchap @lasttocatchon ), by text, email, phone and in person and they should be rewarded for their goodness with extra effort. Pick your feet up you baby.

Good reasons, all of them. But especially number 3, and if you have a few quid to spare, please do consider sponsoring me and helping Brook make a difference to the lives of the most vulnerable young people. My Just Giving site is here and I would love to raise £1,000 by October.

In return, I’ll keep going. And I might even improve. And I'll keep doing this, even if I don't.