This whole marathon training malarkey is really rather tiring. When I would rather be curled up on the sofa with Lord of the Rings, I'm instead forcing myself out the door and to the pool. I drag my heels out of work to run along the busy and unattractive A3 home. And Sundays are an extra struggle when I must will myself from the clutches of the duvet and on the road for three hours.
But my (vaguely) athletic expeditions have taken me to sunny Wimbledon Common to chase bunnies and wombles through the blackberry bushes; to Salisbury where I went over five rivers, up four hills, through three country estates, past two castles and one cathedral; and just last weekend to Richmond Park, where I passed a nonchalant stag standing in a pond cooling himself on a midsummer's day.
I guess it's not that bad after all.
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