What are you going to do on a dull day but take toilet selfies?
and lots of them
these big poppies were the best thing I saw all day
back on the bus Gus
So this Thursday I was reading a book about Helene Deutsch, who was the first female psychoanalyst, until I found my attention being pulled away from my book by two teens who came and plunked themselves down next to me. "Oh no" I thought.
Pretty soon they both started talking to each other at the same time the way the teens seem to. One was showing the other one something on her phone and the other one was having some kind of a break down. "I just can't..." she said...in helpless mirth... "I just can't even....it's too funny...I just can't even...I just can't..."
"Oh for God's sake" I thought to myself.
"What is it that you can't do? What can't you even do? What are you trying to say?"
And I tried to go back to my book, but I couldn't concentrate - I just couldn't even...
and as happens, this teenish phrase has been stuck in my head ever since.
Last weekend, in order to finish my long run I promised myself there would be no more long runs before the marathon. But this weekend my achilles weren't so sore, and I thought that maybe I could squeeze out just one more. It was to be a drab, grey day with a slight easterly wind, and as I hadn't done it in such a while, I thought I might be able to get away with hopping on the train to North Berwick and running back along the road.
Maybe I could run a last 22 miler which would stand me in good stead for marathoning on the 3rd July. Or maybe I would just run to the near side of Portobello for 19 miles. That would be okay.
But despite having an Americano from Cafe Nero at the train station - and too much sugary fudge...I knew early on that I was in trouble. My legs were okay but my head was not. It was so grey and dreary. I tried to take pleasure in the fields which are swelling with crops - all the green life bursting out everywhere. I tried thinking of things to think. By Gullane I was already bored through.
By Aberlady I think I was nearly falling asleep. As I ran down the path at the side of the road into the woods I had a massive trip on a root. I could see my potential trajectory, and if I took it, it looked like I'd stott my head off a tree trunk. So I pulled out all the stops and managed to stay upright somehow. It was a wee reminder to stop dreaming though.
Running along the narrow paths at Longniddry, the humidity squeezed down on me. It felt warm and sticky in the shrubbery, despite the lack of sun.
"What's my motivation for this?" I asked myself, hoping for something inspiring back.
"You're doing it because you said you would" said a dreary voice back.
"This will be the last" I tried to tell my tired body and brain, but I was aware I sounded like some old addict.
"If we could just push out a good one today then that's all the long runs before the marathon. And after that you don't have to do any more road running. At all..."
I was met with a tired silence. Maybe it's because I promised the same thing last week and then reneged on the deal. But something had fallen out with me and wasn't playing.
"Okay, okay" I told my rebelling self. "Just to Porty then. 19's pretty good. Give it a go."
When I came out the bushes at Seton Sands there was a bit of a fresh breeze and I thought I might make it. But I did another epic trip. I got all the way through the Pans. I never really want to stop in the Pans to be honest. I think there'd been some orange marching going on as there were a load of little union jacks fluttering in the breeze. But beyond the Pans it came to me.
"I just can't" said the voice.
"What do you mean?"
"You know", it said, "I just can't even. It's too boring."
I couldn't deny it. It was incontrovertibly true.
I ran to the first bus-stop after the Garmin had bleeped 15 miles and called it a day.
And got on the no. 26 bus of shame.