6:20m: “Have to bring home work tonight,” I said to my wife, “maybe I’ll run tomorrow.” Not the best of starts to my “starting serious training” regime, and frankly quite frustrating. But I’m a professional, and I suck it up.

6:30pm: Maybe, I thought, if I finish early I might still go.

7:30pm: Dinner. “I ate too much,” I said to my wife. “No way I’m going to be able to run. And my stomach feels terrible – damn the chilies.”

9:15pm: Cleared what I needed to clear for work; had to convince myself that there’s no end to work, and whatever’s left is whatever’s left: we’ll take care of it tomorrow. Time for a little bit of Channel 8 drama in the background while I read Flowers for Algernon – a fifth of the way through the book and I’m hooked.

9:35pm: Something doesn’t feel right. I suspect the chilies. But it’s not. “I think I’m going for my run,” I tell my wife, surprising her. And me.

I check my running calendar. Intervals today. 400m in 1:39; 600m in 2:30; 800m in 3:21; 1200m in 5:08; and back down again 800; 600; and finally 400. All interspaced with 400m rest intervals. Sounds hard.

11:05pm: Intervals done. All except the first 400m within the stipulated times. Number of intervals: 7. Number of times I wanted to just go easy: 6. (The last one was easy – didn’t have to look hard for the motivation to run back home.)

Would I have done it if I hadn’t calenarised this run?

Hell no.

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