The current term has not only seen the start of an avalanche
of coursework and 9-5 days on campus, but also the gradual increase in length
of my Saturday runs. I write this having just finished a 14 mile run up and
down the 1.5 mile long, steep, hill that I live on. My legs are aching, my arms
are crying, my feet burn; and it strikes me that if indeed the course of true
love is rather bumpy in nature, then I seem to have unwittingly signed myself
up for the most volatile and dangerous love with running there has ever been.
I say volatile
because, there are days when I would like nothing better than to burn my
running clothes, tie knots in the laces of my running shoes, and lock myself in
my house with a large cup of tea. Whereas other days I simply cannot understand
why the entirety of Exeter isn’t out running – can they not understand the
endless health benefits? Or the simple wonder of running through brambles to
avoid cars as they drive speedily toward you?! But thankfully, most days my
mood lies somewhere between the two.
And in truth on
most days, I forget why I’m bothering to run every day. In the cold and the
rain and the dark. But on the days I do remember, often the worst days when I
feel like giving up, I realise that not everyone has the luxury of finding
running the hardest part of their life. And it is worth every mile of pain if
it means help for them.
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