Running on empty

I'm going to run out of running headers soon. Ha!

So. I got up on Saturday morning after a pretty tranquil Friday night - ting! Gold Star! - and traipsed home to prepare myself for all the running. As I had failed to master the mental concept of what running means and how to do it while I was asleep, I decided to create some jogging alter-ego. Well, Beyonce has her alter-ego stage persona, the tantrum-throwing diva Sasha, so I don't see any reason why I can't have some kind of inner prima donna who bounds through the park with her pony-tail swinging, screaming at squirrels to get the f*ck out of the way, and kicking trees if fellow joggers dare to pass at a greater speed.

Sadly, my brilliant plans were thwarted when I got home and realised my inner jogging diva would have to wear old Nike Airs, red Hennes trackies, a white t-shirt, my sister's baggy old grey Gap hoodie, fingerless gloves and a denim baseball cap, because that's all my outer loser has to wear. So, I didn't even get around to naming her. I think I'll call her - Slowy.

Getting carried away with the whole health thing, I had an apple, banana and a glass of water for breakfast (tee hee! I ate breakfast!), and drove over to Clara's to pick her up. As she jogged out of her house, I was relieved to see that she was sporting similar attire, and a headband. I don't think she couldn't find her inner diva, either.

We listened to Chaz 'n' Cam's wedding on the way, and mused that enjoying a jog in a sunny royal park while they said their vows would have been a highly appropriate way to mark the occasion, had we cared.

I did OK, we managed about 35 minutes, with a fair bit of walking. But we were blowing while we were walking, and doing marching arms, so it counts as exercise. Launching into a jog was weird, man, and we both had flashbacks to cross country at school (Clara was usually at the back, I was generally walking, and probably crying). Motivations were:

Clara's brother David, who is all slim but on the Atkins diet nonetheless. Grr! (jogs faster)
Hotpants. Argh! (jogs faster)

Eventually, I had a stitch in both shoulders and a crick in my neck, so I had to give up. My face went SO RED, SO VERY, VERY RED, I couldn't believe it. And I thought I hadn't pushed myself very hard, but by god did I feel it when I woke up on Sunday morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

Oh, and there were some really cool duck things in the park. But we didn't see any deer. Then we went to the pub.

Yesterday, I meant to go for another run, but couldn't because I was too sore from being too vain to warm up in the car park. Well, I'd have looked a right wally, wouldn't I? Maybe not as much of a wally as I look limping gingerly up and down the escalators and around work, but hey. Anyway, I totally undid all the good work by purchasing about a four million calories, then cooking them, eating them, and licking them off the tins last night. Mmm, roast chicken.

I want to go tonight, but I still feel like I've been shoved into a barrel and rolled down a hill. How does jogging sprain your ribcage? How? How?