Many years ago I started an annual personal birthday test. The idea was that if I could get out of bed on the 29th of July in the middle of the South African winter, and run a half marathon on my own, life must be good. Despite any evidence to the contrary.
It gave me a wonderful sense of achievement and dare I say it, a smug satisfaction.
As the saying goes…’whatever floats your boat.”
Stupidly one year I stretched out my goal after suffering a splendid brainfart. Why not run the corresponding distance to my age every year…what a stupendous, (in retrospect; childishly idealistic) idea.
And so, after my 30th birthday, the inevitable occurred.The chances of me attaining my yearly goal became as strong as my chances of winning an argument with a woman.
Perhaps I should have aimed at 42km, and then subtracted a kilometer each year after that to work back down.
I’ll have to save that idea for my next lifetime. You know, the one where I return as a gazelle.
And so I failed the test for a number of years. In fact I didn’t even pitch up at the start line.
This year however was different. Being more determined than ever to regain some running fitness, I completed the 21km before work on my birthday.
To some it might not be a significant achievement, but to me it was.
On my 44th birthday she might be depressingly correct. So next year I will forgo the half marathon test in favor of the prostate exam… Ouch. Age is a bitch who wears latex gloves.