Thank the universe that Helen is doing the bath half this year. I joined her two years ago for 6 months of painful training for the 2010 one, and after the few minutes of elation at the end – I jut ran thirteen and a half MILES!’ – I decided not much was worth that kind of pain again, and happily won’t be doing it this year. But, for the moral support, and the obvious benefits to my health, I go running with Helen anyway in training.
This morning, the first run after a very lazy chocolately Christmas break, we met up outside the park at 6, laughing at the self-inflicted punishment of the task. I had on too many layers as usual, judging that the discomfort of too hot at the end is far more manageable than the bitey pain of too cold at the start.
We managed fifteen minutes. Fifteen good minutes though. As the cold air stung my lungs, tears streamed from my eyes and bruising pain thudded through my legs, I smiled up at the stars. Nice. I was still smiling on my favourite bit, the walk back home, where you meet an occasional grumpy cold person on their way to some very early shift, and smile at them with a smug I’ve just been for a run – I know, at this hour! And in the dark still emptiness ofFore Street, I heard music.
What’s that now?
It seems to be coming from a van parked outside the bank.
‘…because you’re amaaaaazing, juuuuust the waaaaaaaaay you aaaaaaaaaare.’
But it’s so loud, filling the courtyard, resounding among the dark silent shops, swirling around the silhouetted Christmas tree. Is this some peaceful gradual wake up call organised by the residents to gently rouse the whole street at 6.20? Ah, I see, no residents. Loud music. Cheeky, but disturbing no-one.
A man was heaving boxes from the van onto the doorstep, getting on with his job to the triumphant soundtrack.
Morning, I smiled.
He nodded and carried on.
Something of the unexpedness of the music, and the shared 6am weirdness of the street struck me as simply wonderful. Trowbridge is usually packed with people, the fussy bustling crowds of town centre shopping, but at this odd and eerie time of day, you can own the high street. It’s yours. In my cheerful post jog joy, I thought it was mine, but no, it was the delivery man’s.
And it made me so happy.
And so, with a combination of some adrenaline finally pumping itself round my lethargic body, and the unexpected happiness of a soundtrack to this January morning, I have just sat at the laptop and steamed my way through around 20 emails, fast, effective and fabulously focused.
I’ve got it back, thank you. Happy new year.
Myriad 