A sight for sore thighs

For someone who professes that one of the key elements of their fitness regime is running, I've been nothing less than a spectacular failure recently. And by 'recently' I actually mean 'the last three-and-a-bit-months' because the last time I did a run was the tail end of September, apparently. I don't know why I wrote 'apparently,' because I got the information off my Nike+ page and that wouldn't lie to me.

Would it?

Anyway, on just the second day of this glorious New Year I got the urge to go for a run, so instead of sitting on the sofa hurling champagne truffles down my throat (they made me dizzy - good times) while watching a bad movie, I decided to dig out my trainers and go pound the streets.

Amazingly, it was awesome. I mean, at the point I used to slow down, wheeze a bit, and decide to walk for a few minutes I just kept going. In fact, at the point where I did feel like I could do with a bit of a rest I was virtually home - so I kept going. I was on fire (not literally; I'm pretty sure there would've been something in the local paper if I was, and perhaps a trip to burns unit for me as well). What this all added up to then, was a 6.4km run in a pretty reasonable time. Of course, when I got home and contemplated the whole thing the slight cough I'd developed over Christmas decided to join the party and I felt like I was on the cusp of either being sick or regurgitating my stomach. But I managed to keep it all together, and hey, victory sick is nothing to be ashamed of.

The one thing I used to love about running was the achy thigh muscles I'd get the day after a good one. Not because I've got latent masochistic tendencies, mind, but rather because they served to remind me of how much of an awesome run I'd had. The feeling never used to last that long anyway.

The following day, then, when I spent most of the time crying brooding about the fact I had to go back to work the following day, I was cheered by the fact my legs felt like fatigued tree trunks. Awesomely fatigued manly tree trunks. And encouraged by my considerable physical prowess, I decided to go to yoga in the evening. At the very least it might stretch out some of the aches.

This is the point where Mr. T should pop up and and say something like "I pity the foo'!"

"I PITY THE FOO'!"

Thanks Mr. T. Evidently the 'T' stands for 'timely.'

Anyway, everything went fine at first, no doubt because the first two postures just require you to stand there, which is pretty easy when that's all your legs want to do. But then we got to Awkward pose - specifically the third part - at which point I thought my thighs were going to explode and I'd have to apologise profusely while wiping bloody thigh meat off the mirror at the front of the studio, and possibly the lovely people to either side of me, with my slightly sweaty Batman towel. It took every fibre of my being to stop me from screaming in agony. And when the teacher said "time for second set!" I almost burst into tears. I would've done anything to have a note from my mum excusing me.

So here we are, several days later: I can still feel the burn in my thighs, and every time I stand in front of a mirror in my pants (something that doesn't actually happen as much as you might think it would) I can't help but feel like I'm in the process of turning into the cyclist from Belleville Rendezvous, albeit, thankfully, without the honking great hooter.

That said, I will be giving this running lark another bash soon.