So we just gonna ignore the bear then?

Simon, Midsommar

Summer is over. No, it is, I’ve just looked out the window. It’s deader than Kevin Spacey’s career. We’re into the last part of the year and what I always call the ‘difficult’ running months. The Great North Run has been and gone (read about how shit the start was here!), the weather is on the turn and the days are shorter. Bet this is cheering you up.

But enough about what’s to come, let’s look back at what happened July to September. Well, July was hot. Not the usual hot that everyone is fine in, but me as a pasty northerner born with the howling North Sea wind on my face struggles in – it was proper hot. We hit 37C on the North East coast. My pathetic bitching and excuses about running in the heat was, for once, fully justified.

On the day it hit it’s hottest, I decided to head out for a run really early. 6am in fact. I ran down to the sea front and it was like a Bank Holiday Monday. 6am. Everyone had the same idea. Runners, dog walkers, families on the beach. It was already about 22C by 6:30am and everyone was out in it before the worst of the day. Between this and running down the middle of empty dual carriageways during lockdown, the last couple of years have been nuts.

I did a lot of early morning running over this past Summer. With my job now being completely remote and the commute no longer an issue, I had time to. It was great, probably one of the best summers of running I’ve ever had. By 8am I’ve usually done 5k, I’m awake, and ready for my day. I also had time to get back into Yoga, something which benefits me both in running recovery and also my head if I’m being honest. Anyway, this post is in danger of turning into serious running advice or something and we can’t have that. Here, look at this picture of my slightly rude looking office cactus to help re-lower the tone.

In August I did my usual visit to my wife’s family in Shropshire. I do have a post pending about this, which I will get round to finishing. Probably. I always take my running gear and very much have a love/hate relationship with the place. It’s hilly. The kind of hills Kate Bush was talking about when she wrote ‘Running Up That Hill’ as a metaphor for ‘something that is really fucking hard.’

The positive of all that hill running is that when I come back to the flat as a fart coast I feel like an Ultra Runner. Slight inclines that would kill me in July are flown up and V flicked for the whole week after. It does only last a week though. If only I could bottle it, I would. I always feel fanfuckingtastic.

Then came the Great North Run. If you’ve read the review (here! here! read it here!) you’ll know that the start was a clusterfuck and my run was the drizzling shits. See, I’ve saved you 10 minutes. My biggest issue every year though is the post-GNR comedown. How do I get back my running mojo. How do I get over the post run blues when I’ve got nothing tangible to run for?

So I’ve joined a Cult. I say Cult, I mean Running Club. Same thing. Well, I’m on a trial run (hahaha!). Yes, what a fucking hypocrite. I’ve spent many a blog sticking in the knife about running clubs based on nothing but sheer ignorance, generalisations, and stubbornness. It’s the British way.

It’s early days but, unfortunately, I have to report that the first weeks have been…and I shudder when I say this…excellent. Urgh. I will save the full details for the Christmas Special (eeeeeh Christmas!) but I’m finding it…and this one’s a huge shudder..enjoyable and beneficial. God I feel dirty.

So, as things stand, the plan for the final 3 months is to keep both my mojo and the mileage going. Unless something dramatic happens, and the last time I wrote that in a blog we had a global pandemic 4 weeks later, I should hit 1,000 miles for the year by mid October. If I can finish on 1,200, I’ll be absolutely delighted Gary.

That it. You can leave now.