This ten pound note has been with me on nearly every run. It followed the loss of its predecessor, the five pound note that flew from my miniscule runner’s back pocket whilst I fumbled for my door keys. I failed to notice it was missing until it had long since blown across the neighbourhood (so occupied was I with stretching and gulping down post-run chocolate milk and bananas). I now grasp the ten pound note tightly in my fist as I unlock my front door. I can’t afford to be throwing money away with each run I undertake….and I confess it has come to mean more than just a bit of paper with monetary value.
Instead of being the safety net, the comfort that if I ran too far away from home by mistake, that I would still be able to get back, it has become a lucky charm of sorts. Somewhat ridiculously, I have started to hope that I won’t be overcome by overwhelming thirst or injury, not because of the pain or discomfort it would bring me, but because it would mean I would have to part with my lucky ten pound note (and possibly continue with so many coins in change that the jangling accompliment would render any further running annoyingly noisy).
Now, if I had that ten pound note in my pocket yesterday, when I was negotiating the stairs with the cat in the unusually huge travel box balanced in my arms, perhaps I would not have tripped down the last three stairs and landed in a twisted heap with my foot bent back underneath me. I cursed the cat for leaping around in the box, shouted at the stairs for being so narrow and grumbled at the rules that make it necessary to return the cat to the vet so frequently in order to get her pills.
Honestly, I was planning a 7 mile run this weekend until that happened. It would have been the longest run since I did the half marathon at the beginning of March. I’m not sure it is a good idea now. My ankle is sore. If I set off too far, I might need to use the tenner to get back. Too risky.