Like a fight with a swimsuit

Today I had to run ten miles. Can I just explain that ten miles is a ridiculously fucking long way at the best of times but today was made worse by several life events.

1. I have run for the last 3 days

2. I didn’t yet my hash brown with my egg muffin

3. I left my cap at home

4. Milton Keynes has a fucking monsoon for 90 minutes which started the second my fucking car was out of sight

About 4 miles in my McDonald’s hot chocolate had worked it’s way through and I needed a pee, Pete very kindly took us somewhere secluded so I could oblige my aged bladder, and I disappeared into the woodlands.

I had been running for over an hour in the pouring rain, to say I was “piss wet through” was an understatement, Why I even bothered to try pulling my shorts down I do not know (possibly because in my head I believed they were actually still dry- I don’t know, don’t even ask) anyway, there I am, halfway up a fucking bank in the woods by a lake, battling to pull down my skin tight soaking wet compression shorts that somehow were superglued to my arse, my feet were sliding, my Emergancy tissues has disintegrated in my bag and my bladder was giving up the ghost. “Triangle of opportunity” achieved the tiniest of dribbles followed… (always the way)

And then, let battle commence….. I had to get the bastards back up again ( if you don’t understand the challenge, I’ll lend you my c3’s and throw a bucket of water over you. Those fuckers were not going back up in the right place, no way, no how.

As I left the woods down the bank I saw Vic coming from the other side of the path doing the “pissy pants samba” (clearly it’s a c3 compression thing and not just my fat arse) pulling and hitching everything back into place as we hurried to catch up with Pete.

Honest to god, I’ve could’ve just gone 3 rounds with big daddy and giant haystacks (if you don’t know them, are you even old enough to know about alfresco peeing?) and been less knackered than I was after pulling my drawers back up!

Not even half way into my run, my pants are in the wrong place, my socks are wet and uncomfortable and I just want to go home.

8 miles in and Vic is moaning ” it’s been 2 hours since I had a fag, and I’m hungry, I can smell bacon” like seriously, we’ve done the pissy pants samba, my Bridget Jones knickers are acting like a thong and you want to stop for a bacon roll ? Fuck my life, why do these people find running so bastard easy (and why do I choose to run with them!)

We finally (after what felt longer than waiting for a pizza to be delivered when your starving) we arrived back at the pub, my watch said 9.93 miles, I considered (for a nano second) rounding up but bollocks to that 9.93 is close enough and let’s face it, not doing .07 of a mile today ain’t gonna make that bastard GNR any easier is it. In we went, Vic all hopeful for her bacon sandwich, sorry, we’ve stopped serving breakfast 😂🤣.

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