Going the Distance

I made some mistakes today. My first mistake was to tell my flatmate Antoine that I wanted to go running. He is a thin man training for a marathon in the summer. We went running last week, and we traversed a meager three miles and came back. It was nice, it was short, it was the type of run I am used to. Today, we got to the place we turned around last week and I suggested we should keep going. That was my second mistake. My third mistake was to ever think, in the first place, that I am a runner. Antoine is fast and agile. I am not.

All told, Antoine and I trekked 8.6 miles (mapped out on Google Earth, which stipulated that our run was also equivalent to 13.85 kilometers, 45,432 feet, 15,144 yards, or 8,137 smoots) through hectic downtown London, over three miles further than I’ve ever run before. We did stop occasionally to see some sights, but we probably only walked about a half mile on the whole journey. I’m very glad I did it, I actually feel very good, very proud I made it. And I’m very thankful I ran with Antoine, because without him I never would have run that far, or ever imagined I was capable of traveling that far without significant mechanical assistance. I just never want to do it again. I have blisters!