I Won’t….I Can’t….Oh All Right Then….I Will

Tomorrow I’m due to take part in my 4th Omagh Half Marathon. I should be excited but have never felt so underwhelmed before a race. I’ve been sick all week, my third bout of illness since the start of the year, which has laid waste to my plan to run the Belfast Marathon next month. Omagh was meant to be the consolation prize but, low and behold, a stinking head cold has struck down the entire household.

I’m over the worst of it thankfully and it’s Fionnuala and Hannah who are currently in the midst of Storm Influenza. Our family’s general health has been under attack for some months now. But I’m determined to run the race if I can, despite my doubts I will be able to complete the course. As such, I intend to set out with the two hour pacer and cling on to them for all I’m worth.

My PB is 1:35 but I think running a two hour marathon tomorrow would be a bigger achievement. I haven’t run in a week and am nowhere near the physical shape I’ve been in before previous events. I feel unhealthy and out of shape. Mentally, my confidence is also at a low ebb. It doesn’t take much for me to launch into full-on pity party mode so Fionnuala has been giving me much needed pep talks throughout the week.

I’ll post tomorrow after the race, whatever the outcome. I’m hoping I’ll feel better after another 24 hours of paracetamol and rest and that my legs will remember enough to fuel me round the undulating 13.1 mile course. Life is about soldiering on, even when every fibre in your body wants to disappear under the covers and switch the lights off. Tomorrow will be one of those days. But I’ll get through it….somehow.

I Write This From My Deathbed

I write this from my deathbed.

Well, not quite. But, having felt rotten all week, I’ve decided to take a day off work to try and shake off this cold once and for all. Fionnuala, wonderful wife that she is, has promised to make me soup and my bedside table is crammed with liquids, tissues and paracetamol. My colleagues will undoubtedly be delighted that my sniffling, sneezing self won’t be in the office to infect them all.

I’m hoping that a day’s rest will resurrect my flagging spirits. There has been no running so far this week so my marathon schedule continues to gallop into the horizon, without me in harness. I reckon I can still make it as long as this current bout of illness is the last one between now and the big day in May. Today I can barely run a tap, let alone the thought of 26.2 miles.

I’m also conscious of infecting the rest of the family. The last thing my super busy wife needs are my germs and the kids similarly; Adam has a big rugby match at the weekend, Hannah a science test next week, and Rebecca is just over a tummy bug. It’s bad enough being ill myself, without the added guilt of striking down one of my nearest and dearest. Hopefully 24 hours of self enforced quarantine will do the trick.

If I can get caught up on some sleep today, that would be a bonus. I also plan to read a little and continue my never ending research of literary agents I aim to query with the book. I may even blog a little update later. Until then any comments would be most welcome to lift my spirits and alleviate the boredom. You can even call round later with a bunch of grapes or bottle of Lucozade. I promise not to sneeze over you.

Why Do Women Not Understand Manflu?

I woke up this morning and groaned. Not only was it a dark and dreary Monday morning, but I sensed a tickle in my throat. My nose was blocked and my energy levels were even lower than I normally would have expected. I sighed and sadly informed Fionnuala that I appeared to be unwell. I received zero sympathy as she launched into the 1001 tasks she has to perform every weekday in order to get the hatchlings out to school.

Manflu had struck….Now I’m not one to complain (cough, cough) but it strikes me that the female of the species struggle to understand the traumatic nature of this affliction. When it comes to empathy and understanding they tend to stare blankly at us, before making some snide remark about childbirth. The words ‘weak’ and ‘pathetic’ are muttered beneath their collective breaths as we shuffle miserably around the house.

I go to work every day. I’m rarely sick, not counting the four week virus I had a few months back and er….all the other times I sniffle or feel a slight twinge. I run marathons in all weathers and regard myself as in reasonably good shape for a man of my years. So, when I am struck down by the lurgy, the lack of female concern and compassion leaves me baffled.

I have queried this with my wonderful wife, to be greeted with a withering stare or hoot of derision. I still await her considered response and I fear I may be waiting a while. So I’m throwing it out there to the rest of the WordPress universe. I look forward to your thoughts as I heroically struggle through the working day. I know I will be in your thoughts and prayers

Ladies – what’s your beef with manflu?

Men – argue our case! Tell them how it is!!

Ode To OCD #2

If silence cuts like a knife

Then I have died the death of a thousand cuts at your hands

Your scars have scarred me

You have sliced me with your lies

Strangled by our soul ties

More lies

You’ve broke me in two

But I’ve broken me too

Now I’m breaking on through

To what?

Nothing that’s what

For I am everything that you have allowed me to become.

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑