Saturdays, since September 2012, have been Parkrun days. I don't like to miss my local Hillyfields 5k, it's how I measure my fitness (PB on the hilly Hillyfields course, 23.14, but aim to get a minute off that if I can). Today, however, was an enforced rest day, as my delightful niece and god daughter, Mary, was married this morning in Richmond. We processed, a motley crew of frieds and family, to Petersham Nurseries after the register office, to eat lovely food in perfect, rustic surroundings. I sat at the long table in the conservatory restaurant, looking at the little handmade nameplace Mary and her betrothed, Robin had made for me, depicting a little thumbsmudge figure running with a sweatband on. When people meet me these days they always ask after my running progress. I feel happy to talk about it, but fear boring them. I lik to be known as a runner, however, particularly given my great age.
I ate salads of asparagus, spinach, parmesan, rocket, plys tomatoes and peppers and bulgar wheat, sourdough bread, good oil, cheeses, sorbets and chocolate tart. All good, go-faster food that will see me on my way for a good long run tomorrow. What will not boost my performance, however, is the quantity of white wine I washed the food down with, nor the large Scotch I downed last night while staying up too late creating wedding cards for Mary. Two late nights, too much chocolate, too much booze have rendered me sluggish, bleary eyed and bloated of stomach. Certainly, the thumbsmudge depiction, with its potato shaped body and stick arms and legs, is rather too much like art following life.
So tomorrow and Monday must be proper run, then recovery, days, and sleep must needs be prioritised.
It was a lovely day, though. If you can't feel fat after a good wedding, when can you?
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