The magnitude of what I am putting myself through really hit home this week. I’ve started building up my mileage a bit to the start of the training plan in June, but started to get a few niggly aches and strains. Turns out my running shoes are knacked. So I looked into the average life for a pair of running shoes and it turns out that the new pair will be worn out before I even get to the start of the marathon in October. That’s how much training is required. Distinctly unappealing.

So I’ve got some new shoes. Nothing of interest to report there, except saying goodbye to the old pair was strangely emotional. I bought these back in 2007 when I’d just graduated, was working in a supermarket and basically spent all my free time pissed up and not exercising. I bought them in lurid orange so that I couldn’t wear them out and about casually, and if I didn’t do some bloody running I would have wasted all my money. Found out I was actually quite good at running and got into it more than I ever thought I would. If I hadn’t have bought these I probably wouldn’t be writing this now and looking towards the 9th October with such trepidation.

I have covered many miles in them; I’ve run well in them, I’ve run badly in them, I’ve fallen over in them (on Oxford Road in front of literally a hundred people at the bus stop). I’ve won races in them, I’ve lost races in them. I’ve spent many a mile wondering what the fuck I am doing in them. They got me started, and now they’re knackered it was quite sad to say goodbye. I’m not sure why. They’re like old friends, friends I would probably never spend any time with any more, but friends nonetheless.

I think I need to get out more if I am making friends with shoes.